The FAKE FIANCÉ (Steamy Shorts #37)

Chapter 1

ELOWEN

The bells are ringing overhead before I even get out of Imogen’s car. It’s a dreary Washington day, but then again, most are. Still, it’s fitting for the event we’re attending. The event that I would do anything to skip—a funeral for a woman I don’t even know.

People are gathered beneath black umbrellas, some faces I vaguely recognize and others who are complete strangers. Most of them fall into the stranger category, and I clutch Imogen’s arm as we share our own umbrella, walking inside.

“Quit scowling,” my friend hisses, bumping me with her shoulder.

I school my face into a neutral expression. “Sorry. I just really, really want to leave.”

She leans her head on my shoulder briefly. “And I so appreciate you being here. It’s a bad look if I don’t attend, but funerals give me the creeps.”

It’s a little insensitive, but so is the scowl threatening to make its way back onto my face.

Imogen actually knows the deceased, Celeste Valmonte, having done some business with her over the past few years.

Celeste had struggled with a long-term illness but had hidden it from the public until just before her untimely death.

Since I’m apparently incapable of saying no to Imogen, we’re both stuck attending this funeral now, dodging the flashbulbs of the press trying to get shots of the more famous attendants.

The wind cuts through my wool coat as we climb the stairs of the cathedral, but soon enough we’re inside.

Even with the doors shut, we can hear the low buzz of the press; billionaires always attract attention, even at the most solemn of times, and Adam Valmonte’s name has been at the front of everyone’s mind lately.

The widower billionaire inherited what can only be called an empire from his father–international shipping, luxury hotels, energy investments, and I’m sure a handful of other ridiculously lucrative ventures.

His wife Celeste used their fortune to be a philanthropist, and by all accounts was a lovely person.

Adam must be devastated, but he’s a very private person, making the tabloids even more desperate to get a look at him.

The volume in the cathedral doesn’t lessen the further we get inside, but the chatter gives way to the more pleasant sounds of a choir singing as we find our seats in one of the further back rows.

It’s a beautiful place, with tasteful stained glass and vaulted ceilings, but it still feels oppressive. There are just so many people.

Thankfully, Imogen is content showing her face and isn’t feeling inclined to socialize, so she sits us away from the other groups.

We speak in low tones, Imogen filling me in on who is near us, while I pretend to listen.

We are so far separated in our social circles that I likely won’t ever need to know the minor celebrities and smattering of millionaires who Imogen interacts with, but I indulge her anyway, knowing she’s likely just trying to keep herself distracted.

After about thirty minutes, a hush falls over the cathedral as the atmosphere shifts. I look up, curious, to see Adam Valmonte and his daughter Camille walking down the center aisle, lit candles in each of their hands.

Photographs have done nothing to prepare me for what Adam looks like in person, and I immediately feel a sickening guilt at how attractive I find him.

He’s here to mourn his deceased wife, and here I am being thrown through a loop by his height, the severe cut of his silver-shot black hair, and the stoic set of his chiseled jaw.

Everything about him feels severe, from his perfectly tailored black suit to his expression, sharp and controlled despite the grief he must be feeling.

He only softens when his daughter sniffles, and he wraps one arm around her, letting her lean against him for steadiness.

The entire cathedral watches the two of them pass, but neither father nor daughter appears to see anyone around them.

Camille is twenty-something and stunning, a mirror image of her mother besides her father’s dark eyes and height.

Even as tall as she is, the heartbroken way she carries herself has tears pricking at my own eyes.

Poor girl. She’s an absolute stranger, yet I have the oddest urge to hug her.

As I’m looking at the young woman, something pulls my eyes back to Adam, and a jolt goes through me when I realize he’s looking right back at me.

I tear my eyes away immediately, thankful for the dim cathedral lighting that’s hiding the flush on my face.

Was I just checking out a widower at his wife’s funeral! ?

No. No way. I was simply curious since I’ve never seen him in person before.

God, how ridiculous. I’m so embarrassed. Luckily, Imogen hasn’t noticed that her guest is making a fool of herself, and has settled into the pew, her anxieties from earlier having slowly let up.

The service begins before I can do anything else to humiliate myself, and it goes on for nearly two hours.

There are speeches about Celeste’s generosity, her intelligence, and about all the charity and diplomatic work she’s done.

She sounds incredible, and I feel a stab of sadness that I’ll never get to actually meet her.

I do glance at Adam a few times, but he’s stock-still, unmoving.

He does rise to speak briefly about his wife, but I get the impression everything he really wanted to say has already been said in private, away from all of these non-familial eyes.

Shortly after Camille speaks, leaving everyone in tears, the ceremony is done, and all of the guests stand to mingle and give their condolences once more.

Imogen and I get in line to do the same, but seeing the casket at the front of the church has my stomach rolling. I don’t belong here. I don’t even know this woman. All at once, the charade is too much, and I grab Imogen by the arm.

“I need to get some air.”

Luckily, my friend is now chatting with a Cartier rep that she knows well, and nods, “Go ahead. I want to leave soon anyway. I’ll meet you by the car.”

Thank God.

I slip away through the crowd, wanting to find some back door where I can be alone to just breathe for a minute. Out front is a lost cause, the press covering the front lawn even more now, but as I take hallway after hallway, I find myself hopelessly lost.

Finally, though, I find a door marked ‘Contemplation Garden’ and take it quickly.

It’s a small area cut out of the center of the cathedral, and it appears to be rarely used, rose bushes having given way to wildflowers, morning glories climbing the brick walls with abandon.

It’s the perfect place to catch my breath…

And it’s already occupied. By Adam Valmonte.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, “I’ll leave you alone, I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s fine,” he looks at me for a beat, but quickly tears his gaze away to stare ahead. There’s a cigarette hanging between his fingers, burning low. “Stay. You look like you need some fresh air.”

Great. I look disheveled enough that the husband of the deceased thinks I need a breather. If Imogen finds out, she’ll never let me live it down.

Still, it’s bitingly, wonderfully cold compared to the stuffy church, and one man, no matter how intimidating, has to be better than the crush of people inside. Plus, it would look even weirder to Adam if I bolted. Not that I think I will ever see him again for his opinion to matter, but still…

I stay.

Leaning against the brick wall about four feet from Adam, I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the sharp, freezing air, and it’s so refreshing I don’t even mind the note of cigarette smoke.

When I open my eyes, I look over to see him taking another drag off it, and he catches my eye before I manage to look away.

“I’d offer you one, but I had to get this one off my delinquent nephew.” His face is lined with exhaustion and grief, but he huffs a small laugh. “I haven’t smoked in over twenty-five years, if you can believe it. I just…thought it might take the edge off.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I’m not going to stop him, either. “Does it? Take the edge off, I mean.”

“Hell no.” he drops the cigarette, maybe three-quarters smoked, to the concrete and crushes it with his foot. After frowning down at the butt for a moment, he pulls out a handkerchief and picks it up, shoving the whole thing back in his pocket. “But it was worth a shot, I guess.”

“Yes, well,” my mouth is so, so dry. What am I even doing here? “I imagine today has been…overwhelming.”

“That’s one word for it.”

I cringe. “I’m, um, so sorry for?—”

He holds up his hand. “You don’t have to say it. Please. I’ve heard it so many times the words don’t even sound like English anymore.”

It borders on irreverent, but something tells me that he needs a touch of humor, so I go for it, “Mes plus sincères condoléances”

Adam looks at me sharply, thick eyebrows raising, but then the corner of his mouth twitches. “Ha. Clever.” He looks me over slowly now, where he had been avoiding looking at me directly earlier, and it feels overly intimate for just being a once-over. “You didn’t know my wife, did you?”

“My friend did. She ah, asked me to come with her. For support.” The urge to overexplain is strong, but I resist.

“A loyal friend and speaks multiple languages, hm?”

“Four fluently, not including English. Five if everyone involved is extra patient and forgiving.” I offer him a small smile. “I’m a professional translator.”

“You joke when you’re nervous,” he observes, and I feel the flush from earlier returning. This time there is nowhere to hide.

“Yeah, well…”

“Why are you nervous? Surely my reputation in the media isn’t that rough.”

You are so private that your reputation is just ‘mysterious, I think, but keep the words to myself. “Because I’m a total stranger who is terrified she’s going to say the wrong thing on what must be one of the worst days of your life.”

Adam looks surprised by that, and I realize too late that it’s too honest. What I just said crossed the line of polite interaction and ventured into real stuff.

But then Adam clears his throat and goes back to leaning on the wall, staring straight ahead.

“There’s nothing anyone could say to make this day better or worse. It just…is.”

I don’t think he’s telling the truth, but it isn’t my place to press. “Okay. Um…”

“What’s your name?”

“Elowen Hart.”

“Pretty,” he compliments. “Well, Ms. Elowen, do you want a job?”

I blink a few times before slipping my hand into the pocket of my dress pants, pinching my thigh to make sure I’m not dreaming up this bizarre scenario. I feel the sting of my fingernails, and sigh internally. No. This is really happening, as weird as it is.

“A job.” It doesn’t come out as a question, though I meant it to.

“A job.” He confirms. “Or, possibly, a better job. Temporary, but well paid, travel work. In six months I’m due to attend a retreat in the Alps, and Celeste was the only one between the two of us and Camille who spoke French.

I didn’t even think about it until you just spoke…

but I’m going to need someone. A translator. On site.”

“Why…” I inhale, trying to slow myself down. “Surely you’d need more than this five-minute conversation to offer me a job, Mr. Valmonte.”

“Adam,” he corrects, as if it should have been a reasonable thought for me to assume I’m on a first-name basis with a billionaire.

“And usually I’d agree with you, but you’re the first person in days to speak to me like a normal person and not like I’m made of glass.

I’ll have to work closely with my translator, and that’s reason enough for me to think I’d find you tolerable. ”

Tolerable. Okay. Well. That’s something, at least, but I’m struck by how terrible of an idea it is. Surely he’s not thinking clearly, and I know little to nothing about him, his company, or this so-called business retreat.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say carefully, “But I suspect you’re being so kind because of how difficult today has been for you, so I’m going to have to decline. “ I fidget awkwardly, and seeing tension across his face, I add, “for now”, before my brain has any chance to reason.

Adam looks at me again, down his straight, slightly large nose.

“That’s not why.” I open my mouth to decline again, but he digs into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, and from there, a business card.

It almost makes a hysterical laugh bubble up.

A business card. From Adam Valmonte. As if everyone on the face of the earth doesn’t know who he is.

He hands it to me, and when I look down at it, the significance of the gesture sobers me. Oh. This is his direct contact information. Something like this from someone like him is unheard of.

“Email me your contact information, and I’ll send you a legitimate job offer.

Hell, I’ll even open it up for other candidates.

But I think you’re going to be the right fit, Ms. Hart.

” Adam pushes off the wall now, straightening his suit jacket as the cold, stoic expression from the ceremony falls back over his handsome face. “We’ll talk soon.”

And with that, one of the richest men in the world disappears back inside, leaving me in the small contemplation garden as a few drops of drizzle begin to fall once more.

I look down at the thick, steel-gray business card as a drop lands on it, quickly shaking the water off and slipping it into my pocket.

I find myself sliding my fingers over it again and again as I meet Imogen and we depart. The business card is the only proof I have of my rendezvous with Adam Valmonte, and I feel oddly attached to it.