Chapter 4 The Deal #2
She's zoned in with the focused intensity of a sniper lining up a shot.
I move before I consciously decide to.
This woman is going to get herself killed.
She doesn't see me coming. Too focused on her target. Too convinced she's being subtle.
I bypass the pool entirely and position myself between her and Blake, using the crowd as cover.
She shifts left.
I shift to left.
She shifts right, trying to find a clear approach path.
I shift right, maintaining my blocking position.
She cranes her neck. I stretch an arm up as if adjusting my collar, blocking her view.
She huffs, loud enough I hear it over the jazz playlist.
It's almost funny, this dance we're doing. Like some ridiculous hockey drill where I'm the defenseman and she's the winger who can't figure out why she keeps running into the same wall.
I glance over, she's glaring at me. I study the architectural details of the pavilion roof with intense interest.
This is ridiculous. I'm a Stanley Cup champion playing goalie against a woman who looks like she'd trip over a welcome mat.
Finally, she gives up on subtlety and just starts walking.
Straight toward Blake. Straight through a gauntlet of resort staff carrying trays of champagne.
I see the disaster before it happens.
She's watching Blake instead of her feet. The staff member with the tray is watching the pool instead of the path. The trajectory is inevitable.
Jane's sandal catches the edge of a decorative tile.
She stumbles.
The tray of champagne glasses tilts.
I move.
Twenty years of hockey training means my body reacts before my brain finishes processing the situation. I close the distance in three strides, catch her around the waist with one arm, and use my other hand to steady the tray before the whole thing crashes to the ground.
The staff member exhales in relief.
Jane crashes into my chest instead of the marble tile.
Her hands fist in my shirt. Her weight presses against me—soft curves, warm skin through thin fabric, the scent of her shampoo mixing with sunscreen and something floral.
Every nerve ending I have lights up like a scoreboard.
She's small against me. Soft where I'm hard. Her heart hammers against my ribs—I can feel it through her dress.
Dang.
"You good?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, strained by how badly I want to back her against the nearest wall.
She looks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. "I'm—yeah. I'm good." But her knuckles are white where she's clutching my bicep, and she's not pulling away. Neither am I.
My cock stirs again, pressing against the zipper of my pants.
"West." My name on her lips is breathless. I want to hear it when she comes.
"Careful," I manage, forcing myself to release her. "These tiles are slippery."
"Right. Slippery." She smooths her dress with trembling hands. "Thanks for the... save."
"Don't mention it."
Her gaze darts past me to Blake, and I see comprehension dawn— I've blocked her again.
Her jaw sets. Her eyes narrow.
"We need to talk," I say before she can try another approach.
"I'm kind of busy—"
"No, you're not." I wrap my hand around her elbow—gentle but firm—and steer her away from the pool before she can protest. "Come on."
She could fight me. Should fight me, probably.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she lets me guide her across the courtyard, past the main pavilion, toward the private path that leads to the VIP casitas.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Somewhere you can't cause a scene."
"I'm not causing scenes. I'm networking."
"You're about as good at networking as I am at ballet."
That gets a surprised laugh out of her. The sound does something dangerous to my chest.
The walk to my casita is silent except for the crunch of gravel underfoot and the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. Her skin is warm under my palm, and I have to resist the urge to slide my hand lower.
I unlock the door and gesture her inside.
She hesitates for exactly two seconds before stepping through.
Smart girl. Meeting a strange man in his private villa is a terrible idea.
But she does it anyway.
Inside, the air-conditioned chill does nothing to cool the heat between us.
I close the door and lean against it, crossing my arms. "You want to tell me what you're really doing here?"
"I told you. I'm Barbie's guest."
"Guests don't usually stalk the groom like he's the last slice of pizza at a frat party."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "That's a terrible metaphor."
"It's accurate."
"I'm just being friendly."
"You're just being obvious." I straighten, moving into the room. "Blake's not a good guy, Jane. Whatever you think is going to happen if you get him alone—"
"I know exactly what kind of guy he is." Her voice has an edge now. "That's why I'm here."
I still. Study her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the shadows under her eyes.
"Explain."
She looks away, chewing her bottom lip like she's trying to decide how much to tell me.
"The bridesmaids think he's cheating. They hired me to get proof."
The words land like a body check I should've seen coming but didn't.
"They hired you," I repeat slowly.
"Yes."
"To seduce Blake."
"To get evidence. Photos. Video. A recorded confession. Something Natalie can't ignore." She lifts her chin. "They tried agencies. No one would touch it because Blake's family is too powerful. So they found me."
"And you said yes."
"I said yes."
"Why?"
"Because they're paying me fifty thousand dollars, and I need the money."
The honesty of it is almost worse than the deception. No pretense. No justification. Just cold financial calculation.
The raw honesty punches through my defenses. "For?"
"My sister's nursing tuition." The words spill out—the debt, the desperation, the fear of failing the one person who depends on her. "So lecture me all you want, but I'm doing this."
Every assumption I made about her shifts and reforms.
Not a gold-digger going after Blake directly.
A professional. Someone hired to do a job.
"So you're a what? Honeypot? Corporate spy?"
"I run an off-the-books problem-solving service." She crosses her arms defensively. "Lost pets. Stolen property. Background checks. Mostly boring stuff. This is—this was supposed to be a quick job. Flirt with the groom, get him to slip up, collect proof, get paid."
"And then what? Ruin the wedding? Humiliate Natalie publicly?"
"Save her from marrying a cheater." Her voice rises. "They're her best friends. They're trying to protect her from making a horrible mistake."
"By hiring a stranger to seduce her fiancé."
"It's not seduction if I'm just—" She stops. Swallows. "I'm not actually going to sleep with him."
Something in the way she says it makes me look closer.
The defensive posture. The tight voice. The way she won't meet my eyes.
"You've never done this before," I say slowly. "This kind of job."
"I've done undercover work—"
"That's not what I mean." I move closer, watching her reaction. "You've never seduced anyone before."
Her silence is answer enough.
"Good gracious," I breathe. "Are you a virgin?"
"That's not—that's irrelevant."
"It's extremely relevant if you're trying to honey-trap a serial predator."
Her face flushes. "I can handle it."
"Can you?" I gesture toward the window. "Because from where I'm standing, you can barely handle walking without tripping over your own feet. You think Blake won't notice? You think he won't push further than you want to go?"
"I'll stop it before—"
I stare at this woman willing to dive into a shark tank for family and feel the last of my resistance crumble. "You'll get hurt."
"I can handle Blake."
"You can't even handle patio tiles." The retort slips out before I can stop it.
She glares. "I tripped once."
"And I intercepted you three times today." I run a hand through my hair. "You're a virgin playing honey trap with a predator. That's not bravery; it's suicide."
Her eyes spit fire at me. "I didn’t confirm that. Don’t jump to—"
"Because you blush like someone who hasn't been touched." The words hang between us, charged and dangerous. "Blake will know. He'll exploit it."
“I can take care of myself before—"
"Before what? Before he gets you alone on that 'private beach' he invited you to? Before he realizes you're playing him and decides to play back harder?"
I'm angrier than I should be. Angrier than makes sense.
Because Jane Cooper isn't my responsibility. She's a stranger making bad choices for good reasons, and I should walk away.
But I can't.
Because I saw Blake's hand on her knee. I saw the way he looked at her like she was prey.
And I know exactly what Blake does to women who interest him.
"Get out," I say.
She blinks. "What?"
"Get out of Anguilla. Take whatever money they paid you up front and go home. Tell the bridesmaids you couldn't get the proof. Tell them whatever you want. But walk away from this before you get hurt."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said I need the money!" The words burst out of her. Then she doesn’t stop.
"I have bills. I have debt. My sister's tuition is due in two weeks and if I don't pay it she loses her spot in the nursing program she worked her ass off to get into.
I sold my car last month to cover rent. I'm two hundred dollars in the red in my checking account.
So no, I can't just walk away, because fifty thousand dollars is the difference between my sister getting her degree and her ending up like our mother! "
She's breathing hard now, eyes bright with something that might be tears or might be fury.
I've never wanted to fix something more in my life.
"How old is your sister?" I ask quietly.
"Twenty-two."
"And you've been taking care of her since—"
"Since was she’s fourteen and I was nineteen. Since our mom died." She wipes at her eyes angrily.
"So lecture me all you want about safety and bad decisions, but I'm doing this. With or without your interference."
The sudden instinct to shield her from Blake—hell, from herself—locks into place like a hit I can't avoid.
The fact that she's had to carry this alone since she was nineteen. The fact that she's here, risking herself, because no one else showed up.
I can't let her do this alone.
I can't let her do this at all.
But if I try to stop her, she'll just find another way. Another angle. Another catastrophically stupid plan that ends with her hurt and Blake laughing about it later.
Unless.
The idea is half-formed, reckless, and completely insane.
Which is probably why I say it out loud.
"I'll help you."
She stares at me. "What?"
"I'll help you get the proof you need. But we do it my way. Safely. No private beaches. No getting cornered alone. I'll coach you through it."
"Why would you help me?"
I take a deep breath and hold her gaze, letting her see that I'm serious.
"Because you're going to do something for me in return."
Her spine snaps straight. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
"I don't want to sleep with you either."
Lie. Complete lie, and we both know it based on the way her cheeks flush.
“Then why?” Jane asks again.
"Because my family is here to auction me off to the highest bidder."
“What?!” The alarm in her voice is instant.
“They came to marry me off. They have candidates. Schedules. A strategic plan that involves fertility apps and ovulation tracking.” I grimace. “If I don’t give them something, they’ll make the next seven days hell.”
“I need a girlfriend buffer. You need a bodyguard. So, a temporary alliance. Everyone wins."
She just stares at me.
Then understanding finally flickers across her face, slow and disbelieving.
“You want me to be your fake girlfriend.”
"I want you to be my solution. You play the besotted girlfriend. I get my family off my back. You get coaching on how to catch Blake without ending up as his next conquest. Everyone wins."
Her eyes widen. "No."
"Hear me out—"
"Absolutely not. That's—" She shakes her head. "That's insane."
"Crazier than your current plan?" You got a better option?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“How would this even work?”
I launch into the answer before she finishes the question.
“You move into this casita tonight. We sell the relationship publicly. Tomorrow morning, we have breakfast on the terrace where my mother can see us. You laugh at my jokes. I touch you like I can’t help it. And by lunch, every guest at this resort thinks we’re obsessed with each other.”
I take a breath.
Realize I haven’t stopped talking.
She’s just staring at me now, eyebrows lifted, like I’ve outlined a hostile takeover instead of a fake relationship.
“In return,” I add, slower this time, “we make sure Blake only takes the bait in controlled situations—where you’re safe. You get your proof. I get a week of peace. Then we go our separate ways and no one gets hurt.”
She tilts her head. “Except Blake.”
"Blake deserves what's coming." I mean it. Every word. "But you don't deserve to be collateral damage in his mess."
She's wavering. I can see it.
"What's it going to be, Jane? Keep stumbling around hoping you get lucky? Or let me help you do this right?"
She swallows hard. "And the sleeping arrangements?"
"Sharing a bed's non-negotiable if we want them to buy it."
I watch her throat work. I'm a bastard for noticing.
She studies my face for a long moment.
Looking for the trap. The angle. The hidden cost.
I keep my expression neutral. Professional. This is just strategy. Just problem-solving. Nothing to do with the way my pulse kicks up when she looks at me like that.
Finally, she nods. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We have a deal."
Relief floods me—then terror. I just invited a woman who dismantles my control with one look to share my bed for a week.
I'm screwed.
"Get your stuff. You're moving in tonight."
Her eyes widen. "Tonight?"
"If we're selling this, we sell it properly. My family doesn't do halfway." I pull out my phone. "Text Barbie. Tell her you're staying with me. Then pack your things and get back here within the hour."
"You're very bossy."
"I'm very motivated." I meet her eyes. "And Jane? This is going to work. But only if you trust me."
She laughs—short and sharp. "I just met you."
"I know. But I'm the best shot you've got."
She considers that. Then nods once, decisive.
"One hour," she agrees and grabs my mobile to call her phone.
Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the scent of her sunscreen and the terrifying knowledge that I just invited chaos into my carefully controlled life.
My phone buzzes with her text: One condition—I get the right side of the bed.
I type back: Wars have been fought over less. Prepare for battle.
I hit send, already imagining her laugh. Already dreading the feel of her body next to mine in the dark. Already hard again at the thought.
Three years of discipline. Gone in one sunset.
I pour scotch I don't want and wait for the hurricane to return.