His 7-Day Fiancée

“All right.” She started across the lot with Claire, and he slowed his pace to theirs. Without her high heels on, she was more aware of his height, the power in his fluid stride.

She slid a glance at the hard male planes of his face, that sexy, carnal mouth. His eyes captured hers, and a sudden tension sparked between them, igniting a flurry of nerves. She quickly turned away.

They stopped in the patch of shade beside her car. He leaned back against it, folded his muscled arms across his chest. His gaze caught hers again, touching off another rush of adrenaline, and she forced herself to breathe.

“What kind of security system do you have?” he asked.

“On the house?” She frowned, led Claire around the car to the rear passenger door, hoping the distance would quiet her nerves. “We don’t have one, just locks on the windows and doors.”

“That’s what I figured.” He turned to face her, propped his forearm on the roof, drawing her gaze to the black hair marching across his tanned arm. “If that killer’s out there, you need better protection than that.”

Her stomach clenched. “I know.” But it would take time to get a security system installed—time she didn’t have.

“I have a place you can stay,” he said, and she raised her brows. “A house. It’s in a gated community on the north side of town. It has an alarm system, round-the-clock security guards. You’ll be safe there.”

She stared at him over the roof. He was offering her the use of his house? “That’s nice of you, but—”

“I’m not doing it to be nice. Not entirely.” The edge of his mouth quirked up. “You and your daughter need protection. I don’t want any bad publicity right now. If you’re in a safe place, the attacks will stop. It solves both our problems.

“The house is comfortable enough,” he continued. “It has a pool, tennis courts, a home theater. If there’s anything else you need, you can let me know.”

Comfortable enough? He had to be joking. She’d seen pictures of the mansion in the tabloids. It put a sheikh’s desert palace to shame. “Comfort isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Well, for starters, I don’t even know you.”

He lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. “You’d hardly see me. I spend most of my time in my penthouse. And it’s only until they find this guy.”

“Even so…” She shook her head, opened the car door for Claire. It was impossible, crazy. “What if the tabloids find out? Won’t that make things worse?”

“I doubt they’ll find out. They won’t expect it, and I pay my staff not to talk. Although…” He drummed his fingers on the car roof, and a calculating look entered his eyes. “That’s not a bad idea. We could spin it, play that angle up. Hell, the consortium might even approve.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“If the media thinks we’re engaged, it would give them something to speculate about besides the murder. I’d need you to attend a few events with me, though.”

“Engaged?” Her jaw dropped. He wanted her to pose as his fiancеe? “But…that’s ridiculous. No one would believe it. I’m not even your type.”

Amusement crinkled his eyes. “They’ll believe what-ever story we feed them. Besides…” His gaze dipped, making a long, heated slide over her breasts, and her heart fluttered hard. “I think I know my own type.”

“Right.” Her voice came out breathless, and her face turned warm. This was nuts. She had to get a grip and control herself before she totally embarrassed herself. “Except that if I’m in the news, Wayne and that murderer will know where I am for sure.”

“But at least you’ll have better security.”

She couldn’t argue that. She and Claire were vulnerable right now. She’d even dragged her sister into this mess. But moving into Luke’s mansion…

“I appreciate the offer,” she said carefully. “I really do. But I’ll have to think about it.”

His expression turned sharp. “You think I murdered Candace Rothchild? Is that the problem?”

“What? No, of course not.” She ducked, helped Claire into her car seat to avoid his scrutiny. Truthfully, she didn’t know what to think. According to the tabloids, Luke had argued with the murdered woman that night, and they’d had a tumultuous, romantic past. But the police had cleared him of the crime. And she couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, considering how gentle he’d been with her.

But she was a lousy judge of men.

She straightened, flexed her wrist—a stark reminder of just how flawed her judgment was.

Luke’s gaze stayed on hers. “I didn’t do it. I despised the woman, but I didn’t kill her. That’s part of the problem, though. If they reopen the case, I’ll be back in the news. The police might investigate me again.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…this is pretty sudden. I need to think.” She closed Claire’s door, walked around the car to the driver’s side. Luke straightened and stepped out of her way.

“You’d like the house. You both would,” he said as she climbed inside. She nodded, closed the door, then rolled down the windows to let in air.

He bent down, putting his face just inches from hers. She tried to ignore the virile beard stubble coating his jaw, the disturbing effect of his riveting gaze. “It’s a safe place, Amanda.” His deep voice caressed her nerves. “No one will bother you there.”

Except him. “Thank you. I really will think about it.”

Of course she couldn’t accept the offer. It was beyond ludicrous. She’d already moved in once with a man she’d barely known, and that had been a disaster. She couldn’t compound her mistakes.

She backed out of her parking space and drove to the nearest exit. While she waited for a break in traffic, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Luke stood by a gleaming black Jaguar convertible, watching her with those arresting eyes.

She shivered. No wonder the women flocked to him. Just being near him had a devastating effect on her nerves.

And he was wrong about the media. Even if she agreed to the fake engagement, they would never buy it. She spotted a break in the traffic and gunned the car, anxious to leave Luke behind. She’d seen photos of his dates in the tabloids—gorgeous, voluptuous women, the kind who wore designer clothes, shoes that cost more than most people’s mortgage payment. A-list women who vacationed on exotic beaches and sunbathed on yachts.

Whereas she was a high school history teacher. A single mother with a three-year-old child. And she couldn’t forget that fact.

She sighed, changed lanes, then worked her way through the city streets toward home. That was the mistake she’d made with Wayne. She’d been flattered when he’d asked her out, impressed that a rich, charming man had showered attention on her. She hadn’t cared about his money, but it had been so darned nice to have someone pamper her for once. All her life she’d worked to put food on the table, to keep sanity in their unstable lives. Wayne had made her feel sheltered, cared for. She’d even admired his selfcontrol.

Big mistake. One she couldn’t afford to repeat.

She turned into her sister’s street, pushed thoughts of the past from her mind. She neared the house and slowed the car, and every cell in her body tensed. She inhaled, blew out a long, slow breath, trying to stay calm. But what if Wayne was nearby? What if the killer was here? Her knuckles turned white on the wheel.

She pulled into her driveway and idled the car, hardly able to breathe. She scanned the neighbors’ bushes and yards, watched for movement around her house. Nothing. She pried her hand from the wheel, hit the button on the remote to open the garage door, checked the street in the rearview mirror.

Everything was fine. No one was there.

The garage door swung open, and she drove inside, her pulse flaying her skull. God, she hated this fear, this constant anxiety, the need to listen, watch, run. She cut the engine and set the brake. Still scanning the garage, she unlatched her seat belt and opened her door.

The side door burst open. A masked man lunged toward her, a crowbar in hand.

She shrieked, slammed her door shut and hit the locks. Her heart rioting, her hands fumbling, she jammed the key back into the ignition. But the man leaped around the car and smashed Claire’s window.

Claire wailed. Amanda’s heart went berserk.

She cranked the engine, rammed the gearshift into Reverse, shaking so hard she couldn’t think. She yanked off the brake, slammed the accelerator to the floor. The car rocketed out of the garage backward, shot down the driveway into the street—and crashed.

Amanda screamed, her voice merging with the din of twisting metal and shattering glass. The car jumped forward from the impact, hurling her against the steering wheel, and she gasped at the sharp jab of pain.