Page 15

"Exactly. Appearances matter in Catherine's social circle. Having to explain a last-minute maid of honor change would invite questions she doesn't want to answer."

"And everyone would gossip about the 'real' reason her friend isn't in the wedding anymore," he concludes.

I nod. "Catherine's paying me double my usual rate to step in at the last minute and maintain the fiction through the wedding. After that, we'll 'naturally drift apart' again, and no one's the wiser."

Matt pushes away from the wall, taking a step toward me. "So everything you've said since you arrived has been a lie."

"Not everything," I say, oddly defensive. "I do like Catherine. She's genuinely sweet. And I am good at my job. The only lie is the nature of our relationship."

He takes another step closer. "And what about us? Has that been part of the performance too?"

My pulse quickens. "What 'us'? You've been interrogating me since I arrived."

"Is that all I've been doing?" His voice drops lower, his eyes never leaving mine. "Just interrogating?"

The air between us seems to thicken, charged with something that has nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the one brewing between us.

"You tell me," I challenge, lifting my chin. "What exactly have you been doing, Matthew?"

He moves closer still, until he's standing directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

"Testing a theory," he says quietly.

"What theory?"

His hand comes up, fingers brushing against my cheek in a touch so light it's barely there. "That there's something real happening here, despite all the lies."

My breath catches. I should back away. Should maintain professional boundaries. Should remember that he's the brother of my client's fiancé, and any involvement would be wildly inappropriate.

Instead, I hear myself ask, "And? What's your conclusion?"

His eyes darken, dropping to my mouth. "Inconclusive. I need more data."

"Very scientific," I murmur, my heart hammering against my ribs.

His thumb traces my lower lip, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "I'm a methodical man."

"I've noticed."

He's so close now that I can feel his breath against my skin, can see the individual droplets of water still clinging to his eyelashes from our mad dash through the flood.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. "Unless you tell me not to."

I should tell him not to. I really, really should.

"I'm not stopping you," I whisper instead.

His mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath. There's nothing tentative about the kiss. It's all heat and demand and suppressed tension finally breaking free. His hands frame my face, holding me steady as he explores my mouth with devastating thoroughness.

I respond with equal fervor, my fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing between my knees where I sit on the edge of the table.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine. "That wasn't part of the job, was it?" he asks, voice rough.

"Definitely not in my contract.”

His smile is slow and dangerous. "Good."

Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, his hands sliding from my face to my shoulders to my waist. I arch into him, all professional pretense abandoned in the face of this overwhelming attraction.