George stood up, his fingers fluttering over his camera. “Ah, can we bother you for some pictures? Before we conclude for the day?”

Jethro’s nostrils flared. “No, I think my girlfriend needs to lie down. This has—”

“Now, honey, don’t hide the truth from them.” I wiped beneath my eyes, hoping he saw my challenge.

I’m not done with you yet.

Jethro’s eyebrows knitted together. “We haven’t hidden anything, my love.” He smiled thinly, pinching my arm where George couldn’t see.

“Wait—what are you talking about, Ms. Weaver?” Sylvie asked.

I smiled radiantly. “I’m not just his girlfriend.”

Jethro sucked in a breath.

George bounced on the spot with anticipation. “What do you mean?”

Beaming at Jethro, I said, “I’m his fiancée. We’re getting married.”

WHAT IN THE ever-loving fuck was she doing?

My mind scrambled; a terrible lancing pain stabbed my temples.

Was she pregnant?

Did she miscarry?

What the fuck did it mean if she was pregnant? What would the contraceptive do?

I shook my head, trying to get my erratic breathing under control. I couldn’t think about those things—not while the reporters were here, watching our every move.

Pills.

I need another pill.

Nila suddenly nuzzled into my chest, wrapping her bony arms around my waist. Collecting her last night, I’d noticed she looked skinnier than normal. But I knew her well—I knew she would’ve run every night on her treadmill, knew she would’ve overworked herself to forget.

But what if she’s telling the truth and was sick?

Did that become an extra issue with what my father had planned? And why did I even care? I shouldn’t care.

Do something about it.

Shoving her away, I fumbled in my pocket and yanked out the bottle. Tapping two tablets into my palm, I threw them down my throat and swallowed them dry.

My heart raced as I tucked the bottle back into my pocket and jerked my hands through my hair. Knowing I had something that helped—that the drug’s fog wisped through my blood—allowed me to regain control on the flapping mess Nila had created.

“Headache?” George asked, his eyebrow raised at my pocket.

Nila narrowed her gaze, too, incorrect conclusions filling her sniper glare. With the way she was behaving, I didn’t want her anywhere near my newfound cure. Slipping back into welcome numbness, I gathered her close and smiled for the damn journalists. “Yes, sorry. While Nila has been going through some terrible ordeals lately, I’ve suffered my own stress.”

Sylvie came closer, her eyes pooling with sympathy. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

See, Nila, two can play at this game.

I waved it away as if I was a martyr only focused on the love of his life. “Only a few headaches, but I can’t tell you how happy I am to have her home.” I jostled Nila closer, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I missed you so much.”

Nila squirmed, her lips thinning with frustration. “Me, too. I just wish you’d been there when I lost the baby instead of on business.”

Our eyes locked—the challenge in hers made my fingers dig into her side harder than I intended.

Watch what you bloody say.

I hoped she got my message because I was at the end of my patience. Cut would be watching somewhere—making sure I didn’t fucking fail. Once we were free of our audience, she had a shit-load of explaining to do.

Ignoring Nila, I smiled at George and Sylvie. “But that’s all in the past, and we’ve dwelt too long on that already.”

George looked like he might argue, but I used the same trump card Nila had. “Let’s discuss something a lot more exciting.” I narrowed my eyes on my target: Sylvie would help guide the conversation to safer ground. “We’re getting married. Let’s talk about that.”

NO, LET’S TALK about those drugs you just swallowed.

Was it true he had a headache? Or was there something more sinister in that tiny bottle?

Sylvie clutched her heart, swooning a little. “It’s so romantic. Star-crossed lovers reunited after lies and a miscarriage split them apart.”

I let her turn my attention back to the stage-show but made a mental note to steal Jethro’s pills the first chance I had. I had to know what they were.

“It’s so tragically perfect.” Sylvie’s eyes were dreamy and dumbstruck by Jethro’s undivided attention. He held the poor woman enraptured with his piercing golden gaze.

I nodded.

It was perfect.

Love and wealth and family.

Pity it’s all a heinous lie.

“If Vanity Fair would be interested, you’re more than welcome to an exclusive when I’ve finished designing my wedding gown.” I hadn’t even thought of saying that. My own lie snowballed, gathering faster and faster momentum.

If I had a future engagement with the magazine, it might make my untimely death more suspicious. If the debts took me, would they dig a little harder and uncover the truth? Then again, knowing the Hawks, they would spin some plausible tale, and I would be forgotten.

“Wow, that’s a fantastic offer. Thank you, Ms. Weaver,” George said. “We’d be delighted, of course.”

“Excellent.”

Jethro ground his teeth.

Despite his attempts to manipulate the conversation, he was in my shadow this morning. I had no intention of giving him the limelight. Jethro and his father had forced me to do this. But I would do it my way. I hadn’t broken any of Cut’s rules. I’d played along. I’d painted a picture for the world to eat up.

I’d just been smarter than they gave me credit for.

“When will the ceremony take place?” Sylvie spun on the spot, eying up the beautiful parlour. “Will you get married here or in a church?”

Jethro pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to plant a smile on his lips. “It wasn’t going to be announced for another few months, but I suppose it’s out now, so we can spill a few of the details. We’ll most likely have a garden wedding.”

“I can imagine how happy you are,” George said, fiddling with his camera and preparing to move from questions to pictures.

Jethro beamed, looking so young and carefree he took my breath away. “Extremely. I’ve never been so happy.” His eyes landed on mine; a thought flew over his face. Then he grabbed me, dipped me as if we were on a dance floor, and before I could breathe, his lips slammed against mine.

The world switched off. Completely. Utterly. Everything disappeared.

There was no sound.

No colour.

No fear or stress or panic.

Just him.

Crackling, sparking, all-consuming lust. His taste, heat, smell. My skin hummed, my lips melted, my core clenched.

For weeks, I’d wanted nothing more than to kiss him. To hold him and find that combustible connection. To bind ourselves together even in the face of debts and danger.

I moaned as his tongue nudged against my lips.

I opened for him, sighing into the passionate kiss, suspended in his arms in front of the press. He didn’t seem to care we had an audience. I loved that he didn’t care.

He’d changed so much—lived through something I didn’t understand. He’d become a stranger all over again. But no matter how he changed his thoughts and mind-set, he couldn’t change his body. That part of him I knew. His body belonged to me as surely as my body belonged to him, and I had no doubt that would enrage and petrify him. Because no matter what distance he tried to put between us—it disintegrated whenever we touched.

With another soft moan, I slinked my fingers into his thick hair, jerking his mouth harder against mine. His tongue dived deeper, wrestling for dominance. His muscles trembled, holding me in the dip as the coolness of his mouth switched to heat and for the barest of delightful moments his teeth nipped my bottom lip.

Then sound came back.

Colour returned.

Awareness of the outside world drove a wedge between us.

The kiss was over.

Jethro swooped me back onto my feet, his mouth glistening.

It was a set-up.

My heart hardened. He’d kissed me for the reporters.

George stood with his camera, busily clicking, capturing every second of our sexy ‘staged’ slip-up.

Good.

At least people would have half of the story.

The part not drowning in bullshit.

There was love between us; there was a story about connection beneath all the fakery. If only love was enough, I could be free. Jethro could be free. It could all be over if only love was stronger than debts.

“That was some kiss. Hot with a capital H.” George laughed, fanning himself. “I can see why your brother wouldn’t want you anywhere near Mr. Hawk, Ms. Weaver.”

My tummy flipped. “Why?”

Jethro stiffened, paying strict attention.

George grabbed a tripod from his duffel. “I have a younger sister myself and if I saw her kissing a man like that, I would want to break them up, too.”

Sylvie frowned, asking the question floating around in my head. “But why? It’s a dream come true for any woman to have such a compatible partner.”