Hard Sell (Page 7)

Juno dashes over and jumps up on the couch beside him, something she usually does only with me.

Matt rubs Juno’s head, looking at the dog instead of at me, and I decide it’s time to cut the bull. “When do we get to the point about what you’re doing here?”

He smiles without looking at me. “Usually a woman asks that before making her visitor a drink.”

“I took pity on you. The WSJ, remember?”

His smile disappears. “Hard to forget.”

“So.” I sip my drink. “Vegas.”

He runs his hands over his face and slumps back against the couch. “It was Troy’s bachelor party.”

“Troy?”

“My cousin. Kind of a douchebag now, but we had some fun memories growing up.”

“So if it was his bachelor party, why wasn’t he the one with a naked woman draped over his lap?”

“He was,” Matt grumbles. “He just wasn’t featured in the Wall Street Journal.”

Much as Matt drives me crazy, it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for the guy. I can’t even fathom the horror of anyone seeing me at a vulnerable moment, let alone millions of WSJ subscribers.

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

I blink, thrown off by the unexpected pronouncement. “I didn’t ask. And in no way is that my business.”

He shrugs and leans forward, picking up his drink.

I take a deep breath. I meant what I said. What Matt does in his spare time, with other women . . . totally not my business.

We’re not dating. We don’t even like each other. We’re simply two people who, against their better judgment, sleep together, with each ill-fated naked encounter somehow driving us further apart instead of closer together.

But still, we’re not exclusive.

And yet . . . there’s relief that he didn’t sleep with the Vegas stripper, or whatever she was.

I hate myself for it, but it’s there. Relief, pure and strong and absolutely not to be analyzed.

“The bosses are pissed?” I ask.

Matt grunts his assent, taking another sip of his martini.

“It’ll pass,” I say. “Some other scandal will come up, and the whole thing will blow over.”

He stands and goes to the window, taking his cocktail with him as he studies the Manhattan skyline. “They’ve given me an ultimatum.”

“Seriously?” I ask. “It’s that bad?” I’m surprised. Even I know what an asset he is to Wolfe Investments, with that big number-crunching brain of his.

Matt shoves his free hand in his pocket and doesn’t turn around. “Just a perfect-storm situation, I think. The fact that the story broke in a prestigious newspaper instead of Page Six. The fact that some of the morons I was with were into the hard stuff but the reporter failed to mention that I didn’t touch the cocaine. Plus, Wolfe’s still recovering from Ian’s scandal. The higher-ups are on edge.”

“So they’re going to fire you for getting a lap dance?” I ask incredulously. “Unless you do what?”

“They want me to settle down.”

I snort. “Have they actually met you?”

“Ian settled down. He was even more wild than me.”

I stare at his back. “You’re serious. You’re going to do this?”

“No, they’re serious,” he says, turning back to me with no trace of his usual cocky smile. “I get a girlfriend, or I get canned.”

I ignore the little stab of something painful in my chest at the thought of Matt committed to someone for the long haul, the way Ian and Lara are.

I take a sip of my cocktail as I think this over.

His situation sucks, and his life needs fixing. That’s what I do. I’m actually not all that surprised he showed up, though I sort of imagined his request for help would be along the lines of getting the WSJ to issue a retraction.

At this rate, though, even if I could achieve that, I don’t know what good it would do. This city, this life, is all about reputation. Once it’s smeared, you can’t undo the smear. You simply have to smear it with something else. Something better.

Like a girlfriend.

Much as I hate to admit it, the plan has merit. Nothing takes the steam out of a playboy scandal like a ball and chain.

“You want my help.”

He takes a sip of his drink and stays silent.

I push him. “C’mon, Cannon, admit it. You never come here. We never do drinks just the two of us, unless it’s after . . . you know.”

His eyebrows go up. “Sex?”

“Right. Which is absolutely not on the agenda.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Figured that from your attire.”

I glance down. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“Nothing. I just didn’t know you owned a sweatshirt, much less purple socks.”

“Do you live in your suit?”

“No.” Another sip of his cocktail. “Sometimes I’m naked.”

The picture of exactly what his perfect body looks like flits through my mind, and I push it aside. “You’re changing the subject,” I say, setting my glass on the table. No coaster. “What do you want?”

“Shit, Sabrina, you already know what I want. I want to hire you.”

“You need a girlfriend. A fake one,” I say, making sure I understand the request.

“Yup. For the next month or so, I need to be completely enamored with a woman. And I need her to pretend to be devoted to me.”

“Vegas warts and all,” I murmur as I contemplate his bosses’ ultimatum.

“You think the plan is crap?” he asks.

I feel a jolt of pleasure—of pride—when I realize he’s really asking. That he really wants my opinion on something this important to him.

“Actually . . . no,” I say slowly, chewing an olive. “I’ve discovered that a man can get away with just about anything so long as the same woman appears on his arm at the right society events.”

He sighs. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me the plan was total shit so I wouldn’t have to go through with it.”

“Not excited about having a little lady in your life?” I keep my voice light and joking, carefully hiding the relief that he’s in no hurry to settle down, even just for pretend. It helps ease the sting of what he’s about to ask me to do:

Find him his fake girlfriend.

Even knowing it won’t be real, the thought of finding some perfect woman to be his ally for the next month . . .

I shove the regret aside. “Okay, so, your fake girlfriend. How long do I have to find her?”

“Ah . . .”

I frown at his discomfort. “You just said you need to hire me. You need me to fix this, right?”

“Yeah, but . . .” He drags a hand down his face.

“What am I missing?” I ask, my heart pounding just a little in anticipation of something coming my way that I’m not going to like. “You need a girlfriend; I’ll find you a girlfriend.”

“I don’t want a girlfriend. I mean, I do, but . . .” He lifts his head and locks his gaze with mine. “I want you.”

“What?”

“I want you to play the part, Sabrina. No, that’s not right.” He looks down quickly, then meets my eyes again. “I need you.”

My breath goes out on a whoosh.

I’ve heard him wrong. Surely I’ve heard him wrong.