Page 29 of Claiming Genevieve

That feeling persists through the next day, as I sit through meetings with my father and try to go over business reports without checking my phone every few minutes. He tells me fifteen minutes into the morning meeting that he needs me to meet a new potential business partner for dinner tonight, and it’s all I can do to nod and say yes. He can’t go—of course he can’t. He’s in no physical shape, at this point, to go wine and dine a future business interest. I can see in his eyes how frustrated he is that he can’t go, that he’s been reduced to handing these duties over to his son, but I can’t quite drum up the sympathy that I know I probably should.

I’m here. I came back when I was ordered to. I’m doing as I’m told, asking ‘how high’ every time my father says ‘jump’ since the moment I stepped off the private jet. I’m doing my duty, even if I wonder sometimes if it will suffocate me. So I can’t feel overly sorry that my father can no longer carry out the duties that he summoned me back to handle.

The dinner is hard to focus on, though. The man I’m meeting with is the owner of a string of dance clubs that my father wants to invest in—a legal venue for our more illegal ventures. Plenty of things can be moved through a club if the owner is on board—drugs, weapons. I have experience handling the latter, back when I handled our businesses in Ireland. The former, I have very little experience with, but all that really matters is that I make a deal with the man sitting across from me at the table, cutting into his bloody steak as I resist the urge to pull out my phone and check to see if Genevieve has texted me.

“—we can use the services of one of the local motorcycle gangs, move additional product that way,” the man across from me is saying, just as I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I know I should ignore it, but instead I surreptitiously slide it loose, glancing at the screen.

My chest tightens when I see Genevieve’s name.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, standing so abruptly that I almost knock into the table. “I need to take this. I’ll be right back.”

A look of startled irritation crosses my dinner partner’s face, but he doesn’t say anything to the contrary.One of the perks of my job, I think, as I quickly answer the phone, striding toward the door of the restaurant.

“Hello there,taibhseach,” I murmur as I step outside into the warm summer night. “I’ve been hoping I’d hear from you.”

Genevieve snorts lightly on the other end. “I’m sure. I thought you’d want my answer, once I made up my mind.”

My heart trips in my chest. I almost tell her to wait, because if her answer isno, I’m not sure I want to hear it. I can’t fathom how I’m going to exorcise her from the spot she’s taken up in my thoughts, a constant presence—if she refuses me.

“Of course,” I manage to say coolly, as if it doesn’t matter to me at all. As if this is, like I told her, just a business matter. “I’m glad you called.”

“Yes, Rowan.”

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s just said. I was braced for ano, readying myself for the moment when I’d have to accept that I need to well and truly get over this woman who has become an obsession to a near-worrying degree. But instead?—

“Yes?” I repeat it, unsure if I heard her correctly, and I hear Genevieve laugh softly on the other end. It’s a sound that I want to hear again. I want to be thereasonshe makes it.

“Yes. I’m saying yes to your proposal, Rowan. We’ll need to work out the details, make sure that we agree on the terms—and we haven’t agreed on much so far,” she adds drily. “But my answer is yes.”

Desire floods through me, until everything else is forgotten. I’ve forgotten about my dinner, about the business deal waiting for me inside, about everything except the sound of Genevieve’s voice sayingyes, and everything that means.

A feeling of victory trickles through my veins, mingled with anticipation, and I swallow hard, my mind spinning with possibilities. Genevieve is speaking on the other end of the phone—something about contracts and witnesses and timing, but all I hear is that one word, again and again.

Yes.

—

Our engagement partyis a week later. The moment I told my father that I’d met someone I was willing to marry, he insisted that we move forward with it all as quickly as possible. He played it off as just good business, to make sure that everything is settled, but I saw a flicker of fear on his face for the first time. It humanized him in a way that I’ve never seen before—that moment where I saw him thinking about just how short his time might be. I argued that it could wait, maybe until Genevieve’s foot was healed and she could dance at least a little at her own engagement party, but he insisted that the party should happen as soon as possible, and that the contract should be signed sooner than that—within twenty-four hours of her agreeing.

Thatresulted in me meeting with her in a public place at her insistence, the contract between us as if we were discussing a merger over coffee and not our future—if temporary—marriage. She made notes on every piece of it that she disagreed with—everything from the final amount she would be paid out to the length of time that our marriage would encompass the physical aspect of it—and added a clause to the end:

Neither party shall engage in any form of romantic or sexual contact with another person while the marriage is in effect.

I look at the sentence, written in her elegant, looping script, and chuckle. “So you’ll come to my bed for a week and no more, but you expect me to be celibate after?” The truth is that I can’t imagine wanting any woman but Genevieve right now—but that’snow, with her sitting across from me, the sun glinting off her dark hair and her eyes glinting with mischief at me. Once I’ve had my fill of her, or at least as much as she’ll allow—I’ll want my freedom. I can’t imagine that I won’t; it’s how I’ve been my whole life. This one woman isn’t going to change that.

“A week is enough for a honeymoon,” she says delicately. “After that, my obligations are ended.”

“Ah, lass.” I draw in a breath through my teeth. “Nothing gets me harder than you referring to our marriage bed as anobligation.”

Genevieve rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. We’re discussing a contract right now, Rowan. Not a seduction.”

“Could have fooled me.” My gaze drifts over her, taking in the V-neck white T-shirt she’s wearing, tucked into a black pencil skirt that made me dizzy when she walked in, seeing the way it hugged her hips and ass. She catches my gaze, and I look for some sign of heat in it, but if she feels anything for me like I do for her, she’s hiding it well. It bothers me a little, to see her so composed when I feel as if I’m on the verge of combusting, but it also feels like a challenge—to see if I can undo all that composure, all that elegance, once I finally have her in my bed.

And the piece of paper between us means that sooner rather than later, Iwill.

When the contract is finished, all that’s left is to sign it in front of witnesses. That involves a trip to St. Patrick’s and a meeting with myself, Genevieve, my father, and the priest, as well as my father’s two most trusted men to witness. I watch as Genevieve signs her name, noticing only the smallest tremor in her hand when she signs it. I take her hand as she sets down the pen, and she flinches ever so slightly, looking up at me as if my touch was the last thing she expected.

I draw a velvet box out of my jacket, opening it so that she can see what lies inside. Genevieve’s lips part in shock, and I speak before she can, so that there’s no chance of her surprise cluing my father in to the temporary nature of the private agreement between Genevieve and me.

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