CHAPTER FOUR RIGGS

CHAPTER FOUR

RIGGS

I spent the subway ride to the WNT headquarters not hyperventilating into some guy’s McDonald’s bag, a big win in my book.

I wasn’t like my friends Christian and Arsène, who had a perpetual boner for messy conflicts. Those two could pick up a fight in an empty room. Antipathy was their passion.

I got off at Thirty-Fourth Street and entered the main reception of WNT. A bubbly receptionist greeted me. “Welcome to WNT News Corp.! How can I help you?”

You can kill me now. I’ll pay you extra if you make it quick.

“I’m here for .?.?.” Delia? Davina? Delaney? “Gretchen Beatty’s assistant.”

“Which one? She has six.”

Six?G was more high maintenance than Disney World. But that didn’t surprise me.

“The British one who looks like a sexy nun.” I leaned a hip against the counter, jerking my foot impatiently.

“A sexy nun?” The woman tilted her head, clearly confused. I sometimes forgot how most people didn’t draw their analogies and cultural references from Pornhub.

“You know, dresses conservatively, with heels and all that jazz. She’s got nice .?.?.” I cupped my hands to my chest in a weighing-watermelons gesture. Oops. I was doing it again. Being overtly me. “Uh, hair.”

It wasn’t a lie. I remembered she had shiny hair. Because I wondered what it’d look like wrapped around my fist.

“What color is it?” The receptionist narrowed her eyes.

“Huh?” Flashbacks of the Brit’s impressive rack shot through my mind. She really was a bombshell, and she worked the whole chic European look like nobody’s business. Shame about that personality.

“Her hair, sir.”

“Oh. Brown. An interesting shade of brown. Like .?.?.” Don’t say crap. “Mud.”

Though I was in no danger of snagging Pablo Neruda’s spot as the king of quixotic poetry, Enola Holmes here put the pieces together.

“That’d be Daphne.” Daphne! I knew it was a D name. “I’ll buzz you up. Who should I say is looking for her?”

The guy who fucked her boss in front of her, then proceeded to offend her. Twice. Then rejected her marriage proposal. Here’s a photo of my dick, in case she needs a refresher.

“Riggs.” I cleared my throat. “Riggs Bates.”

I waited for the receptionist to connect with Daphne on the switchboard. After a quick call, I was sent to the thirtieth floor. A woman who waited at the elevator and introduced herself as Gretchen’s fourth assistant led me to Daphne’s office. That was where I found the woman I was about to make my fiancée painting a traffic cone with red finger paint while standing inside a Crocs shoebox. She was screaming into a phone pinned between her shoulder and ear. “I’m well bloody aware, Charlie! No need for the weekly fatherly pep talks. I wish I could tell Gretchen to shove her attitude up her ars—”

Who was Charlie? Didn’t matter. It gave me inexplicable pleasure to see her like this. I knew her kind. She was obsessed with her precious hair, her expensive shoes, and her designer dresses. Her idea of art was probably contouring her face.

I stepped into her office, then leaned against the door and grinned. She didn’t look up, too caught up in what she was doing.

“.?.?. can’t make it to our drinks tonight, I’m afraid. Raise a pint for me .?.?.”

Not even slightly surprised the people in her life needed alcohol to see the next day, I decided to make myself known and get it over with.

“This looks .?.?.” Almost as bizarre as your behavior last night. “Therapeutic.”

She looked up, her mouth comically ajar. “Oh. It’s you.” She screwed her mouth in distaste and tossed her phone to her desk. “Gretchen’s office is down the hall.”

She thought I was here for Gretchen. I’d almost forgotten about the latter’s existence.

“Working on a Guinness record for most eccentric piece of garbage?” I asked to initiate some pleasant chitchat.

She didn’t look up from the small cone she held, wrapped in brown papier-maché. The tip of her tongue poked from the side of her mouth. “I’m making a diorama for Lyric’s science project. She wanted an active volcano.”

“Who’s Lyric?”

“Your lover’s child, you scoundrel.” She squatted down to retrieve more red paint.

“G’s kid?” I pushed off the door and ambled into the room. “Shouldn’t she be doing it?”

By the death glare Daphne pinned me with, I gathered the Beatty family did very little by themselves. Considering she had six assistants, I’d be surprised if Gretchen wiped her own ass. Mary Poppins should be grateful Gretchen couldn’t physically transfer her period cramps to her.

I plopped down on her office chair. She had flow charts with Post-it Notes arranged by pastel color on her desk, freakishly neat handwriting, and an inspiration board pinned with Hamptons mansions and Birkin bags. Gretchen wasn’t kidding. She was a social climber. I’d grown up around moneyed women my entire life, and the only ones who were gaga for overpriced designer crap were the newly rich ones.

“I came here to continue our negotiations.” I popped open a plastic container’s lid on her desk to see what was inside. Berries. Figured. She seemed like the kind of woman who viewed carbs as a mortal sin.

“Make yourself useful while you’re at it and fill this empty bottle with baking soda and red food coloring.” She jerked her chin to my right, where a cardboard box sat with the ingredients. “Don’t add the vinegar. She’ll have to bring it separately to school.”

I picked up the empty water bottle and started working.

“So. Told anyone you caught Gretchen Beatty fucking a punk yet?” I inquired conversationally.

Daphne was still painting the bloodied stool she referred to as a volcano. “First of all, I reckon you’re too old to be called a punk. A loser might be more age appropriate.”

And this is why you have to blackmail people into marriage, sweetheart.

“To answer your question, I’m currently shopping around for an interview deal.” She let loose a smile that could freeze the sun and its neighboring planets.

“And how’s that going for you?” I tilted an eyebrow.

She glared at the shoebox she was standing in, then back at me in a Take a wild guess look.

“Well, I come bearing good news.” I used the funnel on her desk to slide the baking soda into the bottle.

“Oh?” She picked up a wet towel from the floor and wiped her hands. “Last time you came, the only good thing that happened was I narrowly avoided getting strangled to death by my boss. No thanks to you, of course.”

“Shit, Poppins, was that a sexual innuendo?” I laughed.

“Hardly.” She scowled and then blushed. “That wasn’t a sexual innuendo, either, so do behave.”

My God, her mouth was more entertaining than her boss’s. And it wasn’t even wrapped around my cock.

“Actually, I have a confession to make. I didn’t come.” I put a hand to my heart. “You killed the mood for me.”

“The condolences basket is on its way.” She untied the apron around her waist. Underneath it was a pleated ankle-length dress that made her look like a stern governess who was a few minutes away from thrashing an orphan for asking for more porridge. Having sex with the woman was probably as thrilling as filing your annual tax return.

“Water under the bridge.” I screwed the cap back on the bottle with the baking soda and put it in the box. “Listen, I’m willing to rethink the whole getting hitched thing.”

She stepped out of the diorama and carried it to an open window, each of her movements designed to curb her surprise and joy. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about the why.”

“What is it? Are you in trouble? Have you done something illegal?” She propped herself against her filing cabinet, her tone measured and crisp.

“You mean in general, or recently, in a way that can implicate you?”

She scowled. “All three.”

“I haven’t done anything that could get either of us into trouble.”

Not recently, anyway.

“You do know I can’t pay you.” Her eyes darkened further. They were the closest thing to purple I’d seen on a human, and I fought the urge to drag her to the window, to natural sunlight, and take a picture of them to see what they’d look like behind my lens.

“I don’t need your money.”

She curved an eyebrow, giving me a slow once-over. Daphne was unapologetically money oriented, which was a huge turnoff. At least there was no risk for us to truly get along. “I do beg to differ.”

“Look, Poppins, you wanna get hitched or not?”

“Not,” she answered decisively and then, after a beat, rolled her eyes. “But I’m afraid I must. First, I want you to tell me what made you change your mind.”

She wasn’t going to let it go, and I wasn’t in the mood to do this song and dance for the next couple of hours. Plus, I needed to get out of her office. It smelled like a candle shop.

“If you must know, I need a fiancée as an excuse to keep me in New York for a while. Work stuff.”

“Oh, you have a job. Marvelous.” She seemed surprised. “What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer for Discovery magazine.”

She popped one eyebrow. Clearly, the answer she’d expected was trafficking small children and deadly drugs across the border. “And having a wife would help you, how?”

“My boss won’t be able to spring an eight-month stint in deep Alaska on me. Apparently, it’s an assignment fit for a single person without responsibilities. I need a responsibility. Some baggage. That’s where you come into the picture.”

She stared at me with the enthusiasm of an inmate on death row. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s burden.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure you already are.”

Shaking her head, she groaned. “So how do you see this working?”

Her hostility was low-key turning me on. I’d never met someone so immune to my charms, to my looks; this woman honestly only cared about high fashion and men with deep wallets. If only she knew she was standing in front of a man who was worth more than this entire block and its retailers combined.

“By setting expectations and some ground rules.” I opened my arms wide.

“Rules.” She tapped her chin, frowning. “I do enjoy rules.”

“Shocking.”

“You’re quite rude, you know.”

“You called me a loser,” I reminded her.

“How else would you describe a man who conducts an affair with a married woman?”

“Horny,” I replied flatly, raising my palms in the air. “Guilty as charged, by the way.”

“Unbelievable.” She tipped her head back, closing her eyes. “Your rules. Start listing them, please.”

“First—no catching feelings. I’m terrible husband material. I’m not a bad guy. But I’m not a faithful one either. I can barely stay in a committed relationship with my inner organs, let alone another human. And there’s definitely no reliable bones in my body. If we get married, I need you to remember it’s all for show. I’ll be free to engage in extracurricular activities with other people and travel as I please.”

She stared at me with an odd look on her face before letting out a raspy, sexy laugh.

“Dear God, you’re serious.” She cupped her mouth. “Rest assured, Mr. Bates, I’m in no danger of ever becoming infatuated with you.”

This woman was not great for my ego. The amount of humble pie she shoved into my mouth was making me nauseous.

“Remind me why I gross you out so badly?” I was a glutton for punishment. Maybe it was time to try BDSM. I bet this woman would love to smack me around if I asked her.

“Well, for one thing, I’m rather involved with someone else. Before you ask—marrying him is not an option. Secondly, even if he wasn’t in the picture .?.?.” She trailed off, squaring her shoulders. “No offense, but you’re not my type. I like ambitious, driven, smartly dressed men with impeccable manners and noble pedigrees.”

“You mean you want to marry a rich asshole,” I translated, stroking my chin. “You know, Daphne, I think you might be my favorite feminist.”

She crossed her arms, her glare deepening. “I’m not going to defend my morals to you.”

“Thank fuck.” I stacked my ankles over her desk and sit back. “I find morals too boring and constrictive to preserve.”

Another long-suffering sigh escaped her. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t, but I needed to pretend I’d given this more thought than a subway ride. “Don’t ask me for a penny. I have none.”

“Terms and conditions accepted,” she said. “Now my turn.”

“Hit me with it.”

“You must cosign my petition for a visa and attend our appointments and interviews with the US Department of State. Make sure we’re in compliance with everything they need. I know quite a few people who’ve done that.”

Easy-peasy. Worst that could happen if we got caught would be to pay a penalty and get some community service, with her being deported. The world was too full of actual criminals to lock the two of us up.

“Accepted. Now let’s get to the good part. When are we getting a divorce, Daphne?”

“It’s Duffy.”

“Bless you.”

“No, my name. All my friends call me Duffy. I suppose you should too.”

“Fine. When are we getting a divorce, Duffy?”

“So, here’s the thing.” She licked her lips. “It could take up to thirty-six months for me to get a green card—”

“Three fucking years?” I spluttered. “Aren’t you supposed to get a temporary passport stamp or whatever in the meantime?”

“Well, yes, you do. But then if we stick it out for two years—shouldn’t take more than twenty-four months, really—and prove our marriage is legit—”

I held my hand up. “Our marriage will not be legit.”

“Come on. It isn’t like they have a way of knowing this.” She waved a dismissive hand my way. “Think about it. I can help you with whatever you need at work.” She pushed off the cabinet, pacing back and forth in an attempt to come up with more pros.

“Oh!” She stopped, snapping her fingers. “Gretchen mentioned earlier that you don’t have accommodations? You could absolutely stay with me temporarily. My fridge is full and my settee is quite comfy.”

“Full of this?” I raised the container with the berries. “No, thank you.”

“You must need a place to sleep.” She frowned at me.

“Finding a place to crash has never been an issue.” I could buy a whole damned hotel if I wanted to.

“But why ask for favors? You’re what? Thirty-eight? Forty?” She scanned me head to toe.

“Thirty-seven.” My ego was dust and a distant memory at this point.

“Right.” She smiled politely, revealing a stunning white smile and zero warmth behind it. “Soz.”

I couldn’t figure her out. Why couldn’t she marry her main piece?

Maybe he wasn’t American. Whatever he was, I didn’t need a jealous boyfriend in the picture. Then again, if Duffy and I were having this conversation, there was no chance the guy truly gave a crap. I’d never been in love, but both my best friends were disgustingly and happily married, so I knew what love looked like. If Arya or Winnie had spontaneously decided to marry someone else, both grooms would be scattered in cube-size pieces all over New York in a CSI-style scavenger hunt.

I popped some berries into my mouth as I spun in her chair like a child. “Tell you what. Let’s wait for your temporary visa first. That buys you time to find a job that will sponsor you. And if the arrangement works out—and no offense, but I wouldn’t bet my chips on it—we can stay married until your green card is secured. If not, you’ll grant me a divorce. A nice and quick one, or I tell the authorities you blackmailed me into doing so. Final offer.”

She looked like she was about to argue, first opening her mouth, then pursing her lips reluctantly. Finally, she nodded. “Fair.”

I stood up and thrust my hand in her direction. She looked down at it like I was offering her chlamydia. Her stuffiness was starting to get on my last nerve. I almost withdrew when she apparently decided to bite the bullet and place her hand in mine. Her shake was cold and dry. Her beauty was sadly wasted on one of the most horrible women I’d had the displeasure to meet.

Duffy despising me was great news to both of us. The last thing I needed was for my fiancée to tolerate me.

“How does it feel?” I peered down at her purple eyes.

“How does what feel?” She glowered.

“To catch genital herpes through a handshake.”

If she enjoyed my joke, she chose to show it by visibly gagging. She stepped back and wiped her hand on her dress.

“Don’t be so stuck up. I promise to keep my STDs to myself.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Oh, and Dina?”

“Duffy.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?” She looked like she was bracing herself for a blow.

“How open would you be to changing your name to Desiree?”