Chapter Two

Amelia

I roll over with a loud grunt, blindly searching for my insistently ringing phone. I glance at the bedside clock with a frown, wondering who's calling so early in the morning. My heart skips a beat when I glimpse London's name on the screen.

God, I hope nothing happened to the twins!

I sit up quickly in bed, swiping on the screen to accept the call. "What's up, London?"

"What did you do, Amelia?!"

"What the hell…?" I mutter, holding the phone away from my ear. "Why are you determined to burst my eardrums, girl?"

"When did you start running around with Jonathan Knight?"

"Who?"

"Jonathan Knight! The business mogul? The very married business mogul? When did you start sleeping with him?"

"What? I'm not!"

"That's what the tabloids say!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" I ask, stifling a yawn as I rub my eyes to clear out some of the sleep. "I'm not seeing anybody."

"You'd better check it out, girl; it's not looking good," London says, sounding unusually tense. "Curt is worried it might affect your nomination and stocks if we let it get out of control."

"Let me check what this is all about. I'll call you back."

Seconds later, I'm staring at a shady picture of myself and Sebastian standing by his car in a seemingly compromising position with a headline that reads: Coffee Shop Princess, Amelia Farrell, Sleeping Her Way to the Top? Though Sebastian's face isn't quite visible, there's a red circle on the photo that highlights the cufflink of one hand. The other hand is reaching for the door – though in the photo, it looks like it's groping my ass.

The article goes ahead to speculate all about the personal life I've worked so hard to keep personal. Apparently, Sebastian's cufflinks are extremely distinctive: a design made exclusively for Jonathan Knight. The article stresses that there are only three pairs in existence.

I don't know whether to be amused or pissed.

For years, the media has always tried to undermine my hard work and credit my success to my looks and family name. I've always lived under the public's scrutiny, yet managed to stay away from the spotlight. Now they have something to chew on. And oh, they won't let go; Amelia Farrell is finally caught in a scandal.

I glance at the picture once again, enraptured by the convincing intimacy that it portrays. The photographer had captured that flimsy moment where our eyes met and held… I'd felt something at that moment, a definite spark that could flare into a consuming fire.

It's not the time for such thoughts, Amelia.

Taking a deep breath, I dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

"Hi, Seb! It's Amelia!" I clear my throat lightly, embarrassed at the annoying, high-pitched tone of my voice. "I'm sorry to disturb you so early."

"Oh, it's fine. I should have been out of bed by now."

His deep voice, tampered by sleep, sounds even deeper. Dangerous husky.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, drawing my mind back to the situation at hand.

"Y-yes," I stutter, then clear my throat. "I know this is out of nowhere, but can you come down to my apartment?"

"Sure. I'll be there in a bit."

He ends the call, and I'm left staring at my phone in surprise.

That's it? No questions asked?

I get out of bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my hair. Ten minutes later, I'm standing in front of my vanity, staring skeptically at the jean short and cropped purple sweatshirt that I've settled for and wondering for the thousandth time if it's appropriate. As much as I keep telling myself that I'm not trying to impress the handsome stranger from last night, I find myself discarding every outfit until there's a huge pile of clothes on my closet floor.

When Seb arrives about forty minutes later, I've finished scrambling eggs for breakfast and am setting the table. He holds out a single long-stemmed rose and a bottle of wine to me as I open the door.

"I couldn't come empty-handed," he says with a small, almost timid smile. "But I also didn't want to do too much."

"Thank you," I mutter, as surprised by the thoughtful gesture as much as the familiarity of his presence.

He walks inside and I close the door behind him, slowly, taking my time to admire him while he looks around. Just like last night, he looks tall, intimidatingly so. For a while last night, I thought I'd imagined his looks, the dreamy blue eyes and full sensual lips… I thought my imagination had improved his perfectly-sculpted face, but now, looking at him in the full light of day, I can't help but wonder how nature can be so partial to one man.

I let my eyes casually rest on him while I find a fitting vase for the rose. He's wearing faded jeans and a white shirt that molds perfectly to his ripped muscles, with the buttons undone just enough to show a glimpse of his toned chest beneath. His thick, dark hair is so long that the ends graze the collar of his shirt.

I don't know if it's the dark ink peeking out from the rolled sleeve on his left arm, but there's an air of mystery about him. Something dark, yet exciting. Dangerous, yet compelling.

Exactly the kind of man I need to stay far away from.

"Would you like some breakfast?" I say, gesturing towards the dining area. "I set the table for two."

"I'm famished, actually," he replies with a smile. "Thank you."

"Coffee?" I ask after he's settled in his seat.

"Yes, please. Black."

I try to gather my thoughts while I pour coffee for us both, trying to make sense of the vague yet ridiculous idea that took root in my mind while blow-drying my hair earlier. I tried to ignore it, but it's increasingly nudged at the edge of my consciousness all morning, demanding to be acknowledged.

It's the only way out of this mess.

After I serve coffee, we both eat in silence. And there it is again: that charged tension that seems to always settle between us, a certain sense of anticipation, of something unknown yet potent. The toast feels like cardboard in my mouth, but I keep shoving it down – anything to keep me from blurting out the ridiculous idea in my head.

Anything to postpone rejection in whatever form it might take.

"This is delicious, but I don't suppose you called me here just to have breakfast," Seb says, finally breaking the silence. "Not like I mind," he adds with a quick smile that has my stomach in knots.

I sit up slowly in my chair, clearing my throat as if that will dissolve the lump that's suddenly formed in my airway.

"I don't know if you've seen, but there's a scandal involving us both."

His brow furrows in confusion. "A scandal?"

I pull up the article I read earlier on my phone and slide it across the table to him. "Yes. Apparently, someone snapped a picture of the two of us outside my apartment. I guess they looked at your cufflinks and assumed you're Jonathan Knight."

Recognition dawns in his eyes, quickly followed by horror. "My father. I got them as a gift from him. God, I hope Mom hasn't seen any of this..."

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Knight. This situation isn't fair to anyone, but the least of all. They weren't even in the picture.

His frown deepens when he sees the headline. "Are you some kind of celebrity, Miss Amelia?"

"Well, kind of," I reply, shifting uneasily in my seat. "In the business world, at least. You see… Sunshine Cafe isn't my only business. Aside from the fact that my family is kind of a big deal in Chicago, I have a chain of cafes and restaurants in the city. This has made the media take an interest in my business."

He leans back slowly in his seat, seeming to ponder my words for a while. "Interesting…" he hums.

"This scandal, ridiculous as it is, can affect my business and reputation greatly," I say quickly, eagerly leaning forward in my seat like that will excuse the absurdity of my proposition.

"Okay, so what can I do to help?" he asks, his eyes boring directly into mine.

"I'd like to announce my engagement," I reply in a rush, hoping to rip the band-aid off. "I would like you to be my fiancé. Just until I'm sure my company's stock price won't take a hit," I add quickly. "Everything should be over in a month after the Entrepreneur's Award night."

My heart is beating fast. Too fast.

"How does a fake engagement work?"

"We'll take a few engagement photos, maybe some casual ones too. Of course, the pictures have to be romantic, and convincing enough to be accepted. We'll also make some videos, which will be released as old videos from our secret dating period. My PR team will handle the rest, but we'll probably have to spend a lot of time together, just to be safe. I know this is a lot, but…"

"Okay, let's do it."

I blink and clear my throat. "What?"

"I'll be your pretend fiancé; isn't that what you want?"

"Y-yes."

"I also have a condition, though," he says, his gaze unwavering.

Here we go. "What is it?"

"Be my muse."

Once again, I'm stunned. "What?"

"You know, my source of inspiration," he replies with a casual shrug. "You let me paint you anytime I want to, in any form."

"In any form," I repeat, feeling a little foolish even as the words leave my lips. "Do I have to pose nude?"

Something crosses his face: an encrypted emotion that's more potent than amusement but milder than lust… one that sends chills shooting up my spine.

"Not if you don't want to," he finally says.

"I don't want to." Don't I? Even as I say it, I'm not sure.

"Okay," he replies, his lips curling upward in the barest hint of a smile. "You've got yourself a deal, dear fiancée."

Chapter Three

Sebastian

"You're veering off the tracks, Seb."

Cole said to me the last time we med up at our regular bar in town. That was two nights ago. He'd stared at me like an alien while I told him about my fake engagement to Amelia Farrell. He tried to hide it, but I saw the anxiety in his eyes even after I assured him that I'd pull the deal through. The only reason he let it go is that we've been business partners for long enough for him to know that once I set my heart on something, I always make sure I get it.

Now, sitting here in front of a canvas with palettes of paints and brushes scattered around me, I wonder if Cole was right and I'm truly losing sight of what's important.

Amelia is sitting on a couch by the window of my large studio, her legs carefully folded beneath her. She has her nose buried in some business book, her expression serene. The sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the delicate curves of her face. There's an innate glow about her that even the sun can't quite match, a sense of completeness that sets a raving hunger inside of me.

I glance at the half-complete painting of her that I'm currently working on, and it suddenly feels lacking... an unworthy representation of the goddess in front of me. Maybe it's the fact that she's here, in my home, but I can't seem to concentrate on anything. I look at her again, wondering if she knows exactly what she does to me.

I bet she has no idea.

She has no idea what's at stake with every moment I'm here, keeping up with this charade. She has no idea who I really am and what I plan to take away from her.

Guilt, strong as vice, grips my heart, but I instantly push it away. Emotions like guilt and remorse have no place in my line of business, and I've only come so far by remaining the villain in the story of those who have crossed my path. Unfortunately, it's going to be the same for Amelia Farrell.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, her voice breaking through my self-pity. "Should I move?"

"No, no. You're perfect." Beyond perfect.

"Okay." She brushes her hair behind her ear and blushes. "Sorry, I'm not much of a model."

"What are you talking about? You're beautiful."

She waves the remark away. "Thank you, but I'm not self-conscious about my appearance. I like how I look. I just feel so... awkward when I know I'm being watched. It's hard for me to be natural. I swear, that picture in all the gossip rags might be the nicest photo I've ever taken."

I think back to all the magazine covers and articles I've seen her on. It's true that photos can't seem to capture her beauty; there's always something a little forced there.

"Maybe it would help if we got to know each other a little better," I suggest. I'm ready to jump at any opportunity to learn more about this intriguing woman. "Why don't you ask me a question? Anything you're curious about."

I'm almost daring her to try to uncover my secrets. Maybe it would relieve some of the guilt I've been feeling.

Instead, her question throws me for a loop. "Who do the other cufflinks belong to?"

"Hm?"

"The cufflinks you were wearing. The ones that match your father's. I read an article saying there are only three pairs in the world." She tucks her knee under her chin with a pensive expression. "If you and your father account for two of them, who has the third?"

My heart sinks. "They belonged to my brother, David." I swallow around the lump in my throat. "He passed away."

Her face falls. "Oh my God. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know..."

"It's alright. It's been a long time." But not long enough that the thought doesn't put a twinge in my chest.

"Still, I can't imagine." She presses a hand to her heart. "I have an older brother, and I don't know what I'd do without him. Even though we're eighteen years apart, we've always been close."

"You sound very lucky, then. That's rarer than you know."

Her brow furrows. "Were you two not close?"

"We were. It was just... complicated." My brother and I loved each other. I know that. I can remember all the summers we spent catching frogs at the lake, the football games we attended together, the way we always had each other's backs with our parents. But after he died, I found myself pushing all those memories away. It's hard to remember the good times when I'm still so bitter than he left me here to clean up his messes.

I force a smile. "But that was two questions. I think it's my turn."

She sits up straight. "Go ahead."

"You said you have trouble feeling natural in front of other people. So when do you feel natural?"

I'm not sure what kind of question she was expecting, but it clearly wasn't that. She frowns. "Huh. That's a good question. I'm not really sure."

"Try to think about it. When you close your eyes and imagine yourself alone and happy, where are you?"

She purses her lips, closes her eyes, and thinks. After a few moments, a gorgeous smile blossoms on her face. "In the bath."

I'm glad she can't see my dick twitch at the idea of her wet and naked. "Why's that?"

She shrugs, eyes still closed as if lost in a daydream. "It's just cozy, I guess. Whenever I needed time to myself as a kid, I'd take a bath. No one ever bothered me. I could just sit and soak and relax. I'd read, or listen to music, or even turn on the faucet and..."

Her voice peters out. Her eyes fly open, and her cheeks go bright red. "W-Well. Anyway." She clears her throat. "I asked you two questions, so it's only fair if you get another one."

The possibilities of what she was going to say have me intrigued. Curiosity piqued, there's no doubt what my next question will be.

"Have you ever touched yourself, Amelia?" I ask, looking at her.

"Touched myself? I…" She pauses, her eyes slowly registering comprehension. "Do you mean…?"

She drops her gaze, a soft blush creeping up her cheeks.

I look at her for a while, awed by the possibilities locked away in that gorgeous body. The passion. She must have held back on a lot of things to attain success so young. Now, I wonder what it'd be like to see her let go of the control she winds so tightly around herself like a cocoon… To see her get lost in the exhilarating crux of passion.

"Do it."

Her eyes snap up to meet mine. "What?"

"Touch yourself."

She stares unblinking at me, her blush deepening. "Now?"

"Yeah."

She shakes her head with a nervous chuckle. "I can't possibly…"

"Do you trust me?"

She sucks in a sharp breath, but she whispers, "I do."

I smile. "Then you can do it. Go on. Close your eyes, Amelia…"

She swallows visibly and closes her eyes. She waits, sitting rigidly, like she might spring up and run away at any moment. I can imagine her heart thrumming wildly in her chest, her stomach fluttering in anticipation.

"Lie down," I murmur, keeping my voice gentle.

She reclines on the sofa, her long legs stretched out in front of her, her eyes still tightly shut. "Now what?"

"Imagine you're all alone," I reply. "Touch yourself like you'd want a lover to touch you."

Slowly, her hands wander under her shirt to cover her breasts. I watch her squeeze gently, her expression pensive. She runs her hands down her stomach and hesitates when she gets to the band of her shorts, bites her lower lip, then pulls down the zip with a determined tug. She slips her hand into her shorts and freezes.

Her eyes open, and she looks at me with a pout. "You stopped talking."

"Did you want me to keep going?"

She nods, squirming in her seat. "Walk me through it," she says, and the words light a fire in my gut.

"Rub a finger gently over your clit."

She closes her eyes again and does as I ordered. After a while, her expression relaxes and her lips part. She creates such a gorgeous picture that I immediately get back to work on my canvas.

"What do you feel, Amelia?"

"I feel hot… and so good."

My pants tighten at the huskiness of her voice. I can also feel the heat, a slow fire burning from deep inside of me, devouring my self-control.

"Now, slide your finger in," I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the throbbing ache in my groin. "Move your hand. In… and out. Create a rhythm…"

Her brows furrow slightly in concentration as she obediently follows my instructions.

"Let your other hand wander," I continue gently. "Discover yourself, baby."

She slips her other hand into her shirt once more and starts to fondle her breast. Sunbeams slant in through the windows, casting a sensual glow on her flushed skin.

I fist my free hand on my lap, fighting the urge to reach into my briefs and stroke myself. I wonder what it'd feel like to do that… masturbate while watching her touch herself. It'd be incredible. I'd come hard. And fast.

She raises her hips lightly and the hand in her shorts starts to move faster, with a desperate urgency that suggests she's getting close to orgasm.

And I watch her, simply unable to look away. A soft moan escapes her lips, then a stifled cry as her body curls up and tenses.

My hand starts to move faster on the canvas, almost unconsciously, suddenly possessed by the urge to capture this very moment. Amelia, looking caught up in the summit of pleasure, paints a very euphoric picture… one that I'm privileged to capture. My heart soars with an unexpected pride in her. In myself.

Lord knows I'll remember this moment for life.

"Oh god!" she cries, pressing her thighs tightly together as her whole body trembles. She suddenly freezes, her body curled upwards. She remains like that for a moment, then relaxes on the couch with a breathy sigh.

She lies still on the couch, her breathing ragged.

I glance at my finished painting, feeling a sudden surge of euphoria, a rush of feelings going to my head, so thrilling and primal that I want to howl at the moon.

Getting up slowly, I close the distance between us and stoop by the couch. I reach out gently to move the tendrils of her hair away from her face, letting my hand graze her skin in the process.

"Look at me."

She opens her eyes to meet my gaze. There's an awareness in those strikingly gray depths that wasn't there before, an understanding of the power she holds over her own body. Over whomever she decides to share herself with.

"Do you see how passionate you are, my butterfly…?" I ask, smiling into her eyes. "How gorgeously exotic?"

For a beat, she doesn't say anything. Then she leans up and places her mouth on mine.