Pretending He's Mine Read online

  “Ouch.”

  “Fifth. Rent. Rent. Rent.”

  Jill stared pensively at a cracked section of plaster on the ceiling. “You know, Reeve,” Jill said, in a voice that Reeve instantly recognized as her mastermind tone. “One of the Upper East Side cougars in my running club has a high-end escort service going on.”

  Reeve laughed and sat up straight. “Seriously? You want me to be an escort?”

  “Is it such a crazy thought? You’re young and hot and you can play any part. That’s what these ladies want.”

  “What kind of ladies?”

  “All kinds,” Jill said, in an evasive way.

  “What do you mean all kinds?”

  “Just that all sorts of ladies use escort services.”

  “I can’t believe you have a chick in your running club who’s a pimp,” Reeve said and pushed his long fingers through his dark hair.

  “She’s not a pimp, Reeve.” Jill punched him on the shoulder. “She’s a high-end madam. For dudes.” Then Jill laughed.

  “Would I have to, you know, with them?”

  “Go down on them?”

  Reeve made a rolling motion with his hand. “That and other things.”

  Jill shrugged. “Probably in some cases. I mean, some women just read Playgirl for the articles, but I’m pretty sure when you’re shelling out $500 a pop you want the escort to take care of the lady business.”

  “Call me crazy, but I kind of like actually—you know—being attracted to the girl I’m making scream my name out loud.”

  “Do you, Reeve? Do you make them scream your name out loud?”

  Reeve raised an eyebrow playfully. “Every. Single. Time.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sutton Brenner had a problem. A big problem. She was on the cusp of winning a contract so hot and so coveted that any of her competitors would walk on hot coals for it. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. She’d been prepping for it, she’d been pitching for it. She knew she was the right one—the only one—- for this project.

  Escorted Lives.

  Who else had better credentials to find the top talent for the red-hot film based on the biggest selling erotic romance series the world had seen in ages? After all, Sutton had cast the most successful male stripper movie—It’s Raining Men—which had showered $302 million in greenbacks at the box office down on the producers. Not to mention Spread, an indie flick about a chiseled male model who falls in love with an Oklahoma house wife. That film had burst out of the festival circuit to earn both critical acclaim and a cool $112 million, ten times its budget. Sutton had even earned a nod in an industry trade magazine as “the best appraiser of male flesh and talent in all of the film community.”

  She’d grinned in delight at the accolade.

  But the money guys hadn’t given her the greenlight to cast “Escorted Lives” yet. Maybe they were being cautious, but then the mega-rich Frederick and Nicholas Pinkerton were known as risktakers. Sutton was perched on the edge of her chair, across the glass conference table from the British twin film financiers. They were her countrymen, and she couldn’t help but hope that her British-ness might give her a leg up. She could talk the talk about London and the Queen and footie, and they loved that. The were avid golfers too, and so Sutton had chatted them up about the relative merits of the Augusta National Club versus Pebble Beach Golf Links. Sutton didn’t know a lick about swinging a golf club, but she’d researched the hell out of the courses so she could hold her own on one of their favorite subjects—golf in America.

  Would her prep work pay off?

  “You’re definitely at the top of the list for Escorted Lives,” Frederick said, but his voice trailed off.

  Top of the list meant there was still a list.

  Damn.

  Sutton needed to get rid of the list. She needed to be the only list.

  Frederick glanced at his wife, Janelle. She was seated next to him, but she hadn’t uttered a word. She’d just kept her hands folded together on the table, her lips tightly closed. Janelle’s green eyes were cool and piercing. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it looked as if the skin were being stretched to her scalp. She was stone, and Sutton thought she might be practicing her best approximation of a statue. But Sutton knew Janelle was the real puppeteer here. She was the reason Frederick was rich in the first place. He’d married into her family money, and she had a hand in all the decisions he made about his films. She might not have the official title of executive producer, but everyone in the movie biz knew that a Frederick Pinkerton movie had to pass muster with the wife before he could work on it.

  She was the sort of silent partner who could make or break any deal of his.

  Janelle moved, leaning closer to Frederick. She whispered something in his ear.

  He nodded, then spoke. “And we were thinking perhaps we could meet your fiancé. Perhaps we could all have dinner?”

  Sutton tried not to look confused. She didn’t have a fiancé. “Sorry?”

  Frederick’s brows knitted in concern. “I was sure I’d read in the papers that you were engaged recently.”

  The papers. An engagement. Of course. Sutton was often mistaken—well, in print at least—for the Broadway actress Sutton McKenna, who had gotten engaged to her manager last week. There weren’t too many Suttons in New York show biz, hence the frequent mixups. Sutton was about to say that there’d been a misunderstanding, but Janelle piped up. “We do so love to have a family atmosphere at our company.”

  Janelle gave Frederick a pointed look, and everything clicked for Sutton. Frederick had cheated on his wife over and over with many nubile young things, and word on the street was that Janelle was doing everything to keep him in line. Perhaps that included making sure he only hired attached women to work on his films?

  Sutton could read between the lines. They might have mistaken another’s engagement for hers, but perhaps this was the lucky break she needed to nab the film.

  She played along, holding up her ring-less hand. “My boyfriend surprised me the other weekend. The ring was just a tad bit too big, so now it’s being resized and I can not wait to get it back on my hand,” she said, mustering up all the glee she imagined a recently betrothed twenty-eight-year-old casting director might feel.

  Frederick beamed, Nicholas clapped, and Janelle managed a sliver of a smile.

  “Then we cannot wait to have dinner with you and your fiancé on Friday night, and perhaps we can finalize things then,” Janelle said, and it was clear that she was in charge of the hiring. That whatever decision the brothers made about the casting of the film would be Janelle’s choice, and Janelle likely wanted a taken woman working closely with her philandering husband. Funny, considering Sutton had heard from an agent friend that Janelle wasn’t even giving her husband the goods anymore. Apparently, she’d cut him off til he proved he could behave. “Why don’t you come to our penthouse on Fifth Avenue? Just the six of us.”

  Friday night was five nights from now. Where in the whole of New York was Sutton supposed to come up with a fiancé in five days? But she had no intention of losing this project simply on account of lacking a man. She’d sort out the details later.

  “Absolutely. I’d be most delighted,” Sutton said in a crisp voice.

  Janelle stood up to leave. The brothers rose too. “Oh, I just thought of a brilliant idea,” Janelle said. “Perhaps you and your fiancé might like to see the new play that just opened at the St. James. I have box seats for tomorrow, but alas, I have a charity event to attend.” Janelle reached into her Hermes purse, rooting around for tickets but came up empty. “Oh dear. They must be in my other bag. I’ll just messenger them over to you later today.”

  “Wonderful. How generous of you. We’ll be so excited to see it,” Sutton said, and now she had little more than twenty-four hours to produce a fictional fiancé to take to the theater.

  How hard could it be though? This was her forte. She knew where to find the sexiest men to star in the sexie
st man candy roles. She could bring you hot firemen, tattooed bad boys, heroic soldiers, hometown guys with chips on their shoulders, rock star types who made girls throw bras on stage, and all-American athletes who could melt panties.

  Now, hours later, as Sutton tapped a Louboutin-clad foot on the floor in her office and stared at a framed photo of her most adorable dog, she knew none of those types were right for this particular role. Sutton had never dated that type of man. She could bluff at the conference table about having a fiancé, but to pull off a dinner with the producers of the film, including that hawkish wife? Wives knew when a relationship was not what it seemed, and Janelle already had her bloodhound nose a-sniffing around her husband’s wandering eye. If Sutton were to pull off this farce of a fiancé, she’d need a man who really was her type, someone she could reasonably like.

  But all the actors she’d auditioned for It’s Raining Men were stripper types, beefcake and bravado. This was not a job that necessitated swagger. Sutton had never gone for those kind of guys. Truth be told, she’d always had a thing for hipsters. A little bit of stubble, a little bit of attitude, a tattoo on the arm, jeans that showed off a fine piece of ass.

  She picked up the picture frame, as if the dog with his tan and brown face had all the answers. “Tell me who’d be perfect for this role,” she said to the dog’s image. Then she pressed the frame to her chest and closed her eyes. He had to be sexy, but he had to have a touch of innocence to him. Why was it that men didn’t ever want to project a little bit of innocence? Was that such a bad thing? But so few were willing to show that side, as if being vulnerable, being fresh, would somehow shred every last ounce of masculinity from a man? Her ideal man would need a bit of the wide-eyed wonder that a superhero has when he first learns he has special powers. She scrolled through her photographic memory of faces, mentally crossing off all the ones that just wouldn’t do. Then, like a jack-in-the box springing to life, she shouted a victorious “yes!”

  She placed the frame gently on her desk and moused over to the file she kept on her desktop from every single audition she’d ever held, clicking until she found the man she had in mind. Yes. He was every bit the boy toy. He was every cougar’s dream, even though Sutton wasn’t a cougar. But she’d always had a bit of a crush on him. He was adorable, and yet, had that chased-with-danger look in his eyes. She’d never regretted calling him in for any audition. He was witty, clever, and frankly, irresistible.

  But the best part was she could never truly fall for him because she simply wouldn’t go there with an actor. She didn’t trust actors with her heart, and had never dated one for real, so she’d have a built-in safety net. They’d both simply be trying to get a job.

  She hit the speaker button on her phone, stabbing it with a perfectly manicured fingernail, polished in midnight black. Sutton wasn’t a woman who needed to wear fire-engine red to look sexy. Sutton was sexy. She’d been born and bred that way, with long legs, a flat belly and curves where she needed them. Her long brown hair was twisted on top of her head, and she wore her trademark black cat’s eye glasses. She was twenty-eight, but she looked young for her age and that’s why she wore glasses—so she’d be taken more seriously. The whole effect made her look like a sexy librarian.

  As she started to dial the number, she noticed the time on her computer clock. It was noon on a Monday. Could she pull this off in one week? Time was unspooling into a messy stew. She’d have to speed it up and fast track this deal. She dialed the rest of the number, hoping her hunch was right.

  Chapter Two

  Reeve punched a fist in the air when he hung up with his agent. He’d scored an audition, one with a casting director he’d worked with before. He’d tried out for It’s Raining Men, and had returned for a second and third callback, but lost out on a supporting role. He’d snagged a day role though, as a bartender at the strip club. The bigger roles had gone to bigger names. But now she wanted to see him, and his agent had sounded so enthusiastic that Reeve couldn’t help but be fired up. Sutton Brenner, very British and very sexy, wanted to see him two hours from now.

  Reeve popped up from the couch in his cardboard box-sized apartment, dropped his phone on the scratched and beaten-up wooden coffee table, and changed into one of his favorite tee-shirts, reviewing all the things he knew about Sutton Brenner as he brushed his teeth. The movies she’d cast, the shows she’d worked on. Then there were the personal details. She had a dog who was the center of her world, and Reeve was pretty sure the dog had a strange name. As he capped the toothpaste, he remembered the name.

  He checked himself out in the cracked mirror on the closet door. Yep. He looked the way casting directors wanted him to look—young and dreamy, but with a bit of an edge. The kind of guy you could clean up with a short haircut, button-down shirt and pants and bring home to mom and dad, but the same guy a girl would gladly slide in behind on a motorcycle for a ride to a secluded make-out spot. Those were the roles he knew he could win. He left and headed for Sutton Brenner’s Madison Avenue office. The receptionist showed him in immediately. At the end of a long hallway, Sutton stood in the doorway, one hand on the door, the other on her waist, looking like a tall drink of woman.

  If he’d met her under different circumstances, say, a bar, or a club, he’d have walked straight up to her, asked her name, bought her a drink, and then charmed her. She’d have been an even match, giving it good with quips and witticisms that made her sound even smarter and savvier with her oh-so-proper British accent. She’d have done that hair flip thing, all the more alluring with her long, thick brown hair, then hooked him in with those cool blue eyes. Then he’d have hailed a cab for her, and given her a long, slow, lingering kiss by the curb that would have melted her from the inside out. She’d have said, “Come home with me.” He’d have done just that and discovered whether she wore thigh-high stockings as he always suspected. He’d have peeled them off her long, lean legs—peeled them off with his teeth.

  But he needed to focus on business, on work, on playing whatever part she required for him, and he was sure none of those included removing her stockings, so he cleared her curves from his thoughts.

  “Come in, Reeve,” she said, and closed the door behind them. She gestured to her couch. He sat down, doing his best to project coolness and confidence. Whatever Sutton was casting, Reeve was sure those were vital character traits.

  She sat next to him. That was odd. Most casting directors sat across from actors, but she moved so near he couldn’t help but notice that she did indeed wear thigh-high stockings, the lace edges peeking out from below the hemline of a short black skirt that could have been painted on her. She had on a white blouse, and one or two buttons were undone. Her hair was pinned up and her sexy glasses made him think “hot-for-teacher.”

  “Good to see you again, Ms. Brenner.”

  She laughed lightly. “Do call me Sutton, please.”

  He flashed a crooked smile. “Sutton it is then. How’s your dog? The Artful Dodger, right?”

  Sutton grinned brightly. “You remember.”

  “Little chihuahua-mini pin, right?”

  “He is absolutely the love of my life. He’s such a darling.”

  “What does he do when you’re at work?”

  “Why, he goes to dog day care, of course,” she said, playfully. Then she laid a hand on Reeve’s thigh. “As if I would leave my darling alone.”

  “Dogs rock. They’re just the best creatures ever, aren’t they?”

  Sutton beamed at Reeve, and squeezed his thigh. “I am so glad I called you.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  This might work out better than she planned. Reeve was her type physically, he liked movies, and he liked dogs. He was the perfect pretend boyfriend. Not to mention, she rather enjoyed the feel of his thigh beneath her palm. His legs were strong and muscular, and his jeans were the best kind of tight. He worked out, but he didn’t work out too much, and that was vital.

  Perfect—she was attracted enough to pull this of
f. But she’d keep up her barriers so it would be all business. “Reeve, I have a part for you. It’s a bit unconventional, and it’s sort of a live theater type of role.”

  “Can’t wait to hear about it,” he said and Sutton admired his voice. It was silky and melodic, the kind of voice that could sell you anything.

  “It’s also a part that’s, how shall we say, off the books? Sort of a secret deal.”

  “Secrets make everything better,” he said, with a playful wink. He waited for her to say more.

  “Reeve, you know I’ve always found you incredibly attractive.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She bit the bullet. She wasn’t one to dance around propositions or offers. “That’s why I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a week.”

  He laughed, sounding shocked. “Why?”

  “I have an opportunity to land a job I want badly, and it seems the producers were under the mistaken impression that I recently got engaged. Because, you know, Sutton McKenna…” she said, and made a rolling gesture with her hand. Reeve surely knew the other Sutton. She was one of the few theater actors with enough star wattage to open a Broadway show on her own.

  He nodded, and snapped a finger. “Ah, Sutton McKenna. She was in ‘Oklahoma’ last year, and she recently got hitched to her manager I heard.”

  “Right. Exactly. And that’s the thing. The producers fancy themselves as being a bit of a family-centric company, so when they congratulated me on my ‘engagement’ and seemed so delighted with it too, well, I decided I should just go along with it.”

  Reeve smiled and shook his head in an admiring sort of way. “Clever.”

  “I’ll be clever if I can pull it off. And that’s why I called you. I want you to take on the role of my fiancé for a week.”

  “So this is the acting job you called me in for?”