Page 1 of Wife for a Week

CHAPTER ONE

HALLIE BENNETT had been selling shoes for exactly one month. One long, mind-numbing month working solo at the exclusive little shoe shop in London’s fashionable Chelsea, and she really didn’t think she’d last another. Back in the storeroom she’d sorted every pair of shoes by designer, then model and finally by size. Out here on the shop floor she’d arranged the stock by colour and within the colours, by function. Dusting and vacuuming? Done. Serving customers? Not yet but, hey, it was only midday.

Hallie picked up the nearest shoe, a pretty leopard-print open-toed sandal with an onyx heel, and tried to figure out why anyone would actually pay three hundred and seventy-five pounds for a pair of them. She dangled it from her fingertips, turned it this way and that before finally balancing it on her palm.

‘So what do you think, shoe? Are we going to cram a sweet size six like you onto a size eight foot today?’

A quick jiggle made the shoe nod.

‘I think so too but what can I do? They never listen. These women wouldn’t be caught dead in a size eight shoe. Now if they were men it’d be different. As far as men are concerned, the bigger the better.’ The door to the shop opened, the bell tinkled, and Hallie hurriedly set the shoe back on its pedestal and turned around.

‘Darling, what a thoroughly daunting shop! I swear, until I saw you talking to that shoe I didn’t dare come in.’

The woman who had spoken was a study in contradictions. Her clothes were pure glamour, and her figure was a triumph over nature considering that she had to be in her late fifties. But her wrinkles were un-ironed, her hair was grey, and her ‘darling’ had been warm, possibly even genuine.

‘Come on in,’ said Hallie with a smile. ‘Look around. Trust me, they never talk back.’

‘Oh, you’re an Australian!’ said the woman, clearly delighted with the notion. ‘I love Australian accents. Such marvellous vowel sounds.’

Hallie’s smile widened, and she spared a glance for the woman’s companion as he followed her into the shop, a glance that automatically upgraded to a stare because, frankly, she couldn’t help it.

As far as women’s fashion accessories went, he was spectacular. A black-haired, cobalt-eyed, dangerous-looking toy who no doubt warned you outright not to bother playing with him if you didn’t like his rules. He was like a Hermès handbag; women saw and women wanted, even though they knew the price was going to be astronomical. And then he spoke.

‘She needs a pair of shoes,’ he said in a deep baritone that was utterly sexy. ‘Something more appropriate for a woman her age.’

‘You’re new at this, aren’t you?’ muttered Hallie before turning to stare down at the woman’s shoes, a stylish pair of Ferragamo man-eaters with a four-inch heel. They were a perfect fit for the woman’s perfectly manicured size-six feet. They were fire-engine red. ‘There is nothing wrong with those shoes,’ said Hallie reverently. ‘Those shoes are gorgeous!’

‘Thank you, dear,’ said the woman. ‘Why a woman turns fifty and all of a sudden certain people to whom she gave birth start thinking she should be wearing orthopaedic shoes is completely beyond me.’ The woman seemed to age ten years as wrinkles creased and unshed tears leached even more colour from eyes that would have once been a bright sparkling blue. ‘Your father would have loved these shoes!’

Ah. It was all starting to make sense. He of the indigo glare was the woman’s son and right now he was in big trouble. ‘Right,’ said Hallie brightly. ‘Well, I’ll just be over by the counter if you need me.’

He moved fast, blocking her escape. ‘Don’t even think of leaving me alone with this woman. Give her some shoes to try on. Anything!’ He picked up the open-toed leopard-print sandal. ‘These!’

‘An excellent choice,’ she said, deftly plucking it from his hand. ‘And a steal at only three hundred and seventy-five pounds. Maybe your mother would like two pairs?’

His eyes narrowed. Hallie smiled back.

‘If only I had something to look forward to,’ said the woman with a sigh that was pure theatre as she sat on the black leather sofa and slipped off her shoes. ‘Grandchildren, for instance. I need grandchildren.’

‘Everyone needs something,’ said her son, looking not at his mother but at her. ‘What do you need?’

‘Another job,’ said Hallie, kneeling to fit the sandals. ‘This one’s driving me nuts.’ She sat back on her heels and surveyed the sandals. ‘They fit you beautifully.’

‘They do, don’t they?’

‘How do you feel about travel?’ he asked her while his mother preened.

‘Travel is my middle name.’

‘And your first name?’

‘Hallie. Hallie Bennett.’

‘Nicholas Cooper,’ he said and gestured towards the woman. ‘My mother, Clea.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Clea, her handshake warm and surprisingly firm. ‘Nicky, she’s darling! She’s perfect! You need a wife; you said so this morning. I think we’ve just found her.’

‘Wife?’ said Hallie. Wife? That’d teach her to shake hands with strangers. Nicholas Cooper’s smile was lazy. His mother’s was hopeful. Probably they were both mad.

‘He’s loaded,’ said Clea encouragingly.

‘Well, yes.’ She could see that from the way he dressed. He was also far too amused for his own good. ‘But is he creative?’

‘You should see his tax return.’

‘I don’t know, Clea. I think I prefer my men a little less…’ What? She slid Nicholas Cooper another quick glance. Sexy? Wild? Gorgeous? ‘Dark,’ she came up with finally. ‘I prefer blonds.’

‘Well, he’s not a blond,’ conceded Clea, ‘but look at his feet.’

Everyone looked.

He wore hand-stitched Italian leather lace-ups. Size twelve. Wide.

‘Of course, as his mother I can’t let you marry him unless you’re compatible, so maybe you should just kiss him and find out.’

‘What? Now? Ah, Clea, I really don’t think—’

‘Don’t argue with your future mother-in-law, dear. It’s bad form.’

‘No, really, I can’t. It’s not that, er, Nicky doesn’t have a lot going for him—’

‘Thanks,’ he said dryly. ‘You can call me Nick.’

‘Because clearly he does. It’s just that, well…’ She cast about for a reason to resist. Any reason. Yes, that would do. It wasn’t quite the truth, but little white lies were allowed in sticky situations, right? ‘I wouldn’t be very good wife material right now. I have a broken heart.’

‘Oh, Hallie, I’m so sorry,’ said Clea in a hushed voice. ‘What happened?’

‘It was terrible,’ she murmured. ‘I try not to think of it.’

Clea waited expectantly.

Obviously she was going to have to think of something. Hallie leaned forward and tried to look suitably woebegone. ‘He was secretly in love with his football coach the whole time we were together!’

‘The cad!’ said Clea.

‘Was he blond?’ said Nick. ‘I’m betting he was blond.’ He was standing beside her, close, very close, and she was kneeling there, her gaze directly level with…oh!

‘Are you sure you’re not interested?’ asked Clea.

Hallie nodded vigorously and dropped her gaze, looking for carpet and finding feet. Big feet. ‘It’s this job,’ she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Probably he was bluffing. Probably he had regular size-eight feet tucked into those enormous shoes. Her hand shot out of its own accord, spanning the soft leather of his shoe, testing the fit for width and finding it tight. Right. She pressed her thumb down and felt for toes, found them at the very top of the shoe. ‘Phew!’ She felt breathless. ‘It’s a tight fit.’

‘Always,’ he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. ‘But I’m used to it.’

Hallie smiled weakly and scrambled to her feet as warmth spread rapidly through her cheeks. It was his eyes. His voice. Possibly his feet. Any one of them was a guaranteed temptation, but all three together? No wonder she was blushing.

‘What my mother meant to say was that I need someone to pretend to be my wife for a week. Next week to be precise. In Hong Kong. You’d be reimbursed of course. Say, five thousand the week, all expenses covered?’

‘Five thousand pounds? For a week’s work?’ There had to be a catch. ‘And what exactly would I have to do to earn that five thousand pounds?’

‘Share a room with me, but not a bed, which is fortunate considering your broken heart.’

Was he laughing at her? ‘What else would I have to do?’

‘Socialize with my clients; act like my wife.’

‘Could you be a little more specific?’

‘Nope. Just do whatever it is wives do. I’ve never had one; I wouldn’t know.’

‘I’ve never been one. I wouldn’t know either.’

‘Perfect,’ said Clea, bright-eyed. ‘I’m believing it already. Of course if the kiss isn’t convincing it’s just not going to work.’

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