Page 4 of Under His Touch

“Such as?”

“I’m used to living alone. I need a woman who won’t be underfoot in my home. She must be intelligent, likable and a good conversationalist since she’ll be attending dinners with board members.” She stares at me for a moment, disbelief and a measure of repulsion evident in her big doe eyes. Good, that’s the only way I can have her look at me, otherwise... “Perhaps you should be writing this down.”

“Oh, right.” Her pen flies over the blank pages as she fills it with my criteria. She taps the tip on her chin when done, and stares at her notepad. “Do you care if she works?”

“I’d like for her to have her own life. She won’t need to work, but if she chooses to stay home, I’d like to see her involve herself in charitable work.” Her eyes lift. “It will look better to the board,” I say. Yeah, I get it. I’m coming off like a grade A prick, but that’s what I want. That’s what I need. If this woman gives me so much as a seed of encouragement, a hint that she might still want me, I could very well lose my shit. I can’t—won’t—let that happen. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than me.

Last week, when Granddad took me to his study and plied me with brandy, I knew he was up to something. I agreed to his terms, saw the truth in his words. Sure, I come from wealth, but I want to make my own mark in the financial world, want to become Blackstone’s youngest CFO. A wife will help with that and help with my reputation, which will hopefully get the damn paparazzi off my back—Christ knows they destroyed my brother, Will, who is fulfilling the Carson prophecy. But until I walked into this café, I had no idea I’d be facing Megan Williams. The old man never prepared me for her, and I can’t help but think he left the event planner’s name out on purpose. Smart man, because had I known I’d be coming face-to-face with the sweet girl I screwed over in high school, I never would have agreed to any of this.

I’ll never forget the day I met her. It was the summer before our senior year. I was friends with her cousin Sara Duncan, and after Megan’s parents died in a car accident, she moved from Philadelphia to Manhattan to live with her aunt and uncle, who are friends of Granddad’s. Sara introduced us, and just like that I was lost in her and trying hard to keep it platonic. We were pretty inseparable for the rest of the year, then prom night. Jesus, prom night in St. Moritz. She knocked on my door, and when I opened it...

“Alec?”

Shit.

“Sorry, what?”

“If I’m going to fill out your online profile, I have to know what kind of woman you’re attracted to.”

Ah. I need to be careful here. My gaze rakes over Megan, and the frizzy state of her auburn hair, my absolute favorite color. It brings a smile to my face. She always hated it when it rained, but I think her wild locks are adorable. With light brown eyes—the color of a root beer Popsicle—fair skin clear of makeup, save for her pink lipstick, she still has that same girl-next-door look going on.

And that, my friends.

Right there.

Is the kind of woman I’m attracted to.

“I prefer blonde,” I say, and as she nods her head, her drying auburn locks bouncing, she jots it down.

She plants her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her palm. She goes thoughtful for a long time, then blinks her eyes back into focus. “Can I ask something?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer,” I say, wanting to be as honest with her as possible, but there are some things I just can’t divulge.

“You date all the time. Thanks to the tabloids, I see the gorgeous women on your arm. Why not one of them? If it’s to be a loveless marriage, and you think women want you for power and money, and they’re probably on your arm because of that, why not just ask one of them to marry you?”

It’s a legit question that deserves an honest answer. I might be a tough negotiator, but deep down I do have morals and I respect integrity as much as the next guy. With Megan, though, I have to be less than forthright with this answer, for her own good.

“The women from my circle aren’t suitable for what I need.”

“How so?”

“They’re glamorous, over-the-top, high maintenance.”

“So, you’re looking for a sweet girl next door?”

“Yeah.”

“The kind of girl you’re not really attracted to,” she says, her voice so low I have to strain to hear it. But before I can answer—and I have no idea how to respond—she blinks up at me. “Does eye color matter?”

I finish my coffee and check the time. If I’m going to have a nice girl in my home, her appearance at least must be the antithesis of Megan’s. Otherwise the daily reminder of what I want and can never have would drive me over the edge. “No, but I do prefer blue.”

I watch her throat work as she swallows, and my insides twist. Jesus, that sad look she’s trying to hide is ripping me wide-open. Hurting her is the last thing I want to do. But it’s also killing me that she looks at me with distaste. Maybe I should put a stop to this. End it now before we go any further.

“Megan,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Look at me,” I command in a soft whisper. Her eyes slowly lift, lock on mine, and as she stares, a bolt of need grips my chest. I fight it down and ask, “Do you really want to do this? We have a history.”

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