Page 31 of Protégé King

She glares at me, specs of amber in her olive-green eyes. “What’s the favor?” she asks through gritted teeth. “And let go of me.”

I’d rather pull her to me and kiss the hell out of her, but I force myself to let her go.

She places a step between us and gives me her back a moment, clearly trying to gain her composure. Alana is not an overreactive person. Her desire and attempt to slap me was ten years coming, and well deserved. She draws a deep breath and turns to face me, acceptance in her expression even as she hugs herself again, a subconscious act of self-protection. “Tell me,” she says. “What is this favor you want from me?

“I have a merger I’m working on. The older, incredibly intelligent woman I have to win over to make it happen, not only prefers to do business with family men, she loves your show. Turns out, you sold her a property a few years ago.”

“Who?” she asks.

“Mary Morrison,” I say, watching for a reaction.

“How do you even know I know Mary?”

“She literally had your show on in her office when I met with her. She loves you. I told her we have known each other all our lives.”

“Mary is a wonderful woman and easy to please. You don’t need me to win her over.”

“She hates my father, and rightfully so. He wants to force her out and do a hostile takeover. She’s afraid the apple doesn’t fall from the tree, but I’m on her side. What my father doesn’t know is that board has agreed that if I bring this merger to successful completion, they’ve agreed to unseat him, and I’ll take over.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t want her to get hurt and I’m no fan of your father’s. What do you need me to do?”

“Mary runs her company based on family values. She wants to do business with someone who shares her point-of-view, and I need to convince her that’s where I’m headed.”

“I don’t know how you do that, Damion.”

“I need you to pretend to be my fiancée, Alana.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Damion

Her pink painted lips part and Alana just stares at me with the hard click of long seconds filling the air between us but nothing else.

No anger.

No shock.

No tears.

Of course, this is Alana, and I know her well enough to know rejection is coming my way and it won’t be gentle, not that I’m a man who favors a delicate touch.

Sure enough, she breaks the silence long enough to say, “I’m leaving,” and turns and walks to the door.

This time, I don’t call her name, I don’t stop her. I need her to decide to do this on her own. I need real commitment.

She makes it to the door, hand on the knob, but I’m still gambling on knowing her. The Alana I know will not turn away from me and her debt, in this case, a personal favor owed. She rotates suddenly and leans on the door. “You’re an asshole.”

Just as expected.

Not gentle.

I step in front of her and decide denial is futile. I am an asshole. There is no other path forward. “A fair assessment,” I concede.

“What is this, Damion?”

I close the small space between us, daring to reach up and brush a long strand of blonde hair from her face, careful not to actually touch her. She doesn’t jerk away, and I contribute that to a comfort level developed over the years we grew up together. We’ve been intimate for longer than most married couples I know, even if it was innocent kid’s stuff. That and the fact that when Alana is focused, she’s one hundred percent focused on her goal, and her goal right now is to figure out my agenda.

She fails, but I respect the hell out of her for trying.

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