Contractually Yours: An Arranged Marriage Romance (The Lasker Brothers Book 4)

It’s almost funny how quickly my family folds.

But fold they do, and now I control their finances. One wrong step, I’m cutting them off. I’ve been too soft with them, obviously, for them to think they could “sell” me like some painting or something.

On my way back to my office, I hand the signed and notarized documents to Christoph. “Send these to John Highsmith.”

He nods and makes a note.

Once back in the office, I roll my shoulders. I’d prefer not to have to marry Lucienne Peery and take over everyone’s finances. But we all have to do things we don’t like. At least I didn’t have to look at Preston’s face. Lucky for him, since I wouldn’t have been able to hold myself back. A kick in the balls is the least he deserves.

Wait a minute…

Speaking of people I hate to see—I pull out my phone and start texting.

–Me: I’m getting married. Wanna attend the wedding?

I don’t have to wait for long.

–Dad: Is this a prank?

I let out a short laugh. Dad doesn’t read or answer his texts. That’s a job for his assistant, Joey the Toady. And Joey is wary. He thinks I’m fucking with him and doesn’t want to get into trouble with Dad.

It’s not surprising. Three of my brothers are married, and Dad did his best to crash all three weddings. He failed, of course, the last time having to flee in a helicopter that Grant assaulted with fireworks, mainly because my brothers wanted ceremonies that were romantic and dignified. You bring Dad into something, it’s going to be all about him. The great Ted Lasker, Hollywood legend, producer of blockbusters, God’s gift to the world, the man who never produced a flop in his long and storied career. No one knows how many celebrities owe him their stardom, and countless wannabe actors and models fawn over him, praying he’ll turn them into stars. He now honestly believes that he shits rainbows and pisses eau de toilette.

Exactly the kind of guest I want at this farce of a wedding.

–Me: Nope. 100% legit.

–Dad: I didn’t know you were engaged.

Is Joey demanding to be convinced?

–Me: Well, I am. You wanna come or not?

–Dad: Of course! When and where?

–Me: I’ll let you know.

–Dad: You want cash or presents?

–Me: Your presence will be present enough.

For me.

Hopefully, Dad will bring his A-game and set a new record for packing embarrassment into the moment. When he first met Grant’s wife Aspen, he told her he’d cast her in a movie with lots of sex scenes with the actors of her choice. I’m counting on Dad to outdo himself with Lucienne.

That done, I pull up the new marketing plan on my laptop and shift gears. I scroll down the document, reading quickly. So far, so good, although…

I make a short comment within the document for Otto from marketing to address later in the day.

The intercom on my desk beeps.

“Sebastian, your fiancée is here.” Christoph’s voice is less certain than usual.

“My what?”

“Fiancée…?” A slight pause, then an uncomfortable throat clearing. “Lucienne Peery.”

Guess she finally deigned to crawl out of her coke cave. “Don’t I have a meeting soon?” Say yes, Christoph!

“There’s, um, half an hour before the next one.”

I swallow a sigh. Sometimes he’s too honest. “Tell her I’m busy and she has to make an appointment to see me.”

“So next Tuesday? You’re free at eleven.”

“No. I’m not free on Tuesday. I’m not free on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday. Or Monday. As a matter of fact, I’m never, ever going to be free. Not for her.”

“I can hear you,” comes a slightly amused female voice, smooth as aged whiskey. And like aged whiskey, it sends heat through my chest. “He put you on speaker.”

The heat is just anger pulsing under my ribcage. It’s doubly annoying that she sounds nothing like the shrill, grating harpy I imagined. She sounds sensual—slightly smoky, edged with cool confidence. I hate her for it, just like I’m irritated with myself for noticing.

“I don’t have an hour to waste,” I say flatly.

“It won’t take more than half an hour.”

“Fine.” I check my watch. She’s not getting a single second more.

I look at the office door and wait for a petulant, spoiled woman-child to flounce in. Hopefully she doesn’t get naked and try to attack me. In a bid to get himself a grandchild, my father sent a hooker to my place a few months back. The experience was more than a little traumatic.

The door opens. Christoph’s holding the handle meekly, and Lucienne walks in, head held high.

She seems even taller than she was at her mother’s funeral, with shapely legs that go on for miles. Most women that tall feel self-conscious and wear flats or stoop a little to make themselves appear smaller. Not Lucienne. Her feet are in sleek teal high heels, her spine erect, her shoulders straight. There’s a stubborn set to her chin that says she knows she’s not only in control but will be victorious. Like a Valkyrie before a battle.

Desire tugs at me, and my blood starts to run hot. The fact that I find anything about her sexy is exasperating, but I refuse to lie to myself because that’s the surest road to bad decisions. I can’t afford to make a mistake with her. She’s sneakier than the viper that tricked Eve into taking a bite of the apple.

Her ice-blue eyes, framed by lashes two shades darker than her golden hair, are guarded as she scrutinizes me. So. She’s not a completely self-absorbed narcissist; obviously she’s capable of gathering that I’m not thrilled with the situation she forced me into. My esteem for her goes up, but not by much. There’s still a lot I’m furious with her about. Her not being a blind fool isn’t going to be enough to redeem her.

The golden off-shoulder dress reaches an inch above her knees. How conservative. I thought she might show up in a “dress” that barely covered her tits and ass. Although the outfit isn’t outrageous, it does show off the smooth, creamy skin and full breasts that are just big enough to fit my palms. My spine prickles a little, but I force myself to keep my battle face on. She’s not getting the upper hand in my office.

“Mind if I sit down?” she says when I don’t offer a seat.

“I didn’t realize you were waiting for an invitation. I thought you did whatever you wanted, Valkyrie, consequences be damned.”

“You can call me Luce,” she says, like she hasn’t noticed my sarcasm. “That sounds more intimate than Lucienne.” She takes an armchair opposite my desk and crosses her legs carelessly. Her skirt rides up, revealing more thigh. She isn’t exposing much, but somehow it feels erotic.

What the fuck? What’s the matter with me? I’ve seen a lot more skin than this and remained unaffected. “Noted. Valkyrie.”

A soft sigh. “What are you upset about?”

“What wouldn’t I be upset about?”

Lucienne arches an eyebrow. “I thought your mother spoke to you and you understood the situation.” How could you not see everything from my perspective? I can just hear the unspoken, chiding question.

Fabulous. She really is a female version of my father. “You thought wrong.”

She exhales softly in another sigh. “I need reassurance that I can only get from your family.”

“Reassurance for what?”

“That I won’t be backstabbed.”

“Backstabbed,” I repeat conversationally, while fantasizing about strangling her and everyone on the Comtois side of my family. “What an odd choice of words coming from you, when you’ve forced that exact experience on me.”

Confusion fleets through her eyes. “Did they not tell you what you’d be getting out of this marriage?”

“Some lousy shares and a seat on the board? Ha!”

“And Sebastian Jewelry, too.”

Rage digs its claw into my gut. She should’ve never tried to bargain with the ownership of Sebastian Jewelry, the company I’ve nurtured and grown over the years. If I only saw it as a source of income or amusement, I would’ve walked away. But it’s my baby, no matter how much I pretended I didn’t care in front of my family. “I never needed you to get Sebastian Jewelry, Valkyrie.” Underneath my soft tone is an edge sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ve disrupted my plans with your little scheme.”

“I thought the offer was fair.”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s fair, not my family.”

She studies me, her eyes shuttered. Her full lips are set in a flat line that gives nothing away. She doesn’t squirm. She maintains a posture so perfect, even my grandmother would approve.

The fact that Lucienne’s so calm makes me want to shatter her composure. Maybe even make her cry. She doesn’t get to upend my life, then stroll into my office and play “I didn’t do anything.”

She wants to marry me because she doesn’t want to get backstabbed? Fine. I’ll give her the backstabbing of her life.

Starting with the wedding ceremony. A girl like her is bound to want a lavish event with everyone watching. She probably wants to stream it on some social media site, so everyone can see her—a glowing bride in a priceless dress, covered in gemstones—and burn with envy. Well, fuck that.

“Since you’re here, I’m going to lay down a few terms of my own. We’ll have a civil ceremony with no guests, except a witness, who I’ll provide. No photographers or flowers. No music.”

As I spit out the conditions, I watch for signs of an oncoming temper tantrum. But there’s nothing. She almost seems…relieved.

What the hell?

I shake myself mentally. I must’ve seen it wrong. Or she’s doing an awfully good job of faking it, damn her.

“You also won’t be moving into my place. I don’t let just anybody come into my home,” I add.

She nods. “Particular—and private—about where you live, are you?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Aren’t you at the Aylster Residence?” Her tone says, It’s just a hotel, not a real home.

The fact that she knows where I live further stokes my annoyance. The Aylster Residence comprises the residential penthouse units at the Aylster Hotel. I like it because it has its own entrance, comes fully furnished, and the hotel provides housekeeping. I can also use their room service twenty-four seven, which is convenient, since I don’t cook. “I am, and I don’t want you invading my space. You’ve done enough already.” I look at her, then flick my gaze around the office.

I wait for her to pout, complain, whine—something to indicate she’s unhappy with my terms.

“We can live at my place, then. It’s plenty big enough,” she says calmly, like a normal, well-adjusted adult.

I don’t trust that façade. Not even a little. “I don’t like orgy pads.”

“Oh, no orgies lately. These days it’s just a drug den.” She shrugs with a small smile.

“Like that’s better?”

She laughs. “I’m joking. Loosen up.”

Did that little witch just tell me to “loosen up”? “I was loose. And happy, and pleased with my life. Until you showed up with your ridiculous contract.”

“I don’t really—”

“You know why they call it a ‘contract’? Because that’s what it makes your sphincter do. Contract.”

“Look, I’ll let you have all the private space you need, including your own bedroom. But I can’t just disregard the contract, so we’ll have to deal.”

We’ll have to deal, my ass. It’s me who has to deal with this bullshit. “You don’t have objections to anything I said about the wedding or the living arrangements?”

“If us having a quiet civil ceremony is what’s going to make you happy, I don’t want to argue about it. And it isn’t important to me where we live, as long as it’s comfortable and reasonably large.”

Huh. Reluctant respect ripples through me. This woman is willing to forgo some minor things to get what she really wants. It’s too bad she has her sights set on me for some reason. If it weren’t for that, we might’ve been inoffensive acquaintances.

But she’s decided to screw with my life behind my back, so we’ll never be anything but enemies now. She might think I’ll be a husband who won’t backstab her, but I’m not going to let it go.

Let’s see if there are some other buttons to push. “What about sex? You didn’t put specifics into the contract.” But the second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. She’s probably fucked a donkey for the hell of it by now. She won’t bat an eye discussing sex with her would-be husband.

Her mouth parts for a moment. She drops her gaze to my lips, then abruptly lifts it back up, like she’s just realized what she’s done.

Aha. A first crack in her composure.

“We’ll do it if we feel like it. We’re both adults.” Her tone is like over-buffed marble.

A corner of my mouth quirks up. “Babies?”

“No.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” I say, enjoying her reaction and wondering what she’s thinking. Is she flustered? Does she think she’s too young to have a child? Or does she have more traitorous plans for my life, and kids would get in the way? “I’ve always wanted to have a girl, but I don’t know if that’s a good outcome, considering.”

She frowns briefly, then smooths her expression. “Right.”

Next step. “And if I’m already in love with someone else?”

The little crack that cut through her composure before is bigger and more noticeable now. She stares at me like I just asked her to build a dirty bomb.

She’s stunned—and there’s something else I can’t put my finger on. But why is she acting like this? She can’t possibly think I’d never fall in love. Or…did she honestly believe that I would fall for her? After what she’s pulled?

A lot of people consider me one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. I’m young enough and—more importantly—wealthy and well connected. Lots of women have wanted to be Mrs. Sebastian Lasker, and none of them worked out. I have plans for my married life—or did. Meet a nice, scandal-free woman who shares the same values I do. She can’t be stupid or lazy or boring. And we’ll have a peaceful and dignified life together.

Lucienne Peery does not fit the bill.

Suddenly, she lets out a soft laugh. “Love? Surely you don’t believe in such a thing, Sebastian.”

Something hot grips me by my dick at the way my name rolled off her tongue, and I hate my body’s reaction to her. Okay, so she’s pretty. That doesn’t mean I want to fuck her.

My penis disagrees.

Fine, I want to fuck her, but that doesn’t mean anything. Jesus, I’m a man. Of course I want to fuck a pretty woman.

Not all of them. You didn’t want to fuck Shawnie, my brain reminds me.

Shawnie and I had no chemistry. That’s why. And I don’t want the names of all the pretty young things who have left me cold.

“You’re too practical for something as sentimental as love,” Lucienne adds with a smile that appears strangely self-deprecating. Her quiet, resigned response doesn’t make sense, but I ignore the slight unease in my gut. “By the way, if it makes you feel better, you were my first choice. Your grandparents thought Preston might be better because we’re closer in age.”

It’s a ridiculous lie. Mom already told me I wasn’t her first choice, and nothing Lucienne says is going to lessen my anger over how close I came to losing Sebastian Jewelry. “I’m seeing somebody right now, you know.”

Uncertainty ripples over her face, but when she blinks, it’s gone. “Is she the one you fell in love with?” she asks softly.

“Yes.” A lie for a lie.

She bites her lip, her eyes flicking away briefly. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was feeling guilty, even hurt. But why would she be affected by my lie? She and I don’t know each other.

Suddenly, she puts on a bright smile. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about the arrangements. However, I’ll do what I can to make up for it.”

“I don’t know what you can possibly do to compensate, but…” How the hell does she think she can make up for something like that?

“Anyway, I don’t care what people say about our marriage, but will it bother you if people gossip that there’s something off about us?” Lucienne asks.

The smooth mask is back on her face, and the sight of it both relieves and frustrates me. I don’t want to see her be vulnerable, but I also don’t want her to hide her reactions. It makes it difficult to gauge how to deliver damage.

“Gossip?” I say it dismissively, although I’m not looking forward to the whispers to come. I hate being the topic of idiotic speculation, and Lucienne’s pushing me onto center stage. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but everything is off about us.”

“Fine, then. Why don’t we do a couple of ‘dates’?”

I shoot her a sardonic smile. “So everyone knows you moved on as soon as you caught my half-brother in bed with your sister?”

“Half-sister,” she says. “Somebody I wish wasn’t related to me, truth to be told. I don’t suppose you approve of Preston?”

“No.”

“Well. We have that in common, at least.” She gives me a smile that’s trying a little too hard.

Her oscillating between uncertainty and calmness betrays her nerves and anxiety. The fact that she’s standing her ground despite my overt hostility is commendable. Most men can’t, and women usually just break down into tears.

“Anyway, about the dating—”

“I don’t have time to waste on this silly charade. Unlike you, I actually run my company.”

If the jab hits the mark, she doesn’t show it. “Surely you need to eat.”

“I eat at my desk,” I say, trying my best to sound like an asshole. It’s another lie. I try to have a normal lunch break when possible. I work to live, not live to work. Enjoying a good meal is part of the deal.

She smiles like she hasn’t heard a word I said. “I’ll make a reservation and pick out flowers. You know, so you can look like a considerate boyfriend. All you have to do is show up.”