Garrett planted his hands on the hood of his car as vertigo blurred his vision. Not only did he now have to find a fiancée, but he also had to marry her. If not executed flawlessly, his plan could split his family apart, and Hansol could take a blow. There was no room for error.
Once he secured the partnership with Vivotex, his grandmother wouldn’t oppose his CEO appointment. She would never put her personal agenda ahead of the good of the company. Hansol meant too much to her. But Garrett wasn’t safe from her interference with his personal life until he married his imaginary fiancée.
Where can I find the perfect bride? He slid into the driver’s seat with a mirthless laugh. Now there’s one question I never thought I’d ask myself. His brief dalliance with self-pity and panic ceased as he focused on how to pull this off. His partner in crime had to be someone discreet, practical and desperate enough to agree to a fake marriage. Simple. Raking his hand through his hair, he stepped on the accelerator and made a sharp left, heading toward Melrose.
A real marriage was the last thing Garrett wanted to inflict on himself. It made little difference whether it was an arranged union or a love match. Marriage was a senseless gamble. He would never risk the kind of love that could break a man and his family.
When Garrett drove onto Melrose, the traffic stopped, killing any breeze he was able to enjoy. As soon as he saw the club’s valet sign, he shot out of his car and tossed the key to the parking attendant.
He grimaced as he stepped into the meat market known as Le Rêve, and headed for the private VIP room. Garrett usually steered clear of places like this, but Nobu was a widower who thrived on the kind of excitement Le Rêve had to offer.
Garrett was relieved the VIP room was empty. But the civil war he’d instigated with his grandmother wrapped him in a fog of anger. How had it to come to this? He pinched the bridge of his nose as tension built in his temples. When his phone buzzed in his back pocket, he sighed with resignation, knowing it was Nobu canceling.
I’m tied up in a work emergency. Not getting out of here until past midnight. My apologies. I owe you one.
Garrett was officially off the clock. He huffed a humorless laugh. If he married that Korean heiress, he would never be off the clock. Even the most intimate aspects of his life would be intertwined with Hansol. He was tempted to grab a stiff drink, but he didn’t get drunk in public and rarely did so in private. Control was much too valuable, but tonight, his was dangerously close to shattering.
Where the hell would he find his convenient bride?
The cool silk of the dress caressed Natalie’s bare skin as she inched forward in line. She winced at the reminder that a slip of fabric was all that stood between the world and her rear end. Sighing, she crossed “going commando” off her bucket list.
“You. Lady in red.”
When no one stepped up, she craned her neck to peer behind her. Maybe the bouncer meant the blonde in hot pink? After three seconds, Natalie realized he meant her.
“Come on through, gorgeous.” His smirk was a tooth short of a leer.
According to her internet research, Le Rêve’s Hulk look-alike bouncers upheld the less-is-more philosophy. Her dress was definitely less. The strap of her scarlet mini flowed into a bodice that exposed a third of her right breast, and the back of her dress... Well, there wasn’t one. Natalie didn’t recognize herself in the mirror, especially with her dramatic eye makeup, but she couldn’t afford to be modest. Getting in mattered too much, especially as it was a Friday night and everyone was dressed to kill.
Forcing a smile, she sashayed past Hulk Number One and ascended the steep staircase in her four-inch stilettos. Natalie reached the top without falling on her face or mooning the crowd. Yes-s-s. She pulled back her elbow in a discreet fist pump.
Lily Davis had called at 4:00 a.m., sobbing and hiccupping a jumble of words, including “Sophie,” “high fever” and “vomiting.” Natalie had instructed Sophie’s grandparents to take the baby to the nearest emergency room from their hotel and rushed over to meet them. By the time the doctor explained that it was a twenty-four-hour virus a lukewarm bath would’ve eased, she’d missed her interview for the VP position.
Stupid rookie mistake. She should’ve researched the symptoms online instead of panicking like that. But the damage was done. Natalie had no luck rescheduling her interview. The hiring committee had decided staying with her sick niece in the ER rather than showing up for the interview proved she lacked the commitment for an executive position. They’d waved aside her explanation as though she was making a my-dog-ate-my-homework excuse. She gritted her teeth at the unfairness.
What had happened this morning could ruin the one chance she had at adopting Sophie. But it wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be over. Garrett Song was the future CEO of Hansol. Surely, he could convince the hiring committee to give her a second chance. Ambushing him at a nightclub wasn’t the most professional move, but she had run out of options.
According to his calendar, he was having a business meeting at the club, which also meant there was a good chance of his leaving for a business trip the next day. This might be the last chance she had to talk to him face-to-face for a few weeks. There was no time to waste, so Natalie had resorted to desperate measures.
Squaring her shoulders, she ventured deeper into foreign territory. Her lips parted at the sight of beautiful people writhing and rocking to the DJ’s mixes. They made sweaty, drunk and horny look attractive. The blinking strobe lights and reverberating bass pulsed in rhythm with her jackhammering heart. Natalie unclenched her clammy fists. Just find him, ask him and leave.
But first, she needed liquid courage.
Icy blue accent lights slashed artfully across the circular bar, its central column of spirits reaching high to the distant ceiling. How in the world could they get those bottles down?
Natalie shook her head to rein in her wandering thoughts, then froze. She’d spent an hour taming her black curls, but they were already straining against the five hundred bobby pins holding them down. She had half an hour, tops, before she turned into Medusa. At the hottest club on Melrose. That’s just swell.
Hustling through a tiny space between revelers, she managed to snag a stool, then waved for a bartender. A boyish mixologist with tattoos hugging his biceps gave her a nod and a wink, as he performed a hair-raising cocktail stunt involving two jiggers and a tumbler for another customer. After all the juggling and shaking, the pink liquid he finally poured into the martini glass was underwhelming. Even the fresh mint and cucumber garnish—added with a flourish—couldn’t save it.
When Biceps made his way over to her, she took a deep breath and broke his heart. “Double Scotch. Neat.”
“Any particular brand?” he asked, pouting at the sheer uncoolness of her order.
“Bowmore. Twenty-five years old.”
“Nice.” His eyebrows drew up and he flashed a grin. “A beautiful woman who knows her whiskey.”
She smiled back, glad she’d dodged the showman’s bullet, but her relief was short-lived.
“Power up!” he hollered.
“Power up!” his compatriots echoed.
A few customers clapped excitedly as a small skateboard-like contraption with handlebars zoomed around the liquor column on hidden tracks and stopped where Biceps waited. He stepped on and secured a harness around his waist, becoming the center of attention as he spiraled upward. Grasping the bottle of Bowmore from the top of the column, he descended like a rock star.
By the time he handed her the Scotch, her cheeks were burning and she seriously considered hiding under the bar. It was bad enough being at a club, not wearing