He scowled as he looked down at her hand on his arm. “I hit on you.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he’d been so lacking in discrimination. “What’s it to you if I encounter the occasional pushy intern?”
She stored away his admission that he’d pursued her, and the precious shred of dignity it afforded. “An engagement will protect you from the single women who could wreck your campaign by misreading something you say or do.”
“And all I have to do is change my education policy for the sake of your job,” he said calmly. He’d never sounded more dangerous.
Sabrina lifted her empty wineglass to her lips, a fragile barrier. “It’s not a change,” she said. “It’s a detail. You put special-needs education on the agenda, I’ll do the rest.”
“You’re overlooking one small fact,” he said. “Namely, you’re the last woman on earth I would marry.”
Ouch! Sabrina pressed a hand to her chest, stared at him. Desperation demanded she get over the insult. “Jake, your campaign is all about educational opportunities for everyone. You’re deeply committed to young people and their learning, I saw it on your Web site.”
“You visited my Web site?” Beneath his anger she discerned satisfaction that the last woman on earth that he would marry was interested enough to check him out online.
“By accident,” she said. “I was running a Google search for jerks.”
Before he could stop himself, Jake barked a laugh. Naturally, Sabrina pounced on the brief cessation of hostilities. “Supporting my school isn’t a big stretch, Jake.” She turned cajoling, the way she used to when they were dating. Using that voice, she’d talked him into drinking the vile blue cocktail she favored at the time. And skinny-dipping in the pool at the governor’s mansion.
Silly things. Games. Nothing like this.
“You’re insane,” he said.
Or was he? Because much as he tried to fight it, she was starting to make sense. It was difficult to campaign as a bachelor—there was always the risk that a kiss on the cheek, an inadvertent touch, would be taken the wrong way. Susan often said her job would be easier if he had a girlfriend.
“Why does it have to be an engagement?” he asked. “Why can’t we tell people we’re dating?”
Her eyes widened, brightened. But when she spoke she was calm, pragmatic. Qualities Jake admired. Qualities about as far from Sabrina’s nature as Mars was from Venus.
“We’ve been there, done that, five years ago,” she said. “To be taken seriously, we need a commitment this time around. Anyway, I’ve already said we’re engaged.”
He tried to corral more arguments, but they eluded him.
“I’ll let you think about it.” She turned her back on him to study one of the paintings on the wall just beyond the cordon.
The square canvas was painted almost entirely black, with a thin gold line down the middle. Jake read the caption over her shoulder: Inside The Elevator During a Power Cut.
Sabrina started to giggle; there was an edge of hysteria to it.
“This picture sums up how I feel,” Jake said grimly.
“In the dark?” Her voice wobbled.
“Trapped.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “This isn’t funny, Sabrina.” Because no matter that she was letting him think about it, he didn’t have a choice. She’d told people they were engaged, there was no way such juicy news wouldn’t spread, even if she rescinded it. The press would be onto it; Jake would have to publicly contradict a woman often described as “Georgia’s darling.” More damage to his reputation, his campaign.
She must have read his thoughts. “It’s really not that complicated. We’ll say we’re engaged, my appointment will be confirmed, then I’ll endorse your campaign and attend a few events with you. As many as you want. Jake, this is exactly what you wanted, only…different.”
Sabrina, the ultimate optimist—it must have taken a lunatic sense of optimism to persevere the way she had after the accident.
“This is the only way you’ll get my support,” she said.
The only way he could win.
“If you win the primary,” she continued, “I’ll stick with the engagement until the election in November.”
Hell, it was bad enough pretending to be her fiancé for the six weeks until the primary. November was seven months away. “Why should I trust you, when you’ve never stuck with anything else?”
“Because this time,” she said, “I’m claiming dumping rights.”
“You’re claiming what?”
She flashed a smile at the wait-kid who offered a tray of cheese puffs over the cordon and waved him away.
“One of us has to dump the other,” she told Jake. “As soon we’re through the election, I’ll dump you.”
He wished he’d accepted that drink the principal had offered. “Why wouldn’t we announce we separated by mutual agreement?”
“Everyone knows that’s a line put out to save face, and that someone did the dumping.”
“Why should it be you?”
“It’s my turn,” she said reasonably.
“Fine,” he said. “You get to dump me.” The trapped-in-the-elevator painting loomed in his peripheral vision. “Just so long as you do get around to it. I don’t care if you could make me president of the United States, I am not going to marry you. Got it?”
“Loud and clear.” She tossed her blond hair, but somehow it didn’t muss. “And don’t you get any ideas about groping me when we have to kiss in public.”
Kiss in public? His lips tightened. “There isn’t a chance in hell that I’ll grope you.”
“Really? Because you used to have trouble keeping your hands to yourself.”
She was right, dammit. Back then, she could shred his self-control with just a wiggle of her hips.
“Trust me, it won’t be a problem.” He meant it…and yet he couldn’t help looking at Sabrina’s mouth, thinking about those public kisses they’d be expected to share. Her lips were a perfect pink bow, temptingly plump at the bottom. What the hell was he thinking, buying into her scheme?
Jake looked at her with such loathing, Sabrina flinched. She was used to getting her way through coaxing and flirting. Here, she was an amateur trying to play hardball with a professional. She needed to stop antagonizing him, or he would never agree, she would lose her job and she’d be back at square one.
“Sabrina, Baby.” Her father’s hearty voice, booming the childhood nickname, reached her before he did, giving her a chance to compose a relaxed smile. Jonah Merritt removed the cordon so he could pull her into a bear hug, squashing her against the plaid sports jacket that for him counted as casual clothing. “Sweetheart, I figured out how we’re going to sue those guys.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the art critic from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, whose ultrahighbrow reputation meant he refused to take an interest in a beauty queen. “They don’t get to say your thighs are chunky without paying you a lot of money.”
“Dad, stop,” she said, alarmed. Who would believe her father was one of Atlanta’s top lawyers, when he sounded like an ambulance chaser? “I don’t want to sue them.”
“It’s libel, and we can prove it.”
She folded her arms and glared at him, relieved to have an excuse to ignore Jake’s glower.