Her One-Night Fiancé
Natalie Anderson
Her One-Night Fiancé
The last thing store assistant Nina Breslin wants is to face an army of her cheating exe’s friends, while workaholic billionaire Eduardo Ruiz really doesn’t want to face the onslaught of his interfering family who’ve flown in for the night—with prospective ‘perfect partner’ in tow.
What better than to team up and take the heat off each other?
Only during their one-night fake fiancé deal, the heat between them burns hotter than Venus!
What happens when they wake up and Nina is still wearing Eduardo’s ring? And when it’s not just bodies but hearts that have become entwined?
Featuring nerdy Shakespeare quotes, an outrageously oversized diamond, hidden heartbreak and hot, hot nights... Her One-Night Fiancé is a delicious treat sure to satisfy lovers of sassy, sexy contemporary romance.
Her One Night Fiancé Copyright © 2020 Natalie Anderson
This edition, revised and updated October 2020
First published as SEDUCTION IN SILVER by Entangled Publishing. Copyright © 2013 Natalie Anderson
And in the anthology, FLIRTING TO WIN, also published by Entangled Publishing. Copyright © 2013 Natalie Anderson
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
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This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by N. Anderson
The images on the cover of this book feature model/s and bear no relation to the characters described within.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Love in London
About the Author
One
Nina Breslin gripped the long strap of her handbag, determined not to give herself away. As it was, her abs were tauter than Superman’s and the heels of her neutral summer pumps clipped along the concrete at an accelerated pace. Though that could be explained away by necessary haste, right? She had a train to catch.
He shouldn’t be there. Until now, she’d only seen him in front of his building weekdays and well before the commuter rush. But today was Sunday and it was mid–morning, not super-early like when she usually saw him. And it wasn’t his usual corporate casual chinos lovingly encasing his long legs, but ink-blue jeans. Even more arresting was the form-fitting gray, long-sleeved tee that skimmed his flat stomach and disappeared into those low-slung, leather-belted jeans.
That’s why she had to grip her bag strap so hard, because the tee revealed what his more formal shirts hadn’t—his ripped strength. The breadth of his shoulders and the curves of his biceps, triceps, and those other muscles she didn’t know the names of were clearly discernible. Not too-much-protein-powder bulky—they were in proportion to his long limbs and he clearly worked them. Yeah, his physical blessings—and he had plenty—were honed to max their potential. He looked like the statue of an ancient Greek athlete come to life.
But while his tall, striking presence commanded attention, he didn’t offer the same courtesy in return. Instead, he stood aloof, never directly engaging with those so irresistibly drawn to admire his masculine perfection—i.e., everyone. He epitomized the arrogance she avoided outside of work. She had to deal with his kind all day. Intelligent, successful men who had it all—who’d go blow stupid amounts of money on champagne in lap bars at lunchtime. But with his aura of untouchability, this one took it to a whole other level. Without words or movement, he kept that remote distance—emphasizing his place in an upper echelon. No doubt he had extreme success in it all—looks, wealth, work, and of course, sex.
But she wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had yet another female fanning herself in the corner as she watched him. And she was most definitely not succumbing to the urge to run her hand through her hair, despite the awareness tingling over her scalp.
She’d read the body language book only yesterday during the few quiet spells at work. Heavy on diagrams, it hadn’t taken long to read through the “winning sales techniques” section that was supposed to help up her commission during her last week before hiding out on the Continent. But of course, she’d flipped to the “courtship and mating” signals section straight after, because sometimes a girl needed to be armed with info of the “Is he into you” variety—especially when one’s perception was as far removed from reality as hers was. So now she knew why she had the urge to preen, but she wasn’t going to succumb to it. It’d be a waste of energy, anyway. For two weeks, she’d passed him every morning on her way to the Baker Street Tube station and he’d not once glanced her way.
She was stupidly piqued by that—another nail in her self-confidence coffin. He wasn’t her type—truly—but even so, part of her wanted him to notice. She pushed feminine hormones and pride aside. She wasn’t lifting her hand to her hair and exposing her breasts to his gaze in the process. It was merely an animal reaction—as was the way her nipples had tightened. Such a strong sexual attraction to a remote stranger was that “raiding foreigner” thing—the desire to mate with an
