The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance) Read online

  The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (Erotic Romance)

  The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (Erotic Romance)

  PROLOGUE

  Midpoint

  THE PRETEND BOYFRIEND 2

  By Artemis Hunt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 by Artemis Hunt

  Cover art by Artemis Hunt

  THE PRETEND BOYFRIEND 2

  PROLOGUE

  She sticks her downloaded Internet photos of him onto the corkboard. She pins them up by the edges, taking care not to deface his beautiful face in any way.

  Not yet, at least.

  BRIAN MORTON. President and CEO of Vanguard Advertising, the hippest, most avant-garde advertising firm in Chicago. The firm corporations flock to when they want something different, thought- and mood-provoking . . . and sexy.

  It is so unfair. He has everything – good looks, charm, brilliance, money, success. And she has nothing.

  This will be rectified very soon.

  Because she’s going to make him pay for what he did to her. She’s going to make that promiscuous, no good, lying son of a bitch suffer as he has never suffered before. And when she’s through with him, he’s going to rue the day he was born.

  She stands a little distance away from the corkboard, studying his photos from an angle. He’s so handsome with his huge bedroom eyes, fantastic hair – always maintaining that ‘just out of bed’ tumbled look – and his wide sensuous lips. Lips that she has kissed repeatedly when he was fucking her. She can still feel him inside her, even though it’s only a memory. A ghost of a memory. An imprint of emotions turned topsy-turvy; of love turned to hate.

  She sure as hell hates him now. She clenches her fist, harnessing the accumulated vitriol which is manifesting in the bile that curdles her throat.

  Brian Morton, when I’m through with you, you will have nothing left.

  1

  In the boardroom of the company he founded with his cousin, Brian Morton stands in front of a screen. He loves doing his own presentations, especially if he has coined the idea himself.

  In this instance, his client happens to be the mayor’s office – a real coup for Vanguard. The mayor has long been with Barstow Advertising across the street. But for this particular ad, the mayor’s office had wanted something different. Something provocative.

  Vanguard has acquired the reputation for provocation, thanks in no small measure to Brian’s own efforts.

  Brian says, “Basically, people are becoming numbed to advertising. You need to get their attention. And trust me, this will.”

  He depresses a button on the remote control. A Powerpoint slide appears onscreen.

  The mayor’s representatives sit up in their seats. A stir goes through the entire room. People lean over to whisper to one another. The air bristles with excitement.

  “Exactly the reaction I’d hoped for,” Brian remarks.

  He turns to the screen. The image is that of two silver cars in twisted wrecks upon the grey tarmac of a freeway. Or at least, that’s what they initially resemble. But look again. These are not cars. These are smashed and broken cellphones designed to resemble cars. Their display screens are unmistakable, as are their damaged keypads. The telephone poles in the background only serve to accentuate the freeway impression.

  “Don’t text while you drive,” Brian finishes.

  The expressions of the people in the room are admiring, rapturous. Applause breaks out, even from his own team – who has seen the copy many times. The applause swells, and there are cries of “Bravo!”, “Amazing!”, “Wonderful!”

  Brian basks in this acknowledgment of yet another emotionally effective ad. Sometimes, the feeling is better than an orgasm.

  Almost.

  God, he loves his job.

  He has no idea then that all hell is about to break loose.

  2

  Samantha Fox walks nervously into the reception area of her office. Over here, all hell is about to break loose as well.

  Two maintenance men are in the midst of taking down the ‘LANDRY AND SONS’ sign. She knows they will replace it with the blue diamond-shaped logo of ‘SAPPHIRE’, the competitor company which had bought over her old one in a hostile coup that came slinging out of nowhere.

  Fiona, the receptionist, is nowhere in sight. Nevertheless, the reception area is bustling with people she has never seen before. They carry folders, files, stacks of documents – all presumably from Sapphire. The whole office is in bustling upheaval.

  What the hell is going on? Well, other than the obvious fact that they have been taken over. But she didn’t expect such a massive and sudden shift. No one in the former Landry and Sons had.

  Peter Goodwin from Human Resources comes out, his face ashen. He carries a box filled with photo frames, vases and bric bracs. Sam’s heart sinks. She recognizes the silver-framed family photo of Peter, his wife and their three kids that he’d had on his desk forever.

  “Peter?” Her own voice is tinny and scared.

  Peter stops. His lined face wears the expression of someone who has just lost a spleen in a near-fatal car crash.

  “What are they doing? Why are you clearing out your stuff?” The pitter-patter of her own pulse rises in Sam’s neck.

  “They’re canning us and replacing us with people they have brought over from the parent company.” Peter swallows. “The new boss, Rutgard, is in the boardroom . . . firing people.”

  “But for what? He can’t just fire people like that. Some of us have been here for over ten years. Like you, for instance.”

  “I know. He’s downsizing the company. The retrenchment package they’re giving us isn’t that great either. A month’s salary for every year you’ve been here. That will last me for about ten months.” Peter jerks his head in the direction of the boardroom. “I’m sorry, Sam, but he’s looking for you too.”

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  Her chest cavity suddenly feels hollower than it has a right to be. Her stomach and guts clench in concert. She feels like going to the bathroom to retch, but it’s best to get this over with. Her mind runs over all the projects she has been involved with for the past few years.

  Mr. Rutgard, you can’t fire me. I brought in the Gardiner account, which is, like, the biggest account this company has ever seen.

  Mr. Rutgard, I would have you know that I scored ‘Excellent’ in my Leadership and Communication skills. I am an ‘ENFJ’ in my Myers-Brigg Personality Score, and I would fit very well in your new organization.

  Mr. Rutgard, please! You can’t fire me! I need this job!

  But as her feet plod down the passageway to the boardroom, passing familiar people whose faces are now downcast, her hopes start to spiral bottomward . . . and further down, down, down until she can hear them clink against the basement.

  What is she going to do in this economy? Everywhere, companies are being downsized. People are losing jobs left, right and center.

  And she had just gotten that new apartment – the one she had been dreaming about her entire life. Plunked the down payment for it in cold hard cash, and took out a loan from the Bank of America. On the guarantee that she would be able to pay for it out of her salary.

  She would absolutely die if she had to give up the apartment.

  Maybe she’s getting ahead of herself. Maybe she’s
leapfrogging the gun. Maybe Mr. Rutgard isn’t going to be so bad. In fact, he might be so impressed by her last appraisal that he might give her a raise.

  You wish.

  The boardroom doors loom ahead – dark and forbidding. The colors suck her in like a black hole. Brian’s face sneaks into her mindscape. What would he do in a situation like this?

  I’ll give you twenty reasons why you can’t fire me. I’d sue the pants off you, for one. And I’m easily the best damned employee you’ve got. Unless you want to see seven-eighths of your clients go on the exodus with me, you’d better be cramming that retrenchment package up your own ass.

  But nobody can fire Brian. He’s the goddamned CEO.

  Life just isn’t fair.

  Anyway, she still isn’t sure how she feels about Brian. Yeah, so they agreed to ‘hang out’, which is his euphemism for ‘let’s fuck whenever we feel like it with no strings attached. I can fuck other people and so can you. We can even do it simultaneously. Isn’t that, like, the best arrangement ever?’ He doesn’t owe her anything besides his (rather pleasant) company . . . and she’s a free spirit – free to do anything she pleases.

  She has her true life ‘Pretend Boyfriend’, someone to tag along for dates and social functions and stuff . . . and he even gives her his gorgeous body to use as she sees fit. What more can a girl ask for?

  Right?

  She sighs. Now isn’t the time to be thinking about Brian. Thinking about him only makes her well up with some indefinable emotion inside – a choking, hollow feeling in her gut that aches with the painful need to have something more. More than he’s willing to give her.

  She knocks on the boardroom door. When there is no answer from inside, she gingerly pushes it ajar.

  Inside, a youngish man – possibly in his mid-thirties, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a streak of silver hair at his temples – is perusing a case folder before him on the large boardroom table. Patty Jensen, the Human Resources Director, is the picture of misery beside him.

  Uh oh.

  Mr. Rutgard looks up. “And who the hell are you?”

  “That’s Samantha Fox, one of our best and brightest account managers,” Patty says brightly, even though her demeanor suggests Hurricane Katrina. She rifles through a pile of case notes and extracts one. Sam recognizes her own photograph on it.

  She forcibly pulls in a long, deep breath.

  “Have a seat, Sam,” Patty says.

  Sam takes one across the table from the two of them. She reckons Mr. Rutgard would have kept her standing throughout the entire session. Her heartbeat has settled into a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that lifts her chest wall. She’s certain her new boss can hear it, or at least, see her blouse flutter where her heart is. Her throat is excruciatingly dry.

  Mr. Rutgard doesn’t look up from the case file.

  He finally says without meeting her eyes, “It says here you have an extremely good track record.”

  “She scored ‘Exemplary’ and ‘Above Average’ for most of her career,” Patty puts in.

  Sam flashes her a grateful smile.

  Rutgard says, “That may be the case. But we are still fifteen headcounts too many. Profits are being squeezed and the overhead has not been properly managed since this company was established. Basically, we could be making double the profit if we didn’t carry so much deadweight.”

  Indignation rises in Sam. “Hey . . . I mean, Mr. Rutgard, sir . . . we’re not all deadweight around here. I’ve personally managed to close five of the top twenty accounts over the past three years. Gardiner, O’ Connor, Fitzgerald . . . ”

  Rutgard holds up his palm. “Spare me, Ms. Fox. I am well aware of your accomplishments. However, we are embarking upon a new image and mission statement. O’ Connor has delayed payment to us several times, and Fitzgerald has a reputation for prejudice against homosexuals in the workplace.”

  Sam is speechless. “Th-that’s not entirely true . . . ”

  But there’s some truth to it, she can’t deny. Still, their old credo was ‘an account is an account’. When did they start bothering about how their clients aired their dirty laundry?

  Rutgard finally looks up. His green eyes are light sabers.

  “Let’s lay all the cards on the table, Ms. Fox. We can only maintain one of you in this position. You . . . or Ms. Angleston.”

  Kathy Angleston? That tramp?

  Sam can’t believe her ears. She’s competing with Kathy Angleston? Since when has Kathy Angleston ever secured an account without spreading her legs? Sam is surprised that Elaine Landry – her previous boss – hadn’t fired Kathy while she had the chance. But maybe the Landrys were never too particular about how they got their accounts.

  Patty’s mouth twitches, suggesting that she finds the idea equally as ludicrous.

  Rutgard goes on, “To determine which one of you is more suitable for the role, I’ve decided to give you both a task.”

  “A task?” Sam raises her eyebrows.

  “Yes. There is one account in this business I’ve always wanted to land.” Rutgard leans back. His chair creaks in protest. “Moody.”

  “Moody?” Sam crinkles her brow. “But that’s impossible. Henry Moody has been with McConnaughey for twenty years!”

  “No one ever said it was easy.” Rutgard steeples his hands. The grin on his face is crafty. “You both have a month to land Moody. First one with a minimum commitment of a hundred thousand dollars gets to keep her job.”

  “But sir – ”

  Rutgard holds up a palm again. “Are you the type of employee to turn down a challenge, Ms. Fox?”

  One with impossible odds? Sam thinks of her new apartment. She is in the midst of decorating it. She has gotten the white sofa – the one she has been eyeing forever – and committed to plunking down four hundred dollars a month for installments.

  Oh why oh why did Landry and Sons have to be bought over?

  “OK,” she says in a small voice.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  Sam clears her throat. “I said OK.”

  One month. She has one more month to keep her job. Or start looking for something new.

  Patty gives her a sympathetic look.

  As Sam exits the boardroom, she can feel Rutgard’s gaze boring a hole in her back. It clearly says: You’re gonna be out on your ass in a month.

  3

  “He did what?” Brian says, frowning.

  They are both seated at a table for two in an ice-cream parlor. The parlor is fairly empty at this time of day. Outside, the sky is pouring cats and dogs, which accounts for no one getting ice-cream pangs today because they are all too busy getting sloshed. By dirty rainwater, that is.

  Brian has ordered a raspberry sorbet while Sam digs her long spoon into a double fudge sundae. He watches her fascinatedly as the curved end of the spoon disappears into her mouth. He loves a woman who isn’t self-conscious about her eating.

  Wait a minute. He used the ‘L’ word again. He doesn’t technically mean it, of course. He likes Sam – a lot. OK, more than a lot. But she’s a friend. A fuck buddy. That’s all she is.

  They have been hanging out for the past six months. And he has enjoyed it. A lot. They go for dinners. They grab lunches together. They catch movies. They go bowling. Dancing. Clubbing. None of what they do can ever be considered a ‘real date’, of course – even though most of their outings end up in sex. In her new apartment. In his penthouse. In seedy motels. Wherever strikes their fancy.

  It has been fun. Especially now that Caleb is in a relationship with Cassie, Sam’s best friend, Brian needed someone to hang out with. And who better than the one who is left out in the cold while their respective best friends fuck each other’s brains out?

  He still maintains his freedom, of course. He does the occasional one night stand. Probably not as often as he used to, because he finds himself planning to do things with Sam rather than with some random woman whom he’s never going to see again after he has fucked her. And Sam
is free to do whatever she pleases. Of course.

  Like he says – they are just ‘hanging out’.

  “He threatened to retrench me if I didn’t get him the Moody account,” Sam says with a sigh. She spoons another big dollop of ice-cream into her mouth. Nothing like ice-cream as a balm for pain management.

  “Uh . . . ” Brian indicates his own mouth. She’s so cute when she has fudge-smeared lips.

  “What? Am I dripping?”

  “Not yet, but I can practically see your double chin forming.”

  She flashes him a murderous glare. Still, she hastily puts down her spoon.

  “Aw, come on, don’t stop on my account. I like love handles.”

  She picks up her chocolate-covered spoon and flicks spatters onto him. Milky droplets get onto his face and hair. He laughs as he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Hey, watch it, will ya? This is a two thousand dollar leather jacket.”

  “Then you can afford a two hundred dollar laundry bill.” She plunges the spoon into her ice-cream again and morosely scoops in another mouthful. “I’m depressed, and therefore, I’m allowed to get fat.”

  “I’ve always been partial to whoopee cushions.”

  “I’ll whoop your ass if you make one more snide remark. Anyway, I have to land Moody . . . or it’s hasta la vista, new apartment.”

  She looks so glum that he wishes he were on her side of the table so that he can put his arm around her.

  “You know, Sam, if it’s money you need – ”

  “Nope, nope, nope. Caleb warned me you’d be doing this – ”

  “Oh, so Caleb has been talking about me behind my back. What else has he done? Sold my ass to the highest bidder without my stamp of sordid approval?”

  “He was just trying to warn me about you.”

  “Think of it as a loan. You can pay me back . . . with interest.”

  “You’re already thinking I’m going to fail to get Moody,” she accuses, waving her dangerous spoon around.