He had a headache. It was worsened through all the chatter and the dizzying lights of the banquet in full swing. He needed a drink. More potent than damned champagne. A scowl pulled at his lips, eyes scanned the crowd. There. In the sea of nauseating color was the beautiful redhead more trouble than she was worth. Her smile was beautiful as it was cruel. Her shoes, high and sharp, the same with which she trampled over his heart. Her eyes, cunning jade, sly and deceptive. Plump lips coated in nude lipstick, painted to be demure but drenched in viciousness. She was a demon in the skin of a siren. Her eyes met his across the room. She smiled. He scoffed, turned and stalked off. He needed her off his back. Her daring exploits in the sheets of his rivals and executives was . . . degrading. To him. To his empire. Then he spotted his solution. A little thing. Way out of her depth in the sea of rich and influential. She was perfect. Middle class. Definitely greedy for a bit of cash and he'd make it worth her while. Stalking closer, he placed his unfinished flute of champagne on a server's tray as he passed, straightening his tie. "Fake date me," he demanded from behind you, handed casually tucked into his slacks.