Fireman's Fake Fiancée: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 26) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Man Who Knows What He Wants Series

  Fireman's Fake Fiancée

  Isaac

  Julia

  Abby

  Billionaire's Virgin Ballerina

  FIREMAN’S FAKE FIANCÉE

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 26

  FLORA FERRARI

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  A Man Who Knows What He Wants Series

  Fireman's Fake Fiancée

  1. Isaac

  2. Julia

  3. Isaac

  4. Julia

  5. Isaac

  6. Isaac

  7. Isaac

  8. Julia

  9. Isaac

  10. Isaac

  11. Abby

  12. Isaac

  13. Julia

  14. Julia

  Epilogue ~ Julia

  Epilogue ~ Isaac

  Epilogue ~ Julia

  Extended Epilogue ~ Julia

  Billionaire's Virgin Ballerina

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2017 by Flora Ferrari.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  Book 1: Baby Lust

  Book 2: Veteran

  Book 3: Built

  Book 4: Bambino

  Book 5: Rescued

  Book 6: Leader

  Book 7: Professor

  Book 8: Burned

  Book 9: Worldly

  Book 10: Pistol

  Book 11: Policed

  Book 12: Driven

  Book 13: Lucky 13

  Book 14: Lumberjacked

  Book 15: Protector

  Book 16: Carpenter

  Book 17: Italian Stallion

  Book 18: Gardener

  Book 19: Budapest Billionaire’s Virgin

  Book 20: Billionaire’s Babysitter

  Book 21: Cocky CFO

  Book 22: Fireman’s Filthy 4th

  Book 23: Mechanic

  Book 24: SEAL’s Secret

  Book 25: Police, Pooch, and Smooch

  Book 26: Fireman’s Fake Fiancée

  Book 27: Billionaire’s Virgin Ballerina

  FIREMAN’S FAKE FIANCÉE

  Why does it feel so real, when it's only meant to be fake?

  Fireman Isaac Irons is supposed to save me. He’s tall, dark, and as handsome as he is rich. With his rugged good looks and masculine presence, surely no one's going to catch on to us. There's no way you'd suspect our engagement is fake.

  And I'm starting not to suspect it either. The way he whispers in my ear when no one's looking. The way he puts his hand on the small of my back. The way his kisses go on just a little longer than we need in order to put on our little show. Is it just for show?

  He's enjoying this; this tormenting me.

  But I can dish it out just as well as I can take it. I can play hot and cold, making him wonder what's real and what's not...and just what he really wants out of this so-called relationship of ours.

  But when the sun goes down, my blood pressure rises. We're alone in our shared bedroom, keeping up the charade. But the way he looks at me with those bedroom eyes of his, I know this is more than a game.

  Can I risk losing everything if it means winning the man whose passion for me is suddenly feeling more and more real?

  Fireman's Fake Fiancée is an insta-everything standalone romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

  CHAPTER 1

  Isaac

  “Who is that girl he’s with?”

  I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  In between the clinking of glasses, the rattling of plates, and the conversation between the other firemen, her voice still cuts through the air like a knife. She’s standing behind me, which doesn’t even register as ironic anymore considering how long she’s been stabbing me in the back.

  It’s Abby Lawson, at least that’s what she calls herself. Rumor has it that she changed her name to match the advice columnist she tries to mimic on a daily basis. She writes a daily column in the local paper called “Around Town.” The paper positions it as some sort of cultural and style piece but everyone knows it’s just the juiciest gossip she can dig up. And by everyone I mean everyone. Everyone reads it and that’s exactly why I’m in the predicament I’m in.

  Fire Chief Weston has been in charge of our fire department for years, thirty-three years to be exact. Back in his day he was appointed fire chief, which is the way most stations around the country have done it forever. Not ours. Not any longer. Weston retires in exactly thirty-seven days, which is exactly thirty days after the election for fire chief, which voters will be going to the polls for in exactly one week.

  I should have been appointed. I’ve got the training, experience, military background, and most of all I’m really good at my job. I’m so good in fact that Abby Lawson seems to think it’s gone to my head. At least that’s what she’s said in her column on multiple occasions. “His likability index is lower than a snake’s belly.” Her words, not mine. Likability index? Who talks like that? Well, she does, and like it or not what she writes is what people believe in this town.

  And believe me when I say I’ll do anything to be fire chief. Anything as in the stunt I’m pulling today at the fireman’s ball, which of course she’s attending because she’s married to one of the guys at our station. I, and a lot of other fireman, started avoiding him like the plague once I found out he was the one who was spoon feeding information to his wife, which coincidently would appear in her column the next day. She sees herself as some sort of investigative reporter, taking whatever her husband says as the gospel, and then putting her own spin on it for the public.

  Of course we have a rule about speaking to the press. Don’t do it. Since everyone besides her husband seems to follow that rule, it means she has no competition when she wants to write something about us. And it means she knows we won’t respond to anything she says that goes to print. It’s the perfect situation for her. She can say whatever she wants, without fear of a reply from us. That means whatever she says goes, at least in the public’s eyes.

  We’ve been told on multiple occasions to just ignore it. The bigger problem is why is her husband giving her the dirt? That’s easy. He’s running for fire chief too. It’s a neck-and-neck race heading into the final week and I’m not holding back any punches any longer.

  “It looks like that girl he rescued,” another voice from behind me says.

  “So who’s the lucky lady?” my buddy Fred says as he approaches with an extra glass of two fingers of whiskey in hand. We’ve been battling blazes for years, and he’s a guy I admire and respect like no other. My first year on the job I passed out from smoke inhalation while I was trying to make a rescue on the third floor of a residential
unit. Fred not only pulled me out, but he pulled the little girl out as well. The world could use a lot more guys like Fred. He’s a true hero.

  “This is Julia,” I say, as Fred hands me my preferred adult beverage.

  “Julia! Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she says.

  Her tone sounds perfect, but I can feel by the hand she has in mine that’s she’s nervous. Her hand is a sweaty, mushy mess…the exact contrast to the cold, firm glass I have in my other. I quickly tip back half of the whiskey hoping this all goes as planned. It better, or else I’m in big, big trouble.

  CHAPTER 2

  Julia

  “Isaac tells me you’re from Kiev.”

  “Yes. That is where I was born and lived, until very recently.”

  “I’ve never been to Russia. I hear it’s a beautiful country. Lots of bears right?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to Russia either.”

  “But I thought you were from…” Fred continues.

  “Kiev is in Ukraine. It is the capital.”

  “Oh. Isn’t that pretty much the same thing as—“

  “No. We are very different…very, very different.”

  I feel Isaac’s grip tighten on mine, his signal that I need to avoid being so direct. I’m still not used to these Western ways of speaking and communicating. Where I come from nothing is sugar coated. The most commonly heard word is “no.” I often use it myself.

  “Would you like a faux fur coat, Yulia?” my last boyfriend in Kiev asked me.

  “What is faux?”

  “It is similar to the real thing, just a little different.”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to go ice fishing, Yulia?” my brother would ask.

  “No.”

  And my favorite was my mother’s question, which she asked at least ten times per day. “Will you marry soon, Yulia?”

  “No.”

  I wanted to be my own woman. I wanted to do things myself, to go off and see the world. I wanted to become well rounded and learn new things. And most importantly I always wanted to see U.S.A. I had seen it in movies and on television and I knew one day I would visit it and I would absolutely fall in love with it, and maybe an American man too.

  Except I didn’t. When I heard of a work and travel program that was offered to the United States I applied the same day. It took some time to raise the money to go, but I did it. And I was excited to be a hostess in an upscale club. I would meet rich and interesting people, and people who were on holiday and just wanted to unwind and play games like baccarat. It sounded so fun and exciting.

  But from the moment I arrived I knew something was off. The “upscale club” was high-stakes poker, played in a dark, dirty basement on the outside of town. I served vodka to high-level Russian mafia bosses while they drank and smoked the night away.

  I just reminded myself it was only six months and the money I would make would help my family back home.

  I didn’t even make it a week.

  The third night on the job someone from a rival group threw gasoline all around the building and then threw a match on it. Next thing I knew we were being pulled out by firemen and that’s how I met Isaac.

  He was kind to me and asked me a few questions about what happened. When I told him what was going on, his jaw hit the floor. Apparently no one had any idea such activities were going on inside of this building. Next thing I knew I was being asked to testify against these men.

  But that wasn’t the only thing I was asked to do. Isaac asked if I could pretend to be his wife for the rest of the time I was here.

  I had no job, and my visa didn’t allow me to find another one. I was only allowed to do the job I came for, which no longer existed. And to make matters worse, even from thousands of miles away, my mother was still asking me when I was going to get married. When I left she didn’t even own a mobile phone. The moment I arrived she was texting me to look my best and to smile at all the successful men I passed.

  Isaac’s offer was the best I could do. He said he would get more money if he became fire chief, and he would give me five thousand dollars if he won. That was more money than I would have put in my pocket for my original six months of employment so I agreed, and next thing I know here I am pretending to be his wife.

  Being that I’m from Ukraine, the idea of working undercover was too hard to resist. It was just like those Hollywood movies where deadly Eastern European or Russian women infiltrate American society and report the secrets they uncover back to the motherland. But I wasn’t a spy. I was just interested in seeing how the culture worked and to have a little fun while doing so.

  I Americanized my name from Yulia to Julia and we prepared to play the game.

  “Oh sorry,” Fred says. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  Just be friendly, and always appear that everything is perfect. Isaac repeated those words on the drive over, and I was already forgetting.

  “It’s a commonly held belief. And Ukraine does translate to the word borderland, which of course refers to the border with Russia. So I guess you’re actually right,” I say, adding emphasis at the end.

  “I knew I had a talent for geography!” Fred says. I can see he is the kind of man who is the life of the party. The one everyone likes. “Just don’t go telling me about Georgia and Hungary…that’s where I really start to get confused.”

  “Why is that—“

  “Julia, I’d like you to meet Georgia,” Fred says, introducing me to the woman who has just come up from behind him. “My wife.”

  “Nice to meet you, Julia. Fred tells me you’re from Russia.”

  “Yes!” I say, and I feel Isaac’s grip relax. I must be getting the hang of this.

  Georgia turns to Fred. “Hungry dear?”

  I squeeze my face as hard as I can, trying not to laugh. Now I know what Fred meant.

  “See what I mean?” he says turning to me. He laughs immediately and you can feel the depth of his tone fill the entire room, which is not a small feat considering the number of guests that are here.

  “We’ll be back,” he says, and Fred and Georgia take off after a caterer holding a tray of absolutely mouth-watering appetizers.

  I lean into Isaac, my mouth less than an inch from his ear.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, as I guess there was really no reason or no need, but he has very cute ears. I inhale, as I prepare to whisper into one of those ears of his, and I catch a whiff of his scent. I hadn’t noticed it in the drive over. What is that? He smells like the forest in autumn…like wood chips on the floor of the garage in my grandfather’s dacha, or summer home, where he built things when I was a little girl.

  I look at Isaac’s eyes. From the side you can almost see through them. It’s a big contrast from the almost black shade of his eyes that you seen when you’re looking right at him. I like the color. It matches the uniform he’s wearing.

  If there’s one thing that’s universal, it’s a woman’s appreciation for a man in uniform. In my country girls practically fall over themselves for such a man. I guess here it’s no different. As much as this country I find myself in is different, I am starting to notice it’s more and more like home. No one would believe me if I said such a thing, but it’s true.

  “Am I doing—“

  I feel Isaac’s grip tighten again and suddenly we’re moving forward.

  “I need a drink,” he says.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask trying to match his speed as he moves toward the bar.

  “You can’t ask me how you’re doing. Someone might hear. Someone might figure us out.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I thought I could just whisper—“

  “You can’t, Julia. No-one can know,” he says, suddenly stopping as he turns to look at me.

  Those dark eyes of his find mine, and then start moving up and down and side-to-side as he surveys my face. It’s like he’s trying to remember it in case he has to draw it later, f
or a police sketch or something.

  Suddenly his eyes move down to my chest and then back up. He got this dress for me, which is bright red and shows off a lot of cleavage. He wanted everyone to see us, he said on the drive over. Everyone had to know we were together. It was part of his plan.

  But what wasn’t part of his plan was the way he looks in that uniform and how it’s making me feel. How he grabs my hand tightly and claims me, or is he just telling me I’m out of line? I’m confused.

  “No-one can know that this isn’t real,” he says, finishing his sentence this time.

  “Of course not,” I say. “I don’t want to get in any trouble.”

  And I don’t. But by trouble I mean any trouble for what we’re doing. I’m not talking about actually developing any sort of feelings for this guy. That’s a whole separate kind of trouble that will never happen. I mean, how could I feel for someone who I’m just playing a game with? It’s just pretend like when I was a little girl playing with dolls. It’s not real.