by India Heath
"I could rub chilli powder in places you wouldn't believe. It would blow your mind, baby. I promise you, sex with me would never be the same twice."
Frankie Fairchild cleared her throat and backed away from the desk a little. "Well that's all very enlightening, Mr Collins but-"
Kenny Collins leaned over the desk and drawled disconcertingly, "My tongue should be registered as a lethal weapon!"
Frankie closed the file in front of her with a decisive snap. "I think you have misunderstood my advertisement completely, Mr Collins. I am not looking for a gigolo or some perverted, wild affair."
"The advert said you were looking for someone broad minded and flexible. That's me, little lady."
"The advert said I was looking for a temporary husband," Frankie clarified. "Someone who is flexible enough to fit into my busy lifestyle and broad minded enough to accept that it is purely a business arrangement. I don't believe that is you at all, Mr Collins." Frankie rose up to her full height of five foot, four inches - in heels - and offered her hand politely. "So I'll bid you good afternoon."
Kenny ignored her hand and rubbed his crotch suggestively instead. "You're throwing away the chance to turn a business arrangement into a pleasure cruise, baby."
A look of mild revulsion crossed Frankie's elfin features. "Somehow I'll live with it," she announced dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr Collins, I have a conference call I have to take in five minutes so I need you to leave."
Kenny shrugged. "Your loss." He turned and swaggered from the office with a confidence Frankie couldn't help but admire. She waited until the office door had shut before sinking back into her chair and rubbing her temples wearily.
"I assume I'm still not hearing wedding bells."
Frankie looked up and grimaced as Lucy, her plump assistant, walked in. "Oh, Lucy, it's hopeless. I'm never going to find a husband in time at this rate. I thought advertising for one would be the easy answer but so far all I seem to have attracted are perverts and weirdos."
Lucy chuckled sympathetically. "I can't believe you're advertising for a husband at all. Look at you. You're smart, successful and gorgeous. You'd have men queuing round the block if you spent less time working and a bit more time socialising."
Frankie tilted her dark head. Her hairstyle framed her cornflower blue eyes and emphasised her dainty features. "I'm not a party animal, Lucy. You know that, and besides, love is a complication I can well do without. Mr Fenton only promoted me to the position of Market Research Analyst three months ago. I didn't spend four years collecting data only to take my eye off the ball now I've finally made it to analyst. I simply don't have time for a relationship."
Lucy shrugged. "Well you might have to make the time, hon, or you can kiss goodbye to your great uncle Henry's inheritance money. How much longer do you have left exactly?"
"Twenty-two days." Frankie smiled ruefully. "Hardly enough time to fall in love, even if I wanted to. The will states that I have to be married within six months of his death or the half a million Henry bequeathed to me will all go to charity, which truly wouldn't bother me at all if it wasn't for Kira and poor little Robbie. They need that money."
Frankie's dearest childhood friend Kira was a single mum with a severely handicapped son. Unlike Frankie, who had pursued university and a career, Kira had chosen to marry young and little Robbie had been her blessing a year after the wedding. Sadly though, it soon became clear that all was not right with the adored baby boy. Robbie suffered seizures and tests concluded that he suffered from severe cerebral palsy. Kira had devoted herself to her son's upbringing and care for the past six years but the stress had proved too much for the marriage to withstand and now she was struggling alone.
"Uncle Henry's money would make so much difference to Kira and Robbie's life," Frankie explained. "It could help with wheelchair renovations to the house, specialised equipment and respite care. There is even a private clinic in Toronto that is achieving marvellous results in rehabilitation for children just like Robbie... if I can afford to send him there."
Lucy nodded in support although, privately, thought that Frankie sacrificing her freedom to help a friend was a little extreme, however worthy the cause. But that was Frankie all over. Driven, single-minded, straight talking but with a heart of gold underneath. "Can't you just contest the will?" Lucy asked. "It's a ridiculous codicil anyway. Why do you need to be married?"
"Because Great Uncle Henry thought women were put on earth to serve men," Frankie announced dryly. "It was his opinion that I'm wasting my life by not having a husband and children. So I guess he thought that a large sum of money might tempt me down the aisle. And no, I can't contest it. Henry was old fashioned, not insane!"
Lucy threw up her hands in exasperation. "But you're only twenty-six for heavens sake. You've got years before you have to start worrying about settling down."
"Unfortunately I don't have years though, do I? I have just twenty-two days." Frankie groaned and rested her forehead in her hand, her temples throbbing. "I shouldn't have promised Kira the money. Now I've raised her hopes and I don't know how to make it happen."
Lucy studied her boss's pale face. She was so tiny and fragile, it was a wonder she'd got anywhere in such a cut throat environment as Fenton Research. She looked like a porcelain doll to be put behind glass and treasured. But it was because of her delicate stature that people underestimated her, often to their cost. Her quick mind and shear resilience had her flying up the executive ladder like a winged sprite before her peers even considered her serious competition. "Another headache?"
Frankie nodded. "The doctor assures me it's just anxiety."
"Is it any wonder?" Lucy sympathised. "You're coping with a stressful job and a husband search at the same time. Take one of your pills."
"Pills aren't the answer, Lucy. I need a man."
Lucy ignored her boss as she opened the desk drawer and took out the blister pack of prescribed pills Frankie had thrown in there dismissively a week ago. "Take one," she insisted. "You've got a two hour audio meeting with Ted Patterson to get through this afternoon."
Reluctantly Frankie accepted the pill. "Is Ted Patterson married?"
Lucy pulled a face. "Who cares? He's sixty-four and has warts. You are not that desperate."
Frankie nibbled her full lower lip pensively. "In three weeks time I might be."
Frankie left the London office just before 8pm and wandered down Bishopsgate. She was tired and hungry, having spent her lunch break interviewing the seriously weird Kenny Collins. The familiar bright green logo of a 'Sage Shed' gastropub caught her eye and had her tummy rumbling. The popular chain of pub-restaurants had become a familiar sight on most high streets. The menus were rustic but the ingredients and ales were always locally sourced, which meant they varied, depending on their location up and down the country. Frankie was a fan of the Sage Shed's wholesome food, especially when she knew how empty her fridge was at home. Inside, the simple decor was clean and inviting. Frankie approached the bar and hauled herself up on a high stool.
"What can I get you, sweetie?"
Before she had even looked up, Frankie bristled. Why did men talk to her like she was six, just because she was small? "I'm not your swee-" The words died in her throat as she found herself looking at the most gorgeous man ever. Dark hair, clipped at the sides but cut longer on top, pale blue eyes that crinkled in the corners with good humour, and a smile that left her breathless. At well over six feet tall, he towered over Frankie. The pristine white shirt he wore stretched across his biceps like a second skin.
His smile widened to a grin as she gawped like a star-struck teenager at a pop concert. "I'll have a gin and tonic," she managed to say at last, "and a menu, please." The menu was offered immediately, along with a sexy gaze. Frankie's heart beat faster. "You're new," she snapped to cover her embarrassment.
He chuckled and the deep husky timbre of it plucked at her libido. "And you're observant," he drawled, "and obviously a regular." His openly flirtatious manner would normally have had her cringing but instead she found herself smiling back. "What's your name, beautiful?" He was working as well as talking and her G & T was placed before her.
She took a gulp to steady her nerves. "Are you always so familiar with strangers?"
"I'm a barman. It's part of the job description to be friendly." He held out his hand. "I'm Q Coulter."
Without thinking, she offered her small hand and it was engulfed in his palm as he shook it with a firm grip. "Q?" she questioned. "What sort of name is Q?"
"It stands for Quinn." His grin became boyish. "I was always into gadgets as a kid so my mates started calling me Q, after the guy in the James Bond films who invents all the fancy spy equipment. It kinda stuck."
"It suits you." Frankie laughed. "I'm Francesca Fairchild."
"That's a big name for such a little girl." Her lips compressed crossly but his teasing wink coaxed a new smile. "Is Frankie better?"
"Much." He tapped the menu in front of her. "Do you know what you'd like to order, Frankie? I can recommend the steak and ale pie if you're starving or the sea bream if you want something lighter."
Frankie's tummy growled at the mention of food and she blushed anew, clutching her middle. "Better make it the pie." She laughed.
Q frowned. "I bet you skipped lunch, huh? It's not good to work all day on an empty stomach, young lady."
His mildly scolding tone caused unfamiliar stirrings between her thighs and she squirmed surreptitiously on the stool. "Needs must. It was a busy day."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a Market Research Analyst."
"Impressive," he complimented. "Are you driving tonight?"
Frankie shook her head. "No I'll get a cab home or get the tube."
"Then may I also recommend a glass of Californian white to go with your steak pie? I'm sure you deserve a glass of wine to help you unwind after your hectic day."
Frankie couldn't help but giggle as she handed the sexy barman payment. "You're a very good salesman, Q Coulter. Make it a large one, please. But do you always make a point to check that your customers aren't driving, before serving them alcohol?"
"No, only if they're cute and look as though they need looking after."
"I don't need looking after," she stated firmly. "I can take care of myself."
He handed her the change. "Glad to hear it. Go find a table and relax, beautiful. I'll bring your dinner over as soon as it's ready."
The food was excellent as usual, and Frankie ate with gusto. Q was right about the wine too. It certainly was helping to relax her. By the time she had finished the glass, her mind was starting to feel more than a little fuzzy. Q had left her in peace to eat her meal, although every time she'd glanced his way he responded with a smile or a wink. His bar was getting busy as city workers crowded in, until she couldn't even see him from her corner seat as professionals gathered for wine and cocktails. Her eyes started to feel strangely heavy and she shook her head, trying to clear the muffled sensation from her brain.
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