The Stolen Sapphire: His Fake Girlfriend

The sound of metal crunching was sickeningly loud.

Belle was thrown forward against the seatbelt. The airbag didn't deploy-the Jeep was too old, or maybe the impact wasn't hard enough. Her head snapped back, hitting the headrest.

"Ow," she groaned.

She opened her eyes. Steam was hissing from her radiator.

She looked at the car she had hit.

It wasn't just a car. It was a fortress. A Bentley Mulsanne. Black, shiny, and now sporting a very ugly, very deep dent in its rear bumper.

"No," Belle whispered. "Please, no."

People on the sidewalk stopped. Phones came out.

The rear door of the Bentley opened.

A polished black shoe stepped onto the asphalt. Then a long leg clad in dark trousers.

Belle watched in horror as the man emerged. He was tall, imposing, and radiating a cold fury that lowered the temperature on the street.

It was him.

The man from the plane. The man she had spilled milk on. The man she had fainted on.

Denis Stephens.

He walked to the back of his car. He looked at the dent. He looked at the shattered taillight. Then he turned slowly and looked at the Jeep.

His eyes locked onto Belle through the windshield.

He didn't look surprised. He looked... resigned.

Belle opened her door. She stumbled out. Her boots scuffed against the pavement.

"You," Denis said. His voice was flat.

"It was an accident," Belle said quickly, holding up her hands. "My brakes... they locked."

Denis walked over to her. He towered over her. Up close, on the street, he was even more intimidating than on the plane.

"Are you stalking me, Miss Stanton?"

Belle blinked. "How do you know my name?"

"I make it my business to know the names of people who ruin my suits and my cars in the span of six hours."

His driver, a burly man with a earpiece, was inspecting the damage. "Sir, the rear axle might be compromised. The bumper alone is twenty thousand. With the sensors and paint... we're looking at six figures."

Belle felt the blood drain from her face. Six figures.

Denis saw her reaction. He saw the panic in her eyes. He knew, instantly, that she didn't have the money. A Stanton heiress with no cash? Interesting. A flicker of amusement, cold and sharp, cut through his annoyance. This was far more entertaining than a simple insurance claim.

He waved the driver away. He stepped closer to Belle, invading her personal space.

"Insurance?" he asked.

Belle bit her lip. "It... might be expired."

Denis raised an eyebrow. "Driving an unregistered vehicle. Reckless endangerment. I could call the police right now. You'd be arrested."

"Please don't," Belle said. Her voice was small. "I can't go to jail. My father..."

"I don't care about your father," Denis cut her off. "I care about my time. And my car."

He looked at her. Really looked at her. She was a mess. But she was a beautiful mess. And she owed him.

"We can settle this privately," Denis said.

Belle looked up, hope sparking in her eyes. "Really? I can pay you back. I just need time to access my trust."

"I don't want your money," Denis said. He glanced at his watch. "I have a dinner tonight. A charity gala. My suit is ruined because of you. My car is ruined because of you."

He opened the back door of the Bentley.

"Get in."

"What?" Belle recoiled.

"Get in the car," Denis commanded. "You're going to help me pick out a new wardrobe. And you're going to be my date tonight."

"You're crazy," Belle said. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Then I call the cops," Denis pulled out his phone. "Officer, I have a hit and run..."

"Fine!" Belle shouted. "Fine. Put the phone away."

She marched over to the Bentley and slid into the leather seat. It smelled of him. Sandalwood and power. That scent again, clinging to the leather, a phantom echo of the man who saved her and the man who was tormenting her, twisting together in her mind until she felt sick.

Denis got in beside her. He signaled the driver.

"Bergdorf Goodman," he said. "And drive carefully. We have precious cargo."

He wasn't looking at the car. He was looking at her.