by Stella Gray
Still, Stefan’s words warmed me. No matter what happened with my marriage, I knew my family had my back. That would have to be enough.
I looped my right arm through Stefan’s left, and off we marched down the aisle. Hundreds of our friends and family—mostly Ford’s—watched as we approached. Whispers reached my ears, and I felt the weight of all those eyes on me, ratcheting up my anxiety. My bouquet started shaking in my grip.
God, what was I doing? Was this all a huge mistake?
But then I felt Stefan’s strong hand gently close over mine, steadying the bouquet.
“Just look straight ahead,” he whispered.
And I did.
The second I saw Ford standing under the arch, everything else disappeared. I knew him well enough to recognize that the smile he wore was fake, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Suddenly, I realized we’d reached the dais. Stefan kissed my cheek as we walked up the steps, whispering, “You got this,” and then he passed my hand to Ford.
To the left and right, I saw Tori and Brooklyn, Luka and Stefan, and Ford’s handful of groomsmen and groomswomen, everyone wearing vibrant spring colors of their own choosing just as I’d requested. Even Munchkin was wearing a little Liberty floral doggie bow tie, with Brooklyn holding his matching leash. Everyone looked fabulous, like something straight out of a bridal magazine. Me, on the other hand? I had to be the world’s most miserable bride at the world’s most beautiful wedding.
I glanced up at Ford, but his expression was so stoic and inscrutable that it felt like we were two strangers standing up there together, rather than longtime best friends who were about to commit ourselves to each other. Nothing about this felt right.
“It is my great honor to welcome everyone to the wedding of Mara Zoric and Ford Malone,” the officiant began.
Time sped up as the ceremony proceeded, just like everyone had warned me it would. I was glad. When we were instructed to recite our vows, I kept imagining how they might sound if they were factual.
“Do you, Ford, take Mara to be your protection against your shitty ex-girlfriend Claudia and your family’s pathological desire for you to marry and knock up someone of their choosing? And do you, Mara, take Ford as your way to bail your family out of yet another treacherous hole your criminal father dug, this time with the Russian mafia?”
It was almost comical. But I didn’t feel like laughing.
Of course, I said nothing, reciting my marital vows with as much feeling as I could muster even though it felt like I was dying inside.
“It is my pleasure to declare you husband and wife,” the officiant said jovially. “Ford, you may now kiss the bride.”
The kiss, though.
I’d expected it to be as polite and perfunctory as Ford’s responses had been during the rest of the ceremony. Instead, he pulled me into his arms so fast that I barely had a chance to register the intensity in his gaze before his mouth came down on mine.
The kiss was incendiary. It was indecent. It was furious, possessive, and fucking hot.
No matter what was happening between us, no matter what lies I’d told, I couldn’t hide my feelings in that kiss—and it was impossible to deny that our chemistry was still there, as fierce as ever. It was the kind of chemistry that might burn down the big, red barn on the other side of the property where we would be holding the reception. Trying to deny it was a burden that was taking all my strength.
So for one, perfect, blissful moment, I forgot everything. I forgot about the lies. I forgot about the deals. Hell, I even forgot that we were in the middle of our actual wedding and probably giving Ford’s grandmother (and the rest of the Malones) one hell of a show. Ford’s lips against mine were like a spark to kindling. He held me tightly against him, his body hard against mine. I wanted him. I wanted him so bad.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. Brooklyn let out an ear-piercing whistle, Munchkin started yapping, and people were applauding. It almost seemed as though Ford had been trying to prove something with that kiss, though I wasn’t sure what.
He took my hand and we made our way back down the aisle, now officially married. Our guests cheered, but as I passed Ford’s parents, I saw absolutely nothing in their expression to indicate they were celebrating this union. In fact, I would have bet anything that they were already counting down the days until I was gone so they could bring Claudia back into the fold.
Somehow, I made it through the rest of the festivities.
Like the ceremony, everything was perfect. Not that I could enjoy it. It was especially hard because I had to pretend two different things—to Ford, that I only had friendly feelings for him; to everyone else, that I was a blissful bride. It didn’t matter how many dances I danced, how many bites of lobster dipped in melted butter that I let Ford feed me, how beautiful our exotic orchid-covered Belgian chocolate cake was. I was purely going through the motions. The joy of the day couldn’t touch me.
All I wanted was for the day to be over, and I felt unbearably guilty about it. Tori and Brooklyn had put so much love into planning every little thing down to the last detail, and not only could I not enjoy it, I was actively wishing for it to end.
Finally, after what felt like ages, the reception started winding down. I was utterly exhausted from pretending. My face hurt from all the forced smiling. I just wanted to escape.
Unfortunately we were leaving for St. Barts in a couple of hours. Off on a honeymoon that I’d legitimately been looking forward to a couple of days ago. Before Ford’s parents had sprung their deal on me, I’d been hoping the time away from our real lives—away from the stresses of Danica Rose’s debt to the Bratva and Ford’s family obligations—might give my new faux husband a chance to realize that our fake marriage could potentially be something more.
Now, it just seemed like another fresh form of torture. The two of us, alone on a tropical island, sharing a luxurious suite at a romantic resort? How would I be able to survive it?
Hand in hand, Ford and I went up to our room to finish getting ready for the trip. His family’s private jet had been chartered to fly us from the Vineyard to the more accessible airport on the island of St. Martin, and from there we’d take a forty-minute ferry ride over to St. Barts. I’d read that the water could be choppy, so I was praying for smooth sailing.
As I packed up my suitcase, I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was interested in finishing what he started on the dais, in front of our guests. But I couldn’t allow that to happen. There could be no sex tonight. I had to be strong.
Luggage zipped and ready to go, I stretched and yawned as dramatically as possible.
“I’m beat,” I told Ford drowsily. “I need to take a nap before we leave. The car’s picking us up in what, five hours?”
Then, before he could respond, I went into the bathroom to take a quick shower, locking the door behind me. It was cowardly, I knew that…but I also knew that if Ford kissed me like he had earlier, I wouldn’t be able to say no. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want him. It was that I wanted him too much.
And after an entire day of pretending, I knew that if he took me in his arms, I wouldn’t be able to keep it up.
Emzee
Chapter 2
At just over nine and a half square miles, St. Barts was definitely the tiniest tropical island I’d ever visited. I also suspected it might turn out to be the ritziest, considering that the French West Indies territory was referred to as the Hamptons of the Caribbean. But the minute I laid eyes on the picturesque, red-roofed capital city of Gustavia from the ferry, I was enchanted.
“Wow,” I murmured, not realizing I’d spoken out loud until Ford looked over.
It was the first time he’d torn his gaze from his phone since we’d gotten on the boat almost an hour ago. “You like?” he asked, gesturing at the curved expanse of beach.
“I love,” I answered.
Falling for St. Barts was easy. The teal blue water, the quaint bu
ildings huddled along the palm tree dotted shore, the lush hills, dense with greenery, the white sand—the whole place looked like paradise.
Sure, my family had gone to a fancy resort in the Bahamas for Luka’s birthday last year, and of course I’d been to the beaches of Florida and to Cancun for Spring Break…but this was something else. It wasn’t overrun with tourists or neon signs or souvenir shops, and seemed like more of a low-key hideaway than a party town. I felt like I had truly left the stress of my life behind and arrived someplace utterly charming and magical. Even Ford seemed to be affected by the magic; when I squeezed his hand, he squeezed right back.
When we stepped off the ferry, a uniformed man from our hotel was waiting for us with a wheeled luggage trolley and a grin.
“Mr. and Mrs. Malone?” he asked, holding up a sign with our names on it. “Welcome to St. Barts. I’m Phillipe, your dedicated concierge, courtesy of Eden Rock. I’ll be taking care of all your needs during your stay—twenty-four/seven. Please allow me to chauffeur you to your accommodations.”
We were staying in a private villa at a luxurious boutique resort, and Eden Rock more than lived up to its name. The hotel was practically on its own island, most of it jutting out over the crystal clear water, with a mossy-looking garden of coral just below the cliffs.
The modern-style villa Phillipe brought us to was stunning. High ceilings, light-filled rooms, teak wood and crisp white fabric everywhere, and panoramic windows providing an unobstructed view of St. Jean beach and its azure waters. The windows gave the impression that our villa was floating over the ocean, and someone had thoughtfully placed fresh flowers throughout the house. Outside, the property had a deck with an infinity pool, a fire pit, a bar, woven hammocks and umbrella-shaded loungers, and our own personal palm trees. My God.
It was gorgeous, and so chic that I immediately felt self-conscious about my worn black leggings and rumpled appearance after the four-hour flight and slightly nauseating ferry ride.
“I set up your private cabana on the beach this morning,” Phillipe informed us, “so please let me know if you’d like an escort there or anywhere else. You also have a dedicated chef on call, your own butler, and, of course, the entire Eden Rock Guestcare team at your service.”
“This is incredible,” I breathed. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Malone. And congratulations to both of you on your recent nuptials. We’re happy to do everything possible to ensure your honeymoon with us exceeds your expectations in every regard.”
Ford thanked him again, discreetly pressing a folded bill into the man’s palm before sending him away. Then he turned to me.
“How are you feeling? Up for an adventure?”
Even though I was dog tired after what had seemed like an endless day of pretend-wedding followed by hours of travel, I wanted to explore. It was still daytime, and I didn’t want to waste a single moment of our time on the island.
“Hell yes,” I answered. “I just need to change clothes. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to the beach,” he said.
I smiled. “Perfect. I’ll put my suit on.”
It was the most we’d spoken to each other since leaving Martha’s Vineyard. Things still felt chilly between us, but they were starting to thaw. Maybe we could treat this trip like a friendly vacation after all.
As I ducked into the bathroom to change into my Agent Provocateur one-piece (black, of course), I couldn’t help feeling a little ridiculous. Ford had seen me naked plenty of times in the weeks leading up to the wedding. But I couldn’t risk what might happen if he saw me naked. If I saw the look in his eyes as he watched me change. I wouldn’t be able to resist him.
Obviously this whole avoiding-sex thing couldn’t go on forever—we were married and it was inevitable—but I still felt too vulnerable, too worn down from the emotional roller coaster of the last few days. It was pointless to think about that now, though.
The deal had been made. Now I had to follow through with it.
I pulled my hair back and threw on a patterned DVF cover-up dress—my sexy swimsuit had seemed like a perfect choice when I’d gone shopping with Tori and Brooklyn for my honeymoon, but now I just felt exposed. In fact, my entire suitcase was stuffed with sexy nothings, from lingerie to dresses to bathing suits. The black suit I was wearing technically covered everything, but looked held together with string. Still, it was the most modest one I had.
Cursing my past self for being so naïvely romantic and optimistic, I headed back out to the living room and told Ford I was ready. He was in nothing but swim trunks and sandals, and it took all my willpower not to drool all over myself at the sight of his already perfectly tanned, tight-abbed torso.
“Do you, umm, want to call Phillipe?” I asked. “To take us to the cabana?”
Ford shook his head. “Nah. We can do the cabana later. I just want to stroll for now.”
“Okay. Great.” But it wasn’t great.
At the cabana, I could read a book, drink a margarita, take a nap in my own chaise lounge a safe distance away from my half-naked, sexy-as-fuck new husband. Walking with Ford, though, there’d be nothing to keep me from clinging to his hand, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine, breathing him in, dreaming about throwing him down on the sand and climbing him like a tree. It would be torture.
We headed down to St. Jean’s, and from the sand I picked out a few kayaks and small yachts in the water, some windsurfers, boats taking people to snorkel. The boats were close enough that I could see more than one couple huddled against the rails together as they headed to where there was probably a gorgeous coral reef full of sea life. For a brief moment, I imagined Ford and me out there, just another happily married new couple on their honeymoon.
He’d make some raunchy joke about my snorkel, I’d hit him in the arm. He’d pretend to be a shark or something, tickling my feet while we were swimming around, I’d get back at him by putting my hand over the top of his snorkel. We’d steal kisses in the waves and climb out of the boat, wet and salty and hungry. But not for food. We’d rush back to our room, not even bothering to fully remove our swimsuits before he’d be fucking me against the door.
“Sunscreen?” Ford asked, breaking my reverie.
“What?” I’d barely heard him.
“You don’t want to burn up on your first day.”
“Right. Sure,” I said, digging around in my beach bag for the spray can of SPF 45 I’d picked up at the airport in St. Martin while Ford had been off exchanging dollars for Euros.
“Here, I’ll do it.”
He knelt and started spraying me, ankle to thigh, shoulder to wrist, my back and neck, stroking my bare skin in slow circles after each spray to rub it in. Standing still the whole time he massaged me under the thin fabric of my dress was a challenge, as was holding in my moans. I could feel myself getting wet. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was trying to seduce me right there on the beach.
Luckily, I was able to hide my blush beneath the wide brim of my straw sun hat.
We walked along the postcard-perfect beach, Ford pointing out the church built in 1855 and the lighthouse, as well as a few of the huge, free-roaming iguanas I’d read about. I couldn’t help wishing that we were actually enjoying the snorkeling and windsurfing going on all around us, rather than me spending my time with Ford secretly fantasizing about what could have been.
Since picnics were more common than restaurants that were open for lunch, we stopped at a small grocery store and bought a few things, packing a mix of cheeses, fruit, fresh bread, cold cuts, water, and wine into my beach bag for later.
“I have an idea,” Ford said, turning to me as we exited the shop.
Much to my surprise, he had a mischievous grin on his face. He’d barely smiled—really smiled—for most of the day. It was almost jarring to see it now.
“What kind of idea?”
He grabbed my hand. “Come on.”
Having no idea
where this was all leading, I decided it would just be easier to go along with it than try to make sense of Ford’s changing mood.
It was a decision I regretted the moment we arrived at the Anse Grande Saline.
A nude beach.
“What do you think?” he asked, still wearing that grin.
I was speechless.
All around us were naked people. I wasn’t a prude, and I’d been to a nude beach or two on various vacations, but this felt totally different. Mainly because I was with Ford. The person I was trying desperately not to be in love—or lust—with.
But he had just laid out a blanket for us under the shade of a few palms, and was already stripping down to his birthday suit. There was no turning back.
His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his swim trunks, and I watched—rapt—as with one smooth movement, he whisked them away, exposing his hard, gorgeous body in its entirety. I was probably imagining it, but I was certain I could hear the sound of the entire female population on the beach letting out a sigh of appreciation.
Part of me wanted to throw my hands over him and shout, “Mine!”
The other part of me wanted to do whatever I could to avoid any kind of attention at all.
Ford didn’t seem to have that problem. He looked amazing and he knew it. And yeah, I had to admit that his flawless body was worth a few fantasies of its own. With his hands on his hips, he faced the ocean, looking like a Greek god in the sunlight. My mouth went dry at the sight of him, and because he wasn’t looking at me, I could stare at him as much as I wanted.
Nothing that had happened over the last few days had tamed my desire for him. Not one iota. Especially now that I had personally experienced the full scope of what his body could do.
Turning around, his hot gaze swept over me.
“You’re not going to keep that on, are you?” he asked.
I was still wearing my beach dress and my swimsuit. Compared to everyone else, I looked like I was practically in formal wear.
