by Nicola Marsh
She wanted to make a joke about cowboys but knew he’d clam up.
“According to Pa, Mom fell for Dad, Pa fell for his motorcycle. Dad had big dreams, but that’s all they were. He talked the talk but couldn’t hold down a job, let alone support a family. They had me nine months after they met. Dad packed us up, moved to Vegas.”
His glower darkened, if that were possible. “Fell into his old crowd. Grog. Drugs. Mom was miserable, got hooked on the stuff. Apparently, they drifted back to Checkerville every time they were broke, which was often. We lived in a trailer on the outskirts of town. It was a hovel.”
The longer he spoke in that flat, toneless voice, the more she wished she hadn’t opened this proverbial can.
“They OD’d when I was seven. Shooting up together. Bad batch of coke. After that, Pa took me in. So now you know.”
She’d been so caught up in his disclosures she hadn’t realized they’d pulled onto a side road leading to the biggest pair of wrought-iron gates she’d ever seen.
A guy like him would abhor pity, but she had to say something sympathetic. “Your Pa must be proud.”
The lines fanning his eyes eased and she released a little relieved sigh.
“He’s great. I don’t get to see him often enough these days.”
“He’d understand your work commitments.”
“Yeah, but it’s not good enough.”
The tension had returned and she grabbed at the quickest change of subject, gesturing at the towering cream-rendered wall that stretched as far as she could see. “This your place?”
“No, it’s Eldorado.”
She smiled at his sarcasm as he grabbed a remote from the console and hit a button. The wall prevented her from seeing much and she wondered if his desert house would be as fancy as his hotels. Curious, she wriggled in her seat as the gates swung open to reveal a building that took her breath away.
“Wow,” she said, not sure where to look first as he drove up the curving driveway to the front of the house. “Quite a house.”
She used the term lightly, because this was no ordinary house.
A two-story Spanish-style hacienda sprawled across the high-walled block, surrounded by native gardens that accentuated the stark beauty of the terracotta mansion.
“You were expecting a shack?”
She didn’t know if he was uncomfortable about divulging his past and was taking a dig to disguise his discomfort, so she let it slide.
“It’s beautiful.” She craned her neck as he pulled under a portico and cut the engine. “I love it.”
His expression softened. “It’s a great place to depressurize.”
And she bet he needed to do plenty of that, considering the guy was worth billions.
Learning of his background only exacerbated her curiosity. How did a guy from the wrong side of the tracks make it big? He must’ve worked his ass off, and his self-made success only increased his hotness factor.
It also explained the rugged, rough around the edges thing he had going on. He wore his hair a little too long to be strictly conventional, wore his designer shirts with the top button perpetually undone.
She liked the subtle rebellions against conventional corporate. Very sexy.
“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
She slipped her shoes back on, feeling like a princess when he opened her door and took hold of her hand to help her out. Another thing that impressed: impeccable manners.
He led her along a paved path toward the front door, which he unlocked with a fancy keycard. “I’m not around much, so state of the art security.”
He folded his arms, shoulders rigid, waiting for her to pass. No prizes for guessing he was still uptight after discussing his past in the car. Time to lighten the mood a little.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“Does this look like a threshold to you?” She air-drew the outline of the door with her finger.
A spark of amusement lit his eyes. “So?”
“Hello?” She gestured at her dress, snagged her veil and waved it in his face. “New bride alert?”
Incredulous, he swatted her veil away. “You don’t seriously expect me to carry you inside?”
“You don’t seriously expect me to behave like a bride if you don’t treat me like one.”
He laughed, a genuine joyous sound that made her feel like hugging him so tight it hurt. “Never would’ve picked you as a stickler for tradition.” He swept her into his arms. “Not with these shoes.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?” She kicked a heel in the air, he dipped her, and she let out a squeal.
“If you’re aiming for the come-get-me signal, they’re working perfectly.”
She couldn’t think of a single smart-ass retort as his gaze swept upward from her shoes, lingered on her lips, and finally met her stare.
“So do you?” Her words came out as a whisper.
He inched closer until their lips were a hairsbreadth apart. “What?”
“Want to come get me?”
“What do you think?” He stepped over the threshold so damn fast her head spun. As he lowered her he kicked the door shut and backed her against the nearest wall. “Time to move on to the next tradition.”
His fingers delved into her hair, fiddled with the tiara before removing it, leaving little prickles of hyper-awareness where his fingertips had brushed her scalp. Having him carry her, touch her, flirt with her, had been in good fun, but now, with a potent sexual attraction smoldering between them, it wasn’t so funny.
“What’s the next tradition?”
“The wedding night.” His hands spanned her waist and lifted her slightly so she came in contact with evidence of how excited he was to consummate this marriage.
“But it’s still morning.”
His lips grazed her ear. “Good. Gives me a chance to see you better when I…”
She whimpered as he whispered in erotic detail what he wanted to do.
Right here.
Right now.
She throbbed with anticipation, every inch of her straining toward him.
She wanted him to lick her and tease her and touch her until she came.
She wanted him to hoist her up against the wall and drive into her until she saw stars.
She wanted him to make her forget her own name.
But a small part of her didn’t want to set precedence. That this powerful guy could snap his fingers and get anything he wanted.
It wouldn’t be good.
She may have compromised her morals in marrying a guy she hardly knew and certainly didn’t love. No way she would sell her soul for the sake of fabulous sex.
And it would be fabulous, she had no doubt.
If the guy could kiss like that and turn her on to the extent she would willingly strip in broad daylight, the sex would be freaking sensational. Stupid thing was, she wasn’t into one-night stands—she didn’t like the cool, impersonal aspect—and that’s exactly what sex with her new husband would be: frantic, quickie sex with a stranger.
If she slept with him, she wanted it to mean something. Corny, for a gal who didn’t believe in romance or marriage, but she couldn’t change now. She’d compromised enough by agreeing to his marriage terms—not too difficult, considering the five hundred grand.
His lips stilled against her neck. “What’s wrong?”
“We should head back to Vegas. Get ready for the reception.” Lame, but she knew how important it was to him to schmooze his investors and apparently they’d all be there, carefully assessing if the bad boy had made good.
“Screw the reception,” he muttered, pulling away slowly.
Her body instantly regretted her holier-than-thou decision, clamoring for him to get up close and personal again. Thankfully, her head ruled. “You said it was important.”
“It is.” He braced his hands on either side of her head, effectively trapping her, and she couldn’t fathom his tort
ured expression. Unless he was worried about the convincing performance she’d have to give.
“It’s going to be okay.” She placed her palm against his chest, directly over his pounding heart. “I can play the adoring wife, no probs.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said, lowering his arms and thrusting his hands in his pockets.
“Then what’s up?”
He turned away, his back rigid, shoulders tense.
“Beck?” She laid a tentative hand on his back and he spun around, his eyes dark.
“This…thing between us. I don’t want—I mean, I can’t give you—”
She placed her fingertips against his lips, silencing him. “We’re attracted to each other. No big deal.”
He brushed away her fingers. “This marriage is strictly business. I don’t want to take advantage of you, but…” He shook his head. “Fuck, I don’t want to lose control.”
“I can take care of myself.” She’d done a good job of it so far. Apartment in LA, thriving freelance marketing business, living the life.
So why did his sudden protective concern disarm her more than his kisses?
“I don’t want anything from you, bar what we agreed on. I don’t do emotions. I don’t do complications.” On impulse, she reached up and smoothed his lapel.
Surprisingly, he didn’t swat her away. “What about a marriage with benefits?”
“Marriage with benefits,” she echoed, as if trying it on for size and not liking the fit. She couldn’t give in to him. She wouldn’t. If only she could convince her traitorous body, which was practically straining toward him. Needing a quick change of subject, she said, “Why don’t you give me the grand tour? Then we take our fake marriage duo act to your wedding shindig.”
“What about those benefits?” He took a step toward her and she held him off with a fingernail to the chest. “We could get lucky.”
She should’ve known he wouldn’t accept her brushoff.
“Doubtful,” she said, giving him a gentle shove. Predictably, he didn’t budge.
“Didn’t you know?” He grabbed her hand and hauled her in close. “In Vegas everyone gets lucky.”
“I thought the house always won.”
“We’re holding a stacked deck. We can’t lose.”
His lips crushed hers, a swift, potent assault that left her gasping and yearning for more despite every self-preservation instinct screaming, “Invest in more granny panties now!”
She pushed him away, and this time he let her. “How magnanimous,” she muttered, earning a grin as he snagged her hand and tugged her deeper into his house.
Correction: his home. That’s what this place truly felt like.
Slate floors highlighting the rustic colors of the desert covered in a profusion of turquoise, butternut, and camel rugs. Low ochre suede sofas stacked with matching cushions, and surrounded by paintings depicting various Nevada backdrops, this place screamed cozy and comfy and livable.
Which begged the question, why did he have it if he never spent any time here?
“It’s gorgeous.”
“I like it.” He shot her a grateful glance, as if he’d expected her to criticize. “It’s what I think a home should look like.”
His flat intonation gave her a chill. Considering what he’d divulged about his family, she didn’t blame him for wanting a house filled with warmth and color. All the more reason to hang out here.
“You should definitely come here more often.” She said it offhandly, carefully studying his reaction. Emotions may not have been part of their marriage deal, but it paid to get a heads-up on her business partner.
And that’s all Beck was. She’d be foolish to think that just because he trusted her enough to bring her out here to his home, assuming he was showing her a part of himself he kept hidden, that it meant anything more.
She didn’t want more. She wanted complication-free, so she could walk away without regrets once his deal was done.
“Business keeps me busy.” He stared out the nearest window. “I travel a lot. Don’t have time to sit back and smell the cacti.”
She squeezed his hand. “This place is incredible. You should make time.”
His prolonged silence unnerved her before he released her hand and swung back to face her. “You’re welcome to live here.”
“While we’re married, you mean?”
He nodded. “Make it easier on both of us, not having to keep up pretenses twenty-four-seven.”
Damn, he was a hard one to read. One minute he was all over her, the next he wanted her as far away as possible. He was right, though. The less time they spent together the less chance of throttling each other, and she had no doubt they’d soon tire of playing happy newlyweds.
“Fine by me.”
“Good. I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
And he did, taking her through the lavish bedrooms, the state of the art kitchen, the homey sunroom. But something had changed. He didn’t hold her hand, and he described the place like a real estate agent: devoid of humor and emotion.
When they stepped outside to the pool area, the blast of desert heat was a welcome relief from the chill inside: Beck was worse than the A/C.
He pointed at an outdoor kitchen. “Housekeeping comes in twice a week so the fridge will be stocked.”
“Great.”
They stepped out from the shade of a veranda and strolled around the pool, an Olympic-sized oval surrounded by trimmed hedges and cacti in terracotta pots that matched the house’s exterior.
“Cool place,” she said, trying to look at the house with objectivity, but failing.
Both outside and in, it had character and charm and warmth, a real home.
That Beck deliberately kept empty.
“Will you be down here much while I’m staying?”
He stiffened, as if she’d asked him to streak through the desert at midday. “I’ll have to spend some time at the house for appearances, but it’s probably easier if you head to the Strip for functions I’ll need you to attend.”
“No problem.” But she wouldn’t give up that easily. Something about this place had him rattled, and if she was going to be stuck out here in hacienda heaven, she wanted to know what she’d be dealing with. “You should come down on weekends. Learn to chill out.”
He fixed her with a disbelieving glare. “Don’t try to change me because you’ve got a ring on your finger.” He pointed to the diamond-studded platinum wedding band he’d slipped on less than an hour ago. “Those sparklers may be real, but everything else in this marriage is fake.”
“Not everything,” she muttered. A very real attraction simmered between them, and she earned another steely glare for her trouble.
“Come on, we’ve got a wedding reception to host.”
“You’re the boss.” She saluted, another attempt at humor lost. He didn’t break stride as he headed for the house, leaving her to ponder exactly what she’d gotten herself into with this inconvenient marriage.
…
Beck slammed his palm against a terracotta wall, barely registering the pain as he studiously avoided glancing outside at the cause of his discontent.
While Poppy investigated every nook of the desert garden, he mentally recited reasons why he shouldn’t touch her.
Business deals should never be clouded with emotion.
Never mix business with pleasure.
Focus on signing the construction deal; avoid distractions.
Good, solid reasons. Closely followed by all work and no play makes Beck a very dull—and frustrated—boy.
He slipped a finger between his collar and neck, loosening it. Ever since he’d said “I do,” he hadn’t been able to breathe, choked by his own foolishness. No matter how many times rationale dictated he keep his marriage to Poppy platonic, the simple fact was, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
Shit.
She’d wisely given him time to cool off, but taking a prolonged dunk in t
he Hoover Dam wouldn’t cool him. Nothing short of raunchy sex with his wife would do that. He’d thought hiding her away while he remained in Vegas would take the edge off. Establishing physical distance while utilizing the respectability his new marriage brought to seal the deal with the investors.
He’d screwed up. Every time he thought of her here he’d imagine her in his bed, his bath, his pool.
She’d be naked, of course. Naked and willing…
He kicked a potted cactus, barely registering the sting of a stray spike.
The sooner he left his bogus wife here and headed back to Vegas, the better.
Chapter Nine
Divorce Diva Daily recommends:
Playlist: “Fool to Cry” by The Rolling Stones
Movie: War of the Roses
Cocktail: Bloody Mary
Beck preferred sleeping under the desert stars to the glittering pizzazz of a Vegas party, but this was one shindig he had to attend.
His wedding reception.
The staff had done a great job, turning the revolving rooftop dining room of his signature hotel into a gilt-edged wonderland filled with the best crystal, the best silver, and the best food money could buy. But as he sipped at aged Scotch on the edge of a buzzing crowd, nothing about this evening seemed real.
As the sound of clinking crystal champagne flutes and muted laughter washed over him, he sucked in a breath that didn’t ease the tightness in his chest.
He’d done the one thing he swore he’d never do.
Get married.
He didn’t like codependence—on anything or anyone. He’d seen his mom develop both after she’d met his lousy dad. And Beck hated answering to anyone, but that’s exactly what he’d had to do when he’d made the mistake of taking Poppy to the house. Even now, twelve hours later, he had no idea why he’d done it.
The moment she’d slipped the platinum band on his finger and he’d kissed his new bride, he’d wanted to get her alone. Naked.
And therein lay the problem. He’d already let her into his life by allowing her to stay at Red Rock Canyon, had already divulged too much in telling her all that stuff about his family history. Having her live in his home implied an intimacy he didn’t want, and sex with her would solidify that.
