Not the Marrying Kind

by Nicola Marsh

  He glanced at the cake and back at her, his expression wary. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No!”

  He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth so she settled for the next best thing. “I need some space.” She gestured around the room. “All this? Pretending? Has taken it out of me. I need air.”

  He opened his mouth to respond and she held up a hand. “Alone.”

  “Okay.” He sounded hurt and that hint of vulnerability from a tough guy like him had her softening the blow.

  “I’m an independent person, Beck, always have been. So standing up in front of all these people and faking wedded bliss was an ordeal. I felt smothered and I need to get away.”

  “Is that why you freaked out during the bridal dance?”

  What could she say? That dancing involved body contact, and she couldn’t go there with him, not after his kisses. Uh-uh. “Pretending sucks. I don’t like the show we had to put on tonight for your buddies.”

  With a terse nod he turned away. She almost reached out to him. Almost. Her hand hovered halfway to his back before falling to her side. What was the point? This yawning gap between them was a good thing. Exactly what she wanted. No emotional involvement.

  Then why the nagging unease that it may have been too late?

  She slipped off her shoes, snagged them with her fingers, and ran for the elevator.

  …

  Beck swore after Poppy bolted.

  He’d had grand plans for tonight. Plans that involved thanking his wife for the monumental role she’d played in helping him achieve what he wanted. A second chance with the investors.

  Instead, he’d let her go.

  She’d been in a mood, part snit, part rebellion. It was like she’d wanted to pick a fight, but he wasn’t biting. Sure, he understood her feeling stifled. Tonight had been a mega ordeal for him, too, accepting backslaps and congratulations from people he’d known for years.

  It was why the most important person in his life hadn’t been here. He couldn’t face lying to Pa and had taken the easy way out: called him when he knew his grandfather would be at the local stock car races and left a phone message. A lousy, vague excuse along the lines of “Hey, Pa, don’t keel over, I’ve tied the knot. It would’ve been great for you to be here, but I’ll explain when I get home. Soon.”

  Coward.

  Pa hated the cell phone and never used it. The only time they spoke was when Beck called him, far too infrequently these days. He knew he’d have to visit and tell Pa the truth in person.

  Once he nailed the deal so it made his marriage sound halfway logical.

  Pa understood practicalities. When Beck’s folks had died, he’d stepped in and did what had to be done. Organized a makeshift room—a cleared space behind a tattered curtain—in his trailer, spoke to the teachers about his non-tolerance of truancy, and laid down the law to Beck in clear, concise terms.

  He touched drugs, he was out on his own.

  Beck didn’t have to be told twice. He had no intention of treading the same path as his loser parents. In fact, his memories of them drove him to excel, to ignore the taunts from the rich kids because he had holes in his sneakers or hand-me-down pants from the thrift shop.

  He worked his ass off to get good grades, a scholarship to college, and a step into the life he craved. One where he didn’t have to starve because he only had ten bucks in the bank and one where people looked at him with respect, not derision.

  He owed Pa, and nothing less than the truth face-to-face would do. But first, he had to sort out the mess with his wife.

  His wife.

  It sounded ludicrous, but he’d married Poppy to achieve a goal, and with that goal in sight he wanted to reassure her he would keep his end of the bargain. Sure, it’d be tough keeping up appearances for a while, but getting her offside on their wedding day didn’t bode well for the rest of the marriage, fake or not.

  Thankful he’d had the latest elevator technology installed in his hotel, he burst out of the entrance two minutes later.

  The Strip teemed with life. Goggle-eyed tourists rubbernecking, young guys cruising, local casino employees hurrying to work.

  He loved the desert but there was something about this city that made his blood fizz.

  He stepped onto the pavement and inhaled, car fumes and designer perfume and dust clogging his nostrils. People jostled him and the bright lights cast a permanent dawn in the sky. Rap music from a passing limo clashed with car horns and the blend of foreign accents from all around.

  Yeah, the cosmopolitan buzz had him hooked. He’d traveled extensively for business but whenever he glimpsed the Grand Canyon out of the plane window, he knew he was almost home.

  A home that was doing a damn fine job of hiding his wife.

  He edged through the crowd, striding through the gaps, scanning ahead. Luckily he only hired the best, and his concierge had pointed which way she’d gone.

  The Blackwood, nestled between the Monte Carlo and the Mandarin, was in the heart of prime Strip hotels. Unable to stop a habit of a lifetime, something he’d developed as a young kid the first time his folks brought him here, he mentally recited hotel names.

  Aria and Vdara on his left before he hit Harmon, Paris, and Bally’s on his right after it.

  Memorizing and reciting names had been fun as a kid. Now it served to annoy the hell out of him, as every hotel he passed made him wonder if Poppy had gone into any of them and given him the slip. His heart sank as he passed the Cosmopolitan and Bellagio on his left, crossed Flamingo Ave, and hit Caesar’s Palace.

  She couldn’t have got this far so fast, not in those sky-high heels. Before he belatedly realized she’d taken them off before she left.

  Dammit, he’d lost her.

  Failure didn’t sit well with him, never had, and he clenched his fists, wishing he could punch something.

  That was when he caught sight of her, way ahead, halfway between Mirage and Treasure Island. She was moving fast, practically jogging, and he broke into a sprint.

  What the hell was she doing? She’d break her neck even without those heels.

  Those heels…the moment he’d caught sight of her in them strolling toward him for their ceremony, he’d pictured her wearing them and little else.

  Major turn-on, naked Poppy in poppy stilettos.

  Okay, so fantasizing wasn’t the smartest move, considering his hard-on seriously hampered his land speed record. Cursing under his breath, he ran, apologizing to pedestrians he edged around, gaining ground.

  As he closed the distance between them, he put on an extra burst of speed. Even from a distance she looked magnificent, five-five of defiant diva in a satin wedding dress.

  Another thing he liked about this town: its tolerance and open-mindedness. No one batted an eyelid at the babe in a wedding dress strolling down the Strip with her stilettos dangling from her fingers.

  She paused at Treasure Island and he strode faster, beyond relieved when he finally reached her. Leaning casually alongside her, he waited until his breath steadied. “You have a thing for pirates, huh?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” She whirled to face him, indignation sparking her eyes caramel.

  “I didn’t want you walking out here alone.”

  The simplicity of the truth struck him, as did his sudden protectiveness.

  Her eyes narrowed, not diminishing their rampant distrust one iota. “I’m a big girl. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

  “I understand the independence thing. I’m the same way.”

  She crossed her arms, the simple action pushing her breasts together and creating eye-catching cleavage over the top of her strapless dress. “Yeah, you value your independence so much you couldn’t wait for the ink to dry on the marriage certificate before exiling me to the desert.”

  Is that what this snit was about? A living arrangement that suited them both?

  “I’m not shipping you off. We�
�re both used to being on our own. I thought you’d appreciate the freedom to do your own thing—”

  “While you do the same here?” She took a step closer and he stuck his hands in his pockets to stop from reaching for her. “It seemed to slip our minds, what with organizing a quickie wedding, but shouldn’t we discuss whether this sham is monogamous? Because I won’t tolerate being the talk of the town as Beck Bloody Blackwood screws around while poor wifey is stuck in the desert.”

  He recoiled as if she’d struck him. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “I don’t know you.” She ended on a hitch and turned away but not before he glimpsed sadness pinching her mouth.

  Hell, none of this was turning out as he imagined. Sure, the logistics of the wedding had gone smoothly, but the emotional side of things? Far more complicated than he’d anticipated. He didn’t want to make her sad. He wanted to make tonight special to thank her for giving him the opportunity to make his corporate dreams a reality.

  “When I make a promise I keep it, and that includes our wedding vows.”

  She continued to stare at the pirate ship, her spine rigid, her profile stoic.

  “I didn’t think you’d need me to spell it out, but here goes. We don’t sleep around on each other for the duration of the marriage. Deal?”

  She grunted in response.

  “Besides, that’s not the reason I offered you the house.” He had to do something to save this disastrous evening and it looked like only the truth would do.

  She must’ve caught the sincerity in his tone because she half turned, studying him with wary interest. “Then why?”

  “Because I can’t keep my hands off you,” he blurted, encouraged by her wide-eyed surprise. “You distract me, and I can’t afford distractions, not while this deal hangs in the balance. So it’s easier to not have you around, tempting me to…”

  “What?”

  He could’ve sworn the air between them crackled as he debated telling her all of it. He’d come this far. If he wanted to change the outcome of tonight, now was the time to go the whole way. “To lose control.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair, more rattled now than the first time he stumbled on his folks spaced out in the backyard. “You’re driving me crazy. You’re all I can think about. Work used to consume me. I’m always in control there. But you—” He grabbed her upper arms, hauled her close. “You’re making me lose it and I’m freaking out.”

  She eyeballed him, direct, unflinching, so he saw the moment she shifted from belligerent to appreciative. “You want me, huh?”

  “What do you think?” He pulled her in closer still, leaving her in little doubt how much.

  “Well, too damn bad.” She tried to push him away but he didn’t budge, liking having her close way too much to be good for him. “You can’t have it both ways, hotshot.”

  “Wanna make a bet?”

  His best smile had little effect, if the frown between her brows was any indication. “Not interested in gambling.”

  “Yet you gambled on me?”

  “Correction: you left me no choice but to marry you, remember?”

  His conscience pricked for a second, until he remembered Stan giving him another chance at the reception and his guilt eased. “What’s a little blackmail between friends?”

  “Friends?” She snorted and tried shoving him away again. “We were never friends.”

  “How about taking a shot at lovers, then.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “Not in my vocab.” His hands splayed across the small of her back and he watched her eyes widen and the tip of her tongue dart out to moisten her lower lip. He wasn’t imagining the flare of heat in her gaze or the involuntary arch toward him as his hand drifted lower to caress her butt.

  “So you think you can banish me to the desert, but I’ll jump into bed with you when it’s convenient?”

  He winced at her blunt assessment of the situation. “I think we’ll be happier living apart, and yeah, I want you.” He tried another coaxing smile. “We may have a fake marriage, but how about we go have ourselves a real wedding night to remember?”

  “I hate you,” she muttered, indecision pinching the corners of her lush mouth. “But I have to give you points for being up front about what you want.”

  “What do you want?”

  She hesitated an eternity, gnawing on her bottom lip, before her challenging gaze met his.

  “You.”

  Chapter Ten

  Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

  Playlist: “Poker Face” by Lady Ga-Ga

  Movie: Waiting to Exhale

  Cocktail: Avalanche

  Beck liked no-fuss.

  He dated, he had sex.

  Complication free.

  But as he stepped into the bedroom of his penthouse suite with Poppy wedged against his side and watched her face flush with pleasure at the sight of the bed, he had the distinct feeling he’d initiated one big complication waiting to happen.

  “You did this?” She slipped out from under his arm and padded toward the bed.

  “Yeah.”

  Her fingertips trailed through the hundreds of poppies strewn across the black satin coverlet.

  His gut clenched. Was the gesture too corny? Too overt? Too much?

  She picked up a delicate flower and lifted it to her nose, closing her eyes as she inhaled. A slow, sweet smile tilted her mouth as she brushed the petals across her cheek and opened her eyes, fixing him with a seductive stare that socked him like a knockout punch he’d once experienced in the schoolyard. “Considering your obvious obsession with all things poppy, I’m starting to doubt your masculinity.”

  He relaxed at her playful tone and stalked toward her. “You won’t be saying that come morning.”

  She laughed, a simple joyous sound that made him want to hold her all night long, and reinforced what he already knew deep down. Sleeping with her would guarantee complications with a capital C.

  “Confident much?”

  “You tell me.” He backed her up a few inches until her knees hit the bed and she fell backward.

  “I’ll have to see what you’ve got first,” she said, radiant in a sea of poppies, her arms stretched overhead, elevating her dress to X-rated proportions as it revealed a tempting expanse of thigh.

  His heart jack-knifed. She was beyond sexy. And she was all his. “Sure you’re ready for it?”

  “Oh, I’m ready.” She picked up a handful of poppies and tossed them in his face, chuckling like she knew some great secret he didn’t.

  “Think you’re a tough girl, huh?”

  “I don’t think, I know.” Picking poppies out of his hair, her fingertips skimmed his scalp, making it prickle. She arched, bringing her body in temptingly close contact with his in an overt invitation. “The question is, can you handle me?”

  He didn’t need to be asked twice.

  “I can handle anything you dish out and more, sweetheart.” He skimmed his hand down her body, starting at her cleavage and moving lower. The satin of her dress felt slippery beneath his palm, until he realized he was probably sweating.

  Him, nervous? Never.

  He reached just below her navel when his wedding ring snagged on a crystal and she chuckled. “I don’t usually get laughed at in the bedroom.”

  “Why not? Sex is fun.” She winked. “Unless you’re into that painful kinky stuff—”

  “You talk too much.” He yanked his hand free and covered her mouth with his. Deepened the kiss. His tongue entwining with hers in a long, hot, mind-numbing kiss that assured him this was right.

  They were both panting when they came up for air. And grinning.

  Bizarre. He’d never had fun sex before.

  He liked it.

  “Careful. Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.” She traced his bottom lip with her fingertip, a slow sensual sweep that intensified the anticipation.

  “And we haven’t even got to the
good part yet.”

  Her fingertip left his mouth, trailed along his jaw, his chest.

  Lower.

  She toyed with the waistband of his trousers, fiddled with the belt buckle, and he gritted his teeth at the exquisite torture. When she cupped his erection, he groaned.

  She squeezed. “This the good stuff you were referring to?”

  “And the rest.”

  He growled as he lowered himself flush against her, nuzzling her neck, nipping gently. She writhed beneath him, her soft moans firing his libido. Like it needed that. His body roared for her.

  He’d had grand plans to seduce her slowly, to prolong the pleasure. Those plans were shot the moment she’d touched him. He needed more. He needed all of her. Now.

  “I want you.”

  Her lips stilled the exploration of his neck. She captured his face in her hands and looked him straight in the eye. “Right back at you.”

  She surged upward, plastering her mouth to his, her hands desperate as they plucked at his dress shirt. Unable to find purchase, she slid her fingers between the cotton and ripped, the buttons pinging onto the wooden floorboards.

  Flowers flew as their frantic hands made quick work of their clothes. She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, kissing her way across his collarbone. He unzipped her dress and she shimmied out of it, leaving her in a cream satin strapless bra and matching thong covered in tiny red poppies. What else?

  “Snap.” He picked up one of the poppies off the bed and brushed it over one breast, covering her right nipple.

  She moaned and came up into a kneeling position. “Great minds think alike.”

  He unhooked her bra as she slid his belt free. He hooked his thumbs under the elastic of her thong and wiggled it down as she eased his boxers over his straining erection.

  He gritted his teeth when she enclosed him in her fist. And pulled. Gently.

  His head fell back on a groan as she increased the pressure. Blindly, he reached out, zeroing on her slick heat, circling her clit.

  “Oooh…” Her appreciative murmur fired his blood and before things escalated too far, too fast, he stilled her hand and managed to flip her onto her back in a smooth move that left her gasping.