Inked

by Anne Marsh

  She stares at me.

  Pretty sure she’s trying to figure out the fastest way to get my ass out of her office because she comes to the obvious conclusions.

  She gives in.

  “Okay.” She scowls. “But you have to wait until Saturday. Some of us have bosses that care if we show up.”

  I ignore the dig because I’m one step closer to my goal. To Harper.

  * * *

  Thursday the song calls for three French hens. In retrospect, I should have gone with “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Courting would have been much simpler. Finding French hens in Vegas is every bit as difficult as you think. The only reason I don’t visit a damned pet store is that Bing would either vote me off the island or have lunch. Instead of wildlife, I send a six-pack of beer from a brewery that does a Twelve Days of Christmas series. I scribble a note that’s three-quarters picture, one-quarter words. The picture is me trying to tree three very reluctant hens in a palm. I think for a minute and then go with more truth. I tell her how much I want to be with her to celebrate all her milestones. And how I’ll be there if she lets me for the shitty days, as well, but with an even bigger beer.

  Friday I up my game and actually produce four calling birds. Okay. So she doesn’t get to take them home with her, but I think she’ll like this better. I adopt four black-and-white penguins at the zoo on her behalf. Since my large check comes with naming rights, I christen them Harpsichord, Harpie, Doodle and Monster Dick.

  Today, however, is Saturday.

  D-Day.

  And either Armageddon or the second coming of Christ when I succeed or fail at convincing Harper to take me back. And yes, I’m feeling the pressure. It may have taken me way too long to realize what I feel for Harper, but now I’m hopelessly, headlong in love with her, and she’s the only woman for me.

  I pick her up and she settles behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist. See how we fit together? The way we move together as we ride down the Strip?

  That’s the best fucking sign right there.

  I just need to convince Harper. When we get to the Bellagio, I pull over. I’ve got a buddy who owes me and I’m cashing in all my favors.

  “You’re going to get a parking ticket.” Harper’s forehead gets these cute little creases when she’s trying to figure out what I’m up to.

  “Watch.” I switch places with her on the bike because I need to hold her.

  Her frown gets deeper. “The fountain show doesn’t go off for another eleven minutes, Vik.”

  I slide my arms around her. How can I not hold on to this woman? Not only is she fucking gorgeous, but she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. She’s organized, funny and has a dirty streak that will make me a very happy man.

  “Three,” I whisper against her hair.

  “You’re not singing again, are you?”

  She doesn’t pull away, and I almost get distracted by the amazing way she smells.

  “Two.”

  I kiss her ear just because it’s there and I’m weak. Christ, I love every inch of her. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail that begs for me to fist it.

  “One.” I bite down lightly because some things won’t change.

  She rewards me with a little moan—just as the fountains explode. Timing is everything. The water soars upward, “Twelve Days of Christmas” blaring from the hotel’s speakers. While she stares slack-jawed at the show, I scoop her up and stride over to the fountains. By the time I’ve planted her ass on the railing and caged her in with my arms, she’s coming back to her senses.

  “You planned this?” She sounds dazed.

  Mission fucking accomplished.

  “You said I never planned anything. That I never looked ahead. I just never had anyone I wanted to plan for.”

  “And now?” She licks her lips. I don’t think she likes having nothing between her ass and an entire lake but me and a very thin railing. I’d like to tell you that I immediately set her back on her feet, but that would be untrue. I love having her off balance and hanging on to me. I won’t ever let her fall.

  “I’m hoping I’ve got you.” I wrap my arms around her back, pulling her closer. “You’re my tomorrow and my tomorrow after that. Give me a chance to prove that to you for the next sixty years or so.”

  “Vik?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “I forgive you. Can you let me down now?”

  She really doesn’t like her current position, does she? I take shameless advantage.

  “Wrap your legs around me.”

  She does, and I can’t stop myself from patting her ass as I twirl her around in the biggest goddamned circle. Tourists are looking at us like maybe we’re an act and they should drop a quarter in our hat. Let them look. I’m holding all I need.

  Well, except for one teeny tiny detail.

  “Did you bring the planner I gave you?”

  “Yes?” She sounds a little breathless. I slide her down my body, making sure I touch every smoking-hot inch of her.

  “Take it out.”

  She gives me a look. I’m gonna become really familiar with that look over the coming years if I’m lucky. That look says we’re in public and I just said something filthy. Still, she fishes the hot-pink planner out of her purse and hands it to me.

  “Did you read my plans for us?” I drop down onto a bench. The fountain show is wrapping up, and my friend is probably getting all kinds of shit for his off-script performance. I’ll make it up to him later.

  Harper flushes. “I read through October. You have a filthy imagination and no one could possibly have that much sex.”

  I look forward to proving her wrong.

  “We wouldn’t work,” she says, shaking her head. “I like rules and plans and sticking to one path. You may want me right now, but at some point—”

  “We can argue over which direction we go or what road we take. We’ll be like those old couples fighting in the parking lot, and we’ll do it with love. I can be your Mr. Right. I can be whoever you need, Harper. You just gotta let me try.”

  I flip the planner open to the spot I’ve bookmarked with a hot-pink ribbon. Guys don’t hot-glue-gun shit ever. Not unless they’re MacGyver and they’re building a nuclear reactor out of spare crap in their garage. The lady at the crafts store showed me how to do it, though. Wouldn’t let her touch it because it had to come from me. Especially since there’s a big-ass diamond ring hanging off the end of the ribbon.

  “I love you,” I say.

  And then I haul my T-shirt up and show her my new ink. Pink, black and right over my heart, Harper’s face is inked into my skin. The words beneath it read Property of Harper. It’s my very own property patch. You have to be strong to partner with a man who belongs to an MC. Harper’s got that strength. She’s always had it. But if I want her to throw in with me, I’ll have to be there for her, too.

  And I really fucking want to.

  “You mean it?” She blinks and for a moment I think she’s about to cry, but then a blinding smile breaks through, lighting up her own face. “I love you, too.”

  “You be mine, I’ll be yours and we’ll live happily fucking ever after.” I gesture toward my bike. “And if that doesn’t work, we can at least ride off into the sunset every night.”

  “Together.” She sighs.

  And that’s it. That’s my perfect answer, my second shot at happiness, my whole world, because she throws her arms around me and there’s nothing better than this.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE MARRIAGE CLAUSE by Alexx Andria.

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  The Marriage Clause

  by Alexx Andria

  CHAPTER ONE

  Luca

  MY NAME IS Luca Donato. You may have seen my mug on the cover and in the pages of Forbes, Fortune and the Robb Report, because my family is ridiculously, obscenely rich.

  I’m talking Saudi prince–level money.

  I could wipe my ass with hundreds for several lifetimes and still not make a dent in the family trust.

  My family descends from Italian aristocracy—some royal connections if you go back far enough—and we’ve done well enough with our investments in Donato Inc. to never have to work again if that were our choice.

  But unlike some in similar positions, the Donatos haven’t grown soft with privilege. If anything, our wealth has made us harder, hungrier—all about the victory.

  We decimate our opponents, and the word no really isn’t part of our vernacular.

  In fact, I can’t remember the last time someone refused to cave to my demands.

  Until a certain redhead came along.

  The one I’d chased to the airport.

  Ah, there you are, you gorgeous pain in my ass.

  Katherine Cerinda Oliver...my runaway fiancée.

  If Katherine had thought to blend in, that spectacular head of burnished auburn hair was her downfall. Stubborn tendrils escaped her messy bun to curl around her delicate jaw, teasing wispy ends that tickled and caused her to rub her nose without thought.

  My hands itched to twist in those sweet, silky curls and bury my nose against her skull. Immediate hunger threatened to override my decision to play it cool. The thing was, she was so damn beautiful sometimes all I could do was stare. I’d been a fool to play fast and loose with her heart years ago.

  Now I was paying the price.

  Our marriage, arranged by our powerful fathers when Katherine was only a girl, was about to be unarranged if my runaway fiancée had her way.

  If Katherine had any inkling how difficult the last two years—giving her the space to do her own thing while I focused on the Donato empire—had been for me, maybe she’d be less inclined to hiss at me like a wet cat.

  But that didn’t seem likely, given that over the last six months, anytime we were in the same room together Katherine did everything she could to avoid me.

  We were supposed to be working toward building a partnership, courting each other, even. But Katherine wouldn’t even sit through a single dinner unless it was insisted upon by my parents.

  And now she was running away from me—literally.

  I watched unnoticed from the jet bridge, allowing others to go ahead of me to find their seats on the massive commercial plane. I couldn’t remember the last time I flew commercial—preferring the Donato private jet—and I saw little to compel me to do so again.

  So she thought she’d gotten away, had she? Believed she’d outsmarted the Donatos by draining her accounts and leaving without notice, paying with cash for every purchase, including her direct flight to the wilds of California.

  But as our wedding date loomed—it was set for this spring—and preparations had hit a fever pitch, I’d sensed something was up. My gut feeling only deepened when our last dinner engagement had gone spectacularly sideways and Katherine had practically tripped on her own feet in her haste to get away.

  And when your bride-to-be wants nothing to do with you...well, it doesn’t do your ego any favors.

  In spite of her bravado, she nibbled at her cuticles in her seat in coach, a habit my mother had never quite managed to drum out of her. As if hearing my mother’s sharp reprimand, Katherine lowered her hand to double-check her seat belt was cinched tight.

  Then she trained her attention out the window, though we were still on the ground and there was nothing to see yet.

  That hair was her crowning glory. If she’d been playing it smart, she would’ve worn a hat, at the very least, but then, Katherine was a hothead, passionate to a fault and sometimes reckless.

  Case in point: her decision to run away before our wedding.

  In certain circles, I was considered quite a catch—rich, handsome, fit—but Katherine saw only the man who’d broken her heart when he’d been too stupid to realize that a woman like Katherine came along only once in a lifetime.

  I had a week to prove that I’d changed. Starting now.

  I peeled away from the attendants’ area to make my way to my wayward fiancée.

  “Leaving without me?” I tsked, startling her with the silky censure in my tone.

  “Luca,” she gasped in open dismay, her brow furrowing as her nose wrinkled, as if she’d just stepped in something putrid. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, love.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she warned with a glower that could flash freeze meat. “God, you’re like gum on my shoe. Go away.”

  Not a chance. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I don’t want you here,” she answered, cutting me a hard look.

  I stared pointedly at her ringless finger, hating that she seemed to the world an available woman, when she belonged to me. “Where’s my grandmother’s ring?” I asked, moving slightly so other passengers could get past me, but I was already causing a logjam.

  “It’s too heavy and it’s gaudy.”

  “It may be gaudy, but there’s a lot of history in that ring,” I said. “Once
we’re married, you’ll only have to wear it on special occasions or when we dine with the family. Mother has particular expectations about gifted family heirlooms.”

  “I’m never wearing it,” Katherine returned flatly, “because I’m not marrying you.”

  Her declaration hit me like a punch to the groin. She’d never outright stated she wanted to call off the wedding, but I should’ve seen it coming.

  “That’s a big decision to make. I hardly think making it when you’re angry is a good idea,” I warned, glancing at the people trying to push past me.

  “Luca, you’re blocking the way,” Katherine said, embarrassed. “Just go home and I’ll call you when I land.”

  “Sorry, that’s not going to happen. Where you go, I go.”

  Before Katherine could hit me with a retort, the sharply dressed attendant made her way to us, her expression polite yet annoyed that I was standing in the aisle as she said, “I need you to take your seat, sir. Perhaps I can help?”

  Katherine was really going to be pissed, but it couldn’t be helped. “Yes, actually, my bride-to-be seems to have gotten the wrong seat assignment. I was just sharing with her that we’ve been upgraded. Can you help us out?”

  Relieved to find the fix so simple, the attendant smiled and looked over my tickets, her expression breaking into a wider, more accommodating smile. “Of course, Mr. Donato.” She gestured to Katherine. “I am so sorry for the mix-up. Your seats are in first class. We’ll get that squared away right now.”

  “Excellent,” I murmured, smiling apologetically at Katherine, knowing she wouldn’t risk a scene.

  “Upgraded?” Katherine’s gaze flitted from the attendant to me, indecision marring her beautifully expressive face. Tiny freckles danced across the bridge of her nose and onto her cheekbones because she refused to wear enough sunscreen when she went out. She wanted to tell me to shove my ticket up my ass, but I knew she wouldn’t, not with so many people watching.

  “Miss, if you’ll just come with me,” the attendant prompted, gesturing again, and I knew Katherine wanted to murder me. I’d take the risk.