by Zoe York
“Mr. Daiquiri. You told him you like to sprawl out like a starfish. Go home alone and stretch out on your bed without anyone in it.”
“And just how was that a lie?”
“I’ve seen your bunk. There’s no room for you to sprawl anywhere.”
“Stop perving on my living quarters. And mind your own business about what I tell people. It’s all a part of the patter.”
“You’re good at it.”
She lifted one shoulder. Scant acknowledgment, nothing more. Yes, she was. But it wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life, not by a long shot.
“So…coffee after you’re done?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Come back in two hours.”
He lifted his daiquiri in mock salute. “Will do.”
Will didn’t go far. He retreated with his drink to a far corner of the bar and watched his bride-to-be work. Then he did some work, too. Right now, his best friends Mick and Brayden were proceeding with Plan B—running FLiP Executive Training from their office in Petite Ciotat and liaising with resorts like this one for the accommodations.
But once he had cleared all the legal hurdles, they could move full bore into using Villa Sucre and the adjacent land for their guests. They could hire full-time staff, integrate the daily routines into their training, and dig a lot deeper into changing lives.
Because that’s what FLiP was all about. Navy SEALs sharing the hard life lessons they’d learned in the military, and finding a new purpose in their own lives at the same time.
Named for his best friends—Mick Frasier and Brayden Lucas—and, with no small amount of self-deprecation, himself, FLiP had come together into a really solid business plan. They just lacked facilities that were free and clear their own.
Which brought him to the countdown for his current mission. An hour until coffee with Daphne, who would be at the end of her very short patience rope after a full day of work.
Hear me out and you won’t need to work here another day. It was one way to start. A good option.
He spent the next forty-five minutes stewing over different openers.
In the end, when the bar cleared out and Daphne brought over two steaming cappuccinos, he went with the truth. “I want to preface this with a clear understanding that you don’t like me.”
She sat down and took a sip of her coffee before giving him an amused look. Well, that was better than pissed-off. “That’s…” She laughed. “Accurate. No offense.”
“None taken. It’s better if you have a wary concern.”
“Consider that a given. I’m highly suspicious of everything you do.”
“Good. Because I want to marry you.”
Her cup clattered to the saucer on the table.
He took that as his cue to try the coffee. It was delicious.
Daphne gawked at him.
He took another sip. Really delicious.
“Excuse me,” she finally said, her voice catching on something funny in her throat. “I must have misheard you.”
“You didn’t.”
Her face darkened. “Okay, then what are you playing at? Because you didn’t show up on my boat or spend a few hours here to just annoy me.”
“No.”
“And that’s a weird thing to say to a woman you don’t like.”
“I never said I don’t like you. I said, I know you don’t like me, and that’s good.”
She barked a laugh. “And why, exactly, is that good?”
“Because it’ll be clear that you’re doing this for your own reasons, and not out of some misguided sense of romance.”
“Doing what? Marrying you?” She giggled then, a gentler laugh, and her eyes softened. “Oh, Will, this is super weird even for you. Are you trying to…get me to like you? Is that what this is about?”
He frowned. “No. I want—okay, let me start over again. I need a wife. Immediately.”
“No.”
“Hear me out.”
She stood up and reached across the table. He tried to ignore the way her breasts swayed under her shirt as she snatched his cappuccino away. “Not happening, Will Parry. You cannot use me for your ridiculous scheme. Women are not tools for men to manipulate.”
He stood, too, and followed her to the bar—and around it. When she dumped their cups in the sink, he turned on the tap to rinse them out. “I don’t want to manipulate you.”
She pushed at his chest, shoving him away from the sink. “You’re looking for some marriage of convenience deal where I unlock some ridiculous billionaire trick, are you?”
“Yes.” He held his arms wide. “Yes, absolutely. I’m not hiding that from you. But I want to make it worth your while. Let me tell you all about it. But most of all, let me make it clear, I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes…” She rolled her eyes. “Buddy, you have no idea what it would take.”
“No?” He leaned in, curling over her. Bright eyes, blonde hair tousled from a day of hard work. He’d have no problem making an honest vow to respect and honor this woman. She impressed the hell out of him. “Baby, I’d pay you a million bucks to hate me all you want, so long as you’d let me put a ring on your finger.”
Chapter Three
“Baby, I’d pay you to hate me all you want, so long as you’d let me put a ring on your finger.”
Oh, he had some nerve. “Baby?”
“Too much, too soon,” he said quickly. “I tripped over you calling me buddy. It slipped out. Focus on the deal.”
“I’m not interested.” But as she said that—and it was true, so true—the rest of what he’d said finally filtered past her fired-up-for-maximum-reaction reptilian brain. A million dollars.
And everything went kind of buzzy.
A million dollars. But he called you baby. Right. No. She wasn’t interested, and he was a jackass. She shoved at his chest again because that felt good. That felt really good. “You know what, buddy? You’ve been a thorn in my side for months. You delight in flaunting your wealth and your privilege and your general…” She waved her hands in the air. “You know.”
“I really don’t.” And he was grinning at her.
“Why do you think that everything I say is a big joke?” She balled her hands into fists and thought, just for a second, about punching him.
Except that would be inappropriate and he was built like a concrete wall, so it would only hurt herself. And it was wrong to hit people. Which was a real shame, truthfully.
“I don’t,” he said quietly, his face falling into an uncharacteristic mask of seriousness. “I think you’re funny, if you must know. But I don’t think anything you say is a joke.”
“I’m not funny.” She scowled at him. “And you can take your ridiculous offer and stuff it. I don’t know what kind of dare or bet you’re trying to win but—”
“Whoa.” He caught her hands in his and cut her off. “Hey. Stop. No dare. No bet. I need a wife to clear the ownership of Villa Sucre. It’s all on the up and up, except for the dozen ways it’s highly illegal. But we’d have to tell that to my grandmother, and she’s dead, so…”
No dare. No bet.
A million dollars.
“I don’t understand,” she said faintly, the buzzy feeling back with a vengeance. “You don’t even like me.”
“We’ve been over this. You don’t like me. I like you just fine, and now I’ve also confessed I think you’re funny. So maybe hear me out this time?”
She nodded numbly. Fine. Sure. Whatever. Maybe she’d gotten too much sun earlier or something.
He squeezed her wrists gently, then turned them so he was leaning against the sink and she was standing in front of him. He let go of her and held up his index finger. “First of all, this isn’t a fly-by-night offer. I have legal paperwork all drawn up, even though this is legally dubious at best. A generous prenup, clear parameters, and all that jazz.” His middle finger popped up, and she blinked, trying to follow along. “Second, I’m not going to
embarrass you. This is going to be our secret, and I’ll do my damnedest to protect you. Third—”
“Wait,” she whispered. She dragged her gaze up to meet his eyes. “What does that mean?”
Will gave her a serious look.
He had hazel eyes. She’d never noticed that before. She’d always assumed they were black like his soul. “It means everyone would think that we’re married because I’ve fallen head over heels in love with you.”
“Nobody will believe that.”
“I’ll convince them.”
“How?”
He smirked. Did he know how annoying that was? Then he rolled his head from side to side, looked up at the ceiling, and finally leveled his gaze back on her.
And it was completely different. Not serious, not laughing, not anything like the Will Parry she’d come to know and loathe.
This look was raw and earnest. He gave her a lopsided, dopey smile as his soft eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s not hard to like you, Daphne Strike. You’re pretty, and smart, and funny. And if you help me, my appreciation will be genuine.” He leaned in, just enough to take up all the space in front of her and overwhelm her senses. Not close enough to freak her out. His voice dropped. “And I like the way you look in pink panties.”
She squeaked.
“You can’t make that adorable sound when I say things like that in front of our friends.”
“Don’t say things like that in front of our friends. There, problem solved.”
He smiled down at her. “So you’re considering it?”
A million bucks. Of course she was considering it. “Not at all.”
“How about we have breakfast tomorrow and discuss this further?”
Good plan. She needed some sleep to fortify herself to properly reject him. “Bring me coffee and donuts at ten. No earlier, or I’ll push you off the side of my boat.”
Will showed up with breakfast at quarter to ten the next morning.
He saw Daphne on deck, sprawled out on blue-and-white striped cushions, wearing a black bikini and a scowl. Even from behind mirrored aviators, he knew she was glaring at him. He stopped on the dock and waved. “I might be a bit early.”
“You might have a death wish,” she said. “I was clear.”
“You’re also up, and I have coffee. So… do you want me to wait here for the next fifteen minutes, or can I come aboard?”
She flicked her hand. It was hard to read the gesture. Maybe it was an invitation, or maybe it was a challenge to the death.
He was up for either of those things. Last night, he’d seen her interest in the money. That was all he needed. That was his in. Whatever dance she needed to play out to show him her strength, that was fine. He could let her do that.
It was Psychological Warfare 101. Read your opponent. Give them what they think they want while you outflank them, thus getting what you actually want.
The fact he applied PsyOps to his first marriage proposal was probably all the evidence anyone would ever need to understand why he couldn’t get married for real. The Navy had drummed all real sentiment out of him.
Which was how he could easily draw on all the things he actually liked about Daphne and turn them into an easy show of affection. Playing the role of her doting husband would be easy.
Especially if she wore bikinis every day.
His very healthy libido didn’t need much encouragement to pay attention to her. It never had. The first night he’d met her—at a bar in Petite Ciotat, when Brayden was in the early days of falling hard for her friend Arielle—he’d found himself very intrigued by Daphne.
And then she’d called him a dillhole.
Basic life rule: when a woman makes her dislike brutally clear, you stop perving on her.
So he had. Right up until last night.
Now he had to rein it in, because she hadn’t agreed to marry him yet. Hadn’t agreed to let him touch her, kiss her, hold her.
He’d need to do all of those things. In public. And it would be his pleasure because he was a living, breathing man and she was…delightful.
“Why are you smiling?” She lifted her sunglasses up, revealing her eyes. They were, as expected, suspicious. It didn’t make her any less fun.
“I was thinking that you’re delightful. Despite your best efforts to appear otherwise.”
“Only to you,” she muttered, swinging her legs around and standing up.
“We should discuss why that is,” he said dryly as she grabbed a tank top and pulled it on over her bathing suit.
“Don’t we have more pressing matters to talk about?”
“We do.” He set down the coffee and baked goods, then swung his backpack off his shoulder and pulled out the envelope with her name on it. “Should I get right to it?”
“Please do.” She picked up one of the lattes and breathed in the scent of it. One day, he’d tell her how much he liked the eager, grateful look on her face as she did that. Maybe when they parted ways, and he gave her a final token of his appreciation for helping him out.
He took a deep breath and dove into his explanation. About the wills, plural, and his lawyer’s advice to either meet the requirement or walk away from Villa Sucre. “I knew as soon as she said I should find a wife that you were my only choice.”
“Why me?”
“Because I know where I stand with you. In a perverse way, I can trust you not to get emotional about this, and you know how much the estate means to me. To Brayden and Lucas. And I know you have big dreams. I know you can use a chunk of capital, immediately, for your business.”
“My business.”
“Your soap-making thing.”
“My soap…” She swallowed hard, and a flash of something vulnerable crossed her face. “You know about that?”
“If a million isn’t enough, you can name your price. I’m tired of playing games, Daphne. With the estate, with women, with—life. It’s time I get down to what really matters, and marrying you would sweep away a lot of obstacles.”
Her dark brown eyes were sharp. Too sharp. “It would introduce a big new one, though. You’d have a wife you didn’t love. At some point you’ll need to, uh, ditch me.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Of course. There’s no way I’d ask you to be the bad guy in the divorce.”
“And no way I’d accept that.” She winked. “How long will we be playing at this?”
“A year.”
Her eyes widened. “A year.”
“Twelve months.”
“Twelve. Months.”
“I’ve had tours of duty longer than that.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Seriously? I’ve never dated anyone longer than three months. How do you know we’ll be able to sustain it?”
He shrugged. “Worst case scenario, we find ourselves estranged after a few months. But no divorce for at least twelve months. That’s the deal.”
“Fine. I can happily be estranged from you.”
He frowned. He didn’t like that quite as much as she did. “Eventually. Not at first.”
“Sure.”
“Daphne…”
She rolled her eyes. “I get it, Romeo. You want this to be as real as possible while still being entirely artificial for reasons. No worries. And in exchange, I’d get…”
He watched as her cheeks turned pink. She couldn’t even say it, so he prompted her. “A million dollars.”
“Right. That.”
He handed over the envelope. “It’s for real. It’s all spelled out in there. I’ll make the wire transfer happen as soon as we’re married.”
“You have a million dollars to give me, just like that?”
Many times over. “I do.”
She took the envelope and carefully opened it. Her fingers trembled, and after sliding out the sheaf of papers, she set them down and took a long sip of her coffee. Then she looked at him, her eyes wide and her lips set firmly. “I’m going to need a donut before I dig into these. Something chocolate.”
The details were clear and generous. A million dollars as a wedding gift, no strings attached. An agreement to pay it back should the marriage not last a full year. The rest of Will’s fortune—just how rich was this guy?—was off-limits to her. No alimony, and she would have to agree not to sue him for any damages if they divorced.
It was the stuff of movie plots, not her actual life.
She finished her coffee and a second treat, this one with bright pink icing.
“Surely there’s someone back in the States who would be more suited to this…charade,” she finally said quietly. “Someone you’ve known longer than a few months. Someone you have a better relationship with.”
“I need to know that the person I do this with is my equal partner. Has just as much to lose.”
She jerked her head up. “Just how much do you know about me?”
“I pay attention. You make all the soap and toiletry products Cara has at the estate. It’s good quality stuff. I mean, I’m no soap expert, but—”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up from inside her. No, he wasn’t. But he used her lemon verbena kitchen scrub a few times and now he was giving her a million dollars?
He was literally buying her like it was nothing.
She took a deep breath. Then she shoved the papers back into the envelope and handed them back to Will. “I can’t just marry you like this. I’m sorry. I know you have your reasons, and believe me, the offer is tempting. But it’s just not believable, for one thing. And for another, I don’t think we can sustain the story for any length of time.”
He took the envelope without argument.
But he didn’t leave. He just sat there and looked at her.
“You don’t agree?” She dragged in a shaky breath. Her stomach was still flip-flopping like crazy.
Will shrugged. “I think it’s worth a shot.”
“Hell of a gamble.”
“I jump out of airplanes over war zones. I’m pretty comfortable with gambling.” He rubbed his jaw, his eyes glittering as he looked her over. “Can I try to convince you?”
“Of what?”
