Vacation Bride: A Billionaire Marriage of Convenience (Brides of Paradise Book 1)

by Loebel, Vicky

  Chris couldn’t explain why, exactly. He loved the Paradise and—until recently—hated the Andersen money. But she was right. The answer was complicated. “I suppose I wanted to prove something.”

  “Prove that your parents were right to buy the resort?”

  That was none of her business. Chris’ frown deepened. “How’d you know?”

  “It’s public record. Your parents’ marriage, the date they closed escrow, your father’s disinheritance, bankruptcy, death.” She eyed Chris sweetly. “The blue-eyed orphan who had no shoes until a cousin-with-a-heart-of-gold stepped in and rescued him.”

  Damn Ryan and his careless tongue. “I had three perfectly good pairs of shoes.” Counting snorkeling fins. “And you’d better not let Doris hear you call me an orphan.”

  “Half-orphan. Close enough. Then all at once, fate steps in. Your uncle dies and leaves you his money. You rush out, buy the Paradise Resort, and dedicate your life to redeeming your father’s failure. It’s a great story.” Bobbie opened her clutch purse and took out a folded slip of paper. “It’s going to be even better once we add this.” She showed Chris a copy of his and Anna’s marriage license.

  “So what?” Chris said carefully. “She’s on the show. We haven’t broken any rules.”

  “You haven’t violated the letter of your contracts. It was a dirty trick, but I can’t sue.” Bobbie shrugged. “Just be warned, when life throws lemons, I serve the public lemonade.”

  “What’s that? Some sort of vague threat?”

  “Was I vague? Sorry.” She put the license in her purse. “Let me be clear. I want a wedding. Vacation Bride must have a bride. You picked Anna, so she’s our girl.” Bobbie took out a ring-box and placed it in Chris’ hand. “Get your shapely ass down to that stupid children’s party and propose for the cameras. Or else I’ll scrape together every bit of juicy, soul-wrenching publicity—on you, your dead cousins, your dad—and plaster it across the internet. For instance, I’ve heard your grandparents hated Doris. I’ve heard she trapped him into a loveless marriage and, after his father cut him off, worked the poor guy to death.”

  Chris gripped the stone railing. “Why are you doing this?” He could quit the show, slap Bobbie with an enormous lawsuit. She couldn’t stand up to Uncle Henrik for long. But short term, the old rumors were bound to hurt his mother. Doris had never complained about the Andersens, never expressed dissatisfaction with her life. But Chris had seen her looking through photographs. He knew how much his mom still missed his dad. “Why manufacture scandal?” he asked. “The show’s been getting great ratings. Let Tiffany win.”

  “Ratings won’t make my reputation. I have to deliver what I promised. Excitement, drama, and a dream wedding. That’s what Ryan and I set out to do.”

  “Then why the devil did you elope? He’d have married any woman you picked.”

  “You’re right. He liked them all about the same. Vacation Bride had no emotional depth. I married Ryan to take him off the show.”

  Chris stared.

  “Don’t you get it? You’re the one with the romantic story. You’re the humble billionaire who lost his heart to a Midwestern girl. I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to figure out how to leak your secret, but thanks to Anna, that problem solved itself.”

  “Ryan told you about the money?”

  “Don’t look shocked. It wasn’t him. I greased some palms and got a copy of your uncle’s will.”

  Bobbie was right. Chris shouldn’t be shocked. Blackmail and scheming were normal in his father’s family. Blackmail, scheming, and endless battles over money.

  And what of Chris? Did he have anything worth fighting for? “It’s too bad you and Ryan are splitting up,” he said finally. “You make a better Andersen than him.”

  “Don’t I know it. So this is settled? You’ll propose?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think fast.” She leaned forward and reconnected his microphone. “In the meantime, go dance with Tiffany. She still imagines you might be interested in marrying her.” Bobbie signaled to Roy. The band began a slow, romantic melody.

  Chris found Tiffany and led her onto the floor. The crowd parted. A spotlight glittered on Tiffany’s short metallic dress as she glided professionally in his arms. Chris barely noticed. He hated the thought Bobbie could make his mother suffer. But the alternative—marrying Anna on Vacation Bride—was just as bad. Chris didn’t know if he and Anna had a future together, but if they did, his mother would be the first person to say they shouldn’t start their marriage under the threat of blackmail.

  Something pinched Chris on the back of his neck.

  Tiffany smiled fiercely. “At least,” she hissed between clenched teeth, “pretend you care I’m here.”

  “I care.” Chris dipped her. “Because I’m done. After tonight, the contest’s over.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” The song ended and the pavilion lights came up. “You haven’t sampled my wares.”

  Chris started walking. Tiffany grasped his arm and trotted beside him.

  Roy set down his sax and signaled for an attention-getting drum roll. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “If everyone will take a seat, the children have arranged a brief entertainment.”

  Chris towed Tiffany to a table at the back and seated her in a chair. Instead of staying put, she popped up and straddled Chris’ lap.

  “You like?” Tiffany lowered the front zip of her dress.

  Lights flickered. Artificial thunder crashed through the air. There was a chorus of howls and groans, and then the opening notes of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” came on and Anna led a parade of miniature, staggering zombies through the archway. The kids were wearing bright 1980s headbands, mismatched leg warmers, and one white glove apiece. Their faces were painted to look like wolves and monsters. Anna spotted Chris, choked off a wave, and stared at Tiffany in disbelief.

  The kids lifted their hands like claws and danced.

  “Forget them, stud.” Tiffany leaned close and nibbled Chris’ ear. “The real show’s here.” She pressed his palm against her chest. Chris grabbed a handful of naked breast and nearly jumped out of his chair. Tiffany’s dress was open to her belly and she’d somehow slipped off her bra.

  “No way.” He almost dumped her but stopped himself, remembering the kids. “This isn’t happening.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tiffany cooed. “No one can see.” She stuffed her bra into Chris’ front pocket and felt for his zipper. “I bet no one has ever done you like this.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Chris caught her wrist. It was a long time since he’d partied with Ryan. But he knew the game. “Not here. Not now.” He closed her dress. “Your room, in one hour. Wait for me between the sheets. Naked.” He’d send Lucas or Lars to take her clothes. Or better yet, to confiscate her makeup. She’d never set foot in public with a bare face.

  Tiffany’s eyes glinted. “You mean it?”

  “What do you think?” Chris cupped her head and kissed her. It was a good, long kiss. The cameras, filming the kids, missed it. Anna, dancing with zombie minions, saw the whole thing. Despite the exercise, Chris watched the blood drain from her cheeks.

  The dance ended, and kids ran to parents for praise. A camera swooped in on Tiffany, wriggling on Chris’ lap. He tried to pretend she wasn’t there. At long, long last, Anna lined up the kids to leave.

  Anna.

  Chris eased Tiffany off of his lap and went to see the band. “Great music.” He shook Roy’s hand. “Thanks for playing tonight. How’s Cynthia?”

  “She texts me every three minutes to say she’s not in labor.” Roy waved his phone. “No baby who isn’t born ever created so much fuss.”

  Chris knew how eager Roy was to be a father. “Give her my love.” He headed toward the stairs.

  Tiffany pushed past him. “Darling!” She clasped his hand, and once again a spotlight picked her out. “Don’t you have something to ask me? On camera?” She leaned forward and murmu
red, “Before I suck you off so hard it blows your mind?”

  “You want me to speak up? Here?”

  “No ring, no blow-job.” She stepped back with a bright, plastic smile. “Of course, sweetest. You know how old-fashioned I am.”

  “OK. Let’s do this right.” Chris reached into his pocket and dropped to one knee. “There is something I want to ask.”

  The bridacuda clutched her chest.

  “Will you, Tiffany, do me the honor of wearing….” Chris pressed the bra into her hands. “Your undergarments?” He added in a stage whisper, “You’re sagging.”

  Tiffany’s mouth opened. A fleck of drool bubbled on her lip.

  Chris stood and walked away.

  “I’ll kill you!” she shrieked. “You’re going to die!” There was a rush of air behind him. Chris turned to see Tiffany bounce off of Lars and totter in her stilettos. The bodyguard pinned her under one arm.

  “Sit on her,” Chris growled, happy for once to be in charge. “Lock her up. Strangle her, for all I care. Just keep that lunatic away from me until tomorrow.”

  Tiffany aimed a kick at Chris’ shin and found herself hoisted into the air. She hung there, sputtering, like a spectacularly uncooperative football.

  “She’s got a lot of energy.” Lars grinned. “What if she wants to dance?”

  “Suit yourself.” Chris shrugged. “But I suggest you watch your step.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  For a woman who spent half her life in the pool with kids, Anna was not as ready for her children’s party as she’d expected. Of course, her biggest swimming class only had twelve students, while thirty-two kids between the ages of three and fourteen had shown up for the sleepover, including the eight she’d invited whose parents worked at the resort.

  “Marco!” Ryan Andersen, fluorescent terrycloth headband stretched over his eyes, called from the water.

  “Polo!” a chorus shouted back.

  Fortunately, there’d been a lot of help. Lani and Kim were entertaining kids with monster face painting and glamour makeovers. Anna’s dad had crashed the resort kitchen to make his famous dolphin cookies. And Chris’ chef, not to be outdone, had baked a Pac-Man cake with tiny cupcakes for its “food.” Between the treats, the pool, their “Thriller” dance, and a generous supply of 1980s pop CDs, Anna thought everyone was having fun. Everyone except the bored camerawoman assigned to cover the event.

  Tiffany had certainly had fun at her party. Anna collected a stack of dirty plates and scraped the leftovers into a bin, trying to erase the image of Chris kissing the bridacuda. She knew he wasn’t interested in Tiffany. The problem was, more women would be chasing Chris now that they knew he was rich, and some of them were bound to be more interesting than Tiffany. Anna wasn’t sure she could live with that, even if Chris asked her to. And once platoons of beautiful, intelligent women started chasing him, how long would Chris stay interested in an ordinary Midwestern swimming teacher?

  Anna took out her phone and—for the thousandth time—scrolled through her photos: Chris in the shed, wearing a bright pink headband, captain Greta on the yacht, dozens of pictures of St. John, her dad, Lani and Kim. She found the first photo she’d taken of Chris in partial profile against the wheelhouse of his boat. Anna remembered her scuffle after the volleyball game, her sketchbook tumbling off the cliff.

  Life with a billionaire might be one long series of scuffles with women.

  “Marco!” Ryan splashed after the shrieking children.

  “Polo!”

  Anna glanced at the snack bar clock. Midnight. She put away her phone. Hard to believe the kids were still going. Even the three-year-old twins were splashing furiously around the roped-off kiddie area. She ducked inside to help Lani and Kim make up rows of lounge chairs with crisp white hotel sheets. Behind the counter, Anna’s dad set out one last dolphin cookie for each child and put the rest in a container.

  Anna changed to a playlist of quiet songs and flashed the lights. “OK, small fry.” She walked outside. “Bedtime! Pool’s closed!” To her surprise, a half-dozen kids climbed willingly out of the water. A couple of teenagers who’d been hired to help wrapped little ones in hooded towels and carried them inside in search of pajamas.

  Ryan grabbed a six-year-old and hoisted him onto the deck. “Marco!”

  “Polo!” The boy shrieked, jumping back in.

  Anna whistled between thumb and forefinger. “Last call for dolphin cookies!” That got a few more children heading toward bed. Ryan pulled off his blindfold and began chasing the rest.

  “Can I come in?” Chris called. The pool gate clicked and Lucas—the other Viking bodyguard, possibly larger and blonder than his brother—admitted Chris along with a couple of crewmembers from Vacation Bride.

  “I’m trying to settle things down,” Anna said. “It’s not a good time to bring in more people.”

  “Just me and a cameraman. Lucas will make sure he behaves.” Chris cast a meaningful glance at his bodyguard. “You want help getting kids out of the pool?”

  “You’ll wreck your clothes.”

  “A general manager is always prepared.” Chris hung his sport coat on a chair, slipped off the tie, and unbuttoned his oxford shirt. Beneath that, Anna couldn’t help noticing, he looked fantastic in his usual white T-shirt and crisp, dark jeans.

  “OK.” She tore her eyes away. Unfortunately, they landed on the camerawoman, enthusiastically shooting Chris’ striptease, and then on Lucas, openly laughing at Anna’s scowl.

  Chris waded onto the shallow steps of the pool. “Ryan!” he shouted. “Go long!”

  To Anna’s horror, Ryan lifted the nearest child and hurled her, shrieking gleefully, toward the stairs. Chris caught the girl and handed her to a teenager with a towel. Ryan dove sideways, snagged a small squirming boy, and tossed him to Chris. The other kids swarmed around, begging for turns. Within minutes the water was empty.

  Ryan staggered out of the pool. “Thanks, buddy.” He patted his cousin’s shoulder and collapsed on an outdoor lounge chair. “I need a nap.”

  Anna and Chris went inside to help with the kids. The snack bar was already peaceful, with rows of neatly tucked-in children—some sleeping, some listening to Lani read from Charlotte’s Web, some waiting drowsily for Kim to paint a moon or star on their small hands. Anna herded two sleepy stragglers to bed just as Wilber was pronounced “some pig.” She paid her babysitters and settled her dad in a lounge chair in the corner.

  “We did it!” Lani offered a quiet high five. “Do you want Kim and me to sleep down here?”

  “No thanks. We’re good. You guys did great!” Anna hugged her. “Why don’t you catch the end of Tiffany’s party?” She glanced at Chris. “Is that OK?”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll stay with Anna,” he said and then added, “The camera crew can lend a hand if kids wake up.”

  The camera crew did not seem thrilled with that idea.

  “Meanwhile,” Chris told them, “I’m putting the far side of the pool deck off limits. Anyone caught beyond the three-foot mark is going swimming with their equipment.” He dragged the last two lounge chairs past his snoring cousin to the edge of the deck that overlooked the beach, leaving the crewmembers two plastic kiddie chairs.

  “Anna?” Chris dimmed the pool lights and found a plate of untouched dolphin cookies. “May I attend your party?”

  “Be my guest.” Anna retrieved the gauzy wrap Lani had given her and settled into a lounge chair. Between the sound of ocean waves and the pool’s infinity waterfall, the spot Chris picked was a little noisy. But it was beautiful, an inky darkness lit by the twinkling lights of St. Thomas. Reflected pool light shimmered behind their chairs, while overhead, lumbering clouds took turns hiding a three-quarter moon.

  Chris offered his sport coat to Anna. “You’ll want to cover up if we’re spending the night outside.” He buttoned his shirt. “It gets chilly.”

  “Chilly!” She laughed. “You’re talking to a polar bear.” She slipped the ja
cket on anyway, enjoying its masculine roominess.

  “It’s not the cold. It’s the humidity.” Chris pointed to low mist on the water. “You’d be surprised how fast the wind and rain can make you shiver.”

  “Not half as fast as wind and sleet.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Chris admitted. “I’ve skied a little, but always in good weather. Do you miss it?”

  “Winter? Heck, no.” Anna thought of her home above the bakery on Downer Avenue. “Well, maybe some things.” She selected a dolphin cookie. “Waking up dark mornings to the smell of fresh-baked bread. The lacy patterns on under-insulated windowpanes. We’ve got an upstairs deck and Diane and I used to make taffy by pouring the boiling candy syrup in fresh snow.” Anna glanced back at the production crew, wishing she dared hold Chris’ hand.

  He scooted his lounge chair to block the camera and reached for hers. “Snow taffy sounds fun.”

  “It was a blast. And Lake Michigan’s lovely in winter. All gray and defiant. It doesn’t normally freeze, but when it does, you can stand on the beach and stare at an unbroken world of white. Until you freeze, anyway.” Heat stole from Chris’ hand up Anna’s fingers. “What I don’t miss is the wind, and dirty slush, and having my hair turn to icicles at the bus stop.” And worrying about Daddy and money. But now that was all changed. Anna glanced at the recording crew. “Can they hear us?”

  “Over the waterfall? I doubt it. But just in case….” Chris removed their microphones and set them next to the pool’s infinity spillover.

  No one from the production crew even seemed to notice.

  “We’re good,” Chris said. “They’ll either give up or get terrible headaches from listening to static.”

  “In that case….” Anna swallowed. “I need to thank you. Your Uncle Henrik brought us the papers for my annuity today.” Fifty-thousand dollars per year for life. Not a fortune, but a generous sum he knew she’d be comfortable with. “I tried to turn it down, but Henrik convinced me.”

  “That’s his job.” Chris smiled. “That’s why I sent him.”