The Marriage Dare

by Wylder, Penny

  I have no fucking idea. But I am very excited to figure it out.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I'm surrounded by racks of clothing in the suite’s living room. I had chosen a few things that I thought I liked, and I showed Daniel. Instead of congratulating me, he immediately picked up the phone and asked one of the boutiques to send over a selection and some assistance for me. I told him that he didn't have to do that, but he shook his head. "I think you need it. Plus, Alex is a fantastic designer. She instinctually gets style, and if you don't find anything you like in her current collection, she will happily design it for you. Hell, she might just design it for you because she wants to. She's been begging me to get married for years so that she can dress someone close to me."

  That makes me laugh. “Why?”

  Daniel smirks. "Because she says that no one who looks this good in a suit should be single.”

  "She designs all of your suits?”

  "Every single one. I've never met another person who was able to take the feeling that I wanted from my clothes and interpret it so well. Once I discovered her, I never looked back."

  So now the living room has been transformed into a makeshift salon. It's still a little mortifying to be in Daniel's sweats and T-shirt, but Alex just shakes her head and waves a hand when I mention it. "Don't even worry about it, honey. When I'm through with you, you'll have the best damn wardrobe anybody has ever had in their life. I've been hounding Daniel for years for this.”

  “He said as much.”

  Alex is shorter, with cropped red hair and chunky jewelry. She's wearing a flowing, flowery dress which might look juvenile on somebody else, but on her it looks like she's part hippie, part healer, part goddess. She has a sketchbook tucked under her arm and a pencil behind her ear, and she's already looking at me like she knows me. When she notices me watching, she smiles. "Sorry,” she says. "Hazard of the job. I'm always thinking about how clothes are going to look on somebody. How do you see your style?"

  One of the girls she brought with her hands me a flute of champagne and I take a sip, it helps soothe the nerves. "I honestly couldn't tell you. Most of my life my style has been dictated for me, and I don't know where to start."

  “That’s okay," she says. "We can start with the basics. Will go through the clothes we have here, and you tell me yes or no about whether you like it, if it's a mix you tell me what you like. I'll get a good idea for what you’re drawn to."

  And so as we go through the clothes, I don't think about anybody but me. And I try not to think too hard about it. I stay away from anything that reminds me of my pageant days, and if something looks interesting to me, I point it out. Halfway through the second rack of clothes, I'm beginning to see a pattern. Simple cuts, solid colors, and stylish lines. I like some patterns, and some details, but I'm not drawn to them the way I am the other things. Perhaps it's because of all those things that I was forced to wear that were rich and over-the-top. I was always forced to be girly, and to present the right image. No one seemed to notice that they didn't tell me what the right image was.

  Alex doesn't do anything but smile and nod as I point out things. There are even a few things on the racks themselves that I like so much that I immediately pull them out to try on. "This feels very much like a Pretty Woman moment," I say.

  She chuckles. "Yeah, I suppose so."

  The things I’ve chosen are comfortable and simple, without being drab. There's some lovely trousers, sweaters, and tailored shirts. Thrown into the mix are a few flowing numbers as well. I seem to be drawn to cooler colors, with rich blues, creams, and greens making up the majority of my choices.

  The last rack of clothes are more formal. There are some beautiful gowns, and I wonder if I should choose any of them. I don't have to, I know. I took what Daniel said to heart and I know that he'll be happy no matter what I choose. But even if I didn't love the pageant lifestyle, I still really like dressing up. I like the power it affords me as a beautiful woman, and I like the way I can command attention. Also, it can just be fun.

  There's quite a few on the rack that I like, but then I come across one that takes my breath away. It's a pale blue silk, and at first it almost looks like a nightgown. But it's not. The thin straps flow over the shoulders and down, catching the material in such a way that it drapes in one long line. The seams are artistic, lying on diagonals and almost giving an Art Deco feel. There are just a few silver details along the hem and the neckline to add some sparkle. But something about it calls to me, and Alex sees it.

  “You need to try that on right this second.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask her.

  “Because I've seen that look before. That is the look of love at first sight with a dress. Once somebody has that moment, there's pretty much no going back. So try it on."

  I take the dress into the bedroom and slip it on over my shoulders. Yeah, Alex was right. I love this dress. It makes me feel ethereal and beautiful, like something out of a fairytale. And when I come out of the bedroom, the look on everyone's faces confirms it.

  “Yeah, that's the one. Working to get that altered for you right away."

  They already took my measurements when they first arrived, and I can feel a couple of places where the dress isn't perfect, but it's pretty close. Alex looks down at her sketchpad. "I think I've got a pretty good idea of what you're looking for. Over the next couple of days, I'm going to put together some sketches for you and you can look at them. In the meantime, do you feel like you've got enough pieces to choose from for the next few days?"

  I nod. But I'm unable to look away from the image of myself in the mirror. It doesn't seem like me. And yet it does. It seems more like me than anything I've ever worn before. Suddenly, I feel eyes on me. In the mirror I see that Daniel has walked in behind me. His eyes are glued to me, and I meet his gaze in the reflection.

  The room seems to go still around us, and even Alex and the assistants go quiet. I turned around to face him, unable to stop the blush from creeping up my cheeks. I'm not sure why I feel embarrassed in this moment. Perhaps embarrassed isn't the right word. But I feel… vulnerable. It's like I've taken off some sort of mask and he seeing through it for the first time.

  But that's not true either, because he's already proven that he saw through it all along. I have taken off the mask, and it's my first time being seen. I don't know how to feel.

  Daniel slowly crosses the room to me. I'm standing on a little pedestal in front of the mirrors, and it brings me just a little closer to his height. He stares at me when he stops in front of me, and I feel the urge to fidget nervously. Only my pageant training keeping me from doing so. "What you think?" My voice sounds more worried than I want it to, but I want him to like it. I want him so desperately to see what I see when I put on this dress.

  He doesn't answer me. Not with words. He just reaches out, slipping a hand behind my neck and kissing me softly. But it doesn't stay soft. It grows into an inferno. The kind of kiss that should never be done in front of others, but I don't even care. And this time it's not just him kissing me, I am kissing him back. Until we are engulfed in each other, his arms wrapped around me so tightly that I don't want him to let go.

  "Does that mean that you like it?" I ask.

  "I love it," he says. "You look like you."

  He'll never know how perfect an answer that is.

  "If you're going to keep doing that," Alex says, "at least let her get out of the dress so that we can take it to alter it."

  Daniel smiles. "Just one second, Alex." He leans in, and I let him kiss me again, the assistants in the background giggling as Alex sighs.

  9

  Daniel

  The marriage certificate in my hand is beautiful. It's flashy in a way that only Las Vegas can achieve. But I don't care, because it's here. Barely twenty-four hours after we put through the paperwork and here it is. All we have to do is sign both of our names and we will be officially married. The question is, will Monica be wil
ling to sign the paper before the actual wedding? I don't want to wait, and I'll give her whatever wedding she wants. But I want her to be my wife. And I want that moment to be sooner rather than later.

  I can recognize that I'm falling down a spiral that I will never be able to come back from. I can't pretend that I fully understand the need I feel to make her fall in love with me. I said it so that I can justify all the years that I wanted her, when I was young. But is that really it? Is it to make me feel powerful? All I really know is that what I said yesterday to her in my office was true. I want her. More than I've ever wanted anything.

  More than I want revenge. More than I want to expand my business. More than my own preservation. When I walked out into the living room and saw her wearing that dress, my stomach dropped through my shoes. Not because she was suddenly more beautiful— she is always beautiful— but because she was shining. She seemed vibrant in a way that I've never seen her, and I was just a moth to her brilliant flame.

  We had dinner last night in the dining room. We had pleasant conversation, and for the first time it felt easy between us. A glimpse into what our life could actually be like. It was a struggle for me not to think about our experience at breakfast, but I managed.

  And when it was time to say good night, I was proud. Monica asked for what she wanted. She asked me to come into her room with her and take her. And when I told her no, even though she seemed disappointed, she didn't fight me. She let me kiss her, and I swear the way she went pliant against my body made pulling away from her the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. But I told her that I wouldn't fuck her until she was my wife, and I intend on keeping that promise. But I swear, if we aren’t married soon, I might not be able to.

  I slipped the marriage certificate back into the envelope it came in, and put in the inside pocket of my jacket. I'm taking Monica out to look for rings today. I want her to have an engagement ring even though it's not technically an engagement.

  I hear the door to her room open, and I meet her in the living room. She's dressed in a simple blouse and trousers, so different from what I'm used to seeing her in. In high school she was always wearing sundresses or revealing crop tops and low-riding jeans. It didn't occur to me until she asked how I wanted her to look that maybe she hadn't chosen her image. It still makes me angry to think about, the idea that her parents would have used their teenage daughter for their own gain. But given what I've read about her father in the past day or so, it doesn't seem like anything is beyond him.

  The clothes she chose for herself suit her so much better. She would look stunning in literally anything, but there's power in being able to choose your appearance. There's a reason I enjoy wearing suits tailored for me. I like the satisfaction of knowing that I look powerful. I imagine that Monica has the same desire.

  Her hair flows simply around her shoulders, and I want to see it spread out on my pillow. I want to have her drag it over my skin so I can feel its softness. She smiles shyly. This is new for her. Hell, it's new for me. Navigating the situation is delicate, but I think we're doing okay so far. The feeling in my gut when I see her can't be ignored, but I refuse to let it rise to the surface. Because it's too huge, too vast, and it terrifies me.

  "Good morning,” I say.

  "Morning."

  I'm the one that closes the distance between us and pulls her in for a kiss. I can't get enough of her lips. I always wanted to kiss her. That was the first fantasy my mind always jumped to— kissing her. I never want to stop. She tastes sweet like fruit. "You look lovely," I say as I pull away. Her cheeks turn the light pink that I crave to see when I give her a compliment. Monica is so pale that she blushes easily, and I won't pretend that I don't like using it to my advantage. "Thank you,” she says.

  I hold my arm out to her, and she slips hers through. “Shall we?”

  I like the way it feels to have her on my arm. We’re going to Cartier today, and people already know. They know because whenever I go shopping anywhere in Vegas—which is rare—I have my assistant call ahead and have them clear the place out.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  She laughs a little. “No. Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  Her cheeks tinge pink again. “Dreams. About you.”

  “That’s an answer that I like to hear.”

  She glares at me, but it doesn’t have much anger to it. “I did ask, you know.”

  “You did.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not my fault that I had to take care of it myself. Three times.”

  That comment goes straight to my cock, and I shift myself in my pants as we step into the elevator. My mind is swirling with images of Monica twisted in her sheets, moaning my name in the dark. Fucking hell. I need to marry this woman, and fast. If I didn’t have the launch so soon, we would have one hell of a honeymoon. As it is, I will take her on a tour of Vegas hotels to rival anything she’s ever seen. I’ll fuck her in a different bed every night until every hotel in the city has heard her cry out my name.

  And she screams so well—the way that she let go in the dining room yesterday was proof enough of that.

  “You’re right,” I say, voice low. “That was not your fault.”

  As we step out of my private elevator, Devon and Jack flank us. They are my most trusted security guards, but Monica’s words yesterday remind me that I should add more people into my rotation. I’ve gotten very comfortable, and I never should. I need to rely on other people and keep the net wide.

  But today, on my first outing with Monica, I won’t take the chance with anyone else.

  The casino is full and busy. It’s a Friday and people are arriving from out of town for the weekend. I watch Monica out of the corner of my eye, and she’s looking around at the casino, but I can’t get a read on what she’s thinking. I don’t like that. I’m so used to being able to predict people’s actions, and a good part of the time Monica is like that too. Until she retreats into herself like this. I’m not sure what causes it, but I don’t want to push her too hard. I already know that I’m pushing her boundaries.

  “Devon,” I say.

  “Yes, Mr. Argent?”

  “Are there cameras?” I glance at him.

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  Monica looks up at me. “Cameras?”

  “Paparazzi.”

  “Oh.”

  “The car is already waiting,” Devon says.

  We walk out the front doors of the casino into a wave of sunlight, heat, and flashbulbs. The limousine is already in place, my driver holding the door open for us. I let Monica slide in first and in seconds we’re safely ensconced in the car, though I can still hear the reporters asking questions. We just made our public debut as a couple. Monica is a recognizable face thanks to her father—and the reason she’s been in such trouble. I imagine my publicist will start fielding questions about it in under an hour. As soon as they figure out who she is. But I’m not going to call her. No comment is always a better policy in the beginning. She won’t answer any questions until she talks to me.

  “Haven’t seen that in a while,” Monica says. “Not since…”

  She trails off, and I realize that the last time she faced press like that would have been her father’s trial. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be fine. You’re going to have a lot of people mad at you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  "I'm serious. People are going to call you crazy. There are going to be people you don't know coming up to you and telling you that you shouldn't be anywhere near me because I'm going to steal your money. Marrying me is likely going to be the worst press that you've ever gotten."

  I shrug. "Like they say, there is no such thing as bad press. And my marrying somebody isn't going to change the fact that customers like my casinos. And once we get the wedding taking care of, and all those pictures hit the media, I'm sure that there will be no problem."

  Monica nods, but I don't think she actually a
grees. She's biting her lip, and her hands are fidgeting in her lap. I reach across the seat and grab her hand, and she startles a little. "Do you trust me?" I ask her.

  "I do," she says. "It's just that I think that you barely know about what happened with my family, you don’t understand how bad it really is."

  It's a fair point, and I don't discredit her worry. All I can do is help distract her from it. "Well, don't think about that now. That's not the point of what we're doing today."

  She smiles. “I know.”

  "Would you like an engagement ring? I'd like you to have one, but if you don't feel like we had enough of engagement, I would understand."

  Monica thinks about it for a second, and I appreciate the fact that she's actually taking time to think about it and not just saying yes to me. "How about we get there and we see what the selection is?"

  “Fair enough. And the same rules apply today as yesterday. Only choose what you actually like, not what you think I would like."

  "I can do that," she says.

  Using the hand that I have trapped, I pull her closer to me. The amount of satisfaction that runs through my body when she comes without resistance and leans her head on my shoulder is overwhelming. I feel like I could take on the world, conquer anything. The media, every business deal in the book, fuck, I think I could climb Mount Everest in this moment.

  Traffic on a Friday in Las Vegas is always a cluster fuck, so it takes us a while to get to Cartier. But when we pull up, Monica goes still. "Cartier? We’re going to Cartier?"

  I press a kiss to the top of her head. "Where else?"

  "You know that I honestly hadn't thought about it? I just assumed… I don't know. Maybe I thought you had some exclusive secret diamond dealer in the basement of one of the hotels."

  I laugh. "I won't pretend that I don't have diamond connections, but meeting in hotel basements is generally unpleasant."

  I get out of the car first and there are photographers here as well, but not as many as there were at the hotel. Not everyone has the connections to find out that I closed down the store. I help Monica out of the car, and then I hold her close as we walk toward the doors. Devon and Jack are already flanking us, so the photographers don't get closer than they need to to yell their questions. But they already know she is. That was fast.