Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal)

An Indecent Proposal: Bad Boy

Copyright
©
2016 by J.C. Reed & Jackie Steele.

All rights reserved.

Permissions by the authors must be granted before any part
of this book can be used for advertising purposes. This includes the right to
reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination and are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or
dead, is coincidental.

Cover design by Larissa Klein

Developmental editing by Shannon Wolfman

Inline editing by Kim Bias

Why is it
always that the moment you’ve let a guy into your heart—or panties, for
that matter—he turns into a big, ugly frog?

Or a jerk.

Or a lying
bastard, who’d
do anything to keep manipulating
you so you fall for whatever agenda he’s going for. A hidden motive that
made him want to fuck with
your
mind in the first place.

Less than
twenty-four hours ago, I had married a man I knew nothing about.

A stranger.

An enigma
with more layers to him than I cared to admit, because my intelligence refused
to let me acknowledge the fact that I had been fooled by gray blue eyes and a
hard body that belonged on a men’s health magazine; not to mention a tongue
that knew how to fill me and lick me until I panted his name. Or maybe it was
his deep, sexy voice, able to arouse me with sweet words of nothingness, that
had made me lose my sanity.

Exactly
those sweet words of nothingness and hot bundles of defined muscles, as my best
friend Jude liked to call them, had pushed me into more than just his bed.

They got me
married—fake married—to an even faker jerk with a fake name.

They got me
completely screwed.

Those were
the kind of dark thoughts running through my mind as I stepped out of the
airport in Acapulco and into the blazing heat, a huge tee shirt and black
shades shielding me from the afternoon sun that did nothing to improve my mood.

My two,
brand-new suitcases were filled with dresses, shoes, and books—anything
the shop assistant thought I would need for my trip. A “recovery trip” she’d
called it when she saw my unshed tears and found out I had booked a plane to
Mexico. She’d instantly assumed I was running from a bad break up. A bad
breakup was theoretically correct, though the guy did not do the dumping.

I broke up
in writing, like the coward I was, or used to be, right before I ran away from
him, and now I was more than ready to embark on my next adventure in a quest to
forget him.

Because, to
be honest, I was sick of my mascara-smeared face.

I was sick
of guys with blue eyes that could melt your heart.

Sick of
being the pushover of a guy who thought he owned the world.

Who the
hell did he think he was?

Thor?

Just
because he so happened to be perfect: tall, handsome, and tanned, with a smile
that melted your reserve, didn’t mean he could get away with whatever the hell
he wanted.

Maybe he
was Loki—Thor’s evil and hot brother. He sure could lie just as well.

I pushed my
glasses higher on my nose and plastered a fake smile on my face. I wouldn’t let
some god-faced idiot ruin my life just because my wits left me the moment he
pulled off his shirt. Or because I gave him my V-card. And most certainly not
because I soaked up all his I-care-for-you bullshit, like some stray puppy,
while trying to maintain my dignity by playing hard to get.

Seriously,
who had invented the notion of playing hard to get?

It got me
nothing but trouble.

Call it my
ego, my feelings being hurt. Call it even obsessive. But I couldn’t stop
checking my phone, even though it was switched off.

Holy shit.

It was hot
in Mexico.

I paused to
take shallow breaths and raised my head to feel the warm rays of sun on my
face. I pushed the image of ocean blue eyes on a cloudy day and dark hair out
of my mind, and focused on the narrow strip of blue stretching in the distance.
I couldn’t wait to slip into a bikini and hit the beach with a good book, ready
to forget the world around me. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel.

“Taxi.” I
stopped a tourist cab before it could drive off. “Habla ingl
é
s?” I asked the driver, a man in his
fifties with a mustache. His head was cleanly shaven. His shirt looked like it
had seen better days.

He looked
from me to my suitcases, then nodded. “Un poquito. Where do you want to go?”

Sweat
trickled down my back as I took my time checking the license on the right
window, the taxi number plate to see if it was an official cab. The last thing
I needed was to get into a pirated one, or worse yet, be kidnapped and held for
ransom. But the taxi looked as official as they came.

I handed
him a piece of paper with the address of the hotel and what I would be willing
to pay for the drive, mentally thanking the shop assistant for her advice to
settle for a price before getting into any taxi in Mexico.

The driver
looked the paper over, then nodded again. “
Muy bien, pero le advierto que ahora mismo hay mucho tráfico por allí.”
When he saw my confused expression, he explained. “Lots of traffic here, but I
take a shortcut.”

Shortcut?

The old me would have said no.

It was safe to say she would not have traveled to Mexico at all.

But the new me?

Gone were the days of being pushed around. I wanted to take charge, to
discover and find myself.

“Sure,” I said brightly, ignoring the pang of uneasiness settling in the
pit of my stomach.

I just hoped his shortcut didn’t involve a drive through all the areas
that were frequented by the drug cartels.

That could really happen.

“
Gracias.” I slumped into the backseat, then
leaned
back exhausted, fanning myself with some old newspaper as the taxi sped off
through the traffic.

The smell
of the old car was repugnant, the décor colorful. The fact that there was a
Virgin Mary bumper sticker
and pictures
of what I assumed were the old man’s kids and his wife consoled me a little.

He was religious.

He loved his family.

He was probably a hardworking man trying his best to make a living for
his family.

People like him didn’t do bad stuff.

Then again, I was the idiot who fell for Chase Wright’s shit.

My knowledge of the human nature sucked.

I relaxed a little until I noticed the driver’s glance in the rearview
mirror, catching me looking at his pictures.

“Are you married?” the man asked when he stopped at the traffic lights.

“Um…” I paused, watching the red lights ahead. Should I tell him the
truth? I fiddled in my seat, nervously. “I am,” I said. “I mean, I only got
married like yesterday.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe me. Of course he wouldn’t.
What married woman would arrive at an airport—alone?

Obviously, the lying kind.

“Where’s your husband?” the driver asked.

“He’s waiting for me at the hotel.” I forced a smile to my lips, hoping
it was convincing enough to fool him. “I work for a paper in the city,” I lied.
“My boss called me in for some last minute changes. I was barely able to make
it out of that office.” I waved my hand, like he’d know what I was talking about.
“This is my first vacation in seven years. That’s how demanding she is.”

The man gave a short, humorless laugh, completely bored by my made up
story.

I couldn’t blame him.

I was the worst liar ever.

“You will like it here,” he said. “But a young woman like you should
always be in companion.”

“Yeah, I should be,” I muttered and turned my head back to the window,
taking in the unknown streets, the unknown territory, a whole lot of unknown
everything, some part of me wishing that I had asked Jude to come along with
me.

***

Half an
hour later, the taxi came to a halt in front of an old, whitewashed building
surrounded by a tall wall and an iron wrought gate. I paid the driver and got
out, making sure to tip him well in case he was related to some mafia boss who
decided I had not paid enough in fares.

I mean, you
never knew.

The last
thing I needed was another bad surprise. The discovery that Chase was a bad boy
who might be after my inheritance was already bad enough. Now I needed some
days away from reality, from my old life. I needed time to think how I could
possibly divorce him without breaking the stupid contract I’d signed.

And for
that, I needed to be safe.

His terms
had been quite clear: stay married to him for one year and engage in some
sexual fantasies of his.

God, I
couldn’t wait to get divorced.

Does that
make me sound crazy?

At least I
had negotiated the part about living with him. The way I saw it, I could spend
a whole year abroad and never see him.

Pulling the
heavy suitcases behind me, I greeted the uniformed security guard, and then I
walked up the path to the hotel.

It wasn’t
the luxury kind.

Far from
it.

I would
even go as far as saying that it was shabby, which wasn’t surprising given that
it had been the cheapest hotel I could find.

With my
credit cards maxed out I couldn’t afford more than a simple room. But it seemed
safe and clean—at least I hoped that part was true. It would certainly be
more than I could say about the messy life I had left behind in California.

“Hi. My
name is Lauren Hanson,” I said to the female receptionist and handed her my
passport and credit card. “I booked a room last night.”

“Welcome to
Casa Estevan,” the receptionist said in heavily accentuated English. She looked
in her forties. Her hair was over-bleached, and her eyebrows looked like they
had been tattooed to her forehead. Smiling, she began to type on a computer,
and then pushed a few forms and a swipe card over the spotless counter. “This
is your room key. Take the stairs to the fifth floor.”

The fifth
floor?

My eyes
swept over my two heavy suitcases.

It would
take me half a night to get them up there.

“Could you
get someone to take my bags up to my room?” I asked.

She didn’t
even blink as she grabbed the phone. “Sure. I’m going to call one of the boys
to help you.” Her phone in hand, she smiled, exposing perfect teeth. “Anything
else I can help you with?”

“Er…” I
tried not to stare at her eyebrows. Her left one looked way bigger as the right
one. It made her look ridiculous. “Can I get some sort of info leaflet?”

“We have
none. Sorry.”

“Could you
maybe give me some pointers so that I can find my way around here?”

She gave a
short, annoyed sigh, then put the phone down. “As you wish.”

I pushed
the card into my handbag as I listened to her recalling the hotel’s amenities,
making a mental note of the breakfast times and the instructions on how to get
to the nearby beach.

“Any more
questions?” she asked, her perfectly fake eyebrows slightly raised. As she
glanced over my shoulder, I turned to follow her line of vision and noticed
that a few guests were waiting for me to finish up.

“I don’t
think so,” I said.

“Have a
pleasant stay, then.”

“Thank
you.” I definitely intended to make sure I did. Whispering a “sorry” to the
other guests, I made my way to the staircase, unable to shake off the feeling
that maybe I should have bought a travel guide or at least spent more money on
a room with wireless internet. What kind of person travels to a foreign country
without packing at least a tourist guide?

Yeah, me.