Not the Marrying Kind (10 page)

She’d be naked, of course. Naked and willing…

He kicked a potted cactus, barely registering the sting of a stray spike.

The sooner he left his bogus wife here and headed back to Vegas, the better.

Chapter Nine

Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

Playlist: “Fool to Cry” by The Rolling Stones

Movie:
War of the Roses

Cocktail: Bloody Mary

Beck preferred sleeping under the desert stars to the glittering pizzazz of a Vegas party, but this was one shindig he had to attend.

His wedding reception.

The staff had done a great job, turning the revolving rooftop dining room of his signature hotel into a gilt-edged wonderland filled with the best crystal, the best silver, and the best food money could buy. But as he sipped at aged Scotch on the edge of a buzzing crowd, nothing about this evening seemed real.

As the sound of clinking crystal champagne flutes and muted laughter washed over him, he sucked in a breath that didn’t ease the tightness in his chest.

He’d done the one thing he swore he’d never do.

Get married.

He didn’t like codependence—on anything or anyone. He’d seen his mom develop both after she’d met his lousy dad. And Beck hated answering to anyone, but that’s exactly what he’d had to do when he’d made the mistake of taking Poppy to the house. Even now, twelve hours later, he had no idea why he’d done it.

The moment she’d slipped the platinum band on his finger and he’d kissed his new bride, he’d wanted to get her alone. Naked.

And therein lay the problem. He’d already let her into his life by allowing her to stay at Red Rock Canyon, had already divulged too much in telling her all that stuff about his family history. Having her live in his home implied an intimacy he didn’t want, and sex with her would solidify that.

It was more than that and he knew it.

The house was the part of him he kept hidden from everyone else. None of his Vegas crowd had been there—not even Lou—and he liked it that way. He may have escaped Checkerville and his dreary past, but there was one thing he could thank his no-good folks for: helping to instill in him a love of the desert.

Pa had fostered his love for the arid landscape surrounding their trailer, had taken him on long hikes, pointing out the Joshua trees, the Mohave yucca, the Apache plume, while warning him of the dangers of scorpions, tarantulas, and Mohave green rattlers.

Beck had spent countless hours watching his favorite desert tortoise, coyote, and gila monster, chasing jackrabbits and studying roadrunner habits.

He loved the heat, the dust, the colors.

Something Poppy had homed in on immediately.

He’d seen the light in her eyes as she’d toured his home and it made him like her all the more. Which was why he’d shut down and put some serious emotional distance between them. He didn’t want to feel anything for his wife, and that was a distinct possibility if they spent too much time together.

Poppy was nothing like the women he usually dated. She was warm and spontaneous and bold. She didn’t defer to him; she didn’t play games. Hell, this marriage farce was testament to that. Poppy was blunt and genuine and far too appealing. The less time he spent with her, the better.

“There you are.” She slipped her arms around his waist from behind and rested her cheek on his back, playing the doting wife for their reception guests. “Slipped off the ball and chain already?”

“I’m taking a breather.” He turned around, secretly pleased when she didn’t release him.

“Low stamina, huh?”

He ducked his head to whisper in her ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Not really.” She laughed up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and right then, snug in the circle of her arms, he’d never been more convinced he’d done the right thing in offering her the Red Rock Canyon house to stay in.

He thought he’d made a smart business move marrying this woman for convenience. But right now, enjoying the way she made him feel way too much? Dumb.

She stood on tiptoes to murmur in his ear. “Are we pulling this off?”

He sure as hell hoped so. Everyone had turned up: the investors, the work crew, a few A-listers. People he mingled with on a regular basis, people whose opinions shouldn’t matter. But they did. He needed the investors to trust him, to trust Blackwood Enterprises enough to help take them national.

This marriage had to do that. It had to.

“We’re doing okay.”

“One thing’s for certain, you sure know how to throw a party.” Poppy released him to step back and take in the crowd. “But you know I’ll top this for Lou’s divorce party, right?”

“Shhh.” He held a finger up to her lips, immediately regretting it when her eyes heated to molten chocolate and her lips parted on a soft sigh. “Don’t say the D-word around here. People might question the validity of this marriage.”

“You don’t need to remind me about the importance of anonymity.” The fire in her eyes faded. “Sara would have a coronary if she knew I was the divorce diva.” She gestured at the crowd. “As for them questioning our marriage, people are going to do that anyway, considering how it happened out of the blue.”

“Have you been interrogated by anyone?” Concern poked holes in his carefully constructed plan.

“Try everyone.” She snorted. “Don’t worry, I gave them the spiel we rehearsed. Your need for privacy, the long-distance thing, unable to be apart any longer.”

“Did they buy it?”

Pensive, she glanced at the investors, a bunch of Scotch-swilling, backslapping suits who clung together like an old-boys club. “They seemed impressed, especially when I played up my Provost angle.”

Some of the residual tension tightening his shoulders eased. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” She kissed him on the cheek, a strangely sweet gesture that made his chest burn. “Better get back to mingling.”

“Later.” He snagged her hand and led her to the dance floor. “You were such a stickler for tradition with the threshold and all, it’s only fair we have a bridal waltz.”

Her smile faltered and for a mortifying moment he thought she’d bolt. He had no idea why dancing terrified her but with people already turning their way, they couldn’t back out now. “Two left feet, huh?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…” She shook her head. “Nothing. Let’s do this.”

Beck nodded at the band, who struck up the song he’d specifically selected, U2’s
One
. Appropriate. He wanted to be number one, wanted every person who’d ever laughed or scoffed or teased him in the past to know it.

Poppy stiffened in his arms as the lead singer did a great Bono impersonation, crooning about love being a temple and higher law, about one love, one life, one need in the night, the haunting lyrics effectively silencing the crowd. The hush was unnerving, but not as much as seeing the sheen of tears in Poppy’s expressive eyes.

“You okay?” he mouthed.

She clearly wasn’t, but she nodded, before burying her face in his chest.

His arms tightened around her waist and hers around his neck as they swayed together, their bodies in tantalizing contact, their souls a world apart. He didn’t know what made his wife tick and for the first time since he’d devised this foolproof scheme, a sliver of remorse pricked his conscience.

Maybe she wasn’t as ballsy and blasé as she pretended to be. What if, God forbid, Poppy had bought into all this romantic wedding crap?

Yep, the sooner he packed her off to Red Rock Canyon, the better.

“You two make quite the couple.” Stan Walkerville slapped Beck on the back and thrust a double malt into his hand.

Beck should’ve been ecstatic the head of the investors’ conglomeration had sought him out. Instead, all he could think about was the way Poppy had reacted during that dance.

“Thanks.” He raised his glass in Stan’s direction. “Poppy’s amazing.”

“She sure is.” Stan’s beady stare followed Poppy as she slipped an arm through the crook of Ashlee’s elbow and dragged her toward the dessert table.

Beck wanted to slug him.

“Comes from a good family, too. Parents are plastic surgeons, apparently.”

“Yeah.” Beck sipped his whiskey, taking the less-is-more approach. He’d memorized a whole bunch of facts about Poppy in case anyone quizzed him, but he didn’t want to discuss her with Stan. He wanted to talk business. He couldn’t be overt, though. Stan had to make the first move. Discussing the nationwide deal at his wedding reception would raise flags.

“Good to see you settling down.” Stan appraised him, his glare calculating, and Beck could imagine he was being sized up. “Good for your company, too.”

Bingo.

“Yeah, I’d been dragging the chain in our relationship. About time I made an honest woman out of her.” He dredged up clichés, trying to make light of their discussion, when in fact his heart pounded at the thought of getting another chance to make this deal happen.

“We should reconvene over that proposal of yours.” Stan took a long slug of whiskey before slamming the glass down on a nearby table. “See if we can readjust the figures and make the deal happen.”

“Definitely doable.” If Beck sounded any more laid-back he’d be horizontal, when all he wanted to do was punch the air and yell a resounding “Yes!”

“Set it up for end of next week.” With one last leer in Poppy’s direction that made Beck’s fingers curl into fists, Stan nodded and walked away.

Beck should’ve been elated.

He’d done it.

Obtained the second chance he’d wanted, and this time he’d nail it.

Instead, as he watched Poppy fork a piece of key lime pie into her mouth and laugh at something Ashlee said, all he could think was the debt he owed her went beyond the money.

Way beyond.

And he had no clue how to repay her.

…

“Don’t look now, but The Hottie is making goo eyes at you again.” Ashlee elbowed Poppy, who risked a quick glance at Beck.

Ashlee was right. Even across the room, Poppy could see his slightly stunned expression.

Join the club. She’d been in shock ever since she set foot in this city and first laid eyes on him.

She waved at him, forcing the same bright, perky smile she’d used all evening, the one that said “I’m a new bride and loving it.” As opposed to the one she should’ve been sporting, the petrified grimace that said, “What the freak am I doing?”

With a taciturn nod, he turned away and joined a group of suits and their stick-thin dates.

“That was weird.” Ashlee bit into a vanilla custard profiterole, her blissful expression making Poppy smile.

“That’s my husband,” Poppy muttered, shoveling the last of her key lime pie into her mouth. She could’ve been eating cacti for all she cared, her favorite dessert barely registering as she mulled over what was going on in her husband’s head.

“That’s freaky.”

“What?”

“You calling him your husband.” Ashlee scooped the last of the custard from her plate and licked the spoon. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like it.”

“You know why I’m doing this.” Poppy lowered her voice and darted a look around to make sure no one else was within hearing distance.

“I know what you said at the start, but after today?” Ashlee cocked her head to one side, studying her. “I’m reassessing the situation.”

Poppy knew what her BFF was implying. And she didn’t like it. “Think what you like, you’re talking out your—”

“Ass-essing, that’s all I’m doing.”

They laughed and Poppy sent a silent prayer heavenward in thanks that Ashlee knew the truth and she had someone to talk to. She would’ve gone nuts in this pretend marriage otherwise.

“Your husband sure knows how to par-tay.”

Poppy had to agree. She loved the rooftop fairyland, complete with miniscule lights strung across the ceiling between billowing chiffon, ecru-covered chairs tied with gold bows, and the shimmer of crystal and silver everywhere.

Every table had elongated rectangular vases filled with sparkly stone bases and long-stemmed blood-red roses as centerpieces. The nametags were individually embossed gold on cream, and the exquisite food was laid out buffet style for people to help themselves.

Flame-grilled garlic oysters, pan-seared scallops, shrimp tempura, soyed duck fillet, pork ribs in peppercorn sauce, poached fresh abalone, and wasabi beef fillet had kept the hordes fed, while the eight-piece band ensured the dance floor remained crowded…when they weren’t jostling for position at the dessert bar for amaretto crème caramel, vanilla bean panna cotta, sticky mandarin pudding, nougat parfait, cappuccino cheesecake, and Poppy’s favorite, key lime pie.

The overall effect was an elegant party, relaxed enough for revelers to enjoy themselves, classy enough to make them feel special.

Everyone except her.

“Money can buy you anything.”

“Including a wife, apparently.”

Poppy knew Ashlee meant it as a joke, but the truth hurt. She
had
been bought. For a good cause, but bought nonetheless. And for a gal who hated rich folk flinging their money around to obtain anything, it irritated her. Hell, it bugged the crap out of her, but she owed Sara and finally, after all the years her sis had put into raising her, they were square.