Not the Marrying Kind (4 page)

“After you.” He gestured toward the open limo door, his hand brushing the small of her back in gentle guidance.

Yep, the zap was still there. Disconcerting and disarming.

She slid into the limo. The sooner she nailed this pitch, the sooner she could head back to the safety of Provost and the anonymity of Divorce Diva Daily.

This was one diva who had no intention of flaunting anything.

…

Beck sprawled across the seat opposite Poppy, watching her type furiously on her tablet. No hardship, watching her.

He liked the fact she was ignoring him. It meant he had her rattled.

Join the club.

She’d shot down his expectations of a dour, bitter, forty-something, middle-aged divorc
é
e the moment she stepped onto the tarmac and he got his first look at the pocket dynamo.

Because that’s what she was, fire and ice wrapped in a delicious, petite package. He hadn’t banked on the uncharacteristic, almost visceral reaction and it unnerved him.

He’d expected sour and acrimonious, not sizzling and defiant. And her damned voice: rich, teasing, tempting. Brought to mind visions of smoky nightclubs, smooth bourbon, and sultry nights made for sex.

That’s what annoyed him the most. He never mixed business with pleasure, and the fact she made him think of sex had him re-evaluating the wisdom of meeting with her. He should’ve thrown cash at her online and let her do her worst.

The snark didn’t help, either. He liked feisty, a woman to challenge him. He’d never found one yet. Once they discovered who he was, women tended to accede to his judgment or attempt to sway him with vamp factor. Both plays grew tiresome after a while.

Poppy was neither. She’d confronted him about his email demand and issued a subtle warning she wouldn’t put up with it again. He admired her bluntness. It bode well for getting this party happening ASAP.

She was definitely the diva behind the website—it didn’t take long for her natural impudence to surface in person. And it was a better aphrodisiac than any near-naked showgirl. Or naked one, for that matter.

The instant she’d started matching wits with him, he’d been turned on. Go figure.

He preferred his business dealings to be hard-on free and the fact she’d crept under his guard rankled. He didn’t have time for distractions.

“Problem?” She pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare.

“No.” Discounting the one where he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d bet his last dollar that crimson silk shirt with a hint of cleavage was the real her, bold and flamboyant, and she’d been unable to resist hiding her true self behind a business suit designed to impress.

He was impressed, all right, but it had more to do with the whole package than her suit. Not strictly beautiful, but she had an inherent fire that made her caramel eyes glow with that indefinable
something
that turned guys’ heads.

Heart-shaped face, pert nose, slightly wider than average mouth—he wouldn’t go there—shoulder-length layered just-out-of-bed brown hair equaled a striking combination, and that was on top of her enticing curves.

So he was attracted to her. Big deal. Didn’t mean he’d act on it.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

And just like that, his hard-on deflated.

“Before or after she overdosed on coke?”

Stricken, she paled and he silently cursed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m not.” He’d given up mourning his parents—or lack of—a long time ago. Wasted energy. His folks had never given a damn about him, had indulged in the selfish lifestyle of druggies who didn’t care about anything except their next hit, neglecting their kid in the process.

He’d attended their funerals out of obligation and respect for Pa, who’d been as stoic as him. The Blackwoods were confirmed realists, what was left of the family. Beck respected straight shooting, and Pa was one of the best at it. To this day, Beck believed he’d got into so many fistfights as a kid just so he could listen to Pa dole out his dry commentary on life as he patched him up.

It’d been too long since he’d visited Pa. He’d rectify that once this deal went through.

He glanced out the window as the limo eased along the Strip, the twinkling lights and streaming crowds a comfort. He preferred desert silence over big-city bedlam, but every time he cruised through this town, he knew he’d made it.

Size mattered in Vegas, and he’d gone all out when he’d made his first millions, gambling on property investments rather than slots, ensuring every single person who’d ever doubted him sat up and took notice. Blackwood Enterprises was renowned for its luxury constructions, and he intended for everyone in America to know it.

He gestured out the window. “Been to Vegas before?”

“Twice.” She wrinkled her nose.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s okay if you like flashy.”

“Don’t be fooled by the glitz. If you look beneath the surface, there’s more on offer.”

She eyeballed him and he didn’t know what made him more edgy—her ability to undermine him with a glance or the strange feeling she could see down to his soul. “We’re talking about the city, right?”

Damn, she was good.

“Of course. Making idle chitchat.”

“I have a feeling you never say anything without an end game in sight.”

There she went again, pinning him down with an intuition that left him squirming.

He’d aimed to make her uncomfortable by picking her up from the airport. He didn’t appreciate having the tables turned.

Time to have a little fun.

“We’re almost there.”

He half expected her to call him on his abrupt change of topic and his gruffness. Instead, she sat there, staring at him, silently appraising.

Yeah, definitely time to regain control.

“I hope you packed a change of clothes along with your presentation?” He pointed to her giant satchel.

“Why?” The first flicker of uncertainty had her glancing at the bag with the barest of frowns.

“Because you’re staying the night. With me.”

Chapter Four

Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

Playlist: “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac

Movie:
Sleeping with the Enemy

Cocktail: Top of the Sheets

“Three words for you. No freaking way.” As the impulsive rebuttal fell from her lips, Poppy hazarded a guess that a powerful guy like Beck wouldn’t get refused very often.

Who wouldn’t want to spend the night with the guy? Just look at him. So she did, daring him to retract his inappropriate declaration.

He didn’t appear angry. In fact, the corners of his mouth curved in amusement. “I’m not sure what kind of guy you think I am, but I can assure you when I made my offer for you to spend the night, I merely referred to one of the apartments in a hotel I own.” His mouth eased into a full-blown grin, like he’d trumped her.

As if. Royal flush beat full house every time.

“You do this often, don’t you?”

Confusion clouded his eyes for a second. “Do what?”

“Bait and switch. Bait your opponent, reel them in a little, then switch to disingenuous.” She shrugged. “Nice technique, but wasted on me.”

“Is that so?” His eyes narrowed but couldn’t hide the glint of admiration.

“Yeah, because I don’t have time for games. I’m here to show you I’m the best there is in the party planning biz, that’s it. Take it or leave it.”

Foolish fighting words, when the last thing she could afford was for him to leave it. But she’d figured out pretty damn quick that Beck Blackwood preferred honesty. She was counting on it.

“Are you always this confrontational with your clients?”

No, only the ones who looked like a god and who had the capability to seriously derail her. She didn’t like feeling uncertain, hated feeling out of place among her folks’ uppity friends as a kid. So she’d developed a backbone early, learning that standing up for herself earned respect and being proactive got results.

Wallflowers came in last, and she’d had a gutful of coming in last growing up. Rozelle and Earl Collins may have been renowned LA plastic surgeons, but as parents? They sucked.

While her folks put in long hours with the beautiful people who needed their faces, boobs, and butts rearranged, enhanced, and lifted, Sara had raised her. From her homework to her first period, from her first love to graduation, Sara had been there for her when her folks hadn’t been. That was why Poppy was here now, taking crap from a supercilious charmer and putting herself on the line to save Sara’s business. She’d do whatever it took for her sis to hang onto the one thing she had left.

She needed Beck Blackwood. Correction: she needed his business. Getting the two mixed up would end in disaster.

“Honesty’s important to me. I assumed it would be to a businessman like you, too?”

“Okay then, why don’t we start the pitch a little early?” He watched her, thoughtful, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what she was up to. “Tell me your credentials.”

Uh-oh, this isn’t what she wanted. When she pitched her ideas she’d envisioned office space between them, a PowerPoint presentation at her fingertips, and a host of facts to dazzle him. She hadn’t imagined being cocooned in the intimacy of a limo, his crisp citrus aftershave blending with the interior’s new-leather smell for an intoxicating richness that tantalized her senses.

She hated how uncertain he made her feel—and how good he smelled. “I’d prefer to use visuals to accompany my presentation.”

“What, celebratory handcuffs and phallic cakes?”

To her annoyance, heat surged to her cheeks. “Divorce Diva Daily doesn’t do tacky.”

“Then tell me, what do you do?” He braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, immediately shrinking the limo space further.

Damn, she couldn’t put him off. She’d have to give him something without compromising the kick-ass presentation she’d fast-tracked earlier today.

“We focus on classy celebrations of freedom. No bitterness, no rehashing the past, no dwelling—our aim is to focus on the future.” She held up her hand, fingers extended, ready to tick off points. “Food. Drink. Music. Entertainment. The staples of any great party, but we gear it toward the individual in such a way they have the time of their lives without any regrets. Leave the past behind, celebrate the future—that’s basically our motto.”

He continued to watch her, coolly assessing.

She didn’t like the silence, so she plowed on. “As for my credentials, I’m a freelancer. I have a marketing degree and have worked on several major motion picture campaigns in Hollywood.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like party planning experience to me.”

Fan-freaking-tastic. She’d hoped to impress him with her real skills. Trust Einstein to home in on what she
hadn’t
said.

She could lie, bluff her way out of it, verbally pad her résum
é
. But she’d told him she was honest and he’d probably seen through her. “My sister owns the business. I help out on occasion, but she’s taking a break at the moment, so you get me instead.”

She could’ve sworn she heard him mutter “Lucky me,” their locked gazes underlined by a sizzle she’d rather not define.

To her relief, he leaned back and she felt like she could breathe again.

“So you’re the diva, huh?”

“Only at work. Away from it, I’m a pussycat.”

Where had that come from? Sounded like she was flirting with him. Not good.

“De-clawed, I hope?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The good news? She’d distracted him from badgering her for the rest of her presentation.

The bad news? They’d somehow moved beyond work into murky territory.

“You’re an intriguing woman.”

The way he said it, with a hint of admiration, and the way he looked at her, like he couldn’t tear his gaze away, made her feel squirmy and proud and desired all at the same time.

So she did what she always did when rattled: deflect with humor. “That’s what they all say.”

Thankfully, the limo glided to a stop at that moment and effectively ended their conversation.

Good. She couldn’t handle much more of being confined with the hotshot, her every move and word being scrutinized. Time to nail this presentation and head back to Provost as fast as his private jet could take her, far from green eyes and quirky smiles and bedroom voices.

…

Beck had never been so glad to enter the safety of his office.

While many of his colleagues considered home to be their sanctuary, this place was his. It was where he did his best thinking, where he could shut out the world, where he could escape from being constantly scrutinized.

He’d hated that as a kid, being stared at, though back then it had been with ridicule and derision. These days he commanded respect and attention through his achievements and he’d worked his ass off to get it, but every now and then he longed for the simplicity of lying beneath the stars, the clearness of the desert sky above, the residual warmth from a scorching day in the sand beneath.

“Nice view.”

As he stared at Poppy, propped against the floor to ceiling glass window overlooking a glittering Vegas far below, he couldn’t agree more. “Sensational.”

An inflection in his tone must’ve alerted her he wasn’t talking about the view. She turned slowly, her gaze questioning. Let her wonder. He had no intention of answering, considering he had no idea what it was about the bold woman that had him thinking beyond her pitch and how he could convince her to stay the night with him. For real.

He’d been taunting earlier, interested to see how she’d handle being on the defensive. She’d impressed him with her ability to think quickly, to parry and deflect, and it had added to her appeal. He shouldn’t have shown weakness in admitting she intrigued him. Weakness resulted in failure. But there was something about her bluntness that demanded the same.

“Go ahead and set up. I’ll check my messages.” Anything to distract from the surprising urge to say screw the presentation and take her out for a night on the town she’d never forget.

“Okey-dokey.” She fiddled with PowerPoint on her tablet as he checked his emails, one in particular catching his eye.

He scanned the email, the contents making his fingers curl into fists under the desk. Swallowing a string of invective curses, he wished he could clamp Stan’s balls in a vice, and return the favor the big guy was doing to him.

According to Stan, another construction company could be tendering for the nationwide hotel deal, so if Blackwood Enterprises wanted to stay in contention, Beck had to get his ass into gear.

Good old Stan used polite terminology but that was the gist of the email.

Frigging great
.

Not only did he need a wife to gain respectability, he needed it done yesterday.

Beck was used to tight deadlines, but this? Tough task.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Poppy said.

And as he glanced at her, all tempting curves and firecracker mouth, the answer to his problems detonated in an explosion of logic and foolhardiness.

Fuck, it was a crazy solution, but with his time frame? He had to go for it.

But he’d ease into it first, mention the idea of needing a wife, see how she reacted. Then he’d let her give her spiel, throw in a mega-cash incentive she couldn’t refuse, and lay the rest of his cards on the table. He wouldn’t accept anything less than a winning hand.

“I know the diva can plan parties, but how good are you at finding me a wife?”