Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (8 page)

She may have a point.

I am a little porny.

“Says Lüq. Just like the breast milk latte.”

At the word
breast
, I defer to my inner pervert, eyes back to her tits. “Breast milk?”

“Lüq says—”

“Lüq was indirectly responsible for getting us high as kites and for your cat wedding.”

“I did not marry Chuckles!”

“As far as we know.”

She splashes me.

I lunge.

Water is my second home. Swimming twice a week keeps me sane. Lap after lap, stroke after stroke, I disappear into the pool at Declan’s place, the one in my apartment building too warm for miles of swimming. You fade into nothing but the differentiated cells of the body when you turn into a machine that reaches, kicks, breathes—and repeats
ad infinitum
.

So I reach, I kick, I breathe—and I kiss her until I disappear into the water and Amanda, my own name fading as I become nothing but water and love, tongue and heat, fingertips and pulse. We kiss in the water, my arms steel bands that cage her, our bodies melting in the humid heat of a fake rainforest that contains too much real love.

Releasing her, I wriggle out of my wet pants, kick off my shoes, and swim away, letting the water take me, a simple crawl speeding me to the end of the meandering pool. Designed to look like a naturally-shaped pond, there is no true side, and I misjudge, whacking my hand on the green-painted cement edge.

I can’t do an underwater flip, so I pivot, returning to her, roaring up with a few butterfly strokes designed to cover her with a giant wave of foam.

She’s laughing when I surface, her hair covering her like wet ribbons, her mouth open with joy, eyes wide and amused. I hope her headache’s gone. I hope her hangover has dissolved. I hope we can capture this moment for a few more seconds and laugh together, because it’s the first time in my life that I’ve felt like infinite good exists in the world, and I’m only touching a tiny grain of sand in a vast ocean of it.

“You swim like Michael Phelps!” she gasps.

“Michael Phelps swims like
me.
”

A fit of giggles overcomes her and I watch, cocking my head to catch her at an odd angle, the tiny perspective change an order of magnitude in difference. Luminous and winsome, Amanda’s eyes catch mine, darting between them, as if she’s trying to look at me forever.

I grab her and the brush of her breasts against my bare, wet chest takes my breath away.

“You have the body of a swimmer,” she says, her voice rumbling, making me groan as she nips my earlobe.

“And you have the body of a goddess.” I reach for her and she pulls away, giggling.

“Not here!”

“Why not?”

“We can’t have sex in public!”

I look around. “No one else is here. I own the resort.” I bridge the gap between us and watch her react to my words. Lust and restraint fight for dominance in those lush brown eyes, warm and tempted, her pupils big and open.

“It’s not like we can just lock the door.”

I walk out of the zero-gravity pool and grab the corded phone by the door. Two sentences later, it’s done. A red light on a control panel pops on. Locked.

“Yes,” I say, turning to her with a grin. “We can.”

It’s good to be the king.

I can’t get back to her fast enough, the water welcoming me, the knowledge that we’re alone and will not be disturbed a titillating, erotic secret that makes me so hard I ache. She’s in my arms and I’m kissing her, bare, wet skin dominating every second, and if I can’t get inside her soon, I’m going to die.

Bang bang bang

“Amanda?” shouts a familiar voice. “Amanda? I heard you and Andrew are looking for me?”

Marie.

“Oh, God,” Amanda groans, the sound hot and tortured against my mouth, her tone matching my erection’s voice. If it had one, it would sound exactly like Amanda, and why not?

Her mouth is pretty much where I’d want it to learn how to talk.

“Ignore her,” I hiss.

Bang bang bang

“Amanda! Chuckles is here and he really misses you, and Pam’s worried about you. She’s in her hotel room and doesn’t feel well. If you’re in there, it’s okay. I’ve seen you naked plenty of times before. It’s nothing special.”

Amanda rolls her eyes.

“It’s everything special,” I rumble in her ear, my hands all over her as goosebumps pop up where my touch lands.

“I am about as aroused as a woman at a gynecologist’s appointment.”

I’m confused. “Give me a sense of where that falls on the arousal spectrum.”

“Unless you’re a fetishist, it means I’m about as dry the Sahara now, Andrew. Having Marie pounding on the door while you pound me isn’t my idea of
sensual
.”

And that single sentence makes me go soft.

“Okay, then. Arousal spectrum calibrated.”

Damn it.

“Go away, Marie!” I shout.

“But you said you wanted your marriage licenses!”

I’m up in a flash, across the room, opening the door. I’m wearing wet boxer briefs, but no worries. It’s not like anything’s being outlined right now, other than a package of unfulfilled expectations.

“Did you file all those marriage licenses last night?” I demand, in her face, furious and self-righteous. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but hell
really
hath no fury like a guy with a boner untapped.

The hell drains into the balls and turns blue. All those pictures of a red devil? Nope. Should be blue.

“Did I...what?”

Amanda picks up her wet shirt and wraps it around her chest like a bandage. “Hi, Marie. Did I really marry Chuckles last night?”

She sounds so defeated. I become angrier.

“No, honey. The people at the Love Me Tenderly drive-thru wedding chapel said even
they
had standards.”

Amanda’s sigh of relief goes straight to the root of my heart.

“Did you seriously think that you married that damn cat?” I ask, unable to keep the outrage out of my voice. This should be funny. It would be funnier if I weren’t standing in a misty hot spring wearing wet underwear, skin screaming and body buzzing, my ring catching on the elastic waistband of my briefs while I plant my hands on my hips and glare at everyone.

“I didn’t really think so, but it doesn’t hurt to know I’m not Mrs. Charles Kulls!” She looks wounded, but a bitter beast inside me sets that aside. I’m spiraling through rage that needs to be expressed, frustration at being out of control, like a monster that has discovered the bolt attached to his chain is loose in the stone wall.

“Didn’t the Supreme Court make inter-species marriage legal last year?” Marie asks.

“Shut up!” Amanda and I shout in unison.

Marie cowers. Good.

“Where are the marriage licenses?” I demand.

Her eyes go wide and shifty at the same time.

“How would I know? Is that why you’re looking for me?” She laughs nervously.

“Kari told us she saw you holding one of them, and the rest were in your purse.”

Marie’s eyes land on my left hand, then jump to Amanda’s. “You want to know if you’re married to each other.”

“Or anyone else,” I snap.

Her throat moves as she swallows. She’s in her fifties and done to the nines, all makeup and hair product and style. Unlike most of the older women I associate with, Marie doesn’t broker in aloofness, using sophistication as leverage against a world that quietly dismisses them as washed up.

She’s bold and weird, flighty and unpredictable, and that combination makes me seethe.

She’s cagey. This does not add up.

“I did exactly what you asked of me last night,” she says slowly, backing out the door.

I rush her, planting one palm on the doorjamb, stopping her from exiting. Water from my legs drips on her shoes. 

“Define that.”

“Define what?”

“What did we ask of you last night?”

Her eyes ping between me and Amanda, who has her back turned to us, her arms like noodles as she tries to dress.

Silence.

“Damn it, Marie, are we married to each other?”

Marie’s eyes narrow, then soften, telescoping as she focuses on my face, then on Amanda, over my shoulder.

“Do you want to be?”

“That’s not the question!” Amanda shrieks, turning around, her shirt buttons in a crooked line between her breasts. “What did you do with those marriage licenses, Marie? Were they real?”

“Oh, yes. We all went down to the Regional Justice Center downtown and you pulled them.” Marie has sidestepped the real question here, and I give her just enough rope to hang herself. Intuition plays a major role in business, and right now she’s setting off every alarm bell inside me. But for what reason?

“We really
did
have a marriage license made up?” Amanda squeaks, pointing between us.

“Yes.”

Marie’s not the one-word-answer type. I approach her slowly, chin down, eyes up, sending every intimidating signal I can.

“Start from the beginning.”

“What?”

“Tell us exactly what happened last night, from beginning to end.”

“I don’t have time! Jason’s waiting for me back in our room. Our flight leaves in less than an hour. Carol and the boys are already boarding!”

“Are you taking the Anterdec jet?”

“Yes.”

I reach for the phone. “Easy. I’ll have them hold it.”

“But Jason needs to get to work tonight! So does Carol! And Jeffrey and Tyler have missed school.”

I smile.

Leverage. Ah. That’s so much better.

She sees it, too, her shoulders slumping, her breath let go in a long sigh. “Fine. I confess.”

“You
did
file the marriage licenses?” Amanda says with a groan.

Tears fill Marie’s overdone eyes. She palms away one rolling drop. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are we married to each other?” I ask, pointing to Amanda.

Marie shakes her head.

“Shit!” The word’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“Am I married to Josh?” Amanda asks.

Marie shakes her head.

Amanda fist bumps me, then freezes. “Is Andrew married to...Josh?”

Marie shakes her head. She’s being way,
way
too quiet.

“Am I married to Rainbow Brite?” I ask.

Marie shakes her head.

“Marie, who is married to whom?” I ask tightly.

Her hands cover her eyes and she says, “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” over and over, rocking against the bamboo-covered wall.

Amanda and I exchange a look. I convey, through a single glare and a sudden eye tic, the message that dragging the truth out of Marie is Amanda’s territory.

“Marie, what did you do?” she asks.

“It’s what I
didn’t
do! You clearly wanted me to file those marriage licenses, but it was late and I was tired, and I’m so sorry!” She reaches into her enormous purse and pulls out a sheaf of thick papers, mangled and stained with reddish-purple wine rings.

I snatch them up, rifling through them. I learn something new.

When drunk on entheogenic wine, I spell my name
Ayndrough
. That’s my handwriting. No denying it.

Amanda correctly spelled her entire name, but saw fit to draw pictures of butterflies with enormous, anatomically-correct penises and balls attached.

“The state of Nevada issued these?”

We have licenses for:

Amanda and Ayndrough

Josh and Geordi

Amanda and Charles Kulls

Josh and Ayndrough

Geordi and Josh

Josh and David Gandy

“Pfft. Right. Like David Gandy would ever marry
him
,” Amanda says.

I laugh.

“Because if anyone’s marrying David Gandy, it’s me.”

I stop laughing.

“I’m so sorry!” Marie cries.

“Why are you sorry?” Amanda asks.

“Because I didn’t file any of these!”

I frown at her, completely stymied. “You think we’re upset at you for
not
filing these marriage licenses?”

She grabs them back. “If I rush, I can get there in time for—”

Amanda yanks them out of her hands and flings them into the hot spring.

“You’re our hero, Marie!” she shouts, pulling Marie into a tight hug.

I blink over and over, staring at the papers on the water as the saltwater soaks in, turning them to wet, sopping messes.

Which one is ours?

Not that it matters.

I wade in, mop up the useless pieces of paper, and wade back out, marching to a trash can and throwing them in. Staring at the clump of paper, I sigh.

We’re not married.

I’m not married to anyone.

Great.

My eyes land on an animated Amanda, who smiles and frowns in alternating patterns as Marie chatters away. My right index finger finds my left hand, the metal of my wedding band warm from the room’s ambient temperature. The ring is smooth and unyielding, an infinite loop.

Amanda hugs Marie again, who looks at me with a shaky smile.

“I didn’t mess up? You
didn’t
want me to file the marriage licenses?”

“Did you really think Amanda wanted to marry Chuckles?”

“No. But I’m getting the feeling you really wanted to marry her, Andrew.”

Laughter rips through the room as Amanda reacts.

I just run my finger around the ring, over and over, silent.

Chapter Seven

“So no one’s married to anyone?” Josh asks, his voice peaking on a high note, turning to give Geordi a pouty look. Geordi seems to have fewer facial muscles than the rest of us, because he just broods.

“Nope,” Amanda says with a grin, taking a sip of her mango cucumber kale monstrosity that someone in the casino made for her. We’re sitting on purple velvet couches in a sunken pit near the High Value baccarat room where Jason won all that money yesterday.

And gave it right back to my casino.

I like Jason. Men who give back that kind of money after winning are guaranteed a comped room for the rest of their lives.