Married By Mistake (Billionaires of Europe Book 7)

by Holly Rayner

  “Do you go often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. I own a house in Lisbon, and a little cottage in Ferragudo, by the sea, which was my parents’ place. I grew up there.”

  “That sounds beautiful.”

  “It’s very different from here.”

  “What brought you to the U.S.?”

  “Business,” I tell her. “I wanted my business to do well, and I wanted to make a name for myself. That required international expansion. We bought out a smaller corporation and they were located here in Las Vegas. Suddenly, this was the place where most of my employees and my largest sales floor were located.”

  “So, you had to be here,” she says.

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you wish you could go back to Ferragudo?”

  “I do,” I admit, quietly impressed that she’s gotten the name right on the first try. “Sometimes.”

  “I also had to make a name for myself,” Dani says. “I mean, the garage was started by my dad, and customers knew and trusted him. It says Bell Body Shop on the sign, so you’d think I wouldn’t have to work so hard to prove myself. I learned at his knee, after all, and he taught me everything he knows. But as soon as he retired and I took over the shop, we started losing business. So many people don’t trust a female mechanic.”

  “Your dad must have trusted you,” I say. “If he decided to leave the business to you.”

  “Well, I had to spend years earning my way into that role,” Dani says. “I worked as his assistant all through high school, and over the summers when I was in college. I started at the register, but I was working on the cars by my junior year. And there are a lot of his old customers who stayed with the company when I took over, who I’ve been working with for years. They all know how good I am, and they trust my work. It’s really only the new people who give me a hard time, but that’s still rough. I need new business to keep things going.”

  “It’s interesting,” I say.

  “What is?”

  “Well, you and I are in very different lines of work,” I say, “and we have very different lives. But in a lot of ways, we’re alike. We’re both hard workers. We’re both dedicated to our careers, and we excel in our chosen fields.”

  “We do,” Dani agrees with a smile.

  “And we both get upset when people make stereotypical assumptions about the way we do our jobs.”

  “I guess we are pretty alike,” Dani concedes, and then grins wickedly. “Maybe we should just stay married.”

  I’m so surprised and happy to see that she’s ready to joke about our situation that I actually let out a laugh. Next thing I know, Dani’s laughing too, and the chili sits on the table, cooling and forgotten.

  Chapter 15

  Dani

  “This is the guest room,” Luciano says, showing me in. “I hope you’ll be very comfortable here. You can help yourself to anything from the refrigerator.” He indicates a little mini fridge, the kind you might find in a hotel room, fitted into an opening under a writing desk. “You can leave your things in here, if you’d like.”

  “This is really nice of you,” I say. To tell the truth, I’m in awe of his hospitality. First, the chili, and now, a free place to stay—so much more comfortable than any hotel I could have found.

  “Well,” he says, a small smile crossing his lips. “What kind of man would send his own wife to a hotel rather than putting her up in his home?”

  I can’t help but laugh at that.

  Luciano picks up a remote control and shows me how to operate the TV, which rises from and sinks into a pedestal at the foot of the bed. This is the flashiest thing I’ve seen in his house so far, and it’s in his guest room, for people other than himself. I have to respect that. This penthouse isn’t the opulent shrine to wealth I would have imagined a man like Luciano would live in.

  I think back to all the car salesmen I know at home, with their leather gloves and their overpowering colognes, as if they’d been bathing in it. They all walked into Bell Body Shop looking around like they’d never seen grease and oil before, like they had no idea the muck on my face was the very lifeblood of their precious cars, beneath the shiny red or yellow paint job.

  They didn’t deserve nice cars. Every time I saw them, I felt tempted to say as much. I never did, of course. Instead, I worked in silence while they leaned on the frame of the car, leered, and asked me questions that were far too personal. They called me sweetheart. They said it was cute that I carried such a big wrench, and I bit my tongue rather than shot back that I carried the size of tools that I needed to do the job at hand, and anyway, it was a ratchet.

  Luciano is nothing like that. He hasn’t made a single comment to me that sounded like he was trying to be dirty but hadn’t mastered the art of the double entendre. He hasn’t called me by anything other than my name. He hasn’t made inappropriate suggestions—even under the extraordinary circumstance of finding himself both married and handcuffed to me, a situation that invites raunchy jokes if any situation at all can be said to do so. He’s been a gentleman this whole time, and now, he’s offering me his guest room.

  I turn on the spot. “Luciano?”

  “Yes?” He frowns, his forehead wrinkling slightly. “Is something wrong with the room?”

  “No, not at all. The room’s great. You’ve been really generous. Really good to me.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he says, and there’s a prescient pause before I speak again.

  “Luciano, I wanted to ask you…well, I’ve been thinking about the car show. The one I won the tickets for. I wouldn’t have won them if you hadn’t taken me into the platinum game room, of course, and I do have two tickets, and none of my friends are interested in cars…would you like to go to the show?”

  He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t answer right away.

  “I mean, you do live right here,” I go on, feeling a need to fill the silence. “And you did say you were interested in the tickets. I don’t know if you’re still interested if it’s just one ticket—I mean, I really want to go, so I can’t offer you both of them, but I do have an extra, and you’ve been really kind and supportive all day—I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

  “A bit,” he says, smiling. “Are you asking me to go to the show with you?”

  “We don’t have to go together,” I say. “If you’d rather take the ticket and go without me…I mean, it’s up to you. I would understand that.”

  “I’d love to go with you,” he says, and his candidness catches me off guard.

  “You think?” I ask, stalling.

  “Besides, you’ll need someone to explain the history of the cars to you, and I’ll be an excellent tour guide.”

  I’m about to object vociferously, but I look up and catch the smirk on his face. “Jerk.”

  “I’m joking, Dani. I think we’ll have a good time together, and I’m sure you’ll have a lot to teach me.”

  We drift out of the guest bedroom and into the living room. Luciano’s sofa is big and deep, and falling into it feels like being swallowed up by a cloud.

  “Should I make some drinks?” he asks.

  “Ooh, yeah. Martinis, please.” Part of me feels strange about having another drink so soon after the events of last night—part of me feels like I should never drink again—but the past twelve hours have been so deliriously weird that I need something to take the edge off. Just a few sips to relax me.

  Luciano busies himself at the bar that’s tucked into the corner of the living room and, a moment later, brings over a couple of glasses. He hands one to me and takes a slow sip from his own.

  “So,” I say, casting about for a topic of conversation. “The auto show. Have you been before?”

  “My company exhibited there a few years ago,” he says. “We happened to purchase a very old, very valuable vehicle from a young man who had inherited it from his father. We restored it and eventually sold it to a collector. It was from 1912, if you can believe that. Anyway, before we let it go
, we put up an exhibit at the annual expo so people could come and see it. It was great.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I say. “All the way back from 1912! I hope there will be something like that this year.”

  “Do you want to see the car?” he asks. “I have a picture of it.”

  “Definitely.”

  Luciano goes to his desk and rummages around for a minute, eventually emerging with a framed photo. He passes it over to me. The photo features an antique green car with a placard in front of it giving the make, model, and year. Under the car’s identifying information, the placard reads, Provided by Oliveira Dealerships.

  “Hang on,” I say. “Oliveira Dealerships? That’s you?”

  “I told you my last name,” Luciano says.

  “I didn’t even make the connection! Your company’s famous; you’re a huge name in the industry. Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  “I mean, I did tell you who I was,” Luciano says. “You wouldn’t have wanted me to emphasize it by saying, oh, just so you know, I’m that Luciano Oliveira. You already thought I was a show-off.”

  “I guess I did,” I admit.

  “Besides,” he adds, “I wasn’t interested in trying to impress you by having a fancy job. I don’t like to meet people that way.”

  I shake my head. “You misunderstand. I’m not impressed because your job is fancy. I mean, it is, but I’m impressed because you have such an eye for cars. Didn’t you correctly predict that pickup recall last year?”

  “The engines were releasing too much pollutant. Every one of those trucks failed its emissions test within two years.”

  “I know! I thought that was going to happen, too. I serviced one of them at the shop and the engine was just a mess. But I couldn’t do anything about it except tell the truck’s owner, and he laughed it off.”

  “That must have been frustrating,” Luciano says.

  “It was maddening. But you, you called the manufacturer and got them to recall the vehicle!”

  “Not directly,” he says. “I got them to take another look at the engine.”

  “But you know what I mean. Your actions led to the recall, and then they had to fix it. You’re a part of the history of that company. Wow. I actually do want you to be my tour guide at the auto show now.”

  Luciano laughs. “It’s a date.”

  A date. How weird that I’m planning a date—a first date—with the man I’m technically married to. I point this out to Luciano, and he laughs.

  “I don’t think anything about our trajectory could be classified as normal at this point,” he points out. “I just know that I’d like to get to know you better. And I’d like you to get to know me. Not just Luciano Oliveira, the dealership owner, but really me. I want you to know who I am. I really like you, Dani.”

  “I like you, too,” I tell him quietly, and I’m surprised to discover how true it is. My stomach is fluttering in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s been going on for hours, I realize, and I haven’t recognized it for what it is because it’s been so long since this has happened. But now, my hangover has worn off, the edge of panic the handcuffs inspired in me has faded, and I’ve started to get my mind around what I’m feeling.

  I have a crush on Luciano.

  Maybe more than a crush.

  I don’t know. I don’t know what this is, yet. But I know that when he looks at me, I forget everything else that is going on around me. I forget that Las Vegas isn’t my home, that I’m not supposed to be here, that I was supposed to drive home today and get ready to go back to work tomorrow. I forget that I accidentally got myself married. I forget that Luciano and I hardly know each other, having met for the first time just two days ago and spent much of the intervening time angry at or resenting each other.

  I just want him to go on looking at me. I just want to go on looking at him. I want this moment to last forever.

  We put on a movie and sit together on the couch for a while, and it’s all I can do not to lean into him. I’m exhausted from the stress of the day—that’s part of it—but I also want to be touching him. There’s an electric charge between us, and the gap between our bodies is all I can think about. To close it, just to lean over and press my shoulder against his, would be so deliciously satisfying.

  “We should go to bed,” he says later, after we’ve shared a bottle of wine and a pizza.

  “Should we?” It’s a fight to keep regret out of my tone. I don’t want to end this night. Another movie, or another bottle of wine. Something to prolong this, to keep us in close proximity, until I muster up the courage to touch him.

  “We want to be up early,” Luciano says. “The Marriage License Bureau opens at nine, and we want to be there bright and early so we won’t have to wait long.”

  “That makes sense,” I have to concede. I don’t want to wait in a line tomorrow. On the other hand, once the annulment is taken care of, I’ll have nothing keeping me in Vegas. I’ll have no excuse not to head right back to Riverside.

  And I’m not ready to say goodbye.

  I make my way to the guest room slowly, half hoping that Luciano will call me back. Even though the charge between us is fainter as we move farther away from each other, I can still feel it. I lean against the doorframe and listen as he brushes his teeth in the bathroom.

  For some reason, I’m thinking about kissing him now. The idea occupies my mind so fully that I can’t seem to pull myself away.

  If I’m still here when he gets of the bathroom, if he sees me one more time, then maybe…

  What? What am I hoping for here?

  I inhale deeply, realizing what I want. I’m hoping for Luciano to emerge from the bathroom and invite me into his own bedroom.

  That would be so forward. So presumptuous. We barely know each other. Wouldn’t I be offended?

  Well…wouldn’t I?

  I search myself, but I can’t find any negative reaction to the idea at all, and in that moment, I know that if he does ask me into his room, I’m going to say yes.

  This is likely to be the last night Luciano and I will ever spend together. Why shouldn’t we make the most of it? I’m not typically given to one-night stands or casual hookups, but Luciano is always going to be a part of my life story. That’s unavoidable now. No matter what comes after this for me, there is always going to be that crazy weekend in Vegas and the rich, handsome, surprisingly kind man I married for a blip in time.

  And before we go down to the courthouse tomorrow and close the door on that blip, I want to explore the chemistry that seems to exist between the two of us.

  Luciano comes out of the bathroom bare-chested, clad only in sweatpants.

  “Good night, Dani,” he says. “I hope you sleep well.”

  He disappears into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  “Good night, Luciano,” I whisper. I slump against the doorframe, dejected, wishing I’d had the courage to make a move. Now, it’s too late.

  Chapter 16

  Luciano

  I found it almost impossible to sleep, knowing Dani was in the next room. So many times, I tiptoed past her door on my way back from some completely made-up errand. I made a snack, I refilled my glass of water from the filtered tap in the kitchen three times. I even retrieved my slippers from the living room, despite the fact that I was in bed and had no need whatsoever for slippers. Every time I passed the guest room door, I slowed right down, hoping to hear…I don’t know what. Maybe just that she was as restless as I was.

  But I never heard movement from within the guest room. Eventually, I retreated to my own room, where I lay awake for hours, just thinking about the fact that she was there.

  Predictably, I am exhausted this morning. I splash water on my face and towel it dry vigorously. By the time I’m done, Dani has emerged from the guest room, fully dressed in a pretty sundress and a cardigan and looking very appropriate for a meeting with an officer of the county.

  “I called for a car already,” I say. “Do
you want some breakfast before we go?”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  She looks nervous. She’s clutching the straps of her purse and scratching at the back of one ankle with the toes of the other foot, and I’m suddenly aware of how young she is. I’ve been through a marriage before. I’ve been through a divorce. This isn’t nothing to me, but it’s less dramatic than it is for her.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” I say. “We’ll explain what happened, we’ll sign a few forms, and we’ll go on our way. They’ll probably be doing twenty-five of these before lunch.”

  “Will it be expensive?”

  “I’m paying.”

  “No, I can’t let you do that.”

  “Yes, you can,” I say firmly. “It’s practical. I have the money. In fact, I have it in cash. So, you let me take care of it, and then you can buy us lunch afterward if you want to. But you should eat something before we go. At least have some fruit.”

  Dani takes a banana from the bowl on the counter and lets me lead her down to the car. Despite the fact that she’s on edge, she’s letting me lead, and I appreciate the trust she’s showing in me. It makes the whole thing much easier.

  It occurs to me, as I help her into the town car and shut the door behind her, that this could have been much more difficult to negotiate. Dani had every right to insist on her own legal representation. For that matter, she could have refused the annulment altogether after spending a night in my apartment. I know she’s aware of the extent of my income—she knows exactly who I am—but she hasn’t given any sign of wanting to profit from this situation.

  I wonder how much of this—this kindness of her nature, this compatibility of our personalities—came out the first night we spent together. Yes, we were too drunk for cogent decision-making, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that our decisions were bad ones. Getting married on a whim while drunk was certainly a bad idea, but of all the people I could have wound up married to, Dani certainly isn’t a bad choice. She’s kind, she’s warm, and she isn’t trying to turn the situation to her advantage. She and I have plenty in common—a love of cars, for example. And there’s something else…