Make-Believe Marriage

by CA Quigg

  Quinn’s face filled the screen. Wavy caramel hair streamed over her shoulders, and even in the pixelated excuse for a video, her aquamarine eyes shone with promised sensuality. Confidence oozed from her pores, and when she smiled, it was as if she smiled directly at him. Everything about her was stunning. Hell, even a blind eunuch would look at her and fall to his knees in adoration. If she appeared this stunning on camera, what would she look like in real life? But seduction was all part of her skill. Used to deceive unsuspecting people with a smile and empty promises.

  The picture panned out. A tailored black suit gave her a professional appearance, but the skyscraper heels on her do-me boots were so high her backside wiggled when she walked. A lock of hair fell into her eyes, and when she brushed it from her face, a ring with a diamond the size of a grape glinted in the sunshine.

  She jabbered on and on about romance and all that shite. How hers and her fiancé’s love was fated. How the age-old surroundings of Oak Castle would be the perfect backdrop for Ella and Kai’s wedding.

  Oak Castle? Ronan sat up. Oak Castle was in County Donegal and about an hour’s drive from his parents’ house in Derry. The gates had closed thirteen years ago, and the last time he drove past, the place appeared as if it was on the verge of crumbling to dust.

  If she could get the old chef who owned the place to open the doors, she was better than good. She was a mastermind.

  He closed the video. More emails from Brady arrived. Ronan clicked through them. Most were from pissed-off brides all accusing Quinn of stealing their money and ruining their big day. Some from caterers demanding money and threatening legal action. Quinn Marshall was the worst kind of woman alive—breathtakingly beautiful and completely untrustworthy. Whatever her game was, she wouldn’t get away with it.

  He booked himself on the next red-eye to Dublin.

  ****

  Quinn sat in her rusted hatchback and rubbed smears of mud from her one pair of Louboutin boots with a baby wipe. Making the right impression was hugely important because she was about to meet Lily Crawford, Ella Harper’s public relations manager. Nerves danced in her stomach, but she’d done it. She’d won the job, and now all she had to do was make sure no one discovered her little white lie. If they did, she was screwed.

  Ella had fallen in love with Quinn’s pitch. Who wouldn’t have? It epitomized head-over-heels dreamy love. And it was a great romantic story. Such a shame a story was all it would ever be. Ella wanted to meet Quinn’s fated fiancé, but she’d explained he was overseas on business and wouldn’t get home until New Year’s Eve. By then, Ella and Kai would have already ridden into the sunset, and Quinn would be swimming in money, clients, and contracts, with all thoughts of her mysterious fiancé long forgotten.

  Christmas Eve was in six days, and getting everything organized meant living on caffeine and anxiety, but working twenty hours per day every day until Ella and Kai were married would be worth it.

  If an over-the-top mythical wedding was what Ella wanted, then she’d get it. All Quinn had to do was continue plastering over the ever-widening cracks in her life for a few more days. No one needed to know her world teetered on the verge of collapse. When this year was over, she’d build a fortress no one could knock down. But before she could move on with her life, this job had to succeed. Lawyers and the bank demanded money, her stomach grumbled for more than buttered pasta, and the slumlord who’d sublet her an apartment threatened to change the locks if she didn’t pay the rent she owed.

  If she hadn’t won Ella and Kai’s wedding, she’d have had to file for bankruptcy and say goodbye to Ireland, which meant going back to Long Island and admitting to everyone Brady Gibson—aka Mr. Perfect—had deceived and defrauded her. Facing that kind of humiliation wasn’t on top of her to-do list. Neither was failing. If it took her the rest of her life, she’d pay back every single penny to every single person whose dreams her blind stupidity had ruined.

  She hit her clenched fists off her thighs. Why for the love of God hadn’t she changed the bank account information when she’d cut Brady out of her life? Business 101: don’t give your con artist ex access to the company bank accounts and remember to change your passwords before he reads every single email in your inbox. For the past few weeks, she’d changed her passwords every day, but she was sure he was still finding a way into her inbox because some of emails were always marked as read when she logged on.

  How could she have been so gullible, so idiotic? Simple. His movie star looks and silver tongue had hypnotized her. For eight months, his Oscar-worthy performance had fooled everyone in her life. By the time his mask had slipped and showed his true face, it was too late. All her profits and savings were gone, and so was he. For as long as she lived, she’d never trust another man, especially a good looking Irish one.

  No one had a clue what rock Brady was hiding under. The police were investigating, but even they said there was little hope of finding an experienced grifter like him.

  She supposed she could’ve fled Ireland, but she loved her ancestral home too much. The legends. The history. The people. No matter what happened, she’d fight to the death before she left the life she’d built, or the life she’d rebuild after she paid off all her debts.

  Screw him and his empty promises. He wouldn’t win. She drew in a deep breath. There was no time for this. Self-pity and violin playing could happen later over a glass of wine. There was a wedding to plan. She unclenched her fists and smoothed her palms over her skirt to iron out any wrinkles. The cubic zirconia diamond weighing down her ring finger twisted backward and caught a few threads, plucking them loose.

  “Shit. Crap.” She wrenched the princess-cut bauble free, and then stretched the material taut to pull the nylon threads back into place, hoping she appeared somewhat professional. Since all of her old designer clothes and most of her shoes had found new homes via eBay and consignment stores, her current wardrobe came from discount warehouses and second-hand stores. She wasn’t as pristine or as put together as she used to be, but this would have to do.

  With one last glance in the rearview mirror to check for out of place hairs and smudged lipstick, she grabbed her knockoff Birkin bag and laptop and stepped out of her clunker car.

  The Derryveagh Mountains, already draped with snow, gave a postcard-perfect backdrop. Despite her being in a valley and surrounded by hundred-year-old Scots Pines, gnashing wind from Lough Veagh bit her cheeks and yanked her hair, leaving the beach curls it took over an hour to achieve a snarled bird’s nest of tangles. So much for looking put together.

  Oncoming snow scented the air, and she sent up a silent prayer to the Universe and bloated gray clouds requesting rain. Ireland and snow weren’t a good mix. Six inches or more would cause an Irish Armageddon. The airports would close, people would ransack supermarkets, and the infrastructure would stall. Those kinds of headaches were something she didn’t need. Guests would arrive in a few days, and if the weather forecast was right and the end of the worldwas nigh, she’d have to figure out how to get members of the glitterati from various airports around the country to the castle. But fretting about what hadn’t happened yet was energy she didn’t have to spare. She’d take things one day at a time. What else could she do?

  Ella wanted a small wedding and had invited fifty of her closest friends. Next year, she and Kai would have a Hollywood bash, and Quinn hoped with every cell of her being, if there were no major hitches this week, they would hire her to organize it. Their Christmas wedding would make her career in Ireland, but their second showbiz wedding would establish her career worldwide.

  Her spiked heels crunched along the pebbled courtyard, and she gazed up in wonder, as she always did, when the clustered towers of Oak Castle came into view. History surrounded her, and she imagined the lords and ladies and kings and queens who once traveled the exact steps she now strode across.

  Winter-stripped branches scarred the rough
stone walls and knocked against arched windows, giving the castle a gothic feel. The serenity and stillness of the wooded estate filled her with hope and possibility. Christmas had always been her favorite holiday, but the wonder of the season combined with a wedding chased goose bumps up her arms.

  Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.

  Quinn hung her bag from the crook of her arm and walked toward the entrance.

  Flames danced and snapped in the grand fireplace surrounded by thick, smoke-blackened stone, and the tick-tock of a grandfather clock echoed around the vast foyer. Two red renaissance style sofas sat on either side of the fire and rich tapestries depicting ancient battles hung on the walls. Apart from the dated and dusty décor, the castle couldn’t be more perfect. Most of the furnishings were original, ornate, and luxurious, and no way could money buy a finer or a more authentic atmosphere.

  A damp, earthy smell infused the air, and in the distance, clanging tools sang as contractors fixed the antiquated electrical and plumbing systems. She’d kept the wedding venue top secret, and the construction companies she’d hired had no idea why they were fixing the castle up under such a tight timeframe. Everything was on a need to know basis. The FBI could interrogate and torture her, and she still wouldn’t reveal the secret. She’d signed her soul away when she’d signed the contract.

  “What the fuck’s going on he-yah?” barked a brash New York accent.

  Lily Crawford. For the past week, Quinn had spoken to her every waking hour on the phone and had received over sixty emails a day. Whenever Ella changed her mind, or had a random thought like should her guests do a body cleanse before the wedding, or should her bridesmaids go on a rice-cake diet, Lily emailed or called Quinn, even if it was 2 a.m.

  Pasting on her most professional smile, Quinn walked toward Lily, who marched down the sweeping staircase at the back of the foyer. Her nerves jumped and jangled, but she refused to show it. Revealing her anxiety to Lily could get her eaten alive.

  “I don’t care… Do this for me, you pathetic piece…” Lily acknowledged Quinn by holding up her finger in a one-minute gesture.

  Quinn nodded in response and examined the ass-kicking woman in front of her. The face-fillers gave her face a pinched look, which disguised her age. Quinn guessed late forties to early fifties. The Valentino suit Lily wore was as dark as the ebony razor-cut hair skimming her chin, which contrasted with her ghostly skin, scarlet lips, and sharp steel-blue eyes that could flay the flesh from bones.

  Lily stabbed the end call button and made her way to Quinn. The clicks of her Jimmy Choos popped like firecrackers against the stone floor. This was a woman who would take no shit.

  Quinn held out her hand, which Lily accepted in a bone-crushing grip.

  “Talk to me.” She stared over Quinn’s shoulder.

  She dropped Lily’s hand and followed her line of sight. “Are you expecting someone else?”

  “The rest of your team?” The exasperated look on the woman’s face said you’re freaking kidding me. “There’s no way one person can control this circus. And by your puke-inducing video pitch, I expected your fiancé here throwing rose petals at your feet.”

  Heat filled Quinn’s cheeks and she fiddled with the strap on her bag. “Like I said in my email to Ella, he’s on business. There’s no entourage, only me. But as you can tell from my emails and phone calls, everything’s under control. And you’ll be happy to know the marriage license arrived this morning thanks to an acquaintance of mine rushing it through.”

  “And that’s supposed to impress me?” Lily’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, but before she did, the cell clasped in her hand trilled like an old-fashioned rotary phone. Holding up her finger again, she marched away. Six days of Sergeant Crawford bawling orders was going to be a bundle of fun, but Quinn wasn’t fazed. She’d worked with enough bridezillas and monsters of the bride over the years to know how to handle anyone.

  While Lily continued to suck the soul from whoever was on the other side of the line, Quinn made her way to the office behind the reception desk.

  “Brendan, you in there?” She pushed the creaking office door open.

  Brendan Moran, the castle’s owner, perched at the edge of his paper-strewn desk with a phone trapped between his thick cauliflower ear and wide neck. Sweat beaded across his flame red forehead and cheeks, and his usually flawless salt n’ pepper hair stuck up in weird angles as if he’d spent the last hour tearing it out. If he wasn’t one of the healthiest men she knew, Quinn would’ve said he was a sitting heart attack.

  “You okay?” she mouthed.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders and smashed the phone into its cradle. “Bloody reporters. So bloody much for it being a bloody secret. Someone’s only gone and leaked that Ella bloody Harper is getting married in a castle in bloody Ireland this weekend. The place’ll be crawling with paparazzi and fans before you know it.”

  “Crap. No one working here knows, and I know you haven’t said anything.”

  “Not a word.”

  Brendan wouldn’t have gone to the media, so the blabbermouth must have been someone on Ella’s side looking for a quick buck. But it didn’t matter whose camp it came from because if Lily found out the press were sniffing around, the blame would stop at Quinn’s door. She sat beside Brendan, being careful not to send any of the stacked paperwork tumbling. “Did they say they knew for sure the wedding was here?”

  “Not in so many words, no. They were fishing.”

  “How many wedding castles are there in Ireland?”

  “Too many if you ask me.”

  “Exactly,” Quinn said. “They’re phoning every single castle searching for a scoop. No one’ll figure it out, and if they do, we’ll handle it. But to be on the safe side, I’ll arrange for extra security this weekend. Let’s keep this between us for now.”

  Brendan nodded, seeming satisfied with Quinn’s solution, and slid from the desk. “I suppose you’ve met the T-Rex.”

  “Lily?”

  “Aye. That one’s a right piece of work.” He laughed. “Wanted me to paint the honeymoon suite pink. Can you believe that? Pink? Said it’s Ella’s favorite color. I said ‘A fourteenth-century castle with pink walls? You’re having a laugh.’”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll veto the pink walls.” Quinn patted his hand. “As for the rest, it’s just for a few days. Imagine how many people are going to want to get married here next year, and then you’ll be able to afford the rest of the renovations and make this place a haven. Wait and see, people will flock to here.”

  “I know, chicken, you’re right. But if this week doesn’t kill me—”

  A pounding on the office door stopped their conversation.

  “Ms. Marshall,” Lily called. “There’s someone out here who’s just dying to see you.”

  “Be right there.” She wasn’t expecting anyone. All contractors had already arrived, and no one else was due. Puzzled, Quinn left the office and went into the foyer with Brendan in her wake.

  A man fashioned from pure testosterone, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and a black wool overcoat, stood with his arms folded. His high cheekbones and full lips would make women all over the world drop their panties. Snow dotted his tousled brown hair. Snow. Shit. The Universe hadn’t answered her prayer for no snow, but had made up for it by sending some eye candy her way.

  His ice-blue eyes were colder than frost, but when they caught Quinn’s gaze, tingles warmed her skin, and her vow of chastity packed its bags, waved goodbye, and slammed the door.

  He flashed a lethal smile and strode toward her. She made a move to get out of his trajectory, but before she could, he trapped her in a bear hug and hoisted her from the ground.

  “Sweetheart, I didn’t think I’d make it.” His Irish accent held a slight American twang and flowed as smoothly as a freshly poured pint of Guinness. “I rearranged my schedule
so I could be here for you.”

  “I’m sorry, I don—”

  The stranger lowered her and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you.”

  A bead of sweat slid down the valley of her breasts, and hazy confusion swirled around her mind. Hysteria tickled her throat and an overwhelming urge to laugh worked its way upward.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and held out his free hand to Brendan. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Ronan. Quinn’s fiancé.”

  Chapter Two

  The world around Quinn faded to black, and her legs quivered. She bit back a whimper and was half glad the stranger had his arm around her waist to hold her up.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Maybe she was dreaming, and if she clicked her heels three times, she’d wake up at home.

  Brendan smiled and shook the stranger’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m glad you could make it. Quinn said you were away on business till the New Year.”

  The man gazed down at her. “I couldn’t let Quinn do this on her own.”

  Cold fear clawed at her chest. “How—”

  “Never mind about that.” He nudged his hip against hers. “Are you surprised?”

  “You could say that.” Quinn’s words were nothing more than a strangled whisper. She needed to talk to this man on her own. Find out what kind of cruel joke he was playing and who put him up to it. No one in her life knew about the fake fiancé story she’d told to win the job. “Brendan, Lily, could you give us a minute? I’d like to bring my fiancé up to speed on a few things.”

  Brendan’s confused eyes darted between Quinn and Ronan, obviously sensing something was up. “Lily, let’s go look at the honeymoon suite again. See where we can pink it up.”