by Nicola Marsh
“Who are you trying to convince?” His smoldering gaze dipped to her lips. “Because from where I’m standing, making this marriage appear real in every way is my number one priority.”
Poppy couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, his preposterous proposal reverberating through her head until she wanted to bang it against the wall. He made a fake marriage sound logical, but could she really pretend to be this guy’s wife?
Beck Blackwood encapsulated everything she despised: arrogant, commanding, bossy. Being shackled to him, albeit for a good cause, would be insufferable. But she couldn’t lose out on the twenty grand for his buddy’s party, so she better couch her refusal wisely.
“Thanks for the offer, and I appreciate you discussing how this would pan out, but I’m afraid my answer’s no.”
Shock flared in his eyes before he blinked. When he reopened them, the eerily cool green almost sent a shiver of trepidation down her spine. “And I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me.”
Huh?
“I need a wife ASAP or I’m screwed. You need to protect your sister and I can help do that. Marriage is a speedy resolution for us both.”
Uh-oh. His steely stare wasn’t that of an altruistic man. It was the “You’ll do as I say or else” stare that foreshadowed a threat. Plus he didn’t mention the money to save Sara’s business. He’d said protect. What did he mean?
She shook her head. “Sorry. Not interested—”
“It’s quite simple. Either you marry me or I let slip your precious secret.” His silky tone raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want your sister to hear you’re touting divorce in her condition.”
No effing way. He was blackmailing her into marriage?
Red spots of rage danced before her eyes and she almost swayed, wishing she could punch him.
How many times had she seen guys like him coerce their way in and out of situations? Her dad had been a classic example, buying his way into the local country club, paying off a patient who threatened to go to the media when she wasn’t happy with his work, throwing lavish gifts at her to assuage his guilt at being a lousy dad.
His friends had been the same, too, assuming money gave them the right to control anything and anyone. It made her sick, and now she could add Beck Blackwood to the Rich Pricks Society.
Poppy dragged in several deep breaths, wisely waiting until the red spots faded before speaking. “I take it planning the party’s off the table if I refuse?”
“Smart girl.” He took a step closer and she forced her feet not to instinctively back away. “So what’s it going to be?”
“Honestly? I’m over the blackmail routine you have down-pat.” She tilted her head up to eyeball him. “So you can take your dumbass proposal and—”
He kissed her, effectively shutting her up. A novel silencing technique, one she had no intention of submitting to. But as her brain sent a snappy message to her knee—aim for the groin—a strange thing happened.
“Please,” he murmured against her mouth. “This deal is everything to me.”
She heard a hint of vulnerability beneath his surprisingly honest declaration and it resonated like nothing else. She knew the kind of desperation that made people do crazy things, was doing it for Sara in turning up here in the first place.
“I can’t—”
He coaxed her lips apart, confident and demanding and oh so delicious. There was no sweet seduction, no hesitation, as he plied her with a skill that left her breathless and reluctantly clinging to him.
She’d never been the helpless female type, taking as good as she got, but there was something about Beck’s take-charge attitude that made her weak-kneed and a little off-kilter.
His arms slid around her waist and pulled her flush against his erection at the same time his tongue invaded her mouth, sending a jolt of pure lust shooting to her core.
She shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t want this…whatever this was.
He plundered her mouth, long, hot, moist kisses that had her boneless and mindless with desire, until all she could do was sag against him, soft and pliant and wanting. So much wanting.
An eternity later his lips eased away, lingering long enough to place a surprisingly sweet kiss on the corner of her mouth.
“One last time.” He traced her bottom lip with a fingertip, the residual tingle from his kiss intensifying, as he stared at her with the determination of a guy used to getting his own way. “Marry me?”
She wanted to say no.
She wanted to tell him where he could stick his proposal.
But he’d left her no choice. Sara had been the only parent she’d ever known, and now it was Poppy’s turn to do the protecting. She owed Sara and she’d do whatever it took, including giving in to this incredibly infuriating guy.
Hating how he’d bullied her into this, hating herself for succumbing to that scintillating kiss more, she nodded, a reluctant “Yeah” tumbling from her lips a second before he claimed them again.
“You’re not wearing heels.” Ashlee stared at Poppy’s feet, her eyes wide. “Did you botch the Blackwood pitch?” She placed a hand on Poppy’s forehead. “Fever? Not feeling well?”
With a resigned sigh, Poppy flopped onto the ergonomic chair and propped her ballet-flat clad feet on the desk. “Leave me alone, I’m exhausted.”
“Ah…it’s like that.”
“Like what?”
“Would The Hottie have anything to do with your exhaustion?” Ashlee rubbed her hands together. “Spill.”
Poppy winced behind her sunglasses. Yeah, Beck Blackwood had everything to do with her bone-deep tiredness.
She hadn’t slept all night. It had little to do with the exceptional espresso she’d drunk on the jet before touching down just after midnight, and everything to do with what he’d done.
Blackmailed her into marriage.
And used his damned kissing skill to seduce her into saying yes.
Okay, so she hadn’t put up much of a fight once her hormones overrode her anger but jeez, did he have to be so goddamned sexy? As a fury-diffuser and distracting technique, his kisses had done the trick, and once they’d broken the lip-lock and come up for air, they’d sat down and worked out the logistics—what the prenup entailed, a generous settlement of the half-a-million figure she’d thrown at him expecting refusal, and the terms of their business arrangement.
That’s what this marriage was—a business arrangement between two people with no romantic aspirations or illusions, two insane people who’d do anything to reach their goals. She should be proud of herself for going this far for Sara. Instead, all she could think was What the hell have I done?
“Where do I start?” Poppy took a deep breath and blew it out, glad she could trust Ashlee. She couldn’t talk to Sara, not about this, and if she didn’t tell someone, she’d burst. “The part where he agreed to my pitch?”
Ashlee squealed and clapped her hands like a hyperactive kid.
“Or the part where I agreed to marry him?”
Ashlee collapsed into the seat opposite, her mouth a perfect O as she stared at Poppy as if she’d announced she was a finalist for American Idol.
“Crazy, huh?”
Ashlee’s lips moved but no words came out.
“He needs a wife for business, I need money to save Sara’s business, so apparently we’re a good fit.” Poppy resisted the urge to squirm in her seat at the memory of exactly how well they fit together.
When he had her backed up against that wall, his hands everywhere, she’d been so turned on she could’ve gotten naked right there and then. Funny how fast thoughts of kneeing him in the groin had turned to wanting to grope his groin. “It’s a temporary arrangement. Twelve months, tops. Not so bad.”
The silence grated on her nerves. “Say something.”
“Are you nuts?” Ashlee shook her head, cleared her throat. “Did he slip you a roofie? Were you drunk and dreamed up this crazy idea?” She pointed at Poppy’s
sunglasses. “And take those off. I can’t see your eyes.”
“So?”
“I can’t see if you’re being serious or getting back at me for borrowing your fave Choos that one time.”
“Twice.” Poppy slid her sunglasses off and Ashlee recoiled.
“Ballet flats and no mascara? Gross. You’re either sick or The Hottie kept you up all night. Before he proposed, that is.” Ashlee rolled her eyes and folded her arms, less than impressed with what she assumed was her fabricated story. “What really happened?”
“I told you.”
Her serious tone took a few seconds to penetrate Ashlee’s disbelief, as her friend went from dubious to dumbfounded. “You’re marrying the guy?”
Ashlee made it sound like she was heading on a one-way trip to Mars on a defective shuttle.
“Yeah, it’s good business sense.”
“Good business sense,” Ashlee parroted before smacking her forehead. “What do you think this is, a freaking romance novel? Fictional characters get married for convenience, not people in real life. And certainly not you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not the marrying kind.” Ashlee held up her left hand and pointed to the snazzy carats on her ring finger. “Remember what you told me when Craig proposed?”
Yeah, Poppy remembered, and at the time she’d meant every word of her anti-marriage spiel. She’d been happy for her friend, but when Ashlee had gushed Poppy would be next, she’d stated in no uncertain terms why she wouldn’t be.
Didn’t make sense. Humans weren’t meant to be monogamous for life, and from the many marriages she’d witnessed over the years, she could count the ones that survived with two truly happy partners on one hand.
It was why this arrangement with Beck Blackwood was the perfect solution to her problems. No dreams of happily ever after to cloud her judgment. Sara got a cool half a million and Poppy went some way toward repaying the massive emotional debt she owed her only sibling.
Best reason for marriage she could think of.
“I’m doing the right thing, Ash, but I need your help.”
“I won’t be party to this charade—”
“You will be if you want to keep your job.”
Damn, why had she blurted that? Probably her dear husband-to-be rubbing off on her with his blackmail routine. Tears pooled in Ashlee’s eyes and Poppy reached across the desk to pat her hand. “Sorry, hon, I’m a little stressed.”
“And a lot crazy,” Ashlee muttered, shaking her head. “You’re seriously going to marry this guy?”
“Yeah, and I need you to hold down the fort here while I shack up with him in Vegas.”
“You’ll be living with The Hottie?” For the first time since Poppy had announced her plans, the old matchmaking spark flickered to life in Ashlee’s eyes.
“That’s what married people do.”
The glint intensified. “Married people also do other stuff, so does that mean you and he…” She made a rather crude action with her finger and opposing fist, and Poppy blushed.
“None of your business.”
“You are!” Ashlee jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction. “How far did you go last night to seal this deal?”
“Not that far,” Poppy said, wondering what she would’ve done if Beck had taken those kisses further. She might have despised him for leaving her no choice but to agree to his proposal, but her body? Having no such qualms. She dated. She liked sex. But how he’d turned her on last night with a mere make-out session? Yowza.
“We’ve got a lot to get through today—”
“When are you getting married?”
“Next week.”
It sounded ludicrous even to her ears and Ashlee’s squeal didn’t help. “I better be invited.”
“I was hoping you’d be a witness.”
“Done.” Ashlee dashed a hand across her suspiciously moist eyes. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
She wasn’t the only one.
This time next week Poppy would be Mrs. Beck Blackwood.
How far the diva had fallen.
“Neither can I, Ash. Neither can I.”
Chapter Seven
Divorce Diva Daily recommends:
Playlist: “Trouble” by Pink
Movie: It’s Complicated
Cocktail: Hot Dream
Poppy knew she was in a bad way when she couldn’t raise a chuckle after penning her funniest blog yet. She knew why she wasn’t in the mood for smiling, too.
Sara.
Poppy had to tell her sis about her upcoming nuptials.
It wouldn’t be pretty.
Sara took her parenting role seriously. Sara had been the one to take her training-bra shopping, to pick her up from the prom when that dork Mick Miller dumped her, to cruise down to San Diego in her first car.
Guess she should’ve been grateful that Rozelle and Earl tore themselves away from their surgery long enough to attend her graduation. Her folks had loved her in their own way—a narcissist, absentee way—and Sara had willingly picked up the slack.
Sara had always been the responsible one: going to college, marrying a rich guy from a good family, buying the picket fence house. It had made it all the harder to watch when Sara’s dream came crashing down, and while her sister was getting stronger every day, Poppy couldn’t equate the morose waif now with the sister who ate brownies for breakfast and laughed the longest.
Poppy had considered not telling her until after the wedding but couldn’t risk her finding out via the media. Beck Blackwood was hot property in Vegas; she couldn’t take the chance. It’d be hard enough for Sara to believe in this marriage, and the last thing she needed was to add to her doubts.
The marriage had to appear real in every way for Sara not to catch on to her motivation. That was all Poppy needed, for Sara to discover the real reason she was getting married and blame herself. No way Poppy would let that happen. She had it all figured out: play up the romance angle, downplay her sketchy knowledge of her groom. And thank the powers that be at the clinic for their “No checking out early” policy.
While they allowed freedom of day trips once a client had stabilized, they operated under strict rehab rules, and according to her therapist, Sara wasn’t ready to leave. Which made Poppy’s job of playing the adoring, blushing bride all that easier. Although she may have been able to fool a bunch of Beck’s business cronies, she couldn’t have fooled Sara if she saw the two of them at some makeshift altar.
No, it was easier this way. Sara would be none the wiser and when Poppy’s marriage “fell apart” at a later date, her sis would be strong enough to handle it.
Poppy had it all figured out. Except the part where Beck had emailed her details of the wedding. She’d expected him to go for Vegas glitz in one of Blackwood’s luxurious hotels with an entourage of movers and shakers in tow. What she hadn’t expected? To buy a dress for a low-key desert wedding near his home in Red Rock Canyon.
With his designer suits and slick attitude, she didn’t expect him to give a crap about the desert, let alone live there. It rattled her, how much she didn’t know about her husband-to-be. Then again, she had time to discover all she needed to know.
And five hundred grand was a damned good incentive to figure him out.
Poppy turned into the clinic’s driveway, hit the intercom button, stared into the video cam, gave her name, and waited to be buzzed through.
As the wrought-iron gates swung open she pulled into the nearest parking spot, took a few steadying breaths, and readied herself to confront her sister. Zenza Clinic may have looked low key with its lush lawns, manicured garden beds, and hotel lobby entrance, but having to sign in and wear a visitor’s lanyard before being buzzed through electronically locked doors reinforced the reality that her sister was virtually a prisoner here by choice.
Poppy smiled at the head nurse on her way toward Sara’s room, surprised when the nurse shook her head and beckoned her over.
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“Just so you know, she’s not having a great day.”
Poppy’s heart sank. “Did anything set her off?”
The nurse shrugged. “She was doing some surfing online, seemed to withdraw after that.”
“Okay, thanks for the heads up.”
So much for her grand plan to break the news gently. She’d seen these relapses before, where all Sara wanted to do was relax in her room listening to New Age pan flutes. After Poppy divulged the news of her upcoming nuptials, a whole orchestra of woodwind wouldn’t soothe her.
She paused outside Sara’s door, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck from side to side. It didn’t alleviate her tension, and she braced for an interrogation of mammoth proportions. She knocked, waited for the faint “Come in” before entering.
The first thing she noticed was the drawn blinds on a gorgeous spring day. The second, the faintest strains of piped music. Freaking flutes.
Yep, this would be a craptastic day.
“Hey, Sara.” Poppy’s chirpiness sounded forced even to her ears. “How are you?”
“Okay.” Sara tolerated her hug with the barest of squeezes in return.
Poppy perched on the end of the bed, opposite the sofa where Sara sat like a beautiful, delicate statue: auburn hair shiny, make-up perfect, turquoise designer yoga pants and matching hoodie, but an eerily blank expression and a glassy stare. “What’s up?”
“Divorce.”
Uh-oh. “Has Wayne filed—”
“Not yet.” Sara shook her head. “I was feeling really hyped this morning, best I’ve felt in ages, so I jumped online to scope out the competition, see how business is doing.”
Fingers of foreboding pinched the back of Poppy’s neck and she rubbed it.
“Know what I found? A website promoting divorce parties.” Sara absentmindedly plucked at the string on her velour hoodie. “Some diva saying they’re the next greatest thing…can you imagine someone making money from people’s misery?”
Shite. And Poppy had been worried about Sara discovering the real reason behind her fake marriage. Looked like she had more important things to worry about.