Can't Buy Me Love

by Lillard, Amy

  “I said don’t move.” Her voice held false authority, and the hairbrush in her hand trembled.

  “What are you going to do? Groom me to death?” Brodie didn’t wait for her answer. He didn’t have time. Nor did he want to remain buck-naked any longer than absolutely necessary. Talk about your awkward morning after… He snatched up his pants and used them to tactfully cover himself as he searched for his jockey shorts.

  His head was pounding, pounding, pounding. If he never had another drink, it would be too soon. Which was probably the most beneficial side-effect of a hangover. Not that he drank often, just an occasional beer on the infrequent night out with the boys. But he really needed to steer clear of the tequila if he was going to pick up blond-haired she-cats. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her name. She might have purred last night, but in the light of day, she was all hiss and claws.

  He spied his underwear dangling from one red-fringed lampshade where they had, no doubt, been flung in the haste of passion. He must have been drunker last night than he realized. Then again, it wasn’t every night his best friend tied the knot. It was a special occasion, even if the ceremony had been held in small chapel in Las Vegas. Why not get married in the most famous gambling town in America? After all, what was marriage but a gamble?

  Brodie reached for his underpants, and the woman on the bed whacked him in the ribs with the flat side of the brush.

  He jerked back out of her reach. “Ow! What’d you do that for?”

  “Stay away from me, you pervert.” She scooted even closer to the headboard—if that were possible—and clutched the crimson sheet even tighter to her breasts—if that were possible.

  “Pervert?” Last night must have been wilder than he remembered. He gingerly shook his head, the details escaping him as he reached for his briefs again.

  She whacked him. Again.

  “Quit that!” He drew back, not missing the fact that the red sheet had slipped a notch or two. Not that he cared today. Today he had a meeting. A very important meeting, he reminded himself.

  “Just back off.”

  Brodie closed his eyes briefly and made a wish, but when he opened them again, she was still there. “Listen, sunshine. I’d like to stay and continue this... conversation, but I really do have to go.”

  She seemed unconvinced.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have a pervert with his underwear on than one without?” Diverting her with his words, he managed to rescue his shorts and retreat before she could assault him a third time.

  Quickly, he dressed, conscious of her tawny eyes watching him like a lioness watches her prey. She never once moved from the bed, even as he stepped over her sinfully red lace under things.

  This was without a doubt the weirdest… encounter he’d ever had.

  He paused at the door—almost, but not quite—forgetting the night they had shared. He wasn’t in the habit of paying for entertainment, but this was, after all, Las Vegas. And she had, after all, been wearing that slinky little red number and silky black wig. It all fit. And there was a first time for everything he supposed. “Do I, uh... owe you anything?”

  Her mouth fell open and shock registered in her eyes.

  Whack! The brush flew through the air and struck his already terrorized cranium.

  She has quite an aim. He blinked as the stars subsided and wanted to shake his head at it all, but it hurt too much.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he said as he left the room, her sputtering insults barely muffled by the cheap pine door marked Honeymoon Suite. In fact, every door to every room he passed on his way to the stairwell was marked the same.

  What a joke. The couples cuddled up in the numerous “honeymoon suites” were probably no more married than he and the gorgeous she-cat. He just couldn’t believe he’d been desperate enough—or drunk enough—to pick up a hooker. But that scrap of red fabric she’d called a dress was more than enough proof of her profession and more enticing than his tequila-enhanced libido had been able resist.

  “Mr. Harper.” The man standing behind a counter filled with wedding rings greeted Brodie as he entered the lobby. He was dressed in white from head to toe and had a grin that shone like the chrome on a ‘67 Chevy. “I trust you spent your evening well?”

  The evening had been a gold star event. It was the morning that had been a doozie. “My, uh... guest is still upstairs, but I’d like to go ahead and settle the bill.” Brodie laid the room key on the counter, then pulled his battered wallet from the back pocket of his slacks. He opened it and somehow managed to keep a poker face over its emptiness.

  Must have been some night.

  “Don’t you remember, Mr. Harper? We took care of that after the ceremony.”

  “Uh, yes. Of course.” He shoved his empty wallet back into his pocket and rubbed his throbbing eyes. God, even his eyebrows hurt. “And what ceremony would that be?”

  The man behind the counter tsked. “Surely you haven’t forgotten your beautiful new bride already?”

  “Excuse me?” Brodie stopped mid-rub. For a minute he thought the man had said bride.

  “And what a lovely bride she was.”

  He had said bride. He’d said it twice.

  “Oh, yeah.” Brodie exhaled, then nodded. “My bride. Sure. I remember.” There was a fraction of a second when he wondered if perhaps he had actually married the golden-haired hooker, but that just couldn’t be. Obviously, the man behind the counter thought they were married because Brodie had registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Harper. He couldn’t blame the man. It was an honest mistake, even if this was Sin City.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I can’t tell you when I’ve witnessed a more beautiful ceremony.”

  “You witnessed?” Brodie sucked in his breath and held it.

  “I wed you myself. Don’t you remember?”

  “Then we’re really...” He didn’t want to say the word. “She and I are.... We’re...”

  “Married,” the official supplied with a happy nod.

  For the first time since the blonde had screamed and set off the pounding in his head, Brodie noticed the band that circled the fourth finger of his left hand. Married. Images of a scarlet chapel and gold rings flitted through his mind. Lost in the fog of straight shots of tequila, the whole ordeal seemed like a dream. But if what the man said was true...

  Holy heaven. The last time Brodie had gotten drunk had been the day his grandfather died, the day before he’d dropped out of school and gone to work. Then, he’d only acquired a tattoo, but this time... He uttered a word that Nan would have surely scolded him for. Married? And to a hooker? A gorgeous hooker. An expensive hooker by the depleted state of his wallet, but a hooker none-the-less.

  “Where’s my dress?”

  Brodie half-turned as his hooker-bride stumped down the stairs, her naked glory covered by the rumpled satin sheet. One red, high-rise pump was missing.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he replied, his headache tripling.

  “You took it off. You find it.” She punched him hard in the chest with one red lacquered fingernail.

  “You want it. You find it,” he countered.

  “That dress was an Armani. And you—”

  Brodie leaned away from the blonde and closer to the man behind the counter. “Are you sure we’re married?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “Married?” she squeaked.

  “One hundred percent sure?” Brodie added.

  “It was a lovely ceremony.”

  “Married?”

  Damn, Brodie thought. He was too nice of a guy, but he couldn’t stand the panic he heard in her voice. He faced her and took her left hand in his own, turning them both so she could see their identical rings. “Seems we tied the knot last night, sunshine.”

  ****

  “But it was a dream,” Savanna whispered. The gold twinkled its reality, and she felt her limbs go numb. Just in time she remembered her state of dress—or rather undress—and hastily clutched
at the gaudy sheet before she exposed herself to the curious gaze of the proprietor. And her husband. Dear God, what had she done?

  Her plan had been simple. Follow Parker and find out just who wore the Dangerous Pink lipstick she’d seen on his collar. Then her father couldn’t protest when she broke off the engagement. But just where had her careful plans gone awry? In the bar of the not-so-prestigious Do Drop Inn and Casino where she had stopped to gain her courage? She’d known no one would recognize her there—especially not while she was wearing a shoulder-length black wig and dark glasses. It should have been the perfect place to relish in her victory. After all, she had succeeded where two P.I.’s had failed.

  But things had gotten twisted around sometime after the bartender brought her a second tea, after he walked in. From that time until now, everything was fuzzy. If she didn’t know differently, she’d swear that she had been intoxicated or dreaming—or perhaps both. But it was real, from the ring on her left hand to the faint mark the hunk had left on her right shoulder.

  She looked to this man who was now her husband. He was her husband, and she didn’t even know his name. Arnold was going to have a fit. She was in the habit of making a mess out of things, but this was the worst one yet. She’d slept with a stranger. Married him even. She’d screwed up big time. “I would like my dress back, please,” she said demurely. Or as demurely as she could, given her present circumstances.

  “Perhaps you should look upstairs.” The hunk nodded his dark head toward the couple who had just arrived and was staring at them quizzically.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “But I’ve looked there.”

  “Try the chandelier.” He grinned. “It was quite a night.”

  His lopsided smile stayed with her on her long, uneven trip back up the stairs and to the honeymoon suite where they had spent the night. Together. Locked in a carnal embrace sanctified by the state of Nevada.

  As the hunky pervert suggested, Savanna found the scrap of red silk generously known as a dress hanging on the plastic chandelier. She quickly donned it, though its modesty was considerably less than the hotel’s sheet. But she couldn’t talk to her father, even on the phone, if she was half-naked. She picked up the hotel’s red plastic phone and dialed.

  “Daddy?”

  “What did you do now?” Arnold Morgan’s voice was resigned. They both knew she only addressed him as “daddy” when she was in trouble. And they both knew that was all too often.

  “Um… I had a little problem last night.”

  “How little of a problem?”

  Savanna bit her lip. The image of her new husband standing—naked—in this very room with his workman’s tan and his whipcord leanness flashed so clearly before her eyes that he could have been standing there still. “I’d say he’s about six-two.”

  “Must you cause trouble with every bouncer in the city?”

  “I don’t think he’s a—”

  “How much did you lose?” Her father’s voice was tight, a tone she was quite accustomed to.

  “It’s a matter of perspective,” she hedged, not at all liking the way the conversation was going. Was it just her imagination or was her father more upset than usual? “All in how you look at it.”

  “How much, Savanna?”

  She sighed. “About half.”

  “I don’t have time for these games. Half of what you had in your purse? Half of what I gave you last night? Half of what, Savanna?”

  “Half of everything. You see, I married him.”

  “What?” Her father’s explosion was more than she was prepared for. Never once, in all of her antics to gain his attention, had he ever acted like this.

  “I said,” she started again, nervously twisting the phone cord around her finger, the one that held the shiny new ring.

  “I heard what you said.” His voice had returned to its normal coolness. That in itself was terrifying. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “Yes, Daddy. That’s why I need your help.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then finally, her father spoke, the one word ominous as it came across the phone lines to her. “No.”

  “No?” She must have heard him wrong. He always bailed her out of whatever trouble she managed to land herself in.

  Aside from owning the Clover Leaf, one of the largest and most successful casinos in Las Vegas, Arnold Morgan was a very influential man. He always took care of it when Savanna got a speeding ticket, or when she was asked to leave a club, or had a bad run of luck at the blackjack table. He always took care of it. Always.

  Her father sighed, a heavy, defeated sound that she’d never heard from him before. “Savanna, I’ve done the best I could with you since your mother died. But I’ve let you get away with too much. No more. This is the end. You were supposed to marry Parker—”

  “I know, but, Daddy, he’s a cheating slime ball.” Her voice rose as she restated the same argument she’d presented to him last night via her cell phone. But just like last night, Arnold wasn’t listening. That’s why she came up with Plan B. Find another husband and she wouldn’t have to marry Parker. It had seemed like a good idea at the time…

  “You’re spoiled and in desperate need of a hard learned lesson.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she obediently replied. There was no use in arguing with him. Not when agreeing with him would get her what she needed.

  “I’m serious, Savanna. You’ve not only jeopardized your future, but mine, and that of the Clover Leaf as well. As a matter of my perspective, you can stay married to this unfortunate bastard, before I’ll let him get his hands on everything I’ve worked so hard to build.”

  “Yes, Da—What?” she sputtered, almost dropping the phone in her shocked state. She must have not heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re on your own, Savanna. Consider yourself disinherited.”

  The phone went dead in her hand.

  “Daddy? Daddy?” She clicked the reset button several times, but it was no use. He wasn’t there.

  On her own? Disinherited? No, surely he didn’t mean that. Not really. He might be upset now, but all she had to do was go home, fix him a drink, and tell him she was sorry. It was a foolproof plan, and it had always worked in the past. Always.

  ****

  Brodie slung his duffel bag into the bed of his ancient pickup and scanned the parking lot. He had a full day planned, his head was killing him, and Nan was going to be... Well, he didn’t know how Nan was going to take this. She could be so unpredictable. How was he going to explain to her that somehow during the course of the wedding celebration, he found himself playing the part of the groom? Then again, how could he explain something he didn’t understand himself?

  He looked around once again, searching for his bride. He’d waited in the lobby for twenty minutes, and when she showed no sign of coming downstairs, he’d waited ten more in the parking lot. He had at least hoped to swap information with her. That was standard for car accidents. If a driver hit another car, it was only right to get out and exchange insurance information. What exactly did one do for matrimonial crashes? He couldn’t even remember her name for crissakes!

  She probably slipped out the back door to find some other unfortunate fool, Brodie thought as he opened the pick-up’s door. Right now, he had an appointment to get ready for, but later—much later after his head quit hurting—he would call the chapel and find out her name. Perhaps with that he could find out where she lived, and then he could file for a divorce.

  He winced at the thought. He had never wanted to get divorced again. Hell, he had never wanted to get married again. Ever.

  He slid into his truck and started the coughing engine. The balding tires sank into the soft black asphalt as he backed Old Blue out of her spot.

  “Wait!” He checked his mirrors to see his bride running across the parking lot after hi
m. That was, if mincing along in nosebleed heels and a second-skin dress could be called running.

  Some throwback gene of knighthood, coupled with the need for resolution, caused him to slow the truck enough for her to fling open the door and immodestly scramble into the cab.

  “We need to talk,” she said breathlessly.

  “I think it’s a little late for that, sunshine. What we need is a lawyer.”

  She smiled in a cat-and-the-canary sort of way. “You’re exactly right, but Nevada divorces can be expensive.”

  Brodie’s stomach plummeted to the soles of his uncomfortable dress shoes. He might not have finished college, but as a poli sci credit, he had completed a course in Nevada law. And Nevada, like California, was a true community property state. Once they were divorced, she was entitled to half of everything. The construction company, the house, the truck. Okay, so the truck wasn’t worth much, but it was his and it ran—occasionally.

  Unfortunately, Brodie hadn’t studied the consequences before he accidentally married a golden haired, gold-digging hooker. Blame that on the tequila. It had nothing to do with the feelings he’d been having lately. Feelings that he was getting old with nothing to leave behind. Marriage wasn’t for him, he’d said so a thousand and one times. Matrimony and babies were for people like Gina and Jackson.

  At the thought of his friends and how his marriage would affect them, Brodie cursed. God, his head hurt. He slipped on his sunglasses and tried to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut. The feeling that like the permanency of his tattoo, this marriage was inked forever on his destiny.

  “I know what you mean,” he finally answered.

  “Good.” She turned on the cracked seat to face him, and Brodie, despite the pounding in his head and the stabbing white light of the Nevada sun, felt himself tighten. She looked damn good in that skimpy little dress. Regardless of her nameless identity and her potential to bankrupt him—regardless of everything—he wanted her again.