Not the Marrying Kind (3 page)

“See? Told you throwing a party to celebrate my freedom is cool.” Lou leaped from his chair, staggered a little, before gaining his balance. “I’m a friggin’ genius.”

Debatable, as Beck took in Lou’s crumpled shirt, unkempt trousers, and rumpled jacket.

But the faster he appeased his friend, the faster he’d get him off to bed so he could meet the planner and tick one more thing off his extensive to-do list.

“I’ll hash out the details tonight and fill you in tomorrow.”

“Maybe I should come with you? Help plan?” Lou peered at him through bleary eyes and Beck knew if the party planner took one look at him she’d re-board the jet for LA. “I can help. Divorce parties are hip, all the celebs are doing it. Even the local business journal and CNN said so.”

Beck couldn’t give a shit whether the President himself approved of divorce parties. He needed to appease Lou so he could get this thing done and move onto more important matters, like planning his next line of attack with the investors. And finding himself a wife.

“So you checked out that website link I gave you?”

Before Beck could bundle him toward the nearest elevator, Lou had whipped out his smartphone and brought up Divorce Diva Daily, grinning inanely as he peered at the website. “Yep, I’m going to get me a little divorce diva to throw the biggest damned party Vegas has ever seen.”

“Got it. Big party. I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll come meet her—”

“No.”

Lou finally picked up on the
Don’t jerk me around
intonation, and nodded. “Okay. But this party has to be mega.” He threw his arms wide. “I want the whole goddamn town to know nobody gets to stick it to Lou Robinson.”

“Leave it to me—”

“I need closure.” Lou gripped Beck’s arm in a surprisingly strong grasp for a near-teetotaler who’d downed three quarters of a bottle of whiskey. “You’ll take care of this, right?”

Casting a dubious glance at the website, Beck nodded.

“You know what
you
need?” Lou jabbed a finger at the website. “The opposite of this.”

Beck had to drag Lou to the elevator. Fast.

“You need a wife.” Lou grinned like he’d single-handedly solved the world’s El Ni
ñ
o crisis. “Those investors think Blackwood Enterprises is trash? Show them you’re not.”

The fact his inebriated friend had inadvertently echoed his irrational thoughts from earlier didn’t help Beck’s mood.

“Yeah, maybe I should ask this divorce party chick for marital advice or a fixup.”

“Can’t be any worse than this morning.” Lou winced. “Smug bastards. Hate uptight pricks like that.”

Beck couldn’t agree more.

“Maybe the divorce diva runs a dating site, too?” Lou snapped his fingers. “Instant wifey.”

“You’re insane.”

Besides, Beck had already thoroughly researched the diva and she didn’t moonlight as a matchmaker. Her terse reply to his email summons had made him laugh. What did she think, that he’d go into a face-to-face consult unprepared? Would be interesting what she came up with when he confronted her. Would she scuttle him with BS or tell the truth?

“Drunk
and
insane,” Beck amended.

“You have to admit, the chick has style.” Lou chuckled as he scanned the diva’s website and Beck couldn’t help but take a look. The fact that she’d made him laugh with her first blog entry? A one-off.

BURN BABY BURN

The physical fallout from a marriage break-up can be the pits. Reminders of your ex everywhere you turn, from old razors lurking in bathroom cabinets to slash unsuspecting fingers, to ratty T-shirts with obnoxious slogans you once tolerated all in the name of love (barf!).

He snickered.

Divorce Diva Daily’s advice today is “Burn, baby, burn.”

A burning ceremony can be cathartic. You may like to burn:

Your marriage certificate

A list of things you won’t miss (e.g., remote control hogging, snoring, neuroses
á
la “Do I look fat in this?”, make-up remnants from the sixties, etc.)

Photos

A replica of the ex’s privates

All of the above

A burning ritual signifies letting go, a proactive way to move on. And if you can’t burn, flushing or shredding works just as effectively.

Beck found himself grinning inanely and Lou sniggered.

She’d done it again. Made him laugh. Something he didn’t do much of these days.

It made him all the more curious about the woman who’d answered his email. He had no idea if Poppy Collins was the divorce diva or an underling, but considering she’d be in his office in an hour, he’d soon find out. Everyone had a weak spot.

He’d learned that the hard way. It was why he abhorred weakness of any kind, why he’d developed a hard outer shell by the time he hit preschool. Being raised by Pa had toughened him, but he had his absentee parents to thank for teaching him the art of indifference from an early age.

Before they shot up and killed themselves, that is.

“If she’s this cool in real life, my party’s going to rock.” Lou swiped his finger across the smartphone, squinting his eyes to read the fine print. “Did you see the links to high-profile business mags and journals? Even
CBS Los Angeles
reported divorce parties are the latest, greatest thing.”

“Saw that. Also saw the part where it said divorce party planners are doing brisk business and raking in healthy profits.”

“You’re a cynic.” Lou glanced up, the hint of vulnerability in his blurry eyes making Beck feel like a bastard.

Lou was going through a rough time. The least he could do was be supportive.

Who knew misery paid? These parties may be about consoling and support and celebrating a new life phase, but to Beck, they reeked of sadness and bitterness and anger. Then again, Lou had been moping around, his mind not one hundred percent focused on work, so if this dumb divorce party purged his blues, Beck was all for it.

“Pays to be cautious, my friend.”

“Bet you researched this diva.” Lou snorted. “You vet everybody.”

“I Googled her.” And found nothing telling. A private Facebook page Beck couldn’t access, a few articles she’d written for a high school newspaper in suburban Provost, no pictures. Damn.

After the PI had given him the link between Divorce Diva Daily and a respectable party planning company in Provost, he’d wanted more on the would-be charlatan. He’d come up with nothing. Her initial refusal to meet surprised him. Money talked, and he’d expected the twenty grand he’d dangled as incentive to meet him would serve its purpose.

Interesting. For someone hiding behind a computer screen, his jab at revealing her links to Party Hard had been more of an enticement to meet than the money.

Why? What did the divorce diva have to hide? And did it involve screwing over her customers? Too bad for her the one thing he enjoyed as much as accumulating a fortune was solving mysteries.

And she’d just moved to the top of his to-do list.

“Come on, big fella, time to get you to bed so I can go organize this rockin’ party.”

“You’re the best,” Lou mumbled, shrugging off Beck’s attempt at help and staggering toward the elevator.

Not yet, he wasn’t, but Beck intended on being the best.

When he secured the nationwide deal, he’d prove it.

Chapter Three

Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

Playlist: “You Give Love a Bad Name” by Bon Jovi

Movie:
Something’s Gotta Give

Cocktail: Fallen Angel

As the jet touched down in Vegas, Poppy wriggled in her seat, craning for a better view.

She loved this town. Loved the glitz and glamor, the razzle-dazzle, the surrealism of not sleeping if you didn’t want to. She’d visited twice, once with Ashlee after they’d graduated high school and another time with a guy she’d been seeing for a month.

The first time she’d shopped and done the shows circuit and partied her way through the three days with Ashlee. The second time, she drank her way through the weekend when the guy turned out to be a gambling fiend who had ditched her to play blackjack.

This visit promised to be very different.

As the jet taxied along the runway, she glanced at her surroundings, impressed despite her snit with its owner.

Butter-soft leather recliners the color of ripe wheat lined one side of the jet, directly opposite a mahogany bar with forest green leather bar stools edging it. The flat-screen TV above the bar was larger than her bedroom back home. Squishy ochre cushions placed strategically on the chairs highlighted their pristine lushness, while the mahogany coffee tables were so highly polished she could have used them as mirrors.

The opulent luxury made her feel like she’d stumbled into a princess’ dream. And that was before she’d been personally served a late lunch of sesame-crusted tempura shrimp served with a watercress and pear salad, rose-stewed figs and baklava, and hand-squeezed lemonade by a steward. She would’ve preferred to take him up on his offer of Mo
ë
t, but she needed her faculties clear and functioning for her meeting with Beck Blackwood. For all she knew, it might be a ploy to get her tipsy so he could take advantage of her. A girl could dream, right?

As the jet’s only other occupant, the steward had been attentive yet deferent, and Poppy had almost wished Beck Blackwood had summoned her to Miami.

She could get used to this. Her parents were loaded, but they weren’t rich enough for private jets. First class had been a bonus. She despised the fakeness of the moneyed social circles she’d been raised in, but when it came to flying? Tattoo a giant “H” on her forehead for “hypocrite.”

“Traffic is backed up on the ground, Miss Collins, so you’ll be disembarking in ten minutes.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at the steward, who tipped his cap before easing behind the door at the rear of the plane. Ten minutes gave her time to do a quick blog update before prepping the pitch of her life.

She’d just fired up her tablet when the phone on the bar rang.

She ignored it, until the steward stuck his head around the back partition. “That’ll be for you, Miss Collins.”

“Who—”

But he’d already vanished and with a sinking feeling, she headed for the phone. Only one person would be calling her on a private jet.
His
private jet.

Great. The plane had barely touched down and Mr. Megabucks was already expecting her to jump to his tune. Billionaires and their blasted foibles.

She hit Answer on the phone. “Poppy Collins speaking.”

A long pause made the hairs on the nape of her neck snap to attention.

“Hope you’re quicker off the mark with your pitch than you are answering phones.”

Hot damn.

She knew he had the look, and now she knew he had the voice to go with it. Deep. Resonant. Commanding. With an edge of huskiness that suggested all-night sex with no regrets.

A host of smartass retorts sprung to Poppy’s lips, but she clamped the urge to use them. If Beck Blackwood was serious about the offer of twenty big ones, she couldn’t afford to piss him off. Time enough for that later, after he’d signed on the dotted line.

“I was busy going over my presentation.” She injected the right amount of subservience to appease the arrogant puppet-master. “What can I do for you?”

“Sure you want me to answer that?”

Was he
flirting
with her? Maybe she should’ve fortified those granny panties. With steel.

“We’re meeting shortly, Mr. Blackwood. Unless there’s a point to this phone call, I’d like to get back to my presentation.”

He snickered. “Snark. Like your blog.”

“You read it?”

She mentally slapped herself upside the head. Of course he would’ve read it. If his investigators had discovered her link to Party Hard, they probably knew everything from her preferred cereal to her cup size.

“It’s entertaining in its own way.”

Way to go with the backhanded compliment.

She should let it go. But she’d had enough of his condescension, mega payoff or not.

“In its own way?”

“For a fluff piece.”

She heard the hint of amusement and it was the only thing that prevented her from telling him where he could stick his divorce party. That and the memory of the last time she’d seen Sara: pale, listless, morose, and overmedicated.

“Did my reference to your fluff piece offend you?”

He was baiting her. He wanted her to bite back. Let him wait.

“Lucky for me that
fluff
grabbed your attention long enough for you to fly me out here to organize a party you’ll never forget.”

This time he laughed out loud. “I like confidence in a woman.”

“Then you’ll love me.” She winced, instantly regretting her sassy comeback. She didn’t want any guy to love her, not in any sense. Love was for losers. Masochistic losers.

Though she shouldn’t knock it, considering those losers would keep Party Hard afloat, courtesy of her Divorce Diva Daily ingenuity.

“We’ll see,” he said, the uncomfortable edge underlying his tone matching her squirm-factor at the remotest mention of the L-word. “See you soon.”

Before she could respond, he’d hung up, leaving her perplexed as she stared at the phone.

What the hell was that all about?

She had no idea why he’d called, and second-guessing his motivation didn’t help her burgeoning nerves.

For despite a foolproof presentation designed to wow, she was nervous.

This had to work.

For all their sakes.

Poppy smoothed her skirt and tugged at the hem of her jacket as she stepped onto the tarmac. She’d gone for understated elegance: pinstriped ebony suit with a below-knee pencil skirt, three-inch patent heels, and stockings. Her only concession to her usual flair was a crimson silk shirt that elevated the suit from prim to possibilities.

She wanted to wow Beck Blackwood. To show him she wasn’t some underling who jumped when he snapped his fingers and flung his cash around, even though that was exactly what she’d done.

She squared her shoulders, tucked her satchel under her arm, and marched toward the limousine waiting nearby. In a town where limos were the norm rather than the exception, this one stood out: long, silver, shapely.

After the jet, it figured. Beck Blackwood had the best of everything and wouldn’t settle for anything less. Lucky for him, she intended on being the best in the party planning business.

As she neared the limo, the back passenger door opened and a hint of premonition strummed her spine. The limo had a passenger, and with the chauffeur waiting a few discreet feet away, that passenger had to be important enough to command privacy.

Her step faltered as Beck Blackwood stepped from the limo, imposing and arresting and way too gorgeous to be legal.

Hell.

When he said
See you soon
she’d assumed he’d meant his office. She hadn’t expected a welcoming committee, though by his shuttered expression he was none too welcoming.

He watched her approach and her skin prickled with every step. There was nothing overtly sexual in his steady stare, but every nerve ending in her body went on high alert the closer she got.

Ashlee had labeled him a hottie. He was so far beyond hottie in the flesh it wasn’t funny.

When she’d envisioned their first meeting, it had been in an office with neutral furniture and high-tech gadgets. She’d mentally rehearsed a hundred professional greetings for when an
ü
ber secretary ushered her into that office.

Sadly, her carefully constructed vocab designed to impress deserted her the moment she got within three feet of the guy.

That Google pic? The one bearing a strong resemblance to Gerard Butler? Did. Not. Do. Him. Justice.

Embarrassingly speechless, she did the only thing she could: when in doubt, smile. It must’ve lost something in the translation and come out an inane grin, because his eyebrow inverted in a comical WTF.

“Nice blouse.”

She raised him a WTF eyebrow in return.

Of all the introductions she’d imagined, that hadn’t been one of them, a strangely intimate comment on her attire.

He was trying to disarm her. It was working. Not that she’d let him know.

“Nice tie.”

To her surprise he laughed. “Touché.”

“Was the color a deliberate choice?”

She often wore a touch of deep crimson—poppy—as a good-luck token, hence her shirt.

He slid a finger beneath the tie’s knot, loosening it a tad. It didn’t detract from his smooth shark aura. He’d probably gone for a shot-silk poppy tie to goad her. “Poppy seems to be a popular color these days.”

She didn’t want to ask how he knew that. He probably had a slew of glam girlfriends in slinky, revealing, poppy dresses for every day of the week. The good thing about their absurd color conversation: it gave her time to gather her wits. Time to get this meeting off to a better start.

“Now that we’ve analyzed this year’s most sought-after color for Fashion Week, should we get down to business?” She held out her hand. “Poppy Collins. Pleased to meet you.”

“Beck Blackwood. Likewise.”

The moment his large hand enveloped hers, she stiffened against the unexpected
zap
that sizzled up her arm and centered on places it had no right centering.

If she didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn the
zap
worked both ways, as his pupils widened perceptibly and he quickly released her.

“Call me Beck.”

She inclined her head. “Call me stupid.”

His eyes widened in surprise and she mentally clapped a hand over her mouth. Too late.

“For agreeing to meet you despite your less than subtle attempt at blackmail?”

His sinful mouth eased into a smirk. One she’d like to wipe off. “Don’t take it personally. I vet all the people I hire.” The smirk gave way to a practiced smile. “Pays to be alert in any business, as I’m sure you’d appreciate.”

Great. Was he saying she was an astute businesswoman, or warning her to be on her guard? Whatever. She’d come this far, no point alienating him. This party would launch Divorce Diva Daily, and if Hotshot could keep his mouth shut about her identity, this could prove a win-win all around.

“Just so you know, I’m flexible professionally but I don’t take orders kindly.”

“Noted.” That damned smile widened. “Have to say, you’re not what I expected.” His all-encompassing stare started at her patent pumps and swept upward, coolly assessing, as she crazily wished it’d linger in those places his handshake had zapped a second ago.

“Let me guess. You were expecting bitter and twisted?”

“Would you settle for wary and cynical?”

Not fair. Not only was the guy gorgeous, he had the intelligence and quick wit to match.

“Not married?” His gaze dipped to her ring finger.

“No way,” she said, immediately regretting her instinctive outburst under his intense scrutiny.

He had the penetrating stare down pat and she could easily imagine him facing off a boardroom full of adversaries.

She wasn’t so easily intimidated.

“No engagements, no significant others, no cramping of style.” She waved her left hand in his face to prove it.

“And you’ve got plenty of that.” His stare softened into something she didn’t dare label.

She preferred the intimidating stare to the admiration tinged with a hint of heat.

“Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He reverted to brusque and abrupt, and she preferred it. The less zapping that occurred around Beck, the better. Even thinking of him on a first-name basis implied an intimacy she didn’t like.