Not the Marrying Kind (11 page)

“You’re going to visit the office regularly, right?” Ashlee had the strained look of someone who’d only just realized what a monumental change had taken place and was trying to deal the best she could.

“Sure,” Poppy said, knowing she’d miss her friend terribly, and frequent visits wouldn’t help. “I need to see Sara once a week and I’ll pop in then.”

“It’s a fair commute for weekly.”

“I’ll use the company jet. Beck won’t mind.” Especially since he’d banished her to his desert hideaway. He wouldn’t even notice she’d gone.

“Listen to you, Miss La-di-da.” Ashlee mimicked drinking a cup of tea with her pinkie extended. “
I’ll just pop in on the company jet.
”

Poppy laughed at her fake posh accent. “There have to be some benefits to this crazy marriage.”

Benefits…

Which conjured up other potential benefits of being married to Beck, the kind that made her blood warm and her face flush.

“Apart from the obvious, you mean?” Ashlee snickered. “Try all you like, hon, but I see the way you two look at each other.” She fanned her face with a napkin. “Scorching.”

“There may be a little something there—”

“More like a whole hunka burning love.”

Poppy groaned and Ashlee said, “What? You think I’d come to Vegas and not make an Elvis wisecrack?”

“I’m going to miss you.” Poppy slung an arm around her shoulder and hugged her.

“You won’t have time, what with tending to your wifely duties.”

“Just keep Party Hard afloat on your end and I’ll do the rest from here.” Poppy bumped her with her hip.

“The diva has spoken,” Ashlee said, with a dramatic eye roll. “Let’s see how long your divorce focus lasts when you’re making out with The Hottie.”

Poppy could’ve denied it, said she had no intention of making out with Beck, but she’d never lied to Ashlee and she wasn’t about to start now.

It was all Poppy had been thinking about during the entire reception—not screwing up in front of his precious bloody investors—and how she’d keep him at arm’s length once this party was over. For as much as they pretended the attraction between them didn’t exist, it was there all the same: an underlying, potent simmer that grew exponentially the more she tried to deny it.

“I better get back to the guests.”

“Poppy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re happy, right?” Ashlee had lost the goofy grin, a groove of concern crinkling her brows. “What you’re doing for Sara? It goes above and beyond.”

“I’m fine,” Poppy said, but deep down she knew she wasn’t.

Not since Beck had asked her to dance. She could cope with whatever this fake marriage dished up. But not the dancing. She should’ve told him before the reception to skip the bridal waltz. She hadn’t, and she’d suffered the consequences.

Not that anyone except him had noticed how freaked out she’d been. The crowd had sighed, assuming she was so blinded by love she’d cried.

Beck wouldn’t have made that assumption and she hoped he wouldn’t ask her about it.

“Just so you know, I’m always a text or phone call away.”

“Thanks, Ash.”

Who knew? Poppy might have to take Ashlee up on that offer before this marriage was through.

When the last reveler had left, Poppy sagged in relief. “Boy, am I glad that’s over.”

“You and me both.” Beck led her to the nearest chair and she sank gratefully onto it.

“How’d I do?”

He squatted in front of her and rested his forearms on her knees. A perfectly innocuous touch, but enough to send heat streaking up her legs. “You were magnificent.”

“The bigwigs were impressed by your nuptial bliss?”

“Apparently so.” His mouth twisted with a bitterness she didn’t understand. “I’ve been asked to schedule another meeting to revisit the deal.”

“That’s great.” In her excitement, she shifted, and his forearms slid off her knees, making him tumble.

“Trying to get rid of me already and the icing’s barely set on the wedding cake?” He stood and dusted himself off, his wry grin endearing.

“Hardly.” She tapped her bottom lip, pretending to ponder. “Besides, if I wanted to get rid of you I’d come up with more inventive ways.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll find out.”

His grin faded. “You ever stop to think what the hell we’re doing?”

Surprised at a rare display of doubt from the guy whose middle name had to be “Confidence,” she shrugged. “We’re smart people making decisions based on logic.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not like the billion dummies out there who jump into situations feet first based on emotions.”

“How’d you get so wise?” Admiration sparked his eyes as he sat beside her.

“Self-sufficiency breeds street smarts.”

“Can’t disagree with you there.” He looked like he wanted to ask questions, but she didn’t want to answer any. This had been some day and now that she’d finally stopped moving, exhaustion blanketed her in a claustrophobic smother. She yawned.

“Time for bed?”

Another unasked question hovered in the silence between them as he studied her, waiting for her answer.

Heck, what was wrong with her? She never second-guessed herself for having sex with a hot guy. Not like this.

It was the damned ring snug on the third finger of her left hand that was causing all the problems.

For all the signed documentation and straight talk about this marriage being strictly business, she was starting to like Beck a tad. And that didn’t bode well for an entanglement-free marriage.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Now?”

She nodded. “Need to clear my head.”

“Marriage getting to you already?” He’d meant it as a joke but he’d pretty much homed in on what she was feeling, and she sprung up like a jack-in-the-box, eager to escape.

She’d known what she was getting into with this marriage, but after a long stressful day—heck, a long stressful week—it was tough facing reality. They’d gone into this marriage for purely mercenary reasons and it saddened her. She may not believe in marriage, but all the ones she knew of at least started with starry-eyed love.

Instead, she and Beck had reduced it to a cold, calculating business deal, and as she stared at the remnants of their red velvet wedding cake on its towering stand nearby, she had the distinct urge to sweep it onto the floor and trample it to crumbs.

He glanced at the cake and back at her, his expression wary. “I’ll come with you.”

“No!”

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t tell him the truth so she settled for the next best thing. “I need some space.” She gestured around the room. “All this? Pretending? Has taken it out of me. I need air.”

He opened his mouth to respond and she held up a hand. “Alone.”

“Okay.” He sounded hurt and that hint of vulnerability from a tough guy like him had her softening the blow.

“I’m an independent person, Beck, always have been. So standing up in front of all these people and faking wedded bliss was an ordeal. I felt smothered and I need to get away.”

“Is that why you freaked out during the bridal dance?”

What could she say? That dancing involved body contact, and she couldn’t go there with him, not after his kisses. Uh-uh. “Pretending sucks. I don’t like the show we had to put on tonight for your buddies.”

With a terse nod he turned away. She almost reached out to him. Almost. Her hand hovered halfway to his back before falling to her side. What was the point? This yawning gap between them was a good thing. Exactly what she wanted. No emotional involvement.

Then why the nagging unease that it may have been too late?

She slipped off her shoes, snagged them with her fingers, and ran for the elevator.

…

Beck swore after Poppy bolted.

He’d had grand plans for tonight. Plans that involved thanking his wife for the monumental role she’d played in helping him achieve what he wanted. A second chance with the investors.

Instead, he’d let her go.

She’d been in a mood, part snit, part rebellion. It was like she’d wanted to pick a fight, but he wasn’t biting. Sure, he understood her feeling stifled. Tonight had been a mega ordeal for him, too, accepting backslaps and congratulations from people he’d known for years.

It was why the most important person in his life hadn’t been here. He couldn’t face lying to Pa and had taken the easy way out: called him when he knew his grandfather would be at the local stock car races and left a phone message. A lousy, vague excuse along the lines of “Hey, Pa, don’t keel over, I’ve tied the knot. It would’ve been great for you to be here, but I’ll explain when I get home. Soon.”

Coward.

Pa hated the cell phone and never used it. The only time they spoke was when Beck called him, far too infrequently these days. He knew he’d have to visit and tell Pa the truth in person.

Once he nailed the deal so it made his marriage sound halfway logical.

Pa understood practicalities. When Beck’s folks had died, he’d stepped in and did what had to be done. Organized a makeshift room—a cleared space behind a tattered curtain—in his trailer, spoke to the teachers about his non-tolerance of truancy, and laid down the law to Beck in clear, concise terms.

He touched drugs, he was out on his own.

Beck didn’t have to be told twice. He had no intention of treading the same path as his loser parents. In fact, his memories of them drove him to excel, to ignore the taunts from the rich kids because he had holes in his sneakers or hand-me-down pants from the thrift shop.

He worked his ass off to get good grades, a scholarship to college, and a step into the life he craved. One where he didn’t have to starve because he only had ten bucks in the bank and one where people looked at him with respect, not derision.

He owed Pa, and nothing less than the truth face-to-face would do. But first, he had to sort out the mess with his wife.

His wife.

It sounded ludicrous, but he’d married Poppy to achieve a goal, and with that goal in sight he wanted to reassure her he would keep his end of the bargain. Sure, it’d be tough keeping up appearances for a while, but getting her offside on their wedding day didn’t bode well for the rest of the marriage, fake or not.

Thankful he’d had the latest elevator technology installed in his hotel, he burst out of the entrance two minutes later.

The Strip teemed with life. Goggle-eyed tourists rubbernecking, young guys cruising, local casino employees hurrying to work.

He loved the desert but there was something about this city that made his blood fizz.

He stepped onto the pavement and inhaled, car fumes and designer perfume and dust clogging his nostrils. People jostled him and the bright lights cast a permanent dawn in the sky. Rap music from a passing limo clashed with car horns and the blend of foreign accents from all around.

Yeah, the cosmopolitan buzz had him hooked. He’d traveled extensively for business but whenever he glimpsed the Grand Canyon out of the plane window, he knew he was almost home.

A home that was doing a damn fine job of hiding his wife.

He edged through the crowd, striding through the gaps, scanning ahead. Luckily he only hired the best, and his concierge had pointed which way she’d gone.

The Blackwood, nestled between the Monte Carlo and the Mandarin, was in the heart of prime Strip hotels. Unable to stop a habit of a lifetime, something he’d developed as a young kid the first time his folks brought him here, he mentally recited hotel names.

Aria and Vdara on his left before he hit Harmon, Paris, and Bally’s on his right after it.

Memorizing and reciting names had been fun as a kid. Now it served to annoy the hell out of him, as every hotel he passed made him wonder if Poppy had gone into any of them and given him the slip. His heart sank as he passed the Cosmopolitan and Bellagio on his left, crossed Flamingo Ave, and hit Caesar’s Palace.

She couldn’t have got this far so fast, not in those sky-high heels. Before he belatedly realized she’d taken them off before she left.

Dammit, he’d lost her.

Failure didn’t sit well with him, never had, and he clenched his fists, wishing he could punch something.

That was when he caught sight of her, way ahead, halfway between Mirage and Treasure Island. She was moving fast, practically jogging, and he broke into a sprint.

What the hell was she doing? She’d break her neck even without those heels.

Those heels
…the moment he’d caught sight of her in them strolling toward him for their ceremony, he’d pictured her wearing them and little else.

Major turn-on, naked Poppy in poppy stilettos.

Okay, so fantasizing wasn’t the smartest move, considering his hard-on seriously hampered his land speed record. Cursing under his breath, he ran, apologizing to pedestrians he edged around, gaining ground.