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Not the Marrying Kind(41)

By:Nicola Marsh






Chapter Eleven



Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

Playlist: “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” by Pat Benatar

Movie: One Fine Day

Cocktail: Angel’s Lips





Poppy had just zipped her overnight bag when Beck barged into the penthouse suite.

“Change of plans. We need to attend one last party before you head out to the desert.”

Poppy hated being told what to do almost as much as having to jump to his tune because she’d agreed to this farce of a marriage. That didn’t mean she’d make it easy for him. “Is that right?”

“Don’t give me grief.” He shrugged out of his jacket and ripped off his tie before heading for the bathroom. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Not what you said last night.”

If her barb registered he didn’t show it as he splashed water on his face, spritzed aftershave, and grabbed a fresh tie from his extensive collection.

Cheap shot, considering she was as much to blame for the last few nights’ lapse as he was, but the fact he ignored her during the days following sizzling nights really rankled. It shouldn’t. Not with a clear-cut business agreement of a marriage. But it did. Sue her for being a fickle female prone to flights of fantasy: like the one where he’d rush into the penthouse and rip off her clothes because he’d been as stunned by their connection the last three nights as she was.

“We need to put in an appearance at a party thrown by one of the investors. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.” He swapped cufflinks and plucked a new jacket out of the closet, not looking at her the entire time.

“Beck?”

“Yeah?”

“You may have blackmailed me into marrying you, but I’m not some puppet you can jerk around who’ll perform on cue.”

His head snapped up, his gaze accusatory. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” She marched across the penthouse and into his personal space. When his crisp aftershave tickled her nose, she stepped back, scared by the intense impulse to nuzzle his neck and inhale. “Your type likes calling the shots, I get it. But a little courtesy doesn’t go astray, so next time, text or call me.”

If she’d expected him to appear suitably chastised, she was sorely disappointed.

“My type?”

“Bigshot. Used to getting his own way, expecting subordinates to jump.”

His eyes narrowed to green sabers. “That’s not how I treat you—”

“Yeah, it is.” She whirled away, surprised by the flicker of hurt cramping his mouth. “You want this marriage to be a business arrangement, fine, but start treating me with the same respect you’d afford your colleagues.”

He whistled low. “You don’t pull any punches.”

“Stop acting like an arrogant jerk.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, so consumed by her fury she hadn’t heard him sneak up behind her. “I’m sorry.”

She heard true contrition and her anger fizzled. They didn’t have a real relationship so she shouldn’t care this damn much. Powerful guys in her past wouldn’t apologize if she begged, so for Beck to capitulate so quickly earned her respect.

“You’re forgiven,” she said begrudgingly as she turned to face him, unprepared for the uncertainty clouding his face. “Let’s put in an obligatory appearance at this party so I can head—” she almost said home, but quickly amended to “—out to the desert.”

Everything about this arrangement was temporary, so why did she feel so blah about shacking up at Red Rock Canyon for the interim, until his precious deal went through?

Already requests for quotes were flooding into the Divorce Diva Daily site, and between that and corresponding with Ashlee about Party Hard’s plans in the works, she hadn’t had time to breathe the last few days.

There was plenty to keep her busy between putting in obligatory appearances at Beck’s functions. He’d asked her to stick around for three days to show a united front to the doubters and she’d done it. More fool her, because all she’d succeeded in doing was feeding an addiction…to her new husband.

“Thanks for being a good sport about all this. I appreciate it,” he said, his gruffness belied by a soft kiss on her cheek.

She mumbled a response and fell into step beside him as they headed downstairs for the latest meet-and-greet. They didn’t touch until they neared the function room, when he snagged her hand. All for show, of course, and she tried to ignore the niggle of regret that wormed its way through her pragmatic acceptance of the situation.

She hated pretending for his cronies, hated how she felt when he wasn’t around more: irrationally missing him a tad. How could she miss someone she barely knew? Someone she’d spent a few freaking nights with? Crazy.