But she couldn’t help it, and every morning when she woke to find his side of the bed empty, she’d remember the night before and how he’d made her feel.
Like the most beautiful woman in the world.
Beck was the type of guy to get under a girl’s skin and that was exactly what he’d done. She admired his ruthlessness in doing whatever it took to get the job done, including marrying. Not many people would go to such lengths. Ironically, he was probably thinking the same about her. If he knew Sara and saw how much she’d deteriorated since her marriage imploded, he’d understand.
Which made it all the more imperative she kept Divorce Diva Daily under wraps.
“Will any of these people be at Lou’s party?”
Beck nodded and gripped her hand tighter as they eased into the room. “You’ve seen the guest list. Lou’s inviting every occupant of the state of Nevada and half of Cali, too.”
“I should play nice, then?”
Considering the A-listers Lou had insisted she invite, if she nailed his party she’d virtually secure Sara’s future beyond Beck’s cash injection.
Business would boom and in time, when Sara was stronger and less vulnerable emotionally, Poppy could tell her the truth and present her with a thriving business she’d be foolish to shut down. Yeah, she had it all figured out. Except the part where her heart beat faster every time her husband glanced her way.
“Playing nice for this crowd is the only way you’ll escape unscathed.”
She didn’t understand his bitterness or the frown he quickly erased when she glanced at him. She had her own reasons for hating glitzy parties like this: she’d grown up with them, had despised every fake schmoozing minute. But guys like Beck moved in these moneyed circles all the time, thrived with the backslapping and BS.
So why did he look like he’d rather be anywhere but here?
“Shouldn’t you mingle?” She gave him a gentle bump with her hip but he didn’t budge, her hand way too comfortable in his.
“It’s all about being seen and we’re doing that.” His stony gaze swept the crowd. “I’m so over this,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.
“I thought you loved the schmoozing.”
“You would think that,” he said, releasing her hand. “Drink?”
“Champagne, please.”
His brusque nod made her heart sink. She could think the worst of her blackmailing husband, but why couldn’t she keep her big mouth shut and not articulate it every five seconds? She watched him thread his way through the crowd, being stopped every few feet to air-kiss a fake-tanned bimbo or shake hands with pretentious jackasses.
Rather than thriving under the attention, she saw him slip a finger between his tie and too-tight collar, glance at his watch three times, and cut short conversations with a brittle grin.
But the real surprise occurred when he neared the bar. One of his underlings she’d met in passing was juggling a cell in one hand and an iPad in the other, appearing stressed and frenetic simultaneously. Beck stopped, relieved the guy of the iPad, and started typing while the guy straightened like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, talking into his cell while dictating something to Beck.
Fascinated, Poppy watched Beck smile and nod at the guy as they worked together, completely at ease in a way he hadn’t been with the rest of the crowd of his contemporaries.
And at that moment, she realized she’d misjudged him. He wasn’t like the rich jerks in her past. He valued hard work and commitment, and tolerated the rest of the trappings for appearance’s sake.
All the fake schmoozing? Something he did for his business, not something he enjoyed. She already knew how far he’d go for his business—marrying her was proof enough—but seeing him treat his underling as an equal went a long way to making her appreciate him in a new light.
She didn’t want him to unveil a softer side, would rather hate him for blackmailing her into this situation than like him. But what she’d just seen could have pushed her a little past the like stage—and that freaking terrified her more than all the Gila monsters in the desert.
…
The moment Beck caught sight of Poppy lounging in the sun, incredibly tempting in an emerald string bikini held together by willpower alone, he knew he shouldn’t have come.
One problem.
He couldn’t stay away. He’d tried—Lord, he’d tried. For four days straight. He’d buried himself in work, getting up at five, working out for an hour—it did little for the sexual frustration making him edgy and moody and downright dangerous to be around—then hitting his desk and working until midnight.