Secrets of the Tycoon's Bride / The Executive's Surprise Baby: Secrets of the Tycoon's Bride

“But you’d expect sex. With me.” She didn’t sound as if she relished the idea and that pricked his pride. He was good in bed, dammit. He’d been perfecting his technique since he was sixteen. And he never left a woman unsatisfied.

“Definitely. We’ll be together for two years. That’s a long time to be celibate. Infidelity would negate the purpose of the union by showing I couldn’t be trusted.”

She gaped for a full ten seconds and then yanked her hand free, plucked her glasses from his grasp and backed toward the door. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

She was turning him down? When had a woman ever turned him down? Hell, when had he ever even had to voice an invitation? Usually he cocked an eyebrow and his choice for the night rushed forward to do whatever he asked. Whatever he wanted.

He had to change Lauryn’s mind. She was the right woman for the job—an outsider who wouldn’t spill all his secrets to the very community of people he was trying to fool. She was smart enough to pull this off, and the timing was too tight for him to search for another candidate. The final slate of business council nominees would be proposed in six months. That meant he needed to prove his stability now.

“Name your price, Lauryn.”

“I don’t have a price. And I think I’d better go.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t, Mr. Garrison. Don’t call. Not about…this.”

This wasn’t going well. “Besides the money, think of the advantages—”

“Of selling my body?”

“—of being my wife. Of being one of the Garrisons of Miami. Doors will open for you.”

She gurgled a disgusted sound. “I don’t care about getting into A-list nightclubs. I’m not even awake when they’re open.”

She tilted her head and appraised him through narrowed eyes. The angle revealed the pulse fluttering rapidly at the base of her slender neck. Her ivory skin looked smooth not sunbaked or covered with sprayed-on tan. Was she as pale all over?

“I suppose it’s because of your family’s wealth and power that you believe you can buy anyone or anything. Like a wife. Or the presidency of the business council.”

Damn. “Lauryn—”

She held up a hand. “You should stop now. Before this becomes harassment. Surely your attorney warned you about that?”

Oh yeah. Brandon had warned him in the same breath he’d insisted Lauryn was The One. That warning was the only reason Adam hadn’t planted a hot kiss on Lauryn’s lips to prove to her that he could please her in bed. But he would never convince her that the marriage could work when she was in this frame of mind. Time for a strategic withdrawal.

“Let me remind you of the confidentiality agreement you signed as part of your employment contract. Anything related to my business, and that includes my strategy to win the Business Council nomination, does not leave this room.”

“No one would believe me if I told them Adam Garrison tried to buy a wife. But don’t worry. I won’t blab unless you make that necessary.” She hustled out, closing the door behind her.

Adam shoved a hand through his hair, expelled a frustrated breath and dropped back into his desk chair. He was used to women chasing him—not running from him as if he’d suddenly announced he had the avian flu.

As one of the heirs to the Garrison hospitality and entertainment empire he was a great catch. All the society columns and his tax returns said so. Not only did his family have deep pockets, but Adam’s personal investments had exponentially increased his net worth. Add in his recently inherited fifteen percent of Garrison, Inc. and saying he was financially comfortable would be a gross understatement.

And he’d seen a mirror. He wasn’t ugly.

So why wasn’t Lauryn biting?

There must be something she wanted. Something he could use for leverage.

All he had to do was find it.

The man had to be crazy.

Lauryn placed her purse, car keys and glasses on the kitchen counter of her minuscule apartment and then headed for the bedroom, tugging the pins from her hair as she went.

A marriage of convenience.

What was this? A romance novel? She read them. But she didn’t live them.

Admittedly, she’d moved to Florida specifically to befriend Adam Garrison.

But she didn’t want to marry him.

He was a known womanizer who dangled a different celebrity or socialite from his arm almost every night. And with his longish inky dark hair, lady-slayer smile and devastating blue eyes, he invariably chose women equally as gorgeous as himself.

But good looks, she’d learned the hard way, were superficial and sometimes covered an ugly personality. They definitely attracted the wrong kinds of attention, which was why she’d quit flaunting her curves and started dressing to fade into the background.

She removed her suit, returned it to the hanger, toed off her pumps and placed them on the shoe rack.

“Huh. He says he likes his space, but I’ll bet he never goes to bed alone,” she muttered to herself as she pulled on a pair of faded sweats and an old T-shirt of her father’s. “He probably serves his women’s orgasms with a cab fare chaser.”

As an accountant she couldn’t help but consider all she could accomplish with a million dollars, starting with replenishing the bank account she’d depleted to move cross country and take a job with Adam’s club—a job she’d specifically targeted when her research revealed he was the new deed-holder to her family’s estate.

But marriage? No way. She’d had one disastrous marriage that began for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t an experience she ever intended repeating.

Not even as a business deal.

A very lucrative business deal.

Forget it.

She padded barefoot to the kitchen, withdrew last night’s Chinese takeout leftovers and popped them in the microwave. The scent of Hunan shrimp mingled with citrus in the air as she peeled an orange to go with her dinner.

If you lived with him you’d get to know him well.

Well enough to convince him let her pry up a few closet floorboards in the fifteen-million-dollar estate he’d bought eighteen months ago?

Why had he spent a fortune on a house if he wasn’t going to live there? She’d thought maybe he intended to remodel first, but a check at the courthouse revealed no building permits had been issued prior to her arrival, and as far as she could tell with her frequent drive-bys nothing beyond routine maintenance had been done to the house since her move to Florida.

A lawn-care company groomed the lush yard, and she’d seen a pool-service company’s van in the circular driveway. She thought she’d spotted tennis courts on the other side of the stone and wrought iron fence but the bougainvillea hedge was too thick to be certain, and the exclusive Sunset Island wasn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood where you could climb fences to peer over the top without getting arrested.

The estate wasn’t within walking distance of the club like Adam’s condo, but even in heavy traffic and with all the South Beach road construction the commute would take less than twenty minutes.

While the food heated she set the table. Her mother—her heart hitched—her adoptive mother, she corrected, had always made a big production of setting the table. It was one of the many things she and Lauryn had done together. All that had changed eleven months ago when Lauryn’s father died and her “mother” had shared the letters.

Letters that had been locked in a safety-deposit box for decades.

Letters from her father’s former lover.