Married To The Maverick Millionaire

Quinn’s demeanor immediately changed from irritation to concern. He leaned forward, his concentration immediately, absolutely, focused on her. It was one of his most endearing traits. If you were his friend and he cared about you and you said that you were in trouble that was all that was important. “And? Is he okay?”

“He looked awful, so very old,” Cal said, placing her beer bottle on his bedside table. Her father would be okay, she reminded herself as panic climbed up her throat. The triple heart bypass had been successful and he just needed time to recover.

“The doctor says he needs to take three months off. He needs to be stress-free for that time. He’s recommended my father book into a private, very exclusive recovery center in Switzerland.”

“But?”

“According to the doc, Dad is worried about the foundation. Apparently, there are loads of fund-raisers soon—the annual masked ball, the half-marathon, the art auction. The doctor said that if I want my father to make a full recovery, I’ll have to find someone to take over his responsibilities.”

“There’s only one person he’d allow to step into his shoes,” Quinn stated, stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair.

“Me.”

“You’re an Adam, Red, and your father has always held the view that the foundation needs an Adam face. I remember him giving you a thirty-minute monologue over dinner about how the contributors and the grant recipients valued that personal connection. How old were we? Fifteen?”

Cal smiled. “Fourteen.”

“So are you going to run the foundation for him?”

“How can I not?” Cal replied. “It’s three months. I spent three months building houses in Costa Rica, in Haiti after their earthquake, in that refugee camp in Sudan. I say yes to helping strangers all the time. I want to say yes to helping my father, but I don’t want to stay in Vancouver. I want be anywhere but here. But if I do stay here, then I can help you, Q. Marrying me will help you rehab your reputation.”

If this wasn’t so damn serious, then she’d be tempted to laugh at his horrified expression.

“I’m not interested in using my association with you, sullying my friendship with you, to improve my PR,” Quinn told her in his take-no-prisoners voice.

And there was that streak of honor so few people saw but was a fundamental part of Quinn. He did his own thing, but he made sure his actions didn’t impact anyone else. His integrity—his honor—was why she couldn’t believe a word his psycho ex spouted about their relationship. Quinn didn’t play games, didn’t obfuscate, didn’t lie. And he never, ever, made promises he couldn’t keep.

“I can rehabilitate my own reputation without help from you or anyone else.”

Cal didn’t disagree with him; Quinn could do anything he set his mind to. “Of course you can, but it would be a lot quicker if you let me help you. The reality is that, according to the world, I am the good girl and you’re the bad boy. I don’t drink, party or get caught with my panties down.” God, she sounded so boring, so blah. “I am seen to be living a productive and meaningful life. I am the poster girl for how filthy-rich heiresses should behave.”

“Bully for you,” Quinn muttered, looking unimpressed.

“I know—I sound awful, don’t I?” Cal wrinkled her nose. “But my rep, or the lack of it, can work for you, if you let it. Being seen with me, spending time with me will go a long way to restoring your reputation and, right now, it needs some polishing. The Mavericks are in sensitive discussions around the future of the team and, from what I can gather, your position within the organization is unstable. Your fans are jittery. You’re about to start a new season and, as the coach, you need them behind you and you need them to trust you. They probably don’t at the moment.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. She was hurting him, and she was sorry for that. His job—his career—was everything to him and her words were like digging a knife into a bullet wound.

“If we’re married, the world will look at you and think, ‘Hey, he’s with Callahan, and we all know that she has her feet on the ground. Maybe we’ve been a bit tough on him.’ Or maybe they’ll think that your exploits couldn’t have been that bad if I’m prepared to be with you. Whatever they interpret from the two of us being together, it should be positive.”

“I cannot believe that we are still discussing this, but—” Quinn frowned “—why marriage? Why would we have to go that far? Why couldn’t we just be in a relationship?”

Cal took a minute to come up with a response that made sense. “Because if we just pretend to have a relationship, then it could be interpreted as me being another notch on your belt, another of your bang-her-’til-you’re-bored women. No, you have to be taken seriously and what’s more serious than marriage?”

Quinn frowned at her. “Death? Or isn’t that the same thing?”

“I’m not suggesting a life sentence, Quinn.”

“And would this be a fake marriage or a let’s-get-the-legal-system-involved marriage?”

Cal considered his question. “It would be easier if it was fake, but some intrepid journalist would check and if they find out we’re trying to snow them, they’ll go ballistic. If we do this, then we have to do it properly.”

“I’m over the moon with excitement.”

Cal ignored his sarcasm. “I’m thinking that we stay married for about a year, maybe eighteen months. We act, when we’re out in public, like this is the real deal. Behind closed doors we’ll be who we always are, best friends. After the furor has died down, after the Mavericks purchase is complete, we’ll start to go our own ways and, after a while, we’ll separate. Then we’ll have a quick and quiet divorce, saying that we are better off as friends and that we still love each other, all of which will be true.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s a hell of a plan, Red. And why do you want to do this?”

And that’s where this got tricky, Cal thought. Without a detailed explanation, he wouldn’t understand her wish to walk away from so much money. She’d have to explain that accepting Toby’s money would stain her soul and Quinn would demand to know why. She couldn’t tell him that the debonair, sophisticated, charming and besotted-by-his-new-bride Toby turned into a psycho behind closed doors.

She simply couldn’t tell anyone. Some topics, she was convinced, never needed to see the light of day.

“Being part of a couple provides me with a barrier to hide behind when the demands of my father’s high-society world become too much. I need to be able to refuse invitations to cocktail parties and events, to not go to dinner with eligible men, to do the minimal amount of socializing that is required of me. In order to get away with that without offending anyone, I need a good excuse.” Her mouth widened into a smile. “My brand-new husband would be an excellent excuse.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “You’re asking me to marry you so you can duck your social obligations? Do you know how lame that sounds?”

It did sound lame, even to her. “Sure, but it will stop me from going nuts.”

“The press will be all over us like a rash.” Quinn said.

“Yeah, but, after a couple of weeks, they will move on to something else and will, hopefully, leave us alone.”

Quinn didn’t look convinced and stared at the carpet beneath his feet. “What happens if we do get married and you meet someone who you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

Jeez, she was never getting married—in the real sense—ever again. She’d never hand a man that much control over her, allow him to have that much input into how she lived her life. She’d been burned once, scorched, incinerated—there was no way she’d play with fire again. Marrying Quinn was just a smoke screen and nothing would change, not really. They had everything to gain and little to lose.

“Don’t worry about that. Look, all I’m asking is for you to provide me with a shield between my father’s world and the pound of flesh they want from me,” Cal stated. “It’s taking the lemons life gives you—”

“If you say anything about making lemonade, I might strangle you,” Quinn warned her in his super-growly, super-sexy voice.

Cal grinned. “Hell, no! When life gives me lemons, I slice those suckers up, haul out the salt and tequila and do shots.” She stretched out her legs. “So, are we going to get married or what, Rayne?”

He stood up and stretched, and the hem of his shirt pulled up to reveal furrows of hard stomach muscle and a hint of those long, vertical muscles over his hips that made woman say—and do—stupid things. Like taking a nip right there, heading lower to take his...

Cal slammed her eyes shut and hauled in some much-needed air. Had she really fantasized about kissing Quinn...there? She waited for the wave of shame, but nothing happened. Well, she was still wondering how good those muscles and his masculine skin would feel under her hands, on her tongue.

She had to get out of his bedroom. Now. Before she did something stupid like slapping her mouth on his. Her libido wasn’t gently creeping back; it was galloping in on a white stallion, naked and howling.

Maybe getting hitched wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had. She should backtrack, tell Quinn that this was a crazy-bad idea, that she’d changed her mind.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Quinn said. “Let’s get hitched.”

Oh, damn. Too late.

Three (#ue9ee4b5b-291a-5858-b7d5-751b9635aa88)

Three weeks later...

Cal, yawning, stumbled up the stairs, her eyes half closed and her brain still in sleep mode. A cool wind from an open door whirled around her and she rubbed her hands over her arms, thinking that she should’ve pulled a robe over her skimpy camisole and boy shorts. Coffee time, she decided.