Last Resort: Marriage

She’d take bets that in high school Aaron Brody had been every father’s nightmare.

Flipping on the light, she reached behind her neck and unclasped her grandmother’s pearls. Staring at her reflection, she wondered how she’d compare to his host of lovers. Too skinny? Too flat? Too brainy? She’d heard it all. Then, in college, when she’d finally trusted Perry and opened her heart to him, he’d betrayed her. He’d had sex with some brainless bimbo and they’d laughed at her.

But Aaron hadn’t laughed, a small voice whispered. Yeah, but he was too drunk to care, her practical side countered.

Easing the door open, she followed a trail of clothes and found Aaron lying across the bed flat on his stomach, illuminated by stripes of moonlight filtering through the bedroom shutters. Stunned by his nakedness, all she could do was stare wide-eyed at the exquisite specimen of raw masculinity in her bed.

Lord have mercy, his body was perfect. His arms raised above his head emphasized the muscled physique of a man who daily earned his living swimming and hauling heavy scuba gear. Muscled back, narrow hips, tight little butt.

Her breath caught. The events of the past two days were surreal. She hadn’t set out to marry Aaron Brody, it had just sort of happened.

Burrowing deeper into her thick terry-cloth robe, she forced herself to approach the bed. “Aaron,” she whispered. “What have we done?”

No response.

She touched his shoulder. “Aaron?”

He didn’t move. His only answer was a soft, rhythmic snore.

Her groom was sound asleep.

AARON OPENED ONE EYE and groaned as the light stabbed a knife of pain through his temples. An army of construction workers ran jackhammers inside his head. Closing his eyes, he willed the wrecking crew to take a break.

He rolled over and squinted, but his stomach churned. This time he caught a glimpse of a tall bedpost, with a canopy frame. He steeled himself for the pain and opened his eyes.

The walls were white, with a couple of bright photographs of flowers. The furniture looked expensive, too contemporary for his taste, white like the rest of the room. A huge white ceiling fan rotated slowly above the bed.

Where—He bolted up and grabbed his throbbing head, suddenly remembering. Charlotte Harrington! Correction—Charlotte Brody.

The past forty-eight hours slapped him in the face, but he could only remember bits and pieces after he and Charlie arrived at the bungalow.

He was in Charlie’s bed, but where was she?

Coffee. He needed hot, black coffee. He lifted the sheet and stumbled naked out of the bedroom, in search of the kitchen.

He stopped when he saw his wife—his wife!—curled up on the sofa. She looked innocent and fragile, sleep-flushed, her lips slightly parted. Nothing like the hard-assed woman the resort employees called the Ice Queen.

Vague remembrances of last night flashed through his pounding head as he squatted in front of this stranger he’d married. Every time Thurman had danced with Charlie, Aaron had sloshed down another beer. He couldn’t figure out why her dancing with that jackass had bothered him so much.

He lifted the crocheted afghan and took a long look. Gray knit sleep shorts cupped the curve of her hips, leaving her long legs exposed for his pleasure. The tiny lavender crop top didn’t quite meet the waistband of the shorts. Not exactly a wedding night negligee, but sexy in a Charlie sort of way. Her dark nipples puckered beneath the thin, soft fabric, rising and falling as she slept.

One thing that came back to him with stark clarity from the night before was how perfectly those breasts fit his hands. Her body had enough curves to keep things interesting. A couple strands of blond hair cascaded over her shoulder and between her breasts.

Unable to resist, he rubbed the silky tresses between his thumb and forefinger and brought them to his nose. Coconut.

He stared at her legs. Long, luscious legs. He could imagine them wrapped around his hips as he—

Dropping the afghan across her lower body, he slogged through the foggy muck in his mind.

He had a vague recollection of making out with her. Of her body in his arms.

She’d seemed as turned on as he had, but then she’d bolted like some schoolgirl who’d just found herself alone with a man for the first time. Guess the heiress didn’t want to lower herself to make love with a scuba guide. He didn’t delude himself about why he was here. He was good enough to help save her business, but not to warm her bed.

Fine. She didn’t want to have sex with him during this ridiculous marriage. He had plenty to keep him busy. His boat required major repairs. His books were a mess and he had to find somebody to print up a first-class brochure.

But Mrs. Brody wasn’t getting off the hook that easy. They still had to fool her grandfather.

Using the lock of hair for a feather, he trailed it around her nipple then upward until it tickled the end of her cute little nose.

She sniffed and swatted at it as if it was a pesky fly.

Pausing long enough for her to relax, he repeated the procedure.

Her nose wrinkled and her hand swiped it away, coming into contact with his.

Charlie’s eyes flew open and she turned to stare. “Ohh,” she groaned, massaging her temples. “My head.”

“Good morning, wife.”

She scrunched her eyes closed.

He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t think he could stand the pain. “You know, the locals have a special cure for hangovers.”

“They do?” She peered through squinted eyes.

He leaned close until their lips touched. “It’s called—” he covered her mouth and kissed her until she began to actively participate in the game “—una copa rica de café! But you’ll have to make your own coffee. I have a business to run.” He pushed away and stood up, flashed her a wicked grin, and headed to the bathroom.

CHARLOTTE STOPPED ON THE WAY to her office to put her grandmother’s pearls back in the hotel safe, dragging in after ten to find Perry Thurman looking comfortable and relaxed behind her desk.

“What are you doing in my office?”

He eased her lap drawer closed. “Just helping out. We assumed you’d take a few days off to…well, you know.”

“How dare you search my desk? And don’t just assume you can use my office.” She raised her eyebrows in a haughty look she’d learned from her grandfather.

“Whatever you say, boss.” Perry stood and shoved a legal-sized sheet of paper in her direction. “But at some point we need to discuss this.”

Oh, God! Had he found her copy of the prenuptial?

She rubbed the back of her neck, stepped closer, and glanced at the paper. It wasn’t the prenup. Feeling her heart start to beat again, she narrowed her eyes at Perry. “What is it?”

“You pay your front desk staff ten percent more than market. Could be why this resort isn’t turning the profit it should.”

Every word out of his mouth infuriated her. She called on her depleting reserve of calm professionalism. “Don’t question my management decisions.”

Perry remained behind her desk, wearing an innocent smile.

She moved into position on the other side of her chair and crossed her arms.