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Cal gathered her courage, pulled on her brightest smile and turned to Quinn. “So, what do you think? Want to get married?”
Two (#ue9ee4b5b-291a-5858-b7d5-751b9635aa88)
Cal called a final good-bye to Quinn’s friends and closed the sliding door behind them. She walked through the main salon, passed the large dining table and hesitated at the steps that would take her belowdecks to the sleeping cabins below. Quinn had hurried down those stairs after she’d dropped her bombshell but not before telling her that her suggestion that they marry was deeply unamusing and wildly inappropriate.
She hadn’t been joking and the urge to run downstairs and explain was strong. But Cal knew Quinn, knew that he needed some time alone to work through his temper, to gather his thoughts. She did too. To give them both a little time, she walked back into the kitchen and snagged a microbrew from his stash in the fridge. Twisting the top off, she took a swallow straight from the bottle. She’d been back in Vancouver for less than a day and she already felt like the city had a feather pillow over her face.
Being back in Vancouver always did that to her; the city she’d loved as a child, a teenager and a young woman now felt like it was trying to smother her.
Cal pulled a face. As pretty as Quinn’s new yacht was, she didn’t want to be here. A square inch of her heart—the inch that was pure bitch—resented having to come back here, resented leaving the anonymity of the life she’d created after Toby. But her father needed her here and since he was the only family she had left, she’d caught the first flight home.
Cal ran the cold bottle over her cheek and closed her eyes. When she was away from Vancouver, she was Cal Adam and she had little connection to Callahan Adam-Carter, Toby’s young, socially connected, perfectly pedigreed bride. Despite the fact that she stood to inherit her father’s wealth, she was as far removed from the wife she’d been as politicians were from the truth. The residents of her hometown would be shocked to realize that she was now as normal as any single, almost-thirty-year-old widowed woman who’d grown up in the public eye could be.
She’d worked hard to chase her freedom, to live independently, to find her individuality. It hadn’t always been easy. She was the only child of one of the country’s richest men, the widow of another rich, wildly popular man and the daughter of a beloved icon of the dance world. Her best friend was also the city’s favorite bad boy.
To whom, on a spur-of-the-moment suggestion, she’d just proposed marriage. Crazy!
Yet...yet in a small, pure part of her brain, it made complete sense on a number of levels and in the last few years she’d learned to listen to that insistent voice.
First, and most important, marrying her would be a good move for Quinn. She was reasonably pretty, socially connected and the reporters and photographers loved her. She was also so rarely in the city that whatever she did, or said, was guaranteed to garner coverage. In a nutshell, she sold newspapers, online or print. Being linked with her, being married to her, would send a very strong message that Quinn was turning his life around.
Because nobody—not even Quinn Rayne, legendary bad boy—would play games with Callahan Adam-Carter. And, as a bonus, her father and Warren Bayliss did a lot of business together, so Bayliss wouldn’t dare try excluding Cauley’s son-in-law from any deal involving the other two Mavericks.
Yeah, marrying her would be a very good move on Quinn’s part.
As for her...
If she wanted no part of Toby’s inheritance, then she needed to marry. That was nonnegotiable. And in order to protect herself, to protect her freedom and independence, she needed to marry a man who was safe, someone she could be honest with. She knew Quinn and trusted him. He lived life on his own terms and, since he hated restrictions, he was a live-and-let-live type of guy. Just the type of man—the only type of man—she could ever consider marrying.
Quinn wouldn’t rock her emotional boat. She’d known him all her life, and never thought of him in any way but as her friend. The little spark she’d felt earlier was an aberration and not worth considering, so marrying him would be an easy way out of her sticky situation. No mess, no fuss.
And if she took over the management of the foundation for a while and found herself back in the social swirl, being Quinn’s wife would assuage some highbrow curiosity about her change from an insecure, meek, jump-at-shadows girl to the stronger, assertive, more confident woman she now was. Nobody would expect Quinn—the Mavericks’ Bad Boy—to have a mousy wife.
This marriage—presuming she could get Quinn to agree—would be in name only. Nothing between them would change. It would be a marriage of convenience, a way to help to free herself from Toby’s tainted legacy.
It would be a ruse, a temporary solution to both their problems. It would be an illusion, a show, a production—but the heart of their friendship, of who they were, would stay the same.
It had to. Anything else would be unacceptable.
Provided, of course, that she could get Quinn to agree.
* * *
Was she out of her mind? Had she left the working part of her brain in... God, where had she been? Some tiny, landlocked African country he couldn’t remember the name of. No matter—what the hell was Cal thinking?
Quinn had been so discombobulated by her prosaic, seemingly serious proposal that he’d shouted at her to stop joking around and told his mates that he was going to take a shower, hoping that some time alone under the powerful sprays of his double-head shower would calm him down.
It was the most relaxing shower system in the world, his architect had promised him. Well, relaxing, his ass.
He simply wasn’t marriage and family material. God, he was barely part of the family he grew up within, and now Cal was suggesting that they make one together?
Cal had definitely taken her seat on the crazy train.
But if she was, if the notion was so alien to him, why did his stomach twitch with excitement at the thought? Why did he sometimes—when he felt tired or stressed—wish he had someone to come home to, a family to distract him from the stresses of being the youngest, least experienced head coach in the league? And, worst of all, why, when he saw Kade and Mac with their women, did he feel, well, squirrelly, like something, maybe, possibly, was missing from his life?
Nah, it was gas or indigestion or an approaching heart attack—he couldn’t possibly be jealous of the happiness he saw in their eyes... Besides, Cal had only suggested marriage, not the added extras.
It was a normal reaction to not wanting to be alone, he decided, reaching for the shampoo and savagely dumping far too much in his open palm, cursing when most of it fell to the floor. He viciously rubbed what was left over his long hair and his beard and swore when some suds burned his eyes. Turning the jets as far as they could go, he ducked and allowed the water to pummel his head, his face, his shoulders. Marriage, family, kids—all impossible. Seven years ago, during a routine team checkup, he’d been told by the team doctor and a specialist that his blood tests indicated there was a 95 percent chance he was infertile. Further tests were suggested, but Quinn, not particularly fazed, hadn’t bothered. He’d quickly moved on from the news and that was what he needed to do again. Like, right now. Is it time for you to grow up, Rayne?
His friends’ lives were changing and because of that, his should too. Quinn swore, his curses bouncing off the bathroom walls. But, unfair or not, the fact was that his liaison with Storm, his daredevil stunts, his laissez-faire attitude to everything but his coaching and training of the team, had tarnished the image of the Mavericks and Bayliss didn’t want him to be part of the deal. If Kade and Mac decided to side with him and ditch Bayliss as an investor, there was a very real chance that the Widow Hasselback would sell the franchise to Chenko. And that would be on Quinn’s head.
His teammates, his friends, his brothers didn’t deserve that.
He didn’t have a choice. He’d sacrifice his free-wheelin’ lifestyle, clean up his mouth, tone down the crazy stunts, exhibit some patience and stop giving the press enough rope to hang him. Mac and Kade, his players, the fans—everyone needed him to pull a rabbit out of his hat and that’s what he would do. But how long would it take for the press to get off his ass? Three months? Six? He could behave himself for as long as he needed to, but it would mean no stunts, no women...
No women. After Storm’s crazy-as-hell behavior, he was happy to date himself for a while. And the new season was about to start. With draft picks and fitness assessments and training, he wouldn’t have that much spare time. Yeah, he could take a break from the sweeter-smelling species for a while, easily.
What he wouldn’t do is get married. That was crazy talk. Besides, Cal had been joking. She had a weird, offbeat sense of humor.
Quinn shut off the jets, grabbed a towel and wound it around his hips. He walked out of his bathroom and braked the moment he saw Cal sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, a beer bottle in her hand.
“Just make yourself at home, sunshine,” he drawled, sarcasm oozing from every clean pore.
“We should get married,” she told him, a light of determination in her eyes.
He recognized that look. Cal had her serious-as-hell face on. “God, Cal! Have you lost your mind?”
* * *
Possibly.
Cal watched as Quinn disappeared into his walk-in closet and slammed the door behind him. She eyed the closed door and waited for him to reemerge, knowing that she needed to make eye contact with Quinn to make him realize how desperately serious she was.
Dear Lord, the man had a six-pack that could make a woman weep. Callahan Adam, get a grip! You’ve seen Quinn in just a towel before. Hell, you’ve seen him naked before! This should not—he should not—be able to distract you!
Right. Focus.
Them getting married was a temporary, brilliant solution to both their problems, but she’d have to coax, persuade and maybe bully him into tying the knot with her. If she and Quinn married, she would be killing a flock of pesky pigeons with one supercharged, magic stone. She just needed Quinn to see the big picture...
The door to the closet opened and Quinn walked out, now dressed in a pair of straight-legged track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the arms pushed up to reveal the muscles in his forearms. He’d brushed his hair off his face, but his scowl remained.
Cal sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and patted the comforter next to her. “Let’s chat.”
“Let’s not if you’re going to mention the word marriage.” Quinn scowled and sat on the edge of the bucket chair in the corner, his elbows on his knees and his expression as dark as the night falling outside. Oh, she recognized the stubbornness in his eyes. He wasn’t in any mood to discuss her on-the-fly proposal. If she pushed him now, he’d dig in his heels and she’d end up inheriting Toby’s tainted $200 million.
Being a little stubborn herself, she knew that the best way to handle Quinn was to back off and approach the problem from another angle.
Cal rubbed her eyes with her fist. “It’s been a really crazy afternoon. And a less-than-wonderful day. I spoke to my dad’s doctor about fifteen minutes ago.”
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.
