The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) (10 page)

“He can’t stop now, not when he’s halfway to his goal. He waits, with bated breath, for the signal to make his way to third.”

His hands ceased their delicious ministrations. She groaned in protest. Good God, why was he stopping? Then his final words penetrated.

He was waiting for a signal.

She reached behind her to squeeze his muscled bottom and rake her nails across the taut surface. His resulting moan rumbled from his chest, and he returned his gifted hands to her body. The tips of his fingers brushed over the buttons of her shorts and slid down to cup her heated core. She shifted to give him greater access.

“That’s it.” He kissed his way down her neck, his tongue scorching a blazing trail. His nimble fingers stroked her through her shorts, and she couldn’t contain the instinctive rocking motion of her hips. It felt so good. With his lips and his hands he pulled her ever closer to the jagged precipice.

“C’mon, baby. Fly for me.”

Those husky words, murmured into her ear, sent her soaring. She gasped and her muscles clenched, sending a series of seismic quakes throughout her body. She clung to him, grateful for his arm around her waist, which prevented her from dissolving into a puddle on the field.

As the mist of passion receded, rationality came charging back. She was aware of his harsh breath searing against her nape, of his arousal pressing against her lower back.

The enormity of what they were doing crashed over her. Was she a masochist? She’d barely endured an involvement with a man who didn’t care about her, who only wanted to use her for her family’s connections. Had that scar faded away? Did she need a larger, deeper one to take its place?

But Marcus Pearson was unlike anything or anyone she’d ever experienced. She didn’t know how to explain the draw she had to him. She’d never understood the power of passion, how it could make you do things you’d never thought possible. Even now, a part of her wanted more from him.

The knowledge that she possessed so little self-control terrified her. She pushed away from him, her desperate strength clearly catching him off guard. Gathering her courage, she forced herself to look at him. A slight flush covered his cheekbones and his jaw was a slab of granite. His hair, the only soft thing about him, was a disheveled cascade against his forehead. His eyes bored into hers and she wanted to give in to their demand, but she couldn’t do that to herself again.

She wouldn’t.

“You’ve made your point,” she said.

“I don’t know.” His erection was an impressive imprint against his shorts. “The runner is stuck on third. He wants to come home.”

“You mean score.”

“That’s the object of the game.”

“Not this game.”

“Are you sure? That’s not what it felt like a moment ago.”

A cleansing brace of anger rushed through her, rebuilding the chinks in her armor, fortifying her decision. “I’m positive.”

He stared at her with a look full of awareness. As though he knew how weak her defenses were and was debating whether he would press forward for surrender. Finally, with a decision made, he smoothed his hands through his hair, bringing order to the chaos.

“We should be going. The maintenance crew will need to get out here and prepare the field for the game tomorrow and we don’t want to keep them late.”

He surprised her with the thoughtfulness of that statement. He was a complex mixture of arrogance and consideration, ruthlessness and charm. The wedding was in two days. Was that enough time to perfect her mask of indifference? Was such a thing possible with him?

“Hey Pamela,” he called, when she’d started back toward the tunnel entrance.

She turned, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of him standing with the field behind him.

“There’s one more reason baseball is like sex.”

She waited.

“There’s no time limit. You play until the game is over. And some games can go on for a very long time.”

Chapter Ten

“I can’t believe you want to spend your last night as a free man at Congressional Country Club,” Carter said, walking next to him into the club’s bar.

Marcus held his smile in check. “Can you think of a better place?”

Instead of a table, they took a couple of seats at the dark wood bar.

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve heard about this one strip club downtown—”

“Have you seen the woman I’m going to marry?”

Carter leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “And if this marriage were real, I’d understand your reluctance.”

Marcus hailed the bartender and ordered two Lagavulins, neat.

“To good friends,” Marcus toasted.

“To getting what you want,” Carter added.

Marcus sipped his scotch. In the beginning it had seemed like a simple idea. Unorthodox, but simple. Marry the right woman to get into Holcombe’s inner circle. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t realized how much would be involved. Hadn’t counted on developing feelings for Pamela Harrington.

Last night had been incredible. He could still hear her moans and feel her body pressed back against his. After he’d sampled her sweetness, there was nothing sexy about a random naked woman dancing on a pole.

He’d had a taste of the siren beneath the saint and he craved more.

If it were only lust, he’d be able to understand. To classify it and contain it. But Pamela was more than a pretty face. He liked her and respected her altruism. Even her idea about getting married at the Holcombe was a good one, he’d realized, after he had time to think rationally and not just emotionally. She was the complete package. Which meant things weren’t simple anymore.

“Real or not, if I had to do this with anyone, I’m glad it’s her.”

“It’s luck, man. You know that saying, God watches out for fools and children.”

“And we know you’re both.” Marcus slapped him on the back. “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s something I need to take care of. Have another drink on me.”

Carter knocked back the rest of his drink and signaled for another. “This is the worst bachelor party ever.”

Marcus left the clubhouse and headed to the golf course. Tomorrow he would marry Pamela Harrington. Everything had to go smoothly. And that meant speaking to Pamela’s father first. Senator Harrington stood next to the first hole, talking to a couple of men. Marcus waited until they’d left before he approached him. This was a conversation they needed to have in private.

“Senator Harrington?”

Turning at the sound of his name, the man stiffened and his eyes grew wide. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to speak with you.”

“Who’s sponsoring you?” he asked, looking around. “This club isn’t open to the public. You have to be a member or the guest of a member.”

“I am a member.”

“That’s impossible. There’s a ten-year waiting list.”

Marcus shrugged. “Nothing is impossible if you know the right people.”

Harrington gave him an assessing look, perhaps seeing him for the first time. “You’ve managed to do quite well for yourself. The business world is all abuzz about the boy who pulled himself out of poverty to become one of the wealthiest men in the country.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It’s not a compliment. Money isn’t the same as breeding. That takes generations.”

“We’re people, not horses. And from what I’ve experienced, breeding doesn’t ensure decency, kindness, or happiness.”

“There are numerous women who would find a man like you charming. Why my daughter?”

Marcus frowned. “Because she’s beautiful, smart, funny, brave, and compassionate.” The truth of the words hit him as he listed each quality. She really was an extraordinary woman.

“I know what she is,” Harrington snapped. “That’s why I take offense at your appropriation of her to get to me.” He inhaled deeply and adjusted the collar of his golf shirt. “Please tell me what you want so we can end this conversation.”

“The wedding is tomorrow.”

“I know. I’ll be there. But don’t mistake this as an endorsement of your union.”

Marcus shook his head, stunned. “What have I ever done to you? You treat me with contempt because I made my money instead of inheriting it?”

“No. Because there are formalities, protocols, and traditions that must be observed and you make a mockery of them all. You didn’t even have the decency to ask my permission.”

His skin prickled like a thousand tiny arrows finding their bull’s-eye. His throat tightened, making it difficult to swallow. “I’m sorry you found out at the gala—”

“What do you hope to gain by marrying my daughter?”

His shame spiral deepened. Still, he struggled to maintain the facade. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m marrying her because I love her?”

“People like
you
marry for love. We know it takes more than fanciful emotion to build a favorable alliance. That’s how it was when I married her mother, and it worked for us.”

Harrington fiddled with the watch on his wrist. Marcus recognized it as a classic eighteen-karat-gold Rolex. It was a beautiful piece, the champagne-colored face and riveted bracelet links gleaming and well-kept. Too bad the man hadn’t taken care of his daughter with the same amount of love and attention to detail.

“You had to claw and scratch your way up the mountain,” Senator Harrington continued. “As a man, I find that admirable. But that kind of struggle leaves a roughness that never goes away, no matter how much money you have to polish it with. And I don’t want that for Pamela. You’re too different. When she comes to her senses, she’ll come home to me. After a little time has passed, I’ll see that she’s married to a suitable spouse from a proper family.”

An irrational flood of anger washed over him. He clenched his fists, causing moon-shaped indentations to mar his palms. He didn’t have to put up with this. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone. He was marrying Pamela, not her father.

“Someone like Wentworth? She’s already decided the type of man she wants. She’s wearing my ring.”

Harrington sighed and checked his watch. “This discussion has been pointless. If you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting someone who should be here soon.” He indicated the caddies and golf cart nearby. “At our gala’s silent auction, he won a round of golf with me.”

Marcus smiled and lifted his chin. “You’re looking at him.”

Pamela’s father stiffened, his posture going ramrod-straight. “That wasn’t the name Alice gave me.”

“I know. I wanted it to be a surprise. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you go through with it. I wouldn’t want to taint you with my new money and roughness. It doesn’t matter to me if your presence tomorrow isn’t to support our marriage, but Pamela should believe her father is there to support her.”

The presidential suite at the Holcombe was a spectacular room, the warm colors and the toile-covered walls giving it a timeless elegance.

“You say the word and I’ll go get the car and pull it around front. We can make a run for it before anyone knows you’re missing,” Shelly said.

“That’s not funny.” Pamela checked her hair and makeup in the mirror. She ran her fingers over the upswept strands and checked the blending of her foundation. It was flawless. She turned to her hair and makeup team. “Thanks, guys.”

Shelly escorted them out of the suite, closing the door behind them. The fabric of her strapless coral dress floated around her legs. “I wasn’t joking.”

Pamela rolled her eyes. “If I don’t marry him, we won’t get the building. Here, help me with my dress.”

Shelly removed the cream fitted sheath from its protective cover, and Pamela slipped into the dress. The silk felt cool against her skin. She smoothed the fabric over her hips.

“You can change your mind,” Shelly murmured.

“I know, but I won’t. We’ve been through a lot to get to this point.”

In the end, they’d decided on an intimate group of about forty. Pamela had tried to include the right mix of friends and business associates to maximize buzz and minimize resentment. Their guest list was 260 guests shy of the one for her wedding to Devin, and she wanted to make sure no one could question their exclusion. Navigating DC society required a deft touch.

David Holcombe had personally reserved the Rose Arbor ballroom where they would hold the ceremony and the reception. He’d also provided this suite for her use before the ceremony.

Everything was progressing according to plan. So why couldn’t she settle the rolling waves in the pit of her stomach?

“The building isn’t worth your freedom.”

“The building’s worth is debatable, but there’s no way you can look at the faces of the women and children at the shelter and not take advantage if given an opportunity to save them.”

“Especially when the opportunity you want to take advantage of looks like Marcus Pearson.”

Trying to deny it would be a lie. He was a gorgeous man, and the things he could do with his hands and his mouth should be a crime. The sexy game they’d played, the way he’d touched her, and the way she’d come right there on the field? She still couldn’t believe she’d allowed that to happen.

Would she allow it to happen again? A question that had shoved its way to the forefront of her mind as thoughts turned from her wedding day to her wedding night.

“What about tonight?”

“Excuse me?” Had her face betrayed her errant thoughts?

Shelly narrowed her eyes. “After the wedding? Are you both staying here or going back to his house?”

“Back to his house. It’s my home for the foreseeable future.”

Yesterday, while the Senator had been at the country club, she’d gone to the estate and packed up some of her clothes, shoes, and personal items and had them sent over to Marcus’s place. She’d unpack after moving into his home. She and Marcus had agreed that she would move in with him for the duration of their marriage, adding credibility to their ruse.

There was a brisk knock on the door, followed by the sound of the electronic room key being used. The door opened and Alice entered, her gown the same shade of coral as Shelly’s. Her eyes sparkled and she clasped her hands to her chest. “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Pamela paused. “Did he come with you?”

Alice nodded. “I don’t know what happened, but when he came home last night he said he was going to attend.”

She expelled a rush of air, then reached out and grabbed Alice’s hand. “Thank you.” Giving it a quick squeeze, she took the proffered tissue from Shelly and blotted her eyes. “Good thing I followed your rule of RSVP plus three.”

“Have you done the ‘something old’ thing yet?” Alice asked.

“I’m not doing it.” Engaging in the whimsical ritual when the marriage wasn’t real seemed blasphemous.

“You have to, it’s tradition. And you know how the Harringtons are about tradition. Something new?”

“That’s easy. Her dress, her ring…her husband.” Shelly winked at her.

“Something borrowed?”

“The hotel, courtesy of David Holcombe,” Pamela smiled.

Alice pulled a velvet satchel from her purse. “I have the old and blue items.” She emptied it onto Pamela’s palm.

Pamela stopped breathing. Then her heart galloped in her chest and warmth flooded her body.

“Mommy’s earrings.”

The vintage sapphire-and-diamond cluster earrings brought back memories of watching her mother getting dressed to attend formal gatherings with her father.

“I got them from the safe-deposit box. I thought you might like to wear them.”

Pamela donned the earrings. Alice’s image blurred through a veil of tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Are you ready?” Shelly asked, picking up Pamela’s veil.

Pamela knew she was doing the right thing. But as they headed down to the ceremony, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would look back on this moment as a negative turning point in her life.

…

Marcus held his glass of champagne and watched the woman talking to a federal judge.

His wife.

He still felt the tightness in his chest and slight dimming of his peripheral vision that accompanied his first sight of her. Beige fabric clung to her curves and fell softly to the floor. The color provided an alluring backdrop to her skin. Her long chestnut-brown hair was pulled back in a knot and graced with a white flower—an orchid, she’d laughingly answered. With sapphires and diamonds on her earlobes and her wedding ring the only adornment on her fingers, she personified elegant sophistication.

The tinkling sound of ice cubes in a tumbler heralded Carter’s arrival.

“Stop lurking in the corner and go to your wife. You’re not doing your plan any favors.” Carter placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and straightened his jacket. “While I was honored to be your best man, the action in here is unacceptable. The best-looking women are the bride and the maid of honor. I struck out with one and the other—well, you’re a lucky man, even if you’re too obtuse to realize it.”

Marcus shot him a warning glance. “I know exactly how lucky I am. I’m another step closer to getting the Holcombe.”

Carter looked around at the linen-topped tables, patterned carpets, and crystal chandeliers. “I know why you’d want to have it, but I don’t know what we’re going to do with it. You see one high-end luxury boutique hotel, you’ve seen them all.”

His stomach didn’t churn at the entrance of other hotels—only the Holcombe. As he’d approached the heavy wooden doors with their solid brass handles, his mind replaced his tuxedo-clad image with his twelve-year-old self, complete with faded-knee jeans and dirty sneakers. But a tipped hat and open door surpassed his previous greeting. He wasn’t that boy anymore. That knowledge buoyed his step across the threshold.

He belonged here, and soon it would be his.

“I’m going to check out the hotel bar. At least one of us should get lucky tonight.” Carter gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and walked off. Marcus turned his gaze back on Pamela.