Can't Buy Me Love (18 page)

Brodie’s Bride

Chapter One

Must be a dream
, Savanna Morgan thought lazily. And what a remarkable dream
he
was. His good looks were raw and earthy, but she couldn’t say he was traditionally handsome, not like the other men she knew. Like what’s-his-name.

Parker.

Yes, Parker, her fiancé.

Ex-
fiancé.

Parker had blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile enhanced by thousands of dollars of dental work. This man’s—this
hunk’s
—wicked grin was slightly crooked, attractively so, as was one front tooth. He had deep, jungle green eyes and coffee-brown hair, rich and thick and shot with just enough curl to be unruly. A lock of it fell over his forehead and made her fingers itch to brush it away from his face.

Why not? She thought, and she did just that as they stood together on a raised dais shaped like a giant Valentine.

A man wearing the caricature smile of a TV evangelist stood opposite them. His white tuxedo glared a stark relief against the red velvet-covered walls, the vividly red retro shag rug, and the glittery red ceiling.

“And by the power vested in me by the state of Nevada—” the official’s grin widened “—I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Savanna looked from the evangelist to the hunk. He leaned closer. Close enough that she could smell the soft, spicy scent of his drug store aftershave, the sweat from the Nevada heat, and the potent essence of pure animal male.

Then his lips met hers, and Savanna knew the world was a
really
good place.

She could taste the slow heat of desire and the sour burn of liquor as his lips moved over hers. Firm masculine lips that promised pleasure.

What a vivid dream!

But could a dream be so warm, so sexy? Could a dream have callused hands that caressed and possessed with shiver-inducing experience? Could a dream trail fiery kisses down the goose-pimpled flesh of her neck?

This one could, she decided. Any time he wanted.

Then she and the hunk were no longer in the little crimson chapel, but in a bedroom, upon a bed as garishly red as the other room had been. The sheets were scarlet satin and warmed by their naked bodies. A cheap bottle of champagne cooled in an even cheaper Styrofoam bucket on the nightstand.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. His breath stirred the strands of her hair and made her tremble with a longing she didn’t even try to understand.

She had been called beautiful before, but somehow when he said it, she believed it. Maybe because he showed her with each scorching kiss he placed on her fevered skin. On her neck, her breasts, the soles of her feet, her thighs...

Or maybe it was the attention he lavished upon her. That’s all she ever really wanted. Not the flashy cars or the fortune in pocket money, but someone to notice her, pay attention to her. Act—even pretend—like they loved her.

She clutched his broad shoulders and clung to her sanity, but she couldn’t hold back any longer. She released her reservations and exploded into this dream. She shattered for this fantasy lover who made her quake beneath him like no other had before.

“Mmmm...” She snuggled deeper into the satin sheets of the bed and refused to open her eyes. A dull pain throbbed behind her closed lids like the beat of a faraway drum. She stretched her legs, her naked skin sliding against the sheets. Her sheets? Her bed? No, not her bed really, just her bed for the dream. But it had seemed so real.

He
had seemed so real. Everything about him seemed tangible from his green eyes full of fire and passion to his raw sensuality that proudly proclaimed satisfaction, then boldly delivered it. She could almost feel his muscled arm curved around her waist, pinning her to his side. Could almost feel the heat that radiated from his hard body and soaked into hers. But it was only a dream.

Wasn’t it?

Fighting against the pain behind her eyes that threatened to grow worse if she dared open them, Savanna did just that. And screamed.

****

“Arrrggghhh!”

Brodie Harper jumped from the bed.

“Nan,” he cried before he realized he wasn’t at home. He was...?

He glanced around the room decorated in Early American Valentine. Just where was he?

“Don’t move, buster. I know how to use this.”

He turned toward the bed, his skull threatening to explode from his over-indulgence the night before.

A golden haired woman clutched the crimson sheet to her creamy white breasts as if he hadn’t seen them, hadn’t caressed and kissed them during the night they had spent together in that cheesy heart-shaped bed.

Ahhh...he remembered now. The blonde in the short black wig, the Do Drop Inn, the little red dress, champagne and strawberries at 2 a.m.. If his memory served him right, last night had been heaven. Hea-ven. But last night was over. And this morning he had a meeting. A very important meeting.

He checked his watch, then reached for his best pair of navy slacks which had been flung over the heart-shaped back of the red velvet armchair. He had exactly two and a half-hours before he had to meet Red. Not enough time to drive home to shower and change, but just enough to grab a quick shave and some breakfast at the truck stop. And definitely not enough to stage a replay of last night’s… uh, exploits with the golden haired temptress. Not that he could do much of anything with the way his head was throbbing. He was going to be lucky to make it through the most important meeting of his life.

“I said don’t move.” Her voice held false authority, and the hairbrush in her hand trembled.

“What are you going to do? Groom me to death?” Brodie didn’t wait for her answer. He didn’t have time. Nor did he want to remain buck-naked any longer than absolutely necessary. Talk about your awkward morning after… He snatched up his pants and used them to tactfully cover himself as he searched for his jockey shorts.

His head was pounding, pounding,
pounding
. If he never had another drink, it would be too soon. Which was probably the most beneficial side-effect of a hangover. Not that he drank often, just an occasional beer on the infrequent night out with the boys. But he really needed to steer clear of the tequila if he was going to pick up blond-haired she-cats. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her name. She might have purred last night, but in the light of day, she was all hiss and claws.

He spied his underwear dangling from one red-fringed lampshade where they had, no doubt, been flung in the haste of passion. He must have been drunker last night than he realized. Then again, it wasn’t every night his best friend tied the knot. It was a special occasion, even if the ceremony had been held in small chapel in Las Vegas. Why not get married in the most famous gambling town in America? After all, what was marriage but a gamble?

Brodie reached for his underpants, and the woman on the bed whacked him in the ribs with the flat side of the brush.

He jerked back out of her reach. “Ow! What’d you do that for?”

“Stay away from me, you pervert.” She scooted even closer to the headboard—if that were possible—and clutched the crimson sheet even tighter to her breasts—if that were possible.

“Pervert?” Last night must have been wilder than he remembered. He gingerly shook his head, the details escaping him as he reached for his briefs again.

She whacked him. Again.

“Quit that!” He drew back, not missing the fact that the red sheet had slipped a notch or two. Not that he cared today. Today he had a meeting. A very important meeting, he reminded himself.

“Just back off.”

Brodie closed his eyes briefly and made a wish, but when he opened them again, she was still there. “Listen, sunshine. I’d like to stay and continue this... conversation, but I really do have to go.”

She seemed unconvinced.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a pervert with his underwear on than one without?” Diverting her with his words, he managed to rescue his shorts and retreat before she could assault him a third time.

Quickly, he dressed, conscious of her tawny eyes watching him like a lioness watches her prey. She never once moved from the bed, even as he stepped over her sinfully red lace under things.

This was without a doubt the weirdest… encounter he’d ever had.

He paused at the door—almost, but not quite—forgetting the night they had shared. He wasn’t in the habit of paying for entertainment, but this was, after all, Las Vegas. And she had, after all, been wearing that slinky little red number and silky black wig. It all fit. And there was a first time for everything he supposed. “Do I, uh... owe you anything?”

Her mouth fell open and shock registered in her eyes.

Whack! The brush flew through the air and struck his already terrorized cranium.

She has quite an aim
.  He blinked as the stars subsided and wanted to shake his head at it all, but it hurt too much.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he said as he left the room, her sputtering insults barely muffled by the cheap pine door marked Honeymoon Suite. In fact, every door to every room he passed on his way to the stairwell was marked the same.

What a joke
. The couples cuddled up in the numerous “honeymoon suites” were probably no more married than he and the gorgeous she-cat. He just couldn’t believe he’d been desperate enough—or drunk enough—to pick up a hooker. But that scrap of red fabric she’d called a dress was more than enough proof of her profession and more enticing than his tequila-enhanced libido had been able resist.

“Mr. Harper.” The man standing behind a counter filled with wedding rings greeted Brodie as he entered the lobby. He was dressed in white from head to toe and had a grin that shone like the chrome on a ‘67 Chevy. “I trust you spent your evening well?”

The evening had been a gold star event
.
It was the morning that had been a doozie
. “My, uh... guest is still upstairs, but I’d like to go ahead and settle the bill.” Brodie laid the room key on the counter, then pulled his battered wallet from the back pocket of his slacks. He opened it and somehow managed to keep a poker face over its emptiness.

Must have been some night.

“Don’t you remember, Mr. Harper? We took care of that after the ceremony.”

“Uh, yes. Of course.” He shoved his empty wallet back into his pocket and rubbed his throbbing eyes. God, even his eyebrows hurt. “And what ceremony would that be?”

The man behind the counter tsked. “Surely you haven’t forgotten your beautiful new bride already?”

“Excuse me?” Brodie stopped mid-rub. For a minute he thought the man had said
bride
.

“And what a lovely bride she was.”

He
had
said bride. He’d said it
twice.

“Oh, yeah.” Brodie exhaled, then nodded. “My bride. Sure. I remember.” There was a fraction of a second when he wondered if perhaps he had actually
married
the golden-haired hooker, but that just couldn’t be. Obviously, the man behind the counter thought they were married because Brodie had registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Harper. He couldn’t blame the man. It was an honest mistake, even if this was Sin City.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I can’t tell you when I’ve witnessed a more beautiful ceremony.”

“You witnessed?” Brodie sucked in his breath and held it.

“I wed you myself. Don’t you remember?”

“Then we’re really...” He didn’t want to say the word. “She and I are.... We’re...”

“Married,” the official supplied with a happy nod.

For the first time since the blonde had screamed and set off the pounding in his head, Brodie noticed the band that circled the fourth finger of his left hand.
Married
. Images of a scarlet chapel and gold rings flitted through his mind. Lost in the fog of straight shots of tequila, the whole ordeal seemed like a dream. But if what the man said was true...

Holy heaven. The last time Brodie had gotten drunk had been the day his grandfather died, the day before he’d dropped out of school and gone to work. Then, he’d only acquired a tattoo, but this time... He uttered a word that Nan would have surely scolded him for. Married? And to a hooker? A gorgeous hooker. An
expensive
hooker by the depleted state of his wallet, but a hooker none-the-less.

“
Where’s my dress
?”

Brodie half-turned as his hooker-bride stumped down the stairs, her naked glory covered by the rumpled satin sheet. One red, high-rise pump was missing.

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied, his headache tripling.

“You took it off. You find it.” She punched him hard in the chest with one red lacquered fingernail.

“
You
want it.
You
find it,” he countered.

“That dress was an Armani. And you—”