Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (3 page)

Which meant that I simply miscalculated the risks.

Hence the stupendous,
temporary
idiocy.

We reunited only five days ago. Five damn days. The bandages on her arms are a stark reminder that the wedding in Boston was less than a week ago.

We’re back together, but there’s still so much left to learn about each other.

Little things, like which side of the bed each prefers. Favorite colors. Food preferences.

Or, you know, like whether we’re
married
or not.

“How did I get Cheeto coochie?” she asks, pointing to her breasts, which look at me like Sirens on an island in the ocean.
Andrew
, they croon.
Come play with us....
 

My mouth is cotton. Fermented cotton. And salt. Something salty. “What?”

She peers at me. “Your mouth matches my coochie. It’s orange, too.”

“Coochie?” We’ve only been back together for less than a week. I didn’t know “coochie” was part of her personal vocabulary. “Cheeto coochie” sounds like the name of a tapas dish at a low-end restaurant.

Or a stripper name.

“You know.” She peers down. “If your mouth is orange, and my breasts and, ahem,” she points down, “are orange, then we committed some kinky acts with snack foods last night.”

“You’re the one with the Cheeto-marshmallow fetish.”

She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t mention food.”

I wave my ringed hand. “Too much talk. Basics first.” I force myself to stand and walk into the mini-kitchen. Water. I need water. Water and half a jar of ibuprofen-flavored beer.

And my memory.

Bzzzz.

“Your phone!”

“Probably Gina.”

“Who is
Gina
?” The arch tone gets my attention and makes me smile. Now I know something new about Amanda.

She gets jealous. I grin and smother it with my hand.

“My new admin,” I say, muffled by my palm.

She lets out a cute little huff of relief. “What happened to...Bethany?”

“She was
three
admins ago.”

“Lucy’s gone, too?” Amanda asks, incredulous.

“She was overly rigid.” I can hear the defensiveness creep into my voice.

“She was great!”

“She lasted ten days.”

“You have an admin problem, Andrew.”

“No, I don’t.” I ignore my phone. If I can keep a Sultan waiting, I can defer my admin back in Boston, the new young woman the temp agency sent me a few weeks ago. What I need right now is water. Water and Amanda. In that order.

“Your admins have an
Andrew
problem.”

“I’m a great boss!” Irritation sets in. We’ve spent five days trying not to talk about any topic more intense than whether to add cinnamon to our breves, how to handle all the sex chafing, or debating whether jalapeno-flavored aioli is better than bacon-horseradish mayo.

After rescuing her from the pool at Dec and Shannon’s wedding in Boston, we became so wrapped up in the Vegas chaos that we settled into a pattern.

A pattern of sex, food, gifts, and...sex.

That’s right.

Guy nirvana.

Now she wants to
talk
?

Guy hell.

My slow walk to the kitchen should be filmed by a documentary crew with the soundtrack to
Apocalypse Now
in the background. The bedroom looks tame compared to the living room and kitchen. No cat. No dog. No giant pee-covered teddy bear, which means the living room should be an improvement.

I gag. Why does it smell like a distillery in here? A quick push of buttons on the wall and the curtains part, filling the room with light and, as the windows vent, some air.

Then I see the pile of glow-in-the-dark sex toys on the coffee table.

And a giant yoga ball.

That is buzzing.

“And soon you’ll be
my
boss,” Amanda tosses off.

I don’t answer that, because the buzzing comes from a glowing appendage attached to the yoga ball. The tip curves to the left and if I squint, I can read some words on the shaft.

Yo! G-spot Ah.... An acronym for YOGA.

That’s a brand name? I’d fire the person who pushed that to market. No focus group on the planet would approve
that
.

I solve the problem by grabbing a throw blanket and covering everything. If I pretend it doesn’t exist, then it doesn’t. That’s how Dad handles emotions in other people, and if it works for him, I can apply it to errant piles of sex toys.

“Oh, my God. I don’t understand. What really
did
happen last night?”

You and me both, babe.

Amanda’s words float through the air with a tempo they’re not supposed to possess. I flatten my palms against the granite countertop in the small kitchen of our suite and take a deep breath. My shoulders rise up and expand out. I feel my soles against the marble tile. Emotion washes over me like the shame my father was trying to instill. He failed, but the attempt lingers.

My eyes catch the glint of gold against the polished granite.

Husband? Wife? Josh and that rainbow chocolate dong dude skedaddled along with the rest of them earlier. I breathe, inhaling and exhaling, counting to four, then eight, using every technique that I normally don’t need to use.

It’s not anxiousness. It’s overwhelm. And when I get overwhelmed, there’s only one solution.

Control.

Actually, now there are two. The new one is sex.

I like
new
.

Instead of going back for my cell phone, I reach for the corded one and dial a special code that takes me straight to my number one here at Litraeon.

“Mr. McCormick? How may I help you?” It’s Brona Jordan, vice president of operations. Her voice has that smooth, cultured tone with an accent that you can’t quite pinpoint. European? Central Asian? Boston Brahmin? Brona’s been with Litraeon for the past five years, and profits have gone sky high since she brought on a new line of chefs and stores to the attached mall. While she isn’t the top dog, she’s best at meeting delicate situations.

I am the poster child for
delicate
.

“I need a suite.”

“You already have a suite. You require a
second
suite?”

“I want one of the presidential suites instead.”

Silence. I know what I’m asking. Declan, Dad and I settled for these second-tier suites because of the last-minute nature of the wedding mess. The cream of the crop should be mine again. I’m done playing second fiddle. Sunlight flashes off the ring on my left hand.

Funny. I haven’t taken it off yet.

“Yes,” she says slowly, “we can accommodate that, of course. You realize we will need to relocate the Sultan.”

The Sultan?

“He’s
here
?”

“Yes.”

My mind races and clears at the same time, as if my gray matter were being pressure washed of toxins and left gleaming and renewed.

“And that’s the meeting I missed.” Dad’s fury connects with Brona’s observation. Anterdec is in final negotiations to expand our resort network into Dubai. We have two smaller properties there, but this would be an enormous capital investment, with a fifty-story tower, massive water park, private airport and all that goes with the definition of luxury among the ultra-wealthy.

And I blew off a meeting with the Sultan because of—

“Cheeto coochie!” Amanda moans from the next room.

“Excuse me?” Brona asks. “Did you say something, Andrew?”

And then there’s that.

Brona’s shift from formality tells me even more. Dad’s already gotten to her and let her know why I’m missing the meeting.

I’ve lost control here.

Time to gain it back.

“Get me into a presidential suite within thirty minutes.”

“I need sixty, and permission to relocate anywhere they ask.”

“What does that mean?”

“They might want to go next door if you kick them out.”

Next door. We’re competing with the owners of that resort for the Dubai deal.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

She merely clears her throat and waits. I chug half a gallon of water and sigh.

Control. I need—

“May I make a suggestion?” Brona’s words are soothing. “What if you reserve a royal suite next door?”

“Me? Why would
I
move out of my own property?” And when the hell did the place next door create
royal
suites?

“To throw them off.” She sighs. “And yes, we’re working on creating our own royal suites. Already in development.”

Tumblers click in my head. Gears sync. I have a naked mystery shopper in my bedroom. Brona’s suggestion sets off a firestorm of connected thoughts, lighting my CEO brain up like a thunderball.

“Perfect. Do it. We’ll take their best.”

“Nothing but,” she croons. “Anything else?”

“No—wait. Yes. Check the security video for the hallway in front of my suite. Copy it from about eight o’clock last night until right now. I’d like to review it with Jed.” Jed is our head of security here at this Vegas Strip resort, Litraeon.

Click.

“We’re moving,” I announce, carrying a glass of water for Amanda back to the bed, handing it to her.

She immediately pours it down her front, starting with the collarbone, the water cascading down her torso, pearling on her nipples, rolling down the slope of her breasts like something out of really high-quality porn.

“That’s
not
how you drink water,” I explain. How drunk is she?

“I cannot have Donald Trump all over my breasts!” She takes a corner of a sheet and rubs furiously at her chest, her tits bouncing. It’s a delightful sight. I start to tent my pink silk bathrobe.

“Who were you talking to?” she asks as she rubs. I imagine her rubbing hand on a part of me that loves to be rubbed.

And I’m hard.

“Brona. My main person here at Litraeon. We’re moving.”

Amanda pauses. “We’re what?”

“In an hour. We’re getting a better suite.”

“Why?”

“Because this one is a mess.”

Because I can’t handle being surrounded by signs that I lost control last night and holy hell are we really married?

Keeping my mouth shut is my primary business skill. I don’t speak that random thought. I’m not stupid.

“Then get someone to clean it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t stand to wait that long.”

“You’d rather move?”

“It’s easier.”

“Where are we going?”

“Next door.”

“Next door? Why?”

“So we can do some corporate espionage.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“You’re
orange
and you’re judging me?”

“You’re orange too, buddy. Go look in the mirror.”

She points to the bathroom.

Every bit of the room goes into soft focus, my eyes only on her. In the craziness of this morning, I haven’t really looked at her. For five days she’s been all I touch, all I see, all I feel and want to feel. We’ve spent these days in Vegas in a vortex of sex and damage control. Shannon and Declan’s wedding damage control. Between media reports and PR tracking and press inquiries and thousands of personal and professional messages that have eaten up nearly every waking hour of my time, the stolen moments with Amanda have been entirely about sex.

Not that I’m complaining.

I cross my arms over my chest. The cold metal ring registers against my ribs.

Being orange is the least of our worries.

“Amanda.”

The grin she gives me is part pain, part jaunty. “You can’t even look because you know I’m right.”

“Amanda.”

This time, her grin falters, her eyes tip up, looking at me. I take in the bandages on her arms, the curve of one breast against the pillow, the disorienting range of her chest, and the wild hair.

I love every inch of what I see.

“Amanda,” I say again, across the room in a flash, one knee on the bed, then the other, and my mouth is on hers before I realize what I’m doing. The wet sheets twist between us and her hands are under the damn pink silk robe I’m wearing, on my back, flat and imploring, pulling me to her. I wiggle out of the frock. We’re reeling from waking up married. Maybe. We’re half-drunk and hungover and embarrassed and confused.

At least,
I
am. I suppose I should ask her how she feels, but based on the little moans and sighs coming out of her, I’m guessing she’s not suffering right now.

Sex is easier than talking. Sex is better than working.

Kissing her is better than—

“Coffee,” she whispers.

“Sex is better than coffee?”

“Who said that?”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t!” She pushes me off her and stands, holding her head between her palms. “I mean, it is. Normally. But not right now.”

Bzzzz.

I grab my phone. Gina.

“Is that a resignation letter from your new admin?” Amanda wanders out into the living room. “Holy shit!” she says, reacting to the mess out there. “Why doesn’t this hotel room have a coffee maker? You own the resort! Make them add coffee makers!”

I thought she was panicking about the sex toy cemetery out there.

“You don’t need to mystery shop our room.”

“I do when your company is so barbaric that they don’t provide
coffee makers
. You have complimentary bathrobes and you can’t manage coffee?”

Tap tap tap.

Amanda lets out a tiny scream of surprise. “Who the hell is that?” She half-shuffles, half-sprints back into the bedroom, a Cheeto-marshmallow treat in one hand, a glass of water in the other.

“Probably the coffee.” I set my phone on the nightstand and grab a white robe from the closet, shrugging into it. Amanda does the same, only this time she’s wearing the pink robe I left on the bed. She looks exhausted and sweet, all at the same time.

Her face softens. “You ordered me a breve?”

“Of course.” I don’t mention that Brona probably did.

I’m right. Room service appears with a rolling table filled with all of our favorites. Two pre-made breves, a small pot of espresso, a small pitcher of frothed light cream, fruits and baked goods, and scrambled eggs and bacon.