The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) (2 page)

Marcus recoiled. “Nothing is guaranteed to make a man lose focus faster than marriage.”

“It was a joke.”

“Not a funny one.”

Since his ball was closer, Marcus got to go again. Rooting around in his bag, he grabbed the appropriate club and prepared for his approach.

“Picture Holcombe’s face.”

“Shut up, Carter,” he murmured. He pulled back, swung, then cursed when his ball landed in a sand trap with a soft thud.

He was contemplating throwing his club in after it when a golf cart screeched to a stop near them. A young man hopped out and hurried over. His khaki pants, logo-emblazoned polo
,
and name tag—Brian—indicated he was a member of the country club staff.

“Excuse me. Have you seen Miss Harrington?”

“Don’t know who that is.” Carter putted his ball into the cup with one stroke.

The bastard.

Brian’s eyes glazed over. “You’d recognize her if you saw her. She’s always in the newspapers and the society magazines. She’s tall, with long hair. And she has these green eyes that are…wow and—”

Awareness tingled on the back of Marcus’s neck.

“
Pamela
Harrington?” Carter asked.

Brian nodded. “You saw her? Can you tell me which direction she went in? The golf pro heard she was out here on the eighteenth hole and sent me to give her a ride back to the clubhouse.”

“That’s why she looked familiar,” Carter said to Marcus, under his breath.

“Who is Pamela Harrington?” Marcus asked.

“She’s the daughter of Warren Harrington, the first African-American senator from Virginia. I think my aunt knew her mother. Old money. Very influential in politics and elite society.”

His brain calculated, making the connections. Ideas came into focus. Plans took shape.

Pamela Harrington.

From old money. Not married.

And she needed something.

From him.

Carter peered over into the sand trap. “What about your ball? Are you just going to leave it?”

Marcus’s heart pounded against his chest, pumping the energizing power of adrenaline throughout his body. Ignoring the question, he motioned to the boy. “Go back into the club and find out if her car is still here.” He turned to Carter. “E-mail me everything we have on that G Street property.”

“Yes! Now you’re talking sense. Forget about the Holcombe.”

“I’m not forgetting anything. The Holcombe will be mine. And I’ve found what I need to get it.”

Chapter Two

In the parking lot of the country club, Pamela crossed an arm over her midsection and massaged her right temple. “Explain to me how you could possibly lose my car?” She tried to keep the irritable tone in her voice to a minimum.

The valet dropped his eyes and swallowed, a clear sign she hadn’t succeeded. “I’m sorry, Miss Harrington. Things are a little backed up with the golf tournament this weekend. We probably parked it in the overflow lot. We’ll page you as soon as we find it.”

She couldn’t stand to spend another minute in these surroundings. The manicured landscaping and luxury cars indicated a wealth she was very familiar with but one she hated at the moment. She nodded, then headed back into the club, detouring to her left when she picked up the pungent scent of coffee mixed with the sweetness of baked goods. She eyed the small wooden café tables located in the club’s gourmet espresso bar.

A chai latte would be heavenly right now, she thought. Anything to make her feel better about what had happened. A minute later, she’d placed her order with the barista.

It wasn’t fair. No man should be that sexy. She’d done her research, so she knew he was handsome. But even Annie Leibovitz couldn’t properly capture Marcus Pearson’s three-dimensional magnetism in two-dimensional form. He was so unlike the other men of her ilk. Even similarly dressed in the chicest golf attire, there was a wild edge to him that drew her like a beacon. A raw masculinity that hovered just beneath the surface.

When warmth began to flood her body at the memory, she gave herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her? How could she be attracted to a man who refused to help a shelter for abused women? A year ago, she’d been left hurt and alone, questioning the direction her life had taken. When she’d needed something to focus on, something not connected to her father or their social circle, the women’s shelter had saved her sanity. They gave her so much, and yet when they needed her help the most, she was uselessly fantasizing about the man who was the cause of their problem.

Marcus Pearson.

He was the epitome of everything she hated about rich, powerful men. Never doing anything unless it benefited him, not caring that with one stroke of his Montblanc pen he’d rendered twenty women and their children homeless.

The man worked fast. According to Alice, her father’s social secretary, Marcus Pearson had moved to DC a few months ago, after living out on the West Coast for years. Instead of seeing the monuments or catching a show at the Kennedy Center like most new transplants, the first thing on his to-do list was evicting a women’s shelter.

When her name was called, Pamela picked up her drink and chose a seat with a clear view of the Olympic-size pool. She smiled, remembering summers playing with her friends in those same sky-blue waters. Cupping her hands around the mug, she let the warm porcelain work wonders on her tension.

She’d tried for a week to get an appointment to see him. Apparently the successful real estate developer and third-youngest man on the
Forbes
Richest People in America list was booked solid for the next six months.

He wasn’t too busy for a round of golf, though.

How could such a horrible man come in that enticing package? Wavy blond hair, sharp jawline, straight nose, and firm lips. She’d have to be blind not to notice his allure. But it was his eyes that stole the scene. They were a piercing aquamarine that reminded her of the crystalline waters of Whitehaven Beach in Australia, where she’d visited on her twenty-first birthday.

Those eyes had sent shivers through her body and had her wishing beyond reason he would do the right thing and agree to sell her the shelter. If only she’d known the building was up for sale, she would have bought it herself, but the sale hadn’t gone through regular channels. By the time she’d found out, the deal had been made.

The opening bars from the theme song of a popular modeling reality show disrupted her thoughts and she snatched her cell phone out of her bag, rushing to quiet the ringtone. She’d forgotten to change her ringer to vibrate, and the old guard didn’t share her secret indulgence of unscripted drama. She groaned when she checked the display.

Alice.

She wanted to ignore it. She wasn’t ready to deal with that part of her life. But Alice hadn’t spent thirty years as the Harringtons’ social secretary without learning persistence. If Pamela didn’t answer it now, Alice would call again in a few minutes. She accepted the call and said hello.

“Pammie, where are you? We had a meeting scheduled for ten minutes ago.”

Pamela resisted the urge to let her head fall forward onto the table. She never forgot her meetings with Alice, but she’d been so focused on chasing down Marcus Pearson she’d blanked on the weekly ritual she’d observed for the past fifteen years, through college, law school…including the day after she’d broken off her engagement.

“I’m sorry, but something came up. With rush-hour traffic, I can be home in forty-five minutes.” The valet hadn’t yet paged her, but if necessary, she could call the Senator’s car service.

The Senator.

Other girls would call their fathers Daddy, or Papa. Not her. From an early age, she’d been trained to call her father “the Senator,” his title more of a definition of him than his role as a parent.

“Don’t worry about it, dear. We can go over most of these invitations later. But I do need to know about Saturday. Are you bringing a date to the fund-raiser?” Alice’s voice carried memories of hugs, sunlight, and chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven, although the lilt that ended her question coupled with the suddenly sugar-sweet tone put Pamela on alert. She dreaded the lecture that was certain to follow her answer.

“No, I’ll be attending alone.”

“This has gone on long enough. It’s been over a year and you’re still acting like you did something wrong. You had every right to break off your engagement. You’re young and beautiful. Don’t let one error in judgment define the rest of your life.”

The words were well-worn, like her favorite boy band T-shirt from the ’90s.

“This isn’t about Devin. It’s about me. I haven’t met anyone who interests me.” She ignored the image of intense blue eyes that popped into her brain.

“What about Marcus Pearson?”

Was the woman psychic?

Pamela started. Had she said something and given herself away? She looked around her. Had someone she knew seen her and reported back already? “What about him?”

“When you asked me about him the other day, I thought it meant…” Alice’s voice trailed away, like her hopes for a June wedding.

The tightness in Pamela’s shoulders eased. No one was watching her. And Alice couldn’t read her mind. Coincidence, that was all.

“I’m not interested in dating Marcus Pearson.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Because he’s too…” Arrogant. Too rich.

Too sexy.

“Look, Alice, I have to go. I’ll check in when I get home.”

She tapped the screen to disconnect, not interested in a second round of debate. This wasn’t the first time Alice had questioned her about her love life. Lately, she offered her opinion every time they went over Pamela’s social schedule.

And Pamela attended
a lot
of parties.

But she didn’t begrudge the other woman her interest.

What was taking so long?

She looked up and choked on her drink, noticing a club employee pointing her out to Marcus Pearson. She tried to catch her breath as he strode toward her. She placed a hand over her pounding heart. He was tall, at least several inches over six feet, and walked with a confident grace, his shoulders back, stride natural. No one dared cross his path, unconsciously receiving the signal not to get between him and his target.

Skimming her gaze around the room, she noticed she wasn’t the only woman to admire the way his slim-fitting khaki slacks molded to his thighs. Her pulse skipped and stumbled, interfering with her brain’s ability to function.

Calm down. Calm down.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Despite his earlier rejection, his voice pinged something deep inside her. Made her body yearn to hear him, though her brain objected. She tilted her head and looked up at him. “What if I say no?”

“I’d probably sit down anyway.”

“Then what’s the point of asking?”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“A first,” she murmured, but waved her hand in assent.

He folded his long length into the petite café chair. He should have looked ridiculous, but instead, the fragile furniture emphasized his maleness.

He motioned to her cup. “What are you drinking?”

“A chai latte.”

He grimaced, clearly not a fan of her beloved spiced black tea and steamed milk drink.

“Can I get a cup of coffee?” he asked the barista.

In a moment, the young woman handed him a cup of coffee, which Marcus drank while regarding Pamela over the rim. Why did he have to be so gorgeous? The light blue of his golf shirt made his eyes pop and contrasted nicely with his summer tan. How was it possible to thoroughly dislike someone and still want to tear his clothes off?

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I wanted a cup of coffee.”

“Really? You wanted a cup of coffee?” At his nod she urged, “Here? When you could have gotten one in the pub or grill?”

“I felt like stretching my legs.”

But that wasn’t the reason. And she suddenly knew.

“Mr. Pearson, let’s not play games with each other. Twenty minutes ago you brushed me off. Now we’re sharing coffee. It’s clear you found out who my father is. So what do you want?”

How many times had she given a version of this speech? Was it always followed by this sharp twinge of disappointment in her chest?

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I’ve changed my mind. About the women’s shelter.”

Joy bubbled up her body, lifting the ends of her lips into a smile. Had he listened to her and decided to put the welfare of others above his bottom line? Could she finally stop feeling guilty for finding him so attractive?

“You’ll sell the building?” She clapped her hands together. “That’s great. When can we—”

He cut her off with an upheld hand. “No. I told you, the building is not for sale. What if I decide to extend the lease for another year?”

The joy faded, but hope remained.

“You’ll let the women and children stay in the building? They won’t have to leave when their lease is up next month?”

“They wouldn’t have to leave,” he confirmed. “If I do that for you, what would you be willing to do for me?”

She rocked back as if physically struck. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?” Her voice rose with each word until the last one thundered from her throat. “I’m not a whore, Mr. Pearson.” She ignored the wide eyes and murmurs of the other patrons and stood up, the abruptness of her movement jostling the table.

Marcus grabbed her wrist. “Sit down,” he said.

“No.” She tugged her arm, wanting to get away from this man. Prickled heat danced along her skin, fueled by the fact that she couldn’t move unless he let her.

“I didn’t mean to insult you. Sit down. Hear me out.”

She wanted to leave. It would serve him right after what he’d said. But what if there was a chance to save the women’s shelter, something that seemed impossible twenty minutes ago?

She looked pointedly at her wrist until he got the hint. He took his time releasing her, his fingers trailing softly across the back of her hand. Her heart thudded a percussive beat, her skin branded by his touch. She let her hand fall into the folds of her dress, covertly rubbing it against the sleek fabric, wishing it were as easy to expunge the tendrils of attraction that curled between them. She sat down, jerkily crossing her arms over her chest.

“I have a problem and I need your help,” he began.

“Go on,” she said.

“Are you familiar with the Holcombe hotel?”

She hadn’t been expecting that. The Holcombe, a District landmark, had opened in 1917 and served as the premier hotel for royalty, dignitaries, and other members of the elite class. It was the epitome of old money. Everything from the decor to the food spoke of a different time. “I am. My family has stayed there on numerous occasions. Why?”

“It’s for sale.”

Pamela frowned. “David Holcombe is selling his family’s hotel?”

“He is. I’ve been trying to buy it, but he won’t sell it to me.” He folded his hands, his blue eyes threatening to pull her under again. “I want that hotel.”

And he always got what he wanted.

She blinked and saved herself. “The hotel belongs to his family. He can sell it to whomever he wishes.” She huffed out a humorless laugh. “He probably has a good reason for not dealing with
you
.”

“I’m sure he thinks snobbery is a good reason.”

“What?”

“I got it from a reliable source my money isn’t old enough and my blood isn’t blue enough. I don’t come from the right kind of family—one that’s part of his social circle.”

She frowned. “That’s nonsense. Who’s your source?”

“That’s not important. The fact is, Holcombe won’t hear my bid, despite the generous offers I’ve made, because of my last name.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his energy intense. “This is where you come in. You have the one thing I don’t: a respectable last name. And now I have something you want.”

“The G Street building for the women’s shelter.”

“That’s right,” he said. “So I’m proposing we help each other. A simple business arrangement. You give me your last name and I’ll extend the lease for the women’s shelter.”

“I don’t understand. How am I supposed to give you my last name?”

The club’s public announcement system bleated her name, an electronic echo throughout the café. She didn’t move. He leaned back in his chair and took a drink from his cup.

“Marry me.”