The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) (7 page)

He leaned across the table, reached out and cupped the back of her head, and gave her a quick, hard kiss. Her heart thudded in her chest and desire spiraled in her belly. His lips were cool, the pressure firm, and she laid her palm against his cheek, wanting more. She parted her lips, intending to deepen the kiss, but he pulled back an inch. They were so close she could see the midnight-blue streaks that rayed around his irises.

“I don’t share. And I won’t be made a fool. Not by you, not by anyone.” His voice was raw, his eyes fierce as they stared into hers.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He strode away, the object of many covetous looks.

She’d had an out, but she didn’t take it. What had she gotten herself into?

…

Marcus ran along M Street, the primary commercial corridor of Georgetown, the District’s oldest neighborhood. Beside him, Carter panted and mumbled under his breath. Although it was early in the morning, the infamous DC humidity was on full blast, making the run more difficult. Perfect. He needed to be punished. Why had he agreed to continue with their arrangement when he should have ended it? That would have made the best business sense. But if he were honest, he’d ceased being guided primarily by business the moment he first kissed her. He was an idiot.
Keep it professional
. He upped his pace and heard Carter swear.

“That’s it, I’m done.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw that Carter had stopped. Laughing, he jogged back to where Carter stood hunched over, his hands on his knees.

“You can’t stop now, we’ve got two more miles to go.”

“Screw you. I’m done.”

Marcus slapped Carter’s back. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

Carter peered at him out of the corner of an eye. “Runner’s high, right? That’s just a nice way of saying crazy.”

“Stop whining.”

“Let’s see who’s whining when I get you on the tennis court.”

Since he couldn’t play tennis and Carter had been the number two seed on his college team, Marcus let the competition go and changed the subject. “How was your weekend?”

“Three words: blond, nurse, double-jointed.”

“Isn’t that four words?”

“Hyphenated. So where are we on the Pearson-Harrington merry-go-round?” Carter asked.

“We’re back on.” Marcus bent his left leg at the knee, grabbed his ankle, and stretched his quad.

“Everything went well at the country club yesterday?”

“As well as it could, under these circumstances. She moved into a suite at the Four Seasons. This isn’t turning out the way I expected.” He let go of his ankle and performed the same stretch on his right leg.

“You’re really surprised that your proposal of convenience is anything but?”

“It was a good plan that could get us both what we wanted. But now she’s feuding with her father, who doesn’t approve of this marriage, which means he may bad-mouth me around town. She says he won’t, but I can’t be sure of that.”

Carter straightened. “Can you blame him? What father wouldn’t have been concerned to learn his daughter was marrying a man he didn’t know?”

The man may have a point, but Marcus didn’t like admitting it. “I have no choice but to go forward with our plan,” he said. “Her entire social circle, which means Holcombe’s social circle, knows about the engagement and that we’ve filed for a license. Starting over with a new fiancée would ruin any credibility I’ve managed to acquire. We’ll have to make this work.”

“Yes, making it work with Pamela. An extremely hard task.”

Marcus heard the interest in Carter’s voice and frowned. “Pretend fiancée or not, hands off.”

“You better get used to it. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“And she’ll look beautiful on
my
arm at the District’s Real Estate Investment & Development dinner at the St. Regis on Thursday.”

“Look at that,” Carter teased. “She’s already classing you up.”

“We ran into her ex, Wentworth, at the country club.”

“What was he like?”

“Stuck-up prick.”

Wentworth had an air of entitlement, as though he’d been denied nothing in his privileged upbringing. Marcus didn’t like him, but he couldn’t deny Devin and Pamela had made a striking couple. They looked right together, like two interlocking puzzle pieces. And they had history. It had pissed him off.

“She traded up with you, man.”

“Thanks.”

“No one would ever call you stuck-up.”

Marcus maneuvered Pamela around the small dance floor of the Astor Ballroom at the St. Regis hotel. Four large crystal chandeliers hung from the ballroom’s eighteen-foot ceilings, bathing the room in soft light. On one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the twinkling lights from the adjoining Astor Terrace, bright against the clear night sky. This was an important outing for him. Executives from some of the top real estate companies in the city were in this room. It was a great networking opportunity, and the event had been on his calendar for weeks. Now he had the added bonus of having Pamela on his arm. It increased his status and added credibility to their relationship.

“Did you pick up the marriage license?” he asked.

“It’s on my schedule for tomorrow. I love this song.” Her body vibrated as she hummed a few notes. “I think it’s Norah Jones.”

“It is. She’s good.”

“Doesn’t seem like your type of music.”

“What’s my type?”

“I don’t know. NPR?”

He frowned and she laughed, the low, husky sound swirling between them. Marcus couldn’t stop his attention from falling to her lips. He was growing more concerned about her effect on him. He’d gone against his better judgment regarding a written contract for this marriage, and he was reflecting back on their kisses more often than was prudent. He’d stayed away, thinking two days—three, tops—would be plenty of time away from her to rid himself of this inconvenient ache. Then she’d opened the door, and all he’d seen was thick, wavy hair, creamy caramel skin, dark-blue fabric, and legs. Long, shapely, legs.

Didn’t she own a damn pantsuit?

“What type of wedding should we have?”

“Small and intimate,” she said, without hesitation. “My wedding to Devin would have been a huge, lavish affair. No one would fault me for wanting this ceremony to be different. Plus, keeping it small will automatically grant cachet to the event. We’ll generate buzz, which will grow when no one else is invited. Since time is also an issue, this will work in our favor.”

He tamped down the burn that surfaced in his chest when she mentioned Wentworth. “Small and intimate is not an exact quantity. Ten? Fifteen? Fifty?”

“It’ll depend on the venue. I don’t need to invite a lot of people and we’ll need a head count for your family. I’ll plan for a week from Saturday. Is that enough time to get everyone here?”

His blood rushed through him. He was nine days away from crossing a major hurdle in his quest to get the Holcombe. “Yes.”

The current song blended into the next one and he didn’t let her go. They danced smoothly, their bodies creating a natural rhythm. With his hand on the small of her back, he could feel her hips swaying to the melody and he allowed himself to appreciate her movements.

“So, I’m going to invite Alice and my friend Shelly, and you’ll invite…”

“Carter. We met at Stanford. I was working on my MBA and he was in the joint JD/MBA program. He’s chief legal counsel of Pearson Enterprises.”

“The guy who was with you at the country club that day?”

“You mean the day you interrupted my golf game and berated me for my business decisions?”

“No, the day I stopped by to meet our city’s charming new resident.”

He laughed, captivated by her quick wit. “What about your father?”

The muscles in her back bunched beneath his palm. “I’ll send him an invitation.”

“Is that all? Shouldn’t you call him to make sure he’s coming? It’ll be better to have him.”

“You aren’t the first to think so. Pick a number and get in line.”

She flung the words so hard he could physically feel their impact.

What was that about?

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ll work on getting him there.”

The song ended and he stepped back, indicating with his hand she should precede him. Circular tables, covered in fine linens, bordered the dance floor. People congregated in varied groups, and the sounds of conversation hummed comfortably in the background.

He noticed the eyes following their progress when they made their way back to the table at the front of the room. In California, he’d been used to some attention, especially in business circles. But the scrutiny Pamela attracted was unlike anything he’d seen for someone who wasn’t a movie star. Talk about living life in a fishbowl.

Throughout dinner, Pamela interacted with the two other couples at their table. There was never a lag in conversation, as she proficiently introduced topics ranging from the theater to local business interests to current movie releases. He watched her, fascinated by the grin that graced her lips, the subtle sexuality she wore like a second skin. His body throbbed in response.

After dessert, they joined like-minded individuals searching for fresh air out on the adjoining terrace. White lights were strung through the lush foliage, and the bubbling water fountain enhanced the tranquil surroundings.

“That was impressive back there.”

She smiled. “I’ve grown up at dinners like these.”

“When talk turned to business, you made some really interesting points. You have a law degree but don’t practice?”

“Being a Harrington is a full-time job.”

“Then why invest three years in law school?”

“My family believes women should attend college to find a husband from a prominent family. I wanted something more.”

“It’s the twenty-first century,” he protested.

“You met my father. You try arguing with him about tradition. When I graduated with no promising proposals, I told the Senator law school would be fertile ground for an eligible husband.”

“And he bought it?”

“I got the degree, didn’t I?”

Standing there, her lips curved in amused satisfaction, he responded the only way he could.

He kissed her.

This wasn’t part of their agreement, but he didn’t care. She leaned into him, pressing her lips against his. He nudged them apart, slid his tongue in, and savored her.

She shivered and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly against his chest. God, she tasted so good, an intoxicating mixture of crisp champagne and…her. And he couldn’t get enough. He thrust his fingers through her hair, cupping her head and bringing her closer. She moaned and he felt himself harden. He slid his hands down her back and grasped her hips, moving against her, wanting her to feel the physical proof of his arousal.

She brought her hands up between them. “We can’t do this.”

His heart raced at the speed of light and his pulse thundered in his ears. He took a step back. He’d been on the verge of scooping her up and walking out of there without a second thought.

She stared at him, then reached up and ran her thumb over his bottom lip.

“Lipstick.” Her voice was husky, low.

And so damned sexy.

He grabbed her wrist, and never breaking eye contact, touched his tongue to the pad of her thumb.

Her eyes widened for a split second before she pulled away, her chest rising and falling, her breasts straining against her dress. “I—I need a moment.” She hurried away from him.

He cursed. What was he doing? He was so close to getting everything he wanted. He couldn’t let this attraction, no matter how powerful, get in the way.

“Pearson!”

David and Vivian Holcombe headed toward him. Dammit. He had to pull himself together. This wasn’t about Pamela. This was about the deal.
Remember that
.

“There you are.” Holcombe grabbed his hand and shook it while slapping him on the back. “And at the head table, too. Impressive.”

That was quite a welcome and different from their last encounter. Was it that simple? Being linked to the Harringtons was enough to get him a smile from Holcombe? “I was honored to be asked. I want to make a place for myself in this community,” he said.

“You’re on the right path. It’s all in who you know. And who you marry.” Holcombe looked around. “Where’s Pamela? Vivian wanted to talk to her about the wedding.”

“She’ll be back in a second.”

“You don’t know how lucky you got with that one. Being the son-in-law of Senator Warren Harrington is more valuable than getting a key to the city. So, when is the big day?”

“Next weekend.”

Holcombe’s eyes widened, giving him the look of a startled owl. “So soon? These things are usually left to the woman, but doesn’t it take time to plan a proper wedding?” He turned to his wife for confirmation.

Vivian nodded, her jerky movements threatening to spill the champagne from her glass.

“We’re not planning a large wedding. Something small and intimate.” Marcus smiled, hearing himself parroting Pamela’s earlier words.

“And Senator Harrington approved that? The man knows a lot of people. They planned to attend her last wedding and were disappointed when it didn’t happen.”

“That’s precisely why Pamela and I are going small.”

Holcombe nodded. “I understand—”

Thank you, Pamela.

“—but it will upset a lot of people. Attending Pamela Harrington’s wedding is something many of us have wanted for a long time.”

Was Holcombe fishing for an invitation to his wedding? The man wanted to attend the event he’d inspired? Marcus did a mental fist pump. “If you and Vivian would like to attend, I’ll make sure Pamela gives you an invitation.”