Not the Marrying Kind by Nicola Marsh

should make time.”
    His prolonged silence unnerved her before he released her hand and swung back to face her. “You’re welcome to live here.”
    “While we’re married, you mean?”
    He nodded. “Make it easier on both of us, not having to keep up pretenses twenty-four-seven.”
    Damn, he was a hard one to read. One minute he was all over her, the next he wanted her as far away as possible. He was right, though. The less time they spent together the less chance of throttling each other, and she had no doubt they’d soon tire of playing happy newlyweds.
    “Fine by me.”
    “Good. I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
    And he did, taking her through the lavish bedrooms, the state of the art kitchen, the homey sunroom. But something had changed. He didn’t hold her hand, and he described the place like a real estate agent: devoid of humor and emotion.
    When they stepped outside to the pool area, the blast of desert heat was a welcome relief from the chill inside: Beck was worse than the A/C.
    He pointed at an outdoor kitchen. “Housekeeping comes in twice a week so the fridge will be stocked.”
    “Great.”
    They stepped out from the shade of a veranda and strolled around the pool, an Olympic-sized oval surrounded by trimmed hedges and cacti in terracotta pots that matched the house’s exterior.
    “Cool place,” she said, trying to look at the house with objectivity, but failing.
    Both outside and in, it had character and charm and warmth, a real home.
    That Beck deliberately kept empty.
    “Will you be down here much while I’m staying?”
    He stiffened, as if she’d asked him to streak through the desert at midday. “I’ll have to spend some time at the house for appearances, but it’s probably easier if you head to the Strip for functions I’ll need you to attend.”
    “No problem.” But she wouldn’t give up that easily. Something about this place had him rattled, and if she was going to be stuck out here in hacienda heaven, she wanted to know what she’d be dealing with. “You should come down on weekends. Learn to chill out.”
    He fixed her with a disbelieving glare. “Don’t try to change me because you’ve got a ring on your finger.” He pointed to the diamond-studded platinum wedding band he’d slipped on less than an hour ago. “Those sparklers may be real, but everything else in this marriage is fake.”
    “Not everything,” she muttered. A very real attraction simmered between them, and she earned another steely glare for her trouble.
    “Come on, we’ve got a wedding reception to host.”
    “You’re the boss.” She saluted, another attempt at humor lost. He didn’t break stride as he headed for the house, leaving her to ponder exactly what she’d gotten herself into with this in convenient marriage.
    …
     
    Beck slammed his palm against a terracotta wall, barely registering the pain as he studiously avoided glancing outside at the cause of his discontent.
    While Poppy investigated every nook of the desert garden, he mentally recited reasons why he shouldn’t touch her.
    Business deals should never be clouded with emotion.
    Never mix business with pleasure.
    Focus on signing the construction deal; avoid distractions.
    Good, solid reasons. Closely followed by all work and no play makes Beck a very dull—and frustrated—boy.
    He slipped a finger between his collar and neck, loosening it. Ever since he’d said “I do,” he hadn’t been able to breathe, choked by his own foolishness. No matter how many times rationale dictated he keep his marriage to Poppy platonic, the simple fact was, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
    Shit.
    She’d wisely given him time to cool off, but taking a prolonged dunk in the Hoover Dam wouldn’t cool him. Nothing short of raunchy sex with his wife would do that. He’d thought hiding her away while he remained in Vegas would take the edge off. Establishing physical distance while utilizing the respectability his new marriage