Not the Marrying Kind by Nicola Marsh Page A

brought to seal the deal with the investors.
    He’d screwed up. Every time he thought of her here he’d imagine her in his bed, his bath, his pool.
    She’d be naked, of course. Naked and willing…
    He kicked a potted cactus, barely registering the sting of a stray spike.
    The sooner he left his bogus wife here and headed back to Vegas, the better.

Chapter Nine
     
    Divorce Diva Daily recommends:
    Playlist: “Fool to Cry” by The Rolling Stones
    Movie: War of the Roses
    Cocktail: Bloody Mary

     
    Beck preferred sleeping under the desert stars to the glittering pizzazz of a Vegas party, but this was one shindig he had to attend.
    His wedding reception.
    The staff had done a great job, turning the revolving rooftop dining room of his signature hotel into a gilt-edged wonderland filled with the best crystal, the best silver, and the best food money could buy. But as he sipped at aged Scotch on the edge of a buzzing crowd, nothing about this evening seemed real.
    As the sound of clinking crystal champagne flutes and muted laughter washed over him, he sucked in a breath that didn’t ease the tightness in his chest.
    He’d done the one thing he swore he’d never do.
    Get married.
    He didn’t like codependence—on anything or anyone. He’d seen his mom develop both after she’d met his lousy dad. And Beck hated answering to anyone, but that’s exactly what he’d had to do when he’d made the mistake of taking Poppy to the house. Even now, twelve hours later, he had no idea why he’d done it.
    The moment she’d slipped the platinum band on his finger and he’d kissed his new bride, he’d wanted to get her alone. Naked.
    And therein lay the problem. He’d already let her into his life by allowing her to stay at Red Rock Canyon, had already divulged too much in telling her all that stuff about his family history. Having her live in his home implied an intimacy he didn’t want, and sex with her would solidify that.
    It was more than that and he knew it.
    The house was the part of him he kept hidden from everyone else. None of his Vegas crowd had been there—not even Lou—and he liked it that way. He may have escaped Checkerville and his dreary past, but there was one thing he could thank his no-good folks for: helping to instill in him a love of the desert.
    Pa had fostered his love for the arid landscape surrounding their trailer, had taken him on long hikes, pointing out the Joshua trees, the Mohave yucca, the Apache plume, while warning him of the dangers of scorpions, tarantulas, and Mohave green rattlers.
    Beck had spent countless hours watching his favorite desert tortoise, coyote, and gila monster, chasing jackrabbits and studying roadrunner habits.
    He loved the heat, the dust, the colors.
    Something Poppy had homed in on immediately.
    He’d seen the light in her eyes as she’d toured his home and it made him like her all the more. Which was why he’d shut down and put some serious emotional distance between them. He didn’t want to feel anything for his wife, and that was a distinct possibility if they spent too much time together.
    Poppy was nothing like the women he usually dated. She was warm and spontaneous and bold. She didn’t defer to him; she didn’t play games. Hell, this marriage farce was testament to that. Poppy was blunt and genuine and far too appealing. The less time he spent with her, the better.
    “There you are.” She slipped her arms around his waist from behind and rested her cheek on his back, playing the doting wife for their reception guests. “Slipped off the ball and chain already?”
    “I’m taking a breather.” He turned around, secretly pleased when she didn’t release him.
    “Low stamina, huh?”
    He ducked his head to whisper in her ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
    “Not really.” She laughed up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and right then, snug in the circle of her arms, he’d never been more convinced he’d done the right thing in