Married To The Maverick Millionaire

Quinn tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. He wanted to argue, wanted to rage against the unfair accusations, wanted to shout his denials. Instead, he dropped his head and looked at Cal, who still sat on the arm of the chair looking thoughtful.

“You’ve been very quiet, Red. What do you think?”

Cal bit her bottom lip, her eyes troubled. She dropped her head to the side and released a long sigh. “I know how important buying the franchise is and I’d think that you’d want to do whatever you could to make sure that happens.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Maybe you do need to calm down, Q. Stop the serial dating, watch your mouth, stop dueling with death sports—”

The loud jangle of a cell phone interrupted her sentence and Cal hopped up. “Sorry, that’s mine. It might be the hospital.”

Quinn nodded. Cal bent over to pick up her bag and Quinn blinked as the denim fabric stretched across her perfect, heart-shaped ass. He wiped a hand over his face and swallowed, desperately trying to moisten his mouth. All the blood in his head travelled south to create some action in his pants.

Quinn rubbed the back of his neck. Instead of thinking about Red and her very nice butt, he should be directing his attention to his career. He needed to convince Bayliss he was a necessary and valuable component of the team and not a risk factor. To do that, he had to get the media off his back or, at the very least, get them to focus on something positive about him and his career with the Mavericks. Easy to think; not so easy to do.

As Cal slipped out the glass door onto the smaller deck, he acknowledged that his sudden attraction to Red was a complication that he definitely could do without.

* * *

“Callahan Adam-Carter? Please hold for Mr. Graeme Moore.”

Cal frowned, wondered who Graeme Moore was and looked into the lounge behind her, thinking that the three Mavericks men were incredibly sexy. Fit, ripped, cosmopolitan. And since Quinn was the only one who was still single, she wasn’t surprised that the press’s attention was on him. Breakfast was not breakfast in the city without coffee and the latest gossip about the city’s favorite sons.

Over the years his bright blond hair had deepened to the color of rich toffee, but those eyes—those brilliant, ice-green eyes—were exactly the same, edged by long, dark lashes and strong brows. She wasn’t crazy about his too-long, dirty-blond beard and his shoulder-length hair, but she could understand why the female population of Vancouver liked his appearance. He looked hard and hot and, as always, very, very masculine. With an edge of danger that immediately had female ovaries twitching. After a lifetime of watching women making fools of themselves over him—tongues dropping, walking into poles, stuttering, stammering, offering to have his babies—she understood that he was a grade-A hottie.

When she was wrapped around him earlier she’d felt her heart rate climb and that special spot between her legs throb. Mmm, interesting. After five years of feeling numb, five years without feeling remotely attracted to anyone, her sexuality was finally creeping back. She’d started to notice men again and she supposed that her reaction to Quinn had everything to do with the fact that it had been a very long time since she’d been up close and personal with a hot man. With any man.

It didn’t mean anything. He was Quinn, for God’s sake! Quinn! This was the same guy who had tried to raise frogs in the family bath, who had teased her mercilessly and defended her from school-yard bullies. To her, he wasn’t the youngest but best hockey coach in the NHL, the wild and woolly adrenaline junkie who provided grist for the tabloids, or the ripped bad boy who dated supermodels and publicity-seeking actresses.

He was just Quinn, her closest friend for the best part of twenty years.

Well, eighteen years, to be precise. They hadn’t spoken to each other for six months before her wedding or at any time during her marriage. It was only after Toby’s death that they’d reconnected.

“Mrs. Carter, I’m glad I’ve finally reached you.”

Mrs. Carter? Cal’s stomach contracted and her coffee made its way back up her throat. She swallowed and swallowed again.

“I’ve sent numerous messages to your email address at Carter International, but you have yet to respond,” Moore continued. “I heard you were back in the country so I finally tracked down your cell number.”

Cal shrugged. Her life had stopped the day Toby died and she seldom—okay, never—paid attention to messages sent to that address.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Toby Carter’s lawyer and I’m calling about his estate.”

“I don’t understand why, since Toby’s estate was settled years ago,” Cal said, frowning.

Moore remained silent for a long time and he eventually spoke again. “I read his will after the funeral, Mrs. Carter. Do you remember that day?”

No, not really. Her memory of Toby’s death and burial was shrouded in a mist she couldn’t—didn’t want to—penetrate.

“I handed you a folder, asked you to read the will again when you felt stronger,” Moore continued when she failed to answer him. “You didn’t do that, did you?”

Cal pushed away the nauseating emotions that swirled to the surface whenever she thought or talked about Toby and forced herself to think. And no, she hadn’t read the will again. She didn’t even remember the folder. It was probably where she left it, in the study at Toby’s still-unoccupied house.

“Why are you calling me, Mr. Moore?”

“This is a reminder that Mr. Carter’s estate has been in abeyance for the last five years. Mr. Carter wanted you to inherit, but he didn’t want to share his wealth with your future spouse. His will states that if you have not remarried five years after his death, you inherit his estate.”

“What?”

“His estate includes his numerous bank accounts, his properties—both here and overseas—and his shares in Carter International. Also included are his art, furniture and gemstone collections. The estate is valued in the region of $200 million.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want anything! Give it to his sons.”

“The will cannot be changed and his assets cannot be transferred. If you remarry before the anniversary of his death, then you will no longer be a beneficiary of Mr. Carter’s will and only then will his estate be split evenly between his two sons.”

Toby, you scumbag. “So I have to marry within four months to make sure that his sons inherit what they are—morally and ethically—entitled to?” Cal demanded, feeling her heart thud against her rib cage.

“Exactly.”

“Do you know how nuts this is?”

After begging her to read his emails, Moore ended the call. Cal closed her eyes and pulled in deep breaths, flooding her lungs with air in order to push back the panic. Everything Toby owned was tainted, covered with the same deep, dark, controlling and possessive energy that he’d concealed beneath the charming, urbane, kind personality he showed the world.

Cal scrunched her eyelids closed, trying not to remember the vicious taunting, her confusion, the desperation. He was five years dead and he could still make her panic, make her doubt herself, turn her hard-fought independence into insecurity. She couldn’t be his heir. She didn’t want to own anything of his. She never wanted to be linked to him again.

To remain mentally and emotionally free of her husband, she couldn’t be tied to anything he owned. She’d marry the first man she could to rid herself of his contaminated legacy.

Cal turned as she heard the door to the lounge slide open and saw Quinn standing there. She pulled a smile onto her face and hoped that Quinn was too involved in his own drama to notice that she’d taken a starring role in one of her own.

Quinn frowned at her, obviously seeing something on her face or in her eyes to make him pause. “Everything okay?” he asked as he gestured her inside.

Cal nodded as she walked back into the lounge.

“Apart from the fact that I need a husband, I’m good.” Cal saw the shocked expressions that followed and waved her comment away. “Bad joke. Ignore me. So, have you found a solution to your problem? Any ideas on how to get Quinn some good press?”

Wren leaned forward and crossed her legs, linking her hands over her knees, her expression thoughtful. “I wish you weren’t joking, Cal. Quinn marrying you would be excellent PR for him.”

Mac and Kade laughed, Quinn spluttered, but Cal just lifted her eyebrows in a tell-me-more expression.

“You’re PR gold, Callahan. You are the only child of a fairy-tale romance between your superrich father and Rachel Thomas, the principal soloist with the Royal Canadian Ballet Company, who is considered one of the world’s best ballerinas. You married Toby Carter, the most elusive and eligible of Vancouver’s bachelors until these three knuckleheads came along. The public loves you to distraction, despite the fact that you are seldom in the city.”

Could she? Did she dare? It would be a quick, convenient solution.

Cal gathered her courage, pulled on her brightest smile and turned to Quinn. “So, what do you think? Want to get married?”

Two

Cal called a final good-bye to Quinn’s friends and closed the sliding door behind them. She walked through the main salon, passed the large dining table and hesitated at the steps that would take her belowdecks to the sleeping cabins below. Quinn had hurried down those stairs after she’d dropped her bombshell but not before telling her that her suggestion that they marry was deeply unamusing and wildly inappropriate.

She hadn’t been joking and the urge to run downstairs and explain was strong. But Cal knew Quinn, knew that he needed some time alone to work through his temper, to gather his thoughts. She did too. To give them both a little time, she walked back into the kitchen and snagged a microbrew from his stash in the fridge. Twisting the top off, she took a swallow straight from the bottle. She’d been back in Vancouver for less than a day and she already felt like the city had a feather pillow over her face.

Being back in Vancouver always did that to her; the city she’d loved as a child, a teenager and a young woman now felt like it was trying to smother her.

Cal pulled a face. As pretty as Quinn’s new yacht was, she didn’t want to be here. A square inch of her heart—the inch that was pure bitch—resented having to come back here, resented leaving the anonymity of the life she’d created after Toby. But her father needed her here and since he was the only family she had left, she’d caught the first flight home.

Cal ran the cold bottle over her cheek and closed her eyes. When she was away from Vancouver, she was Cal Adam and she had little connection to Callahan Adam-Carter, Toby’s young, socially connected, perfectly pedigreed bride. Despite the fact that she stood to inherit her father’s wealth, she was as far removed from the wife she’d been as politicians were from the truth. The residents of her hometown would be shocked to realize that she was now as normal as any single, almost-thirty-year-old widowed woman who’d grown up in the public eye could be.

She’d worked hard to chase her freedom, to live independently, to find her individuality. It hadn’t always been easy. She was the only child of one of the country’s richest men, the widow of another rich, wildly popular man and the daughter of a beloved icon of the dance world. Her best friend was also the city’s favorite bad boy.

To whom, on a spur-of-the-moment suggestion, she’d just proposed marriage. Crazy!

Yet...yet in a small, pure part of her brain, it made complete sense on a number of levels and in the last few years she’d learned to listen to that insistent voice.

First, and most important, marrying her would be a good move for Quinn. She was reasonably pretty, socially connected and the reporters and photographers loved her. She was also so rarely in the city that whatever she did, or said, was guaranteed to garner coverage. In a nutshell, she sold newspapers, online or print. Being linked with her, being married to her, would send a very strong message that Quinn was turning his life around.

Because nobody—not even Quinn Rayne, legendary bad boy—would play games with Callahan Adam-Carter. And, as a bonus, her father and Warren Bayliss did a lot of business together, so Bayliss wouldn’t dare try excluding Cauley’s son-in-law from any deal involving the other two Mavericks.

Yeah, marrying her would be a very good move on Quinn’s part.

As for her...

If she wanted no part of Toby’s inheritance, then she needed to marry. That was nonnegotiable. And in order to protect herself, to protect her freedom and independence, she needed to marry a man who was safe, someone she could be honest with. She knew Quinn and trusted him. He lived life on his own terms and, since he hated restrictions, he was a live-and-let-live type of guy. Just the type of man—the only type of man—she could ever consider marrying.

Quinn wouldn’t rock her emotional boat. She’d known him all her life, and never thought of him in any way but as her friend. The little spark she’d felt earlier was an aberration and not worth considering, so marrying him would be an easy way out of her sticky situation. No mess, no fuss.

And if she took over the management of the foundation for a while and found herself back in the social swirl, being Quinn’s wife would assuage some highbrow curiosity about her change from an insecure, meek, jump-at-shadows girl to the stronger, assertive, more confident woman she now was. Nobody would expect Quinn—the Mavericks’ Bad Boy—to have a mousy wife.

This marriage—presuming she could get Quinn to agree—would be in name only. Nothing between them would change. It would be a marriage of convenience, a way to help to free herself from Toby’s tainted legacy.

It would be a ruse, a temporary solution to both their problems. It would be an illusion, a show, a production—but the heart of their friendship, of who they were, would stay the same.

It had to. Anything else would be unacceptable.

Provided, of course, that she could get Quinn to agree.

* * *

Was she out of her mind? Had she left the working part of her brain in... God, where had she been? Some tiny, landlocked African country he couldn’t remember the name of. No matter—what the hell was Cal thinking?

Quinn had been so discombobulated by her prosaic, seemingly serious proposal that he’d shouted at her to stop joking around and told his mates that he was going to take a shower, hoping that some time alone under the powerful sprays of his double-head shower would calm him down.

It was the most relaxing shower system in the world, his architect had promised him. Well, relaxing, his ass.

He simply wasn’t marriage and family material. God, he was barely part of the family he grew up within, and now Cal was suggesting that they make one together?

Cal had definitely taken her seat on the crazy train.

But if she was, if the notion was so alien to him, why did his stomach twitch with excitement at the thought? Why did he sometimes—when he felt tired or stressed—wish he had someone to come home to, a family to distract him from the stresses of being the youngest, least experienced head coach in the league? And, worst of all, why, when he saw Kade and Mac with their women, did he feel, well, squirrelly, like something, maybe, possibly, was missing from his life?

Nah, it was gas or indigestion or an approaching heart attack—he couldn’t possibly be jealous of the happiness he saw in their eyes... Besides, Cal had only suggested marriage, not the added extras.

It was a normal reaction to not wanting to be alone, he decided, reaching for the shampoo and savagely dumping far too much in his open palm, cursing when most of it fell to the floor. He viciously rubbed what was left over his long hair and his beard and swore when some suds burned his eyes. Turning the jets as far as they could go, he ducked and allowed the water to pummel his head, his face, his shoulders. Marriage, family, kids—all impossible. Seven years ago, during a routine team checkup, he’d been told by the team doctor and a specialist that his blood tests indicated there was a 95 percent chance he was infertile. Further tests were suggested, but Quinn, not particularly fazed, hadn’t bothered. He’d quickly moved on from the news and that was what he needed to do again. Like, right now. Is it time for you to grow up, Rayne?

His friends’ lives were changing and because of that, his should too. Quinn swore, his curses bouncing off the bathroom walls. But, unfair or not, the fact was that his liaison with Storm, his daredevil stunts, his laissez-faire attitude to everything but his coaching and training of the team, had tarnished the image of the Mavericks and Bayliss didn’t want him to be part of the deal. If Kade and Mac decided to side with him and ditch Bayliss as an investor, there was a very real chance that the Widow Hasselback would sell the franchise to Chenko. And that would be on Quinn’s head.

His teammates, his friends, his brothers didn’t deserve that.

He didn’t have a choice. He’d sacrifice his free-wheelin’ lifestyle, clean up his mouth, tone down the crazy stunts, exhibit some patience and stop giving the press enough rope to hang him. Mac and Kade, his players, the fans—everyone needed him to pull a rabbit out of his hat and that’s what he would do. But how long would it take for the press to get off his ass? Three months? Six? He could behave himself for as long as he needed to, but it would mean no stunts, no women...

No women. After Storm’s crazy-as-hell behavior, he was happy to date himself for a while. And the new season was about to start. With draft picks and fitness assessments and training, he wouldn’t have that much spare time. Yeah, he could take a break from the sweeter-smelling species for a while, easily.

What he wouldn’t do is get married. That was crazy talk. Besides, Cal had been joking. She had a weird, offbeat sense of humor.

Quinn shut off the jets, grabbed a towel and wound it around his hips. He walked out of his bathroom and braked the moment he saw Cal sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, a beer bottle in her hand.

“Just make yourself at home, sunshine,” he drawled, sarcasm oozing from every clean pore.

“We should get married,” she told him, a light of determination in her eyes.

He recognized that look. Cal had her serious-as-hell face on. “God, Cal! Have you lost your mind?”

* * *

Possibly.

Cal watched as Quinn disappeared into his walk-in closet and slammed the door behind him. She eyed the closed door and waited for him to reemerge, knowing that she needed to make eye contact with Quinn to make him realize how desperately serious she was.

Dear Lord, the man had a six-pack that could make a woman weep. Callahan Adam, get a grip! You’ve seen Quinn in just a towel before. Hell, you’ve seen him naked before! This should not—he should not—be able to distract you!

Right. Focus.

Them getting married was a temporary, brilliant solution to both their problems, but she’d have to coax, persuade and maybe bully him into tying the knot with her. If she and Quinn married, she would be killing a flock of pesky pigeons with one supercharged, magic stone. She just needed Quinn to see the big picture...

The door to the closet opened and Quinn walked out, now dressed in a pair of straight-legged track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the arms pushed up to reveal the muscles in his forearms. He’d brushed his hair off his face, but his scowl remained.

Cal sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and patted the comforter next to her. “Let’s chat.”

“Let’s not if you’re going to mention the word marriage.” Quinn scowled and sat on the edge of the bucket chair in the corner, his elbows on his knees and his expression as dark as the night falling outside. Oh, she recognized the stubbornness in his eyes. He wasn’t in any mood to discuss her on-the-fly proposal. If she pushed him now, he’d dig in his heels and she’d end up inheriting Toby’s tainted $200 million.

Being a little stubborn herself, she knew that the best way to handle Quinn was to back off and approach the problem from another angle.

Cal rubbed her eyes with her fist. “It’s been a really crazy afternoon. And a less-than-wonderful day. I spoke to my dad’s doctor about fifteen minutes ago.”

Quinn’s demeanor immediately changed from irritation to concern. He leaned forward, his concentration immediately, absolutely, focused on her. It was one of his most endearing traits. If you were his friend and he cared about you and you said that you were in trouble that was all that was important. “And? Is he okay?”

“He looked awful, so very old,” Cal said, placing her beer bottle on his bedside table. Her father would be okay, she reminded herself as panic climbed up her throat. The triple heart bypass had been successful and he just needed time to recover.

“The doctor says he needs to take three months off. He needs to be stress-free for that time. He’s recommended my father book into a private, very exclusive recovery center in Switzerland.”

“But?”

“According to the doc, Dad is worried about the foundation. Apparently, there are loads of fund-raisers soon—the annual masked ball, the half-marathon, the art auction. The doctor said that if I want my father to make a full recovery, I’ll have to find someone to take over his responsibilities.”

“There’s only one person he’d allow to step into his shoes,” Quinn stated, stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair.

“Me.”

“You’re an Adam, Red, and your father has always held the view that the foundation needs an Adam face. I remember him giving you a thirty-minute monologue over dinner about how the contributors and the grant recipients valued that personal connection. How old were we? Fifteen?”

Cal smiled. “Fourteen.”

“So are you going to run the foundation for him?”

“How can I not?” Cal replied. “It’s three months. I spent three months building houses in Costa Rica, in Haiti after their earthquake, in that refugee camp in Sudan. I say yes to helping strangers all the time. I want to say yes to helping my father, but I don’t want to stay in Vancouver. I want be anywhere but here. But if I do stay here, then I can help you, Q. Marrying me will help you rehab your reputation.”

If this wasn’t so damn serious, then she’d be tempted to laugh at his horrified expression.

“I’m not interested in using my association with you, sullying my friendship with you, to improve my PR,” Quinn told her in his take-no-prisoners voice.

And there was that streak of honor so few people saw but was a fundamental part of Quinn. He did his own thing, but he made sure his actions didn’t impact anyone else. His integrity—his honor—was why she couldn’t believe a word his psycho ex spouted about their relationship. Quinn didn’t play games, didn’t obfuscate, didn’t lie. And he never, ever, made promises he couldn’t keep.

“I can rehabilitate my own reputation without help from you or anyone else.”

Cal didn’t disagree with him; Quinn could do anything he set his mind to. “Of course you can, but it would be a lot quicker if you let me help you. The reality is that, according to the world, I am the good girl and you’re the bad boy. I don’t drink, party or get caught with my panties down.” God, she sounded so boring, so blah. “I am seen to be living a productive and meaningful life. I am the poster girl for how filthy-rich heiresses should behave.”

“Bully for you,” Quinn muttered, looking unimpressed.

“I know—I sound awful, don’t I?” Cal wrinkled her nose. “But my rep, or the lack of it, can work for you, if you let it. Being seen with me, spending time with me will go a long way to restoring your reputation and, right now, it needs some polishing. The Mavericks are in sensitive discussions around the future of the team and, from what I can gather, your position within the organization is unstable. Your fans are jittery. You’re about to start a new season and, as the coach, you need them behind you and you need them to trust you. They probably don’t at the moment.”