Married to the Maverick Millionaire
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Joss Wood
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One
Quinn Rayne flew across the parking lot on the Coal Harbour promenade, his feet slapping an easy but fast rhythm as he dodged both tourists and residents taking a late afternoon stroll on the paved and pretty walking and biking path next to the marina. The earbuds in his ears and his dark sunglasses were an excellent excuse to ignore the calls of recognition, the pointed fingers.
Even after a decade of being in the spotlight, he still wasn’t used to being an object of curious, sometimes disapproving, fascination. Surely the residents of Vancouver could find someone new to discuss? There had to be someone in the city who was a bigger badass than he was reputed to be.
As he approached the marina, he slowed his sprint to a jog and then to a walk, fingers against the pulse point in his neck and his eyes on his watch. After two minutes he nodded, satisfied. He might not be playing professional ice hockey anymore, but he was as fit as he’d ever been. He’d see whether his players, when they returned to practice next week, had also maintained their fitness. For their sakes, he hoped so.
Quinn walked to the access gate to his wharf. He punched in his code to open the gate and jogged down to where his yacht was berthed. Because he owned one of the prime sites, he had unobstructed views of Burrard Inlet, with Stanley Park to his left and Grouse Mountain in front of him. Living on the water was more adventurous than living in a house and God knew how much he craved adventure.
Quinn stepped onto the Red Delicious and quickly ran up the steps to the main deck, the quickest way to access the living area. He slid open the door, pulled his earbuds from his neck and tossed them, his cap and his sunglasses onto the sleek table to his right. He glanced at his watch and wondered if he had time for a shower before Mac and Kade arrived to report back on a meeting they’d attended earlier with Warren Bayliss, their partner and investor.
Bayliss was an essential part of the ongoing process to buy the Mavericks franchise from the current owner, Myra Hasselback, who was also considering selling out to a Russian billionaire who owned a string of boring sports franchises. Quinn didn’t need his brother’s string of degrees to know that when he, a full Mavericks partner, was excluded from the meeting Warren called, then there was trouble in paradise.
And that it had his name on it.
Quinn walked into the massive open-plan living area and immediately noticed the small form tucked into the corner of his oversize sofa, a cup of coffee in her hand, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. One foot was tucked up under her butt; her other—long, slim and sexy—was bent. She’d been sitting like that on the beach at Sandy Cove the first day he’d met her, gap-toothed and grinning, a six-year-old dynamo. She was his girl-next-door or, to be technical, the girl from three houses down. His childhood companion and his teenage confidante.
Sensing his presence, she turned her head, deep-red curls bouncing. Freckles splattered across her nose and onto her cheeks, each one perfect. God, he loved her freckles, had missed those freckles, her face.
He slapped his hands on his hips, not sure if he was just imagining her or if she was really sitting there, bright hair and makeup-free but so damn real he could barely breathe.
“Red. What the hell are you doing here?”
Her smile slammed into his sternum and Quinn’s heart bounced off his rib cage. Callahan’s deep, dark eyes danced as she jumped to her feet and Quinn found himself smiling, properly smiling, for the first time that day. He reached out, grabbed her and swept her into his arms. She weighed less than a feather and he easily whirled her around. The scent of wildflowers hovered around her. It was in the hair he buried his face into, on the warm, smooth skin he could feel beneath the barrier of her shirt. Her laugh rumbled through her and instantly lightened his mood. She’d always had the naughtiest, dirtiest laugh.
Cal Adam was back and his world made a little more sense.
Her feet still off the ground, Cal placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed away from him, her eyes clashing with his. “Hi.”
“Hi back.”
“You always had the prettiest eyes,” Cal said, the tips of her fingers coming to rest on his cheekbone. “Ice green with a ring of emerald.” She patted his cheek and rubbed her hand through his too-long, overly full beard. “Not sure about this, though. You’re hiding that sexy face.”
Quinn tightened his arms, his lower body responding as she wound her legs around his waist. A picture of her wet and naked, in exactly this position, appeared on his internal big screen, but he brushed it away. This was Cal, his oldest friend, his best friend—having lascivious thoughts about her was weird. And wrong.
He patted her small, tight butt. “Glad to see that you’ve picked up a bit of weight since the last time I saw you.” It had been nearly two years ago and she’d been in hospital with a stomach bug she’d caught in Panama. Cal had looked almost skeletal. Always petite, at least she now looked on the healthy side of slim.
Cal smiled again, dropped a quick kiss on his lips, a kiss that had Quinn wanting more, needing to find out whether her lips were as soft as they appeared, whether that mouth that looked like it had been made for sin could, actually, sin. What was his problem? Was he now such a player that it was a habit to take every encounter with every woman to the bedroom? Even Cal?
Cal wiggled, her feet dropped to the maple floor and Quinn released her. She stepped back and pushed a curl behind her ear.
“Red Delicious, Q? That’s an odd name for a boat.” Cal made a production of fluttering her eyelashes. “Or did you name it after me?”
He grinned. “You wish I did. Nope, it was pure coincidence.”
“Honestly, she’s stunning,” Cal stated, looking around. Quinn followed her gaze. The sleek lines of the sixty-five-meter yacht were echoed in the minimalist furniture and cool white, grey and beige. Sometimes he thought it a little stark...
“It needs some color. Some bold prints, some bright cushions,” Cal said, echoing his thoughts. Despite their long time apart, they still thought along the same lines.
“She’s beautiful and bigger than your last yacht. How many does she sleep?”
“Ten on the lower deck. The master cabin is aft with a walk-in wardrobe and spa bath and there’s another full cabin forward. Two small cabins midship There’s another smaller, cozier lounge...that’s where I watch TV, wind down. Two decks, one off the main bedroom and another entertainment deck with a Jacuzzi.”
“Impressive. I want to see it all. When did you acquire her?”
“About a year back.” Quinn ran a hand down Cal’s hair and her curls wound around his knuckle. The smell of her shampoo wafted over to him and he wondered when Cal’s hair had turned so soft and silky. So damned girly. Cal shoved her hands into the back pockets of her skinny jeans and arched her back. The white silk T-shirt pulled against her chest and Quinn noticed her small, perky breasts and that she was wearing a lacy, barely-there push-up bra.
He rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable. Right. Enough with that, Rayne.
Quinn rubbed the back of his neck as he walked across the living area to the kitchen. He opened the double-door fridge and peered inside, hoping that the icy air would cool his lascivious thoughts.
“Water?” he asked, his words muffled.
Cal shook her head. “No, thanks.”
He slammed the fridge door closed and cracked the lid on the water bottle before lifting it to his lips.
“How is your dad?” he asked, remembering why she was back in the city, back home.
“Okay. The triple heart bypass was successful. I went straight from the airport to the hospital and spent some time with him. He was awake and making plans so I suppose that’s a good sign.”
“I’m glad he’s okay.”
“He’ll be fine. Stressing about when he can get back to work.” He saw the worry in her eyes, heard fear in her flat tone. “The doctors said he won’t be able to return to work for a couple of months and that sent him into a tailspin.”
“He had the operation a few days ago. Maybe he should relax a little. The foundation won’t grind to a stop because he isn’t there.”
The Adam Foundation was the wealthiest charitable organization in Canada, funded by the accumulated wealth of generations of her Adam ancestors. Money from the Adam Foundation allowed an ever-changing group of volunteers, and Cal, to travel the world to assist communities who needed grassroots help.
Cal bit the inside of her lip and her arched eyebrows pulled together. “He’ll need somebody to run it until he’s back on his feet.”
“Is that person you?” he asked, annoyed by the spurt of excitement he felt. God, he and Cal hadn’t lived in the same city for ages and having her around would be a very nice change.
“Maybe,” Cal replied, unenthusiastic. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Quinn frowned as he tried to work out why Cal felt so ambivalent toward the city they’d been raised in. It was beautiful, interesting and eclectic, but Cal only came home when she absolutely had to. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that her husband had been killed when the light aircraft he’d been piloting crashed into a mountain to the north of the city around four...no, it had to be five years ago now.
She’d married the same week she turned twenty-four and, thanks to their massive argument about her nuptials—Quinn had loudly and vociferously told her that she’d lost her mind—he’d missed both her birthday and her wedding that year.
“Does the press corps know you are home?” Quinn asked, changing the subject. Like him, Cal had a hate-hate affair with the press.
“Everyone knows. They were at the airport and at the hospital.”
“Remind me again where you flew in from?” It had been a couple of months since they last spoke and, while they exchanged emails regularly, he couldn’t recall where her last project had been. Then again, Cal—as the troubleshooter for her family’s foundation—jumped from project to project, country to country, going where she was needed to ensure everything ran smoothly. She could be in Latin America one week and in the Far East the next. Cal collected frequent-flier miles like politicians collected votes.
“Africa. Lesotho, to be precise. I was working on a project to counter soil erosion.” Cal nodded toward the center island of the kitchen, to his landline and cell phone. “Your cell rang and then your phone. Mac left a voicemail saying that he and Wren and Kade were on the way over to discuss today’s train wreck.” She tipped her head and narrowed her amazing, blue-black eyes. “What trouble have you landed yourself in now, Q?”
Quinn heard Mac’s and Kade’s heavy footsteps on the outside stairs and lifted a shoulder. “You know what they say, Red—the trouble with trouble is that it starts off as fun.”
* * *
After greeting his best friends—who were also his partners, his colleagues—and Wren, the Mavericks’ PR guru, he gestured for them all to take a seat and offered drinks. While he made coffee, Cal was hugged and kissed by his friends and asked how she’d been. It didn’t matter how infrequently they saw her, Quinn mused, she automatically slotted back into his life and was immediately accepted because Mac and Kade understood that, just like they did, Cal had his back.
Quinn delivered mugs of coffee and sighed at their doom-and-gloom faces. He could deal with their anxiety—Mac and Kade constantly worried that he’d kill himself chasing his need for adrenaline—but he didn’t like their frustration and, yeah, their anger. His teammates and their head of publicity were pissed. Again. Not necessarily at him but at the situation he’d found himself in.
He tended to find himself in a lot of situations.
Hell, Quinn thought as he pushed his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and gathered it into a knot at the back of his head, here we go again.
“Make yourself some coffee, bro. You’re going to need it,” Mac suggested, leaning back and placing his booted foot on his opposite knee.
“I’ll do it,” Cal offered.
Though he appreciated her offer, Quinn shook his head. “Thanks, Red, but I’ve got it.”
Quinn ran his hand over his thick beard as he walked around the island into the kitchen to where his coffee machine stood. He picked up his favorite mug, placed it under the spout and pushed the button for a shot of espresso. The machine gurgled, dispensed the caffeine and Quinn hit the button again. He wanted whiskey, but he supposed that a double espresso would have to do.
“So how did the meeting with Warren go?” he asked as he turned around.
Mac, as forthright as ever, gestured to Cal. “Maybe we should do this in private.”
Cal immediately stood up and Quinn shook his head. “You know that you can talk in front of Cal. What I know she can know. I trust her.”
Mac nodded and rubbed his jaw as Cal sat down again. “Your choice.”
“Warren is less than happy with you and he’s considering pulling out of the deal.”
Quinn gripped the granite island to keep his balance, feeling like a forty-foot wave had passed under the bow of the yacht. “What?”
“And why?” Cal demanded, his shock echoed on her face. “What has Quinn done?”
“Is this about the interview Storm gave?” Quinn asked.
“Partly,” Kade replied.
Quinn took a sip of his coffee, planted his feet apart and looked out to the water. Earlier in the week he’d woken up to the news that his three-week stand had, a month after he ended it, decided to share the intimate, ugly details of their affair and final breakup. Storm tearfully told the world, on an extremely popular morning breakfast show, that Quinn was emotionally unavailable, that he constantly and consistently cheated on her. For those reasons, she now needed intensive therapy.
None of it was true, but she’d sounded damn convincing.
He’d been played; the world was still being played. He’d made it very clear to her that he wasn’t looking for a relationship—and three weeks did not constitute a relationship!—but she’d turned their brief and, to be honest, forgettable affair into a drama. Storm’s interview was a massive publicity stunt, the next installment in keeping her admittedly gorgeous face in the news.
“Come and sit down, Quinn,” Kade said, gesturing to a chair with his foot. Quinn dropped his long frame into the chair and rested his head on the padded back. His eyes darted from Kade’s and Mac’s faces to Cal’s. Her deep, dark eyes—the exact color of his midnight-blue superbike—reflected worry and concern.
“It’s just the latest episode in a series of bad press you’ve received and Warren is concerned that this is an ongoing trend. He told us, flat out, the Mavericks can’t afford any more bad press and that you are the source.”
“Does he want me out of the partnership?” Quinn demanded, his heart in his throat.
“He’s hinting at it.”
Quinn muttered an obscenity. The Mavericks—being Mac and Kade’s partner—was what he did and a large part of who he was. Coaching the team was his solace, his hobby and, yeah, his career. He freakin’ loved what he did.
But to own and grow the franchise, they needed Bayliss. Bayliss was their link to bigger and better sponsorship deals. He had media connections they could only dream about, connections they needed to grow the Mavericks franchise. But their investor thought Quinn was the weak link.
Craphelldammit.
Quinn looked at Cal and she slid off the bar stool to sit on his chair, her arm loosely draped around his shoulders. Damn, he was glad she was back in town, glad she was here. He rarely needed anyone, but right now he needed her.
Her unconditional support, her humor, her solidity.
He looked at Wren, their PR guru. “Is he right? Am I damaging the Mavericks’ brand?” he asked, his normally deep voice extra raspy with stress.
Wren flicked her eyes toward the pile of newspapers beside her. “Well, you’re certainly not enhancing it.” She linked her hands together on the table and leaned forward, her expression intense. “Basically, all the reports about you lately have followed the same theme and, like a bunch of rabid wolves, the journos are ganging up on you.”
Quinn frowned. “Brilliant.”
“Unfortunately, they have no reason to treat you kindly. You did nearly run that photographer over a couple of weeks back,” Wren said.
Quinn held up his hands. “That was an accident.” Sort of.
“And you called the press a collective boil on the ass of humanity during that radio interview.”
Well, they were.
Wren continued. “Basically, their theme is that it’s time you grew up and that your—let’s call them exploits—are getting old and, worse, tiresome. That seeing you with a different woman every month is boring and a cliché. Some journalists are taking this a step further, saying, since Kade and Mac have settled and started families, when are you going to do the same? That what was funny and interesting in your early twenties is now just self-indulgent.”
Quinn grimaced. Ouch. Harsh.
Not as harsh as knowing that he’d never be able to have what they had, his own family, but still...
Seriously, Rayne, this again? For the last five years, you’ve known about and accepted your infertility! A family is not what you want, remember? Stop thinking about it and move on!
Kade picked up a paper and Quinn could see that someone, probably Wren, had highlighted some text.
Kade read the damaging words out loud. “Our sources tell us that the deal to buy the Mavericks franchise by Rayne, Kade Webb and Mac McCaskill, and their investor—the conservative billionaire industrialist Warren Bayliss—is about to be finalized. You would think that Rayne would make an effort to keep his nose clean. Maybe his partners should tell him that while he might be a brilliant and successful coach, he is a shocking example to his players and his personal life is a joke.”
Kade and Mac held his gaze and he respected them for not dropping their eyes and looking away.
“Is that something you want to tell me?” he demanded, his voice rough.
Kade exchanged a look with Mac and Mac gestured for Kade to speak. “The last year has been stressful, for all of us. So much has happened—Vernon’s death, our partnership with Bayliss, buying the franchise.”
“Falling in love, becoming fathers,” Wren added.
Kade nodded his agreement. “You generating bad publicity is complicating the situation. We, specifically the Mavericks, need you to clean up your act.”
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?”
