She can marry the millionaire and keep her hands to herself...right?

When Cal Carter needs a husband in name only, her childhood friend is the perfect pick. But on the other side of “I do,” her sexy millionaire of convenience is much more man than she counted on! She can’t stop thinking about their marriage bed...

Especially when the millionaire in question is Quinn Rayne, world-famous heartthrob hockey coach. Quinn is grateful for Cal’s proposal, which keeps the press at bay—but the sizzling passion between them is irresistible. All it takes is one stolen kiss at a masquerade ball to turn this convenient arrangement between friends into a red-hot affair...

Married to the Maverick Millionaire is part of the From Mavericks to Married series.

They were both masked and they could pretend...

God, she needed to pretend. “Kiss me.”

Cal couldn’t see Quinn’s expression beneath his mask, and it was too dark to see the emotion in his eyes. She felt his hesitation and worried that he would back off, that he’d yank them back to reality, to their lives. When his mouth softened, she knew that he was as tempted as she was.

He finally ducked his head and his mouth hovered over hers, teasing.

Minutes, hours, eons later, he lowered his head and his mouth brushed hers. His fingertips dug into the bare skin at her waist, and by their own volition her hands parted his jacket to touch the muscles at his waist, to echo his hold on her.

As he kissed her, as she lost herself in him, the world faded away, melting in the joy his mouth created. In this moment, as his mouth invaded hers, she wasn’t the good girl, the do-gooder with the sterling reputation.

She was Cal, and Quinn holding her was all that was important.

* * *

Married to the Maverick Millionaire is part of the From Mavericks to Married series—Three superfine hockey players finally meet their matches!

Dear Reader,

Quinn Rayne is running out of friends to play with. Kade and Mac have both fallen in love, but the biggest Maverick playboy is not prepared to give up his hard-living, fast-paced and adrenaline-filled lifestyle to settle down. However, Quinn’s bad-boy behavior has caught up with him, and he is no longer the Maverick darling. The press, Maverick fans and, most important, the Maverick’s business partner are all tired of Quinn’s antics and have decided that it’s time for the Maverick’s coach to settle down.

His oldest and best friend, heiress Callahan Adam-Carter, has been married once and that was a disaster, so she, like Quinn, is content with her single lifestyle. When Cal returns to Vancouver, her dead husband’s lawyer informs her that, since she has not remarried five years after his death, she is due to inherit a ridiculous amount of money from his estate. Cal doesn’t want or need his money, and that means she has to marry...and quickly.

Cal sees a way to kill two pesky birds with one stone. She’s the city’s favorite daughter, and by marrying her, Quinn can rehabilitate his reputation and Cal can avoid inheriting Toby Carter’s tainted money. She and Quinn are friends, best friends. After a year or so they’ll divorce and they’ll still be friends. What could possibly go wrong? *cue evil author cackling*

Kade, Mac and Quinn are three of my favorite characters, and I hope you enjoy spending time with them—I’ve loved every minute.

Happy reading!

Joss

Connect with me at www.josswoodbooks.com

Twitter: @josswoodbooks

Facebook: Joss Wood Author

Married to the Maverick Millionaire

Joss Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JOSS WOOD’s passion for putting black letters on a white screen is matched only by her love of books and traveling (especially to the wild places of southern Africa) and, possibly, by her hatred of ironing and making school lunches.

Joss has written over sixteen books for Mills & Boon.

After a career in business lobbying and local economic development, Joss now writes full-time. She lives in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, with her husband and two teenage children, surrounded by family, friends, animals and a ridiculous amount of books.

Joss is a member of the RWA (Romance Writers of America) and ROSA (Romance Writers of South Africa).

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This book is dedicated to my own Cal, the port I run to in any storm.

I am so grateful to have you in my life.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

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?”

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.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. She was hurting him, and she was sorry for that. His job—his career—was everything to him and her words were like digging a knife into a bullet wound.

“If we’re married, the world will look at you and think, ‘Hey, he’s with Callahan, and we all know that she has her feet on the ground. Maybe we’ve been a bit tough on him.’ Or maybe they’ll think that your exploits couldn’t have been that bad if I’m prepared to be with you. Whatever they interpret from the two of us being together, it should be positive.”

“I cannot believe that we are still discussing this, but—” Quinn frowned “—why marriage? Why would we have to go that far? Why couldn’t we just be in a relationship?”

Cal took a minute to come up with a response that made sense. “Because if we just pretend to have a relationship, then it could be interpreted as me being another notch on your belt, another of your bang-her-’til-you’re-bored women. No, you have to be taken seriously and what’s more serious than marriage?”

Quinn frowned at her. “Death? Or isn’t that the same thing?”

“I’m not suggesting a life sentence, Quinn.”

“And would this be a fake marriage or a let’s-get-the-legal-system-involved marriage?”

Cal considered his question. “It would be easier if it was fake, but some intrepid journalist would check and if they find out we’re trying to snow them, they’ll go ballistic. If we do this, then we have to do it properly.”

“I’m over the moon with excitement.”

Cal ignored his sarcasm. “I’m thinking that we stay married for about a year, maybe eighteen months. We act, when we’re out in public, like this is the real deal. Behind closed doors we’ll be who we always are, best friends. After the furor has died down, after the Mavericks purchase is complete, we’ll start to go our own ways and, after a while, we’ll separate. Then we’ll have a quick and quiet divorce, saying that we are better off as friends and that we still love each other, all of which will be true.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s a hell of a plan, Red. And why do you want to do this?”

And that’s where this got tricky, Cal thought. Without a detailed explanation, he wouldn’t understand her wish to walk away from so much money. She’d have to explain that accepting Toby’s money would stain her soul and Quinn would demand to know why. She couldn’t tell him that the debonair, sophisticated, charming and besotted-by-his-new-bride Toby turned into a psycho behind closed doors.

She simply couldn’t tell anyone. Some topics, she was convinced, never needed to see the light of day.

“Being part of a couple provides me with a barrier to hide behind when the demands of my father’s high-society world become too much. I need to be able to refuse invitations to cocktail parties and events, to not go to dinner with eligible men, to do the minimal amount of socializing that is required of me. In order to get away with that without offending anyone, I need a good excuse.” Her mouth widened into a smile. “My brand-new husband would be an excellent excuse.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “You’re asking me to marry you so you can duck your social obligations? Do you know how lame that sounds?”

It did sound lame, even to her. “Sure, but it will stop me from going nuts.”

“The press will be all over us like a rash.” Quinn said.

“Yeah, but, after a couple of weeks, they will move on to something else and will, hopefully, leave us alone.”

Quinn didn’t look convinced and stared at the carpet beneath his feet. “What happens if we do get married and you meet someone who you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

Jeez, she was never getting married—in the real sense—ever again. She’d never hand a man that much control over her, allow him to have that much input into how she lived her life. She’d been burned once, scorched, incinerated—there was no way she’d play with fire again. Marrying Quinn was just a smoke screen and nothing would change, not really. They had everything to gain and little to lose.

“Don’t worry about that. Look, all I’m asking is for you to provide me with a shield between my father’s world and the pound of flesh they want from me,” Cal stated. “It’s taking the lemons life gives you—”

“If you say anything about making lemonade, I might strangle you,” Quinn warned her in his super-growly, super-sexy voice.

Cal grinned. “Hell, no! When life gives me lemons, I slice those suckers up, haul out the salt and tequila and do shots.” She stretched out her legs. “So, are we going to get married or what, Rayne?”

He stood up and stretched, and the hem of his shirt pulled up to reveal furrows of hard stomach muscle and a hint of those long, vertical muscles over his hips that made woman say—and do—stupid things. Like taking a nip right there, heading lower to take his...

Cal slammed her eyes shut and hauled in some much-needed air. Had she really fantasized about kissing Quinn...there? She waited for the wave of shame, but nothing happened. Well, she was still wondering how good those muscles and his masculine skin would feel under her hands, on her tongue.

She had to get out of his bedroom. Now. Before she did something stupid like slapping her mouth on his. Her libido wasn’t gently creeping back; it was galloping in on a white stallion, naked and howling.

Maybe getting hitched wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had. She should backtrack, tell Quinn that this was a crazy-bad idea, that she’d changed her mind.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Quinn said. “Let’s get hitched.”

Oh, damn. Too late.

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