MARRIAGE-BARGAIN

CHAPTER 3

Nick glanced around, satisfied with the result. His private conference room provided a business atmosphere, and the bouquet of fresh flowers

his secretary had placed in the center of the table offered a personal touch amongst the plush wine carpeting, the rich gleam of cherry wood,

and buttery leather chairs. The contracts were neatly laid out, along with an elegant silver tray filled with tea, coffee, and a variety of pastries.

Formal, yet friendly—which would reflect the tone of their marriage.

He ignored the pitch deep in his gut when he thought of encountering Alexandria McKenzie again. He wondered how she'd grown. The

stories his sister shared with him painted a picture of a reckless, impulsive woman. He initially balked at Maggie's suggestion—Alexa didn't fit

the image he needed. Stubborn memories of a free-spirited kid with a ponytail bobbing teased his thoughts, even though he knew she owned

a respectable bookstore. He still thought of her as Maggie's playmate, even though he hadn't seen her in years.

But time was running out.

They shared a distant past, and he sensed Alexa could be trusted. She may not fit his idea of the perfect wife, but she needed money. Fast.

Maggie remained silent regarding the reason, but painted Alexa as desperate. A need for cash he was comfortable with—it was black and

white. No gray areas. No ideas of intimacy between them. A formal business transaction between old friends. Nick could live with that.

He reached for the intercom to buzz his secretary, but the heavy door smoothly swung open at the same time and closed with a solid click.

He turned.

Deep blue eyes cut straight to his with little hesitation and a clearness that told him this woman would lose any poker game—she was

brutally honest and unwilling to bluff. He recognized her gaze well enough, but age had changed the colors to a disturbing mix of aquamarine

and sapphire. Certain images came to mind—plumbing the depths of the Caribbean Sea in search of its mysteries. A canvas of Sinatra's

umbrella skies stretched so far and wide a man couldn't find the beginning or end.

Her eyes were startling against the inky black of her hair, which consisted of corkscrew curls that tumbled past her shoulders and framed

her face with a natural wildness she seemed unable to tame. High cheekbones set off a lush mouth. He used to ask her if she'd been stung by

a bee, then crack up laughing. The joke was on him. Hot male fantasies were built around a mouth like hers—and it had nothing to do with

bees. Just honey. Preferably warm, sticky honey poured over those plump lips and slowly licked off.

Ah, hell.

He reigned himself in and finished his inspection. He remembered torturing her when he found out she had to wear a bra. An early

developer, she'd been mortified by his discovery, and he'd used the information wisely. Now, it wasn't funny anymore. Her breasts were as

lush as her mouth, and matched the curve of her hips. She was tall, almost as tall as he, and this package of female temptation came all

wrapped up in a fiery red tank dress that emphasized her cleavage, skimmed over her hips, and fell to the floor. Scarlet toenails peeked

through shiny red sandals. She remained still in the doorway, as if allowing him to drink his fill before she decided to speak.