The Billionaire's Bride

J.T. stepped around Marnie in the small kitchen and headed toward the equally miniscule adjoining room that probably served as the home’s main gathering place, although at the moment it had no furnishings. He pointed to the closed door at the far end of the room.

“What do you have in there?”

“No idea. I opened the bathroom door and there it was. I wasn’t going to evict it.”

Marnie smiled at J.T., ready to forgive him for his rudeness now that she had determined he was quite harmless: annoying, arrogant and appallingly short on manners, but harmless nonetheless.

She was still smiling when she asked, “Maybe you could, um, convince it to go outside?”

Then she handed him the shoe.

J.T. couldn’t believe this woman. She had the sultry, sexy look of a lingerie model: long, slender limbs, a well-curved bottom and generous bust, all neatly topped off with a short dark mop of hair, deep brown eyes and lips that looked inviting even when she was snarling at him. She was a study in contrasts, much like the Baja peninsula with its deserts, mountains and gorgeous coastline. One minute she was threatening him with a flimsy sandal and the next she was trying to wheedle a favor out of him.

And she still hadn’t answered his question.

“Tell me who you are and why you’re here, and I’ll consider doing my best imitation of the Crocodile Hunter for you,” he bartered.

She heaved an aggravated sigh that had the thin material of her cotton T-shirt pulling taut across her chest, drawing J.T.’s attention. He tried his best not to think about how long it had been since he’d spent some quality time alone with a woman.

“Fine. I’m Marnie. Marnie LaRue of Chance Harbor, Michigan.”

“The plates on your vehicle say Arizona.”

“My folks live there. I borrowed their car. Satisfied?”

“Hardly. Why are you here?”

Marnie. Was that a real name? he wondered. A pen name? It had a certain exotic quality about it, much like the woman herself.

“Why are you here?” she countered.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Uh-uh-uh. I’ll ask the questions.”

“Control freak,” he thought he heard her mutter before she admitted, “I’m in Mexico for a little R and R.”

“Please. You can lie better than that. Rest and recreation are what they specialize in up the highway from here. Despite its picturesque name and stunning view, La Playa de la Pisada isn’t a mecca for tourists,” he said. And, as if to underscore his point, the creature in the bathroom thumped against the door again.

He pointed toward the door and offered a mocking smile. “Exhibit A.”

“I never said I was a tourist.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Finally we’re getting somewhere.”

“I’m not here for a vacation. I’m here for some…solitude.”

J.T. exhaled sharply in frustration. “A woman who looks like you doesn’t come to a place like this for solitude or anything else.”

“Where would a woman who looks like me go?” she asked and he got the impression she was trying to figure out if he meant the description as a compliment or an insult.

He pointed to her luggage. It was as bright red as newly spilled blood and about the size of a small car.

“I’ll bet there’s not one pair of sensible shoes or jeans in there. Hell, I’ll bet there’s nothing practical in there, period.”

“Care to put money on that wager?”

“Why not?” J.T. shot back, amused.

He pulled out his wallet and then immediately regretted his impulsiveness when her eyes widened at the thick wad of American bills he carried. He tugged out a twenty and tucked the wallet away.

Motioning with his chin, he said, “Open it.”

She unzipped the overstuffed bag with an aggressive yank of her arm and tossed back the lid. As she rummaged around inside its contents, colorful swatches of silk and satin caught J.T.’s attention. Lingerie model, he thought again. She damn well could be with all the mouthwatering unmentionables she had stowed in her bag. But he reminded himself that the frothy contents only confirmed his suspicions. No one who looked like Marnie came to this tiny little backwater in Mexico with a suitcase full of soft, frilly, feminine things to rent a shack of a house and seek solitude.

She had another motive, and he’d bet his last buck it wasn’t so pure. He’d had his fill of inquisitive women, whether they were reporters seeking an exclusive interview or job applicants eager to skip his company’s personnel department and dazzle him directly with their resumes.

Worst of all, though, were the marriage-minded mercenaries who had hunted him relentlessly since his divorce became final two years earlier. None of them had ever managed to find him here, though. He’d been careful, very careful, to cover his tracks.

Still, J.T. wasn’t sure which category Marnie fit into. She didn’t seem to be trying to impress him with her charm, wit and appealing ass…um…assets.

Maybe she wasn’t a gold digger. A reporter? He’d never met one who hadn’t skewered him with a dozen questions before offering a business card. As for a job applicant, she didn’t seem the sort to dabble in software design. Okay, maybe he was stereotyping here, but not many of the women who worked at Tracker Operating Systems looked like something that stepped out of one of those glossy fashion magazines that sported more advertisements than editorial content.

As he mulled the possibilities, Marnie extracted something from her bag with an exaggerated flourish.

“Tell me this isn’t practical,” she challenged, holding up the item with one hand as she settled the other one on her hip.

J.T. tried to keep a straight face. Really, he tried. He was known for his cool demeanor and unreadable expression, after all. But how could he be expected to maintain a serious facade when faced with this? Sure, the flashlight she’d produced had practical written all over it. Problem was it also had a skimpy little swatch of black lace snagged on its switch.

“Which is intended as the turn-on?” he couldn’t resist asking.

The room was relatively gloomy, illuminated by only one small lamp and the last remnants of evening light that streamed in from the small window that faced the ocean. And yet when she glanced at the flashlight and caught sight of the flirty little thong dangling from it, he swore she blushed scarlet.

His amusement was cut short however. Barely a heartbeat later, lightning flashed outside, followed swiftly by a deafening clap of thunder. The room’s lone lamp sizzled briefly before sputtering out, leaving them in virtual darkness.

Marnie flipped on the flashlight, all but blinding J.T. with its penetrating beam.

“Practical,” she said succinctly. And held out one hand. “Now pay up.”

A couple of hours later, J.T. stretched out on the plush mattress of his king-size bed, but he couldn’t get comfortable. His thoughts had strayed to Marnie LaRue and stayed there.

He’d rousted the harmless lizard from the shack’s bathroom and then had left her in darkness. He still felt guilty about it and as if his mother would pop out of the woodwork at any moment and berate him for his lack of chivalry. But until he knew who Marnie was and what she was after, he planned to keep her at arm’s length.

From the outside, his home looked barely more habitable than the one Marnie was renting. J.T. intended it that way. No one would guess a billionaire vacationed there when he really needed to get away. And he really needed to get away right now, what with the government threatening an antitrust lawsuit.

He heaved a sigh and reached for the remote on the nightstand. With a click of a button, Smokey Robinson was singing about the tears of a clown. Despite the home’s rough exterior, the inside was another story. The furnishings of its six rooms were state-of-the-art, from the stainless steel six-burner oven and wine cooler in the kitchen, to the plush leather upholstery in the living room and the elaborate computer setup in the den.

When he’d returned that evening, he’d booted up his computer—thanks to a backup generator, he never lost power. And thanks to the onward march of technology, even in this small outpost, he had access to the Internet. A Google search had turned up nothing on Ms. LaRue. Chance Harbor, Michigan, had scored a few hits, but nothing that really told J.T. anything useful except that she had at least given him the name of a real city, tiny though it was.

And that only turned up more questions. She said she’d come here for quiet and isolation. Couldn’t she get that without leaving home? Chance Harbor was located about as far north as one could go in Michigan without taking a dip in Lake Superior. And the population of that bustling metropolis: 793.