His Not-So-Blushing Bride: Marriage with Benefits / Improperly Wed / A Breathless Bride. Fiona Brand

I graduated from college, and I have to drive something.”

      “Doesn’t suck that it goes zero to sixty in four-point-two seconds, either. Right, my always-in-a-hurry fiancée?” His grin widened as she stepped up on the porch, glare firmly in place. “Come on, honey. Lighten up. The next six months are going to be long and tedious if you don’t.”

      “The next six months are going to be long and tedious no matter what. My grandfather is giving us a villa in Mallorca as a wedding present. A villa, Wheeler. What do I say to that? ‘No, thanks, we’d prefer china,’” she mimicked in a high voice and wobbled her head. That dark ponytail flipped over her shoulder.

      The times he’d been around her previously, she’d always had her hair down. And had been wearing some nondescript outfit.

      Today, in honor of moving day no doubt, she’d pulled on a hot-pink T-shirt and jeans. Both hugged her very nice curves, and the ponytail revealed an intriguing expanse of neck, which might be the only vulnerable place on Cia’s body.

      Every day should be moving day.

      “Tell your grandfather to make a donation, like I told my parents. How come my family has to follow the rules but yours doesn’t?”

      “I did. You try telling my grandfather what to do. Es imposible.” She threw up her hands, and he bit back a two-bulldozers-one-hole comment, which she would not have appreciated and wouldn’t have heard anyway because she rushed on. “He’s thrilled to pieces about me marrying you, God knows why, and bought the reunion story, hook, line and sinker.”

      “Hey now,” Lucas protested. “I’m an upstanding member of the community and come from a long line of well-respected businessmen. Why wouldn’t he be thrilled?”

      “Because you’re—” she flipped a hand in his direction, and her engagement ring flashed “—you. Falling in and out of bimbos’ beds with alarming frequency and entirely too cocky for your own good. Are we going inside? I’d like to put the house in some kind of order.”

      Enough was enough. He tolerated slurs—some deserved, some not—from a lot of people. Either way, his wife wasn’t going to be one of them.

      “Honey?” He squashed the urge to reach out and lift her chin. Determined to get her to meet him halfway, he instead waited until she looked at him. “Listen up. What you see is what you get. I’m not going to apologize for rubbing you the wrong way. I like women, and I won’t apologize for that, either. But I haven’t dated anyone since Lana, and you’re pushing my considerable patience to the limit if you’re suggesting I’d sleep with another woman while my ring is on your finger. Even if the ring is for show.”

      A slight breeze separated a few strands of hair from the rest of her ponytail as she stared up at him, frozen, with a hint of confusion flitting across her face. “No. I didn’t mean that. It was, uh … I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. I’ll keep my big mouth shut from now on.”

      He laughed. “Darlin’, I don’t get mad. I get even.”

      With that, he swept her off her feet and carried her over the threshold. She weighed less than cotton candy, and her skin was fresh with the scent of coconut and lime. Did she smell like that all the time or only on moving day?

      Her curled fist whacked him in the shoulder, but he ignored it, too entranced by the feel of previously undiscovered soft spots hidden amid all her hard edges.

      “What is this?” she sputtered. “Some caveman show of dominance?”

      Gently, he set down the bundle of bristling woman on the marble floor in the foyer.

      “Neighbors were watching,” he said, deadpan.

      They hadn’t been. Matthew had carried Amber over the threshold and had told the story a bunch of times about nicking the door frame when he whacked it with his new bride’s heel.

      Lucas had always envisioned doing that with his way, way, way in the future wife, too—minus the door frame whacking—and wasn’t about to let the Queen of Contrary tell him no. Even if they weren’t technically married yet. Close enough, and it was practice for the eventual real deal, where his wife would gaze at him adoringly as he carried her.

      He couldn’t get a clear picture of this fictitious future wife. In his imagination, Cia reappeared in his arms instead.

      “We have an agreement.” She jammed her hands down onto her hips. “No division of property. No messiness. And no physical relationship. What happened to that?”

      He smirked. “That wasn’t even close to physical, darlin’. Now, if I was to do this—” he snaked an arm around her waist and hauled her up against him, fitting her into the niches of his body “—I’d be getting warmer.”

      She wiggled a little in protest and managed to slide right into a spot that stabbed a hot poker through his groin. He sucked in a cleansing breath.

      This was Cia, the most beautiful and least arousing female he’d ever met. Why did his skin feel as if it was about to combust? “That’s right. Snuggle right in, honey. Now that’s so close to physical, it’s scorching hot.”

      “What are you doing, Wheeler?” She choked on the last syllable as he leaned in, a hairbreadth from tasting that high-speed mouth, and trailed a finger down her tight jaw.

      “Practicing.”

      If he moved one tiny neck muscle the right way, they’d be kissing. Soon, this firecracker in his arms would be Mrs. Lucas Wheeler, and he hadn’t kissed her once. Maybe he should. Might shut her up for a minute.

      “Practicing for what?”

      “To be a happy couple. My parents invited us over for dinner tonight. Engagement celebration.” Instantly she stopped wiggling, and the light hit her upturned face and her wide, frightened eyes. “Well, I’ll be hog-tied and spoon-fed to vultures for breakfast. Your eyes are blue. Not brown.”

      “My grandparents came from northern Spain. It’s not that unusual.”

      “A man should know the color of his wife’s eyes. Marriage 101.” Disconcerted, he released her. He had to get her scent out of his nose.

      He shoved a hand through his hair, but it didn’t release a bit of the sudden pressure against his skull.

      He’d wanted to kiss her. It had taken a whole lot of willpower not to. What had he gotten himself into?

      He barely knew her, knew nothing about how to handle her, nothing about her past or even her present. He had to learn. Fast.

      The Manzanares contract represented more than a vital shot in the arm for his livelihood. It was a chance to fix his problems on his own, without his big brother’s help, and prove to everyone that Lucas Wheeler wasn’t the screw-up womanizer people assumed.

      “What else don’t I know?” he asked.

      “That I have to work tonight. I can’t go to your parents’ for dinner. You have to check with me about this kind of stuff.”

      Yeah. He should have. It hadn’t occurred to him. Most women of his acquaintance would have stood up the president in order to have dinner with his parents. He’d just never invited any of them. “Call in. Someone else can cover it. This is important to my mother.”

      “The shelter is important to me. Someone else has been covering my responsibilities all week.” Her hands clenched and went rigid by her sides. “It’s not like I’m canceling a round of golf with a potential client, Wheeler.”

      Golf. Yeah. His workday consisted of eye-crossing, closed-door sessions with Matthew, poring over his brother’s newest strategies to improve business. “What is it like, then? Tell me.”

      “The women who come to the shelter are terrified their husbands or boyfriends will find them, even though we go to extreme lengths to keep the location secret. Their kids have been uprooted, jammed into