The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 12

When Lareina cleans up and comes out of the bathroom, I lower my coffee mug and stare. Her golden hair loose around that pixie-like face with its large blue and green heterochromatic eyes and the white dress on her, she looks awfully like—

Not Princess. Queen.

Her breathless correction ripples in my head. Something about the way she said it made me think of the girl who said, “Just ‘Queen’ will do fine,” so regally. For a moment I thought she was Queen until I reminded myself she couldn’t be out here. Besides, if she were in Vegas, wouldn’t the investigators I’ve hired over the years have found her by now? I had them try to trace her from Oregon, and they found nothing. Clues came every so often, but none of them turned out to be anything.

Still…

Could Lareina be Queen?

I send a quick instruction to Greg: Look into Lareina Huxley’s background.

–Greg: Huxley?

His confusion is palpable. He knows there is no such Huxley in the family.

–Me: My wife.

–Greg: Her maiden name?

He’s too professional to betray himself this time. I frown as I realize I have no clue. She mentioned getting the marriage license, so it must’ve been brought up, but of course I remember nothing, which is irritating.

“What’s your maiden name?” I ask abruptly.

“Hayworth,” she says. “Why?”

“Curious. You’re my wife, and my family might ask.” I text it to Greg, asking him to make it quick.

As soon as I put away the phone, Lareina walks toward me. “Can you button the back for me?” She turns around. Her arms are twisted awkwardly to hide as much skin as possible.

“Too late to be modest,” I say as I button the bodice. The image of my cum on her belly floats up—and all the blood in my body flows down.

I was too impulsive earlier, letting her goad me. Our having sex basically means I have accepted her proposition, and can’t change my mind now.

Despite the unease in my heart, I console myself with the fact that Lareina will take care of the problem of my finding a wife. Although she’s a bit eccentric, she’s pretty. Plus she’s a blonde, which means nobody will question our relationship. And our sexual compatibility is a major plus. Virgin or not, I’ll enjoy our time in bed.

Besides, this marriage doesn’t have to be forever. The firm will complete the annual review in three months. Then, in the subsequent four weeks, it’ll announce all the promotions. So in four months, I’ll have no use for her anymore. Since she wants to be at least thirty before she goes back to being single, I’ll be magnanimous and give her the extra two months she needs.

I make sure to brush my fingertips against every inch of her warm, exposed skin, delighting in her nearness. I never understood why my cousin loved to put things on his wife so much—isn’t the point to get her naked?—but now I see the charm. “Your back is beautiful. All smooth and creamy.”

She stiffens for a second. What did I say?

“I’m not showing you my back,” she says, sniffing. “Only a man would undervalue modesty.”

“Not just any man, but your husband,” I correct her.

“If I tell you to walk around buck naked—”

“Wanna see it right now?” I finish the last button on the top, then pull her back until her backside bumps against my half-hard cock.

Gasping, she turns around. “Aren’t we going home?”

I place a firm kiss on the back of her neck. “Yes.” I need to get away from Vegas, put some distance between me and Harvey—and possibly my mother, who might be in the city searching for me. Once again, I question the unforeseen forces of the universe: Why couldn’t I have been blessed with a normal mom and uncle?

I have my original hotel’s concierge check me out, pack my things and send them directly to my home in L.A. Then Lareina and I head to the airport, where my private jet is waiting. I let out a soft sigh. The crew is mine and loyal. I don’t just pay them handsomely, but make sure they and their family are well taken care of. Harvey or anybody else won’t be able to bribe my crew and fuck me over.

Since it’s just two of us, the jet takes off quickly, just the way I prefer. Lareina looks outside as we climb, then studies the plush leather seats with interest. “Ooh, this is nice! Does it turn into a bed?”

“No. But there’s a bedroom in the back.”

She trots away to explore, while I pull out the documents from the bag the concierge sent over. The flight to L.A. will be about an hour, and I want to finish the docs I need for filing.

After a few minutes, she comes back. Her eyes sparkle as she looks at me. “We should go to Europe on this plane.”

“I don’t have time for a honeymoon.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean now. It would be too clingy. But later. It can be our divorce-cation!”

I glare at her, oddly irritated by her mention of divorce. “You don’t go on a divorce-cation with your soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“You do if you plan to remain friends with the ex.” She leans over. “Aren’t we going to be friends?” She’s so close that I can smell the berries on her breath, the lemon on her skin. Her eyes are wide, and my shadow is reflected in their clear depths. She appears so guileless. My protective instincts stir.

Then I think of my parents. And all my exes who started out okay but devolved into clingy, creepy messes as soon as they decided they were in love with me. “No. We’ll be enemies for life.” It comes out more tersely than I intend.

Lareina pulls back. With the growing distance, I’m no longer reflected in her eyes. Her sweet scent retreats, leaving a void.

Before I can process my reaction, the cabin attendant serves us bowls of warmed nuts and sparkling water. Thank God for the interruption. Why the hell was I thinking about my wife’s scent, of all things? Or what’s reflected in her eyes?

I have a few walnuts. Lareina watches me for a while, then takes a cashew from my bowl.

“What’s wrong with yours?” What excuse will she give this time?

She squirms a little. “Not enough cashews,” she says.

I eye the two cashews on the top of her bowl. “Let me guess. Mine looks better.”

“Something like that.” Smiling sheepishly, she swaps her bowl with mine.

I go back to the documents. Let her have the damn nuts. As far as habits go, it isn’t too bad. Not like ordering a salad, stealing half my fries, and then getting upset when I order a side of fries for her, which one of my exes did all the time.

Soon the plane lands in L.A., and my apprehension regarding Harvey dissipates, as though being back on my home turf has restored my footing. Lareina deplanes ahead of me. She’s pretty on the gray tarmac, in spite of her long, unbound hair blowing everywhere and the smudged, wrinkled dress hanging limply on her frame. As the SoCal sun hits me, the surreal, fairytale-like daze from Vegas vanishes, leaving me sharp and clearheaded. Regret and remorse twine around my gut like twin snakes. What was I thinking when I agreed to her ridiculous proposal? Now I’ll have to live with her, share my house with her.

Having a stranger in my sanctuary feels violative. My house is my own, and I don’t let anybody in, other than family and staff for maintaining the vast mansion. My exes didn’t last long enough to move in with me, and they certainly never got to set a single foot inside.

I suddenly realize that I’ve never pictured my future wife inside my home. The respectful marriage I envisioned would take place at some abstract location, but not my home.

Suddenly, Lareina stumbles with a small yelp. I lunge forward to catch her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I just…” She pulls her dress up, revealing her bare feet and a jagged rock.

“Where are your shoes?” I straighten and start to turn toward the plane. Is this another of her weird habits and fetishes?

“I don’t have any.”

“What? Did you lose them yesterday running away from your cousin?”

“No. I never had any. Doris—my aunt—likes to keep me barefoot, thinking it’ll stop me from running.” Lareina snorts, then laughs to herself as though the entire belief is absurd.

Damn it. Can’t believe I didn’t notice. She walked all over Las Vegas without shoes. I drop to my knees, then take a narrow foot in my hand. It’s slightly cold, with hard calluses on the side. I check the sole to see if there’s some injury she isn’t telling me about. A small scrape, but it doesn’t look infected or anything. I run my finger along the scarlet line, and she immediately yanks her foot out of my grasp.

“Stop! I’m ticklish,” she says.

“Hush. Does it hurt?”

“Only a little, if you touch it.”

I tsk, shaking my head.

She blinks. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. I’m annoyed with myself for not realizing sooner. And I want to punch your aunt for not giving you shoes.”

“Really? But she’s a woman.”

“So?”

“I thought men don’t hit women.”

“I’ll hit anyone who’s the enemy.” Another hard-learned lesson from Mom’s kidnapping. Looking at her angelic façade, nobody would ever think she was capable of hurting her own child. She taught me women can be just as vicious as men. “Enemies are supposed to be brought down hard and fast, not given another opportunity to hurt you.”

Lareina smiles. “Thank you. That’s actually nice to hear. Sometimes people defend her, saying she’s just a woman doing her best. I always hate that.”

“And you should. A woman doing her best wouldn’t leave her niece shoeless.” I examine her other foot. Again, the same—cold and callused, with a red sole from walking all over the city.

“Are you buying me a pair?” she asks.

I gesture at the crew for a first-aid kit, then grab a big Band-Aid for the small injury on her foot. “A closetful.”

Laughing, she takes a step toward our waiting car. I pick her up and carry her toward it instead.

“Ack.” She loops her arms around my neck. “What are you doing?”

“Not having my wife walk around the city barefoot.”

“It’s only to the car.” She tilts her head.

“Not happening. Princess carry.”

“Queen carry!”

Her insistence that she’s a queen sends shivers through my chest. “Why do you want to be a queen?” I ask, outwardly indifferent, although my pulse picks up speed.

“Because she’s the boss.”

The answer is so similar to the one Queen from Oregon gave. It makes my heart skip a beat.

“Plus, I’m too old to be a princess,” she adds matter-of-factly.

“A woman is never too old to be a princess,” I say firmly, amused by her attitude. She’s not even thirty, although from the way she’s described her life so far, her experience might be less than a typical woman in her late twenties. “Besides, a princess gets a prince. Ever think about that?”

“Princes are overrated. Unless he’s ridiculously handsome, sweet, rich, moral and—”

“Good in bed?”

She flushes, but nods. “I was getting around to that.”

The crew put my bag in the trunk and the driver opens the door.

“You don’t know how to drive?” she says, eyeing him.

“I only arranged for a pickup in case I was hungover and tired.” Barry’s parties are wild and never end before the sun rises. Although I make it my policy not to get wasted, I wanted to be prepared, just in case.

I put her in the car, then climb in. She sits with the dress spread primly around her legs, totally composed.

So far, nothing except my initial refusal to go along with the marriage seems to throw her off. But I want to upset her equilibrium as she’s done to me. I pull her onto my lap, eliciting a satisfying gasp.

“We don’t have to pretend anymore,” she whispers into my ear. Her eyes dart to the front seat. “I don’t think he’s paying attention.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. Funny how she’s acting shy all of a sudden after demanding from me satisfying sex or else. “My family needs to believe this marriage is real. So you’ll cooperate.”

She frowns. “Why does it matter what they think?”

“Because they’re hoping I’ll bring home a nice, respectable wife.”

“I don’t think nice, respectable wives sit on their husbands’ laps.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with married life?”

Her mouth purses. “No, but I’ve never seen a married couple sit like this.”

“I have.”

She ignores me. “My aunt and uncle didn’t. My parents didn’t, either. At least, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t remember?” I say in surprise, keeping my arms around her because the weight of her feels good. And it’s only until we arrive at my place.

She doesn’t make any move to squirm off my lap, and gazes off into the distance. “There are a lot of things I don’t, although I get a warm, fuzzy feeling right here”—she places a hand over her chest—“every time I think of my parents. They passed away from food poisoning when I was little. But I recall Mom taking me on her travels and teaching me how to draw. She was an amazing artist, and she was always generous with praise. Apparently, she refused to live in Nesovia until Grandpa did more to protect me and my inheritance.”

Fucking Nesovia. That explains a lot about her predicament. That country is ridiculously medieval in its attitude toward women.

She continues, “After we finally settled there, Dad taught me to ride, since he wasn’t much of an artist.” She smiles a little. “Lady was a wonderful pony. All white, with a beige spot on her forehead. I used to say that was where her invisible horn was, because I was convinced she was secretly a unicorn princess hiding from her evil stepmom, and my parents indulged me.”

“They sound like lovely people,” I say softly.

“They were. Not sure what happened to Lady after my grandfather passed away. I didn’t have much time to spend with her. On top of that, I was too upset and traumatized, and Doris kept me busy with school, tutors and therapists who were hired ostensibly to help me overcome my grief. I hope she sold Lady and found her a great new home. I don’t even care that she might’ve made a profit from the sale, as long as Lady had a good life.”

Her wistful tone sends a ripple through my heart. I squeeze her hand, trying to comfort her. “I’m sure she did.”

She rests her head on my shoulder. The gesture feels shockingly natural, which is weird and uncharacteristic for me. Normally I don’t care for women leaning on me. It means they’re starting to develop feelings, which means they’re beginning to become obsessed. And then there’s the clinging and sobbing about love and just generally being nightmarish.

But with Lareina, having her lean on me a little doesn’t seem so terrible. Just until we reach the house. I can indulge her for that long. Besides, she smells good, so it isn’t such a hardship.

“I miss Mom and her paintings,” she continues. “And drawing.”

“Are you any good?”

“No.” She makes a face. “Mom always said I was amazing and talented, more so than her. But apparently I suck at it.”

“Do you paint often?”

“Yeah. Doris begrudges spending money on me—but not art supplies, especially after a conversation with my therapist. It supposedly helps me stay calm and dream of an escape and a better life. He thinks that since I’m reluctant to open up to him, he can use my art to see into my mind. But I doubt he’s good enough to figure anything out, paintings or no, and I need something to keep me sane when things get too stressful and unsafe.”

Unsafe? “Did they hit you?”

“No. But they wanted to pair me up with Rupert. Badly.”

“Did he…try to force himself on you?”

“He tried, but failed. I slashed at him with a fruit knife I had, and he got scared. He tried again, but then quit when he realized I wasn’t going to give up my knife, and he might never get his filthy paws on my inheritance.” She snort-laughs at the memory.

Her laughter horrifies me. She’s laughing because that’s the only way she can cope with the trauma.

She adds, “I made sure to have a knife, but I also threatened to jump off the balcony if Rupert forced himself on me, which scared them. They couldn’t afford to have me dead and lose my inheritance, so Rupert behaved, sort of.”

“I’m going to murder that son of a bitch.”

“Get in line. I plan to make them all pay.” Her tone is shockingly light, and her eyes show no hint of rage as she straightens her knees before dropping her feet.

I can’t process her reaction at all. “You aren’t upset?”

“Is the past worth being so angry about right now when my belly is full of delicious food and I’m with a husband who can keep Rupert away from me?”

I frown at the question.

“Not really,” she answers without waiting for my response. Her practical outlook is stunning. Perhaps her therapist really is good, even if he can’t figure out her situation with Rupert and all.

“But enough about me. I can tell it’s just making you gloomy,” she says. “Tell me about you. I feel like I should know something about my husband.”

A clumsy attempt at distraction, but I humor her. “I’m a lawyer. My entire family is, actually, except for my stepmom and my cousin. I have two brothers—twins. Bryce and Josh. Hard to tell them apart, and they’re both dicks unless you’re family. And one aunt. Jeremiah is her name.”

“Sounds like a man’s name.”

“Yes, but we don’t mention that because it was Grandmother’s decision. She wanted her daughter to be strong and powerful.”

“And is she?”

“Oh yeah. Anybody who fucks with her finds out very quickly.”

She smiles. “You like her.”

“I do. Sharp as a tack, and mean as hell. If you have her on your team, you’re golden.”

“Must be lovely.” Lareina bites her lip, then lowers her voice. “Is her husband the one who drugged you and tried to make you work for him last night?”

I snort, thinking about Aunt Jeremiah’s scandalous baby daddy Ted. A lot of people in the family think she only slept with him to see if he was as good as rumors made it sound. But we’ll never know the truth because she never talks about it. You’d have better luck prying open a clam barehanded than squeezing information out of Aunt Jeremiah when she doesn’t want to share. “No. She’s never married, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have picked a man who goes against the family’s interests. Harvey’s from my biological mother’s side.”

“Doesn’t he know offering you a lot of money would’ve been more effective?”

I chuckle dryly. “Money doesn’t motivate me.”

“Ah. The two billion.”

My spine stiffens. “How do you know that?”

“You told me.”

“I must’ve been more out of it than I thought. Did I say anything else?”

She gives me a long look, tapping her chin. “Quite a lot, actually,” she says slowly. “Give me a moment and I’ll tell you what I think was important.”

Her teasing tone makes me want to kiss her. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her close. Our lips fuse; I pull her tongue into my mouth.

A delicious gasp tears from her throat, and her hands fist on my shoulders, as though she can’t decide between pushing me away or pulling me close. I stroke her tongue with mine unhurriedly, drawing out her reaction. Although the fists on my shoulders don’t relax, her mouth softens and she kisses me back. Her breathing grows shallower, and the heat from her skin is scorching. There’s an inexplicable addictiveness to her, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

She squirms to get more comfortable, the movement rubbing her thigh against my already hard dick. Hot blood rushes through my veins, and it’s all I can do to swallow the groan building in my chest as I plunder her.

After a bit, I vaguely register that the car has stopped moving. I open my eyes, see the front entrance to my home and reluctantly pull back from Lareina.

She looks at me, her eyes glazed with arousal. It might be her lack of artifice and shield that makes me prone to lower my guard with her. I understand it’s a bad move, the kind that would earn me a loss in a chess game.

I get out first, hit the entry button for the house on my phone, then carry her inside. The huge double doors open automatically at our approach, showing the spotless foyer with its contemporary chandelier, all crystal and smoked glass. Bright sunlight pours in through the skylight, casting a halo around her. She looks at me with a shy smile, and behind her, the family’s coat of arm glints. PIETAS ET UNITAS. Above the motto, snarling wolves flash their fangs, reminding me of the wolf’s head in Mom’s cabin.

Complex, contradictory emotions stir in my heart. I want to hold Lareina and push her away, protect her and hurt her, keep her both close and at arm’s length. If I didn’t have any emotional baggage, I’d just revel in how beautiful and sweet she is, but there’s a tinge of trepidation that she’s too different from the others.

“Your home is pretty,” she says softly.

“It’s all right,” I say. I’ve never given much thought to the mansion, purchasing it because it had the right specs, right price tag and right zip code.

I carry her to the kitchen, since it’s time to grab a late lunch, but the scent of a cigar hits me. I freeze at the sight of Aunt Jeremiah at my kitchen island. What the hell is she doing here…?

She’s in a white bathrobe, her blood-red hair held by a black headband and some kind of green goo on her face. A wisp of smoke rises from the lit cigar in her hand, and a glass of Merlot sits in front of her.

She turns to me. If she’s cocking an eyebrow, it’s impossible to tell from all the goo. Her eyes flick to me, then to Lareina, then take in our outfits.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” she says drolly. “Did you elope with Barry’s fiancée?”