***

Christian paced the balcony, wishing for a cigarette. The sun beat down on his head and a trickle of sweat made its way down his back, but it wasn’t because he was hot.

For once he was nervous, unsure of what to do next. The screen of his phone showed a missed call from his brother. Sebastian never called him. Never texted him. He only spoke to him when necessary.

Maybe he should try to mend thing with his brother. Start things fresh. He pressed call on his phone’s screen. They could go slowly so Sebastian would know he was serious. That he was—

“Did you use the remaining brain cell living in that empty head of yours to get the chit to sign a pre-nup?” Vladimir asked.

Just what he needed. Crafty old fool knew he wouldn’t answer his call or return it. “Why would I do that?” he purposely slurred the words.

“Are you ever sober, Christian?” Vladimir sounded pissed. Excellent.

“Define ‘ever’.”

“As in if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I’ll cut off your trust fund.”

Then Christian would be a multimillionaire instead of a billionaire. Oh, the horrors. “Well, if I were to agree to your demands, then certain avenues would have to be traveled which would lead to a certain destination that would require me, i.e you, to pay out more than just my trust fun. Savvy?”

“I don’t find this remotely funny. Why can’t you grow the hell up and act like a man?”

“Let me consult my magic eight ball and I’ll get back to you.” Christian gripped the balcony’s railing with one hand, his knuckles whitening.

“Is she pregnant? Is that why you had to marry the woman?”

He had to have sex with the woman first, but decided not to enlighten his father of that little fact. “You do realize this is the twenty-first century? And there are ways to prevent that.” Ways that he‘d employed every time.

“Answer the question.”

“No, but at the rate we’re going....” He let his words trial away before he continued, “What shall the brat call you: Vlad? Grandpa? Hey You?”

His father let loose a string of profanities, mostly in Russian, that impressed Christian’s jaded ears.

“I didn’t realize one could do that with sheep or fish guts.” He could hear his father’s teeth grind over the phone, the sound making Christian smile.

“Make the little money-grubber sign a damn agreement.”

“Her name is Zoe,” Christian snarled, all the posturing of the without-a-care-drunk fled.

“I’ll have the documents emailed to you in less than two hours. Lucky for you, the State of Nevada considers postnuptial agreements valid.” His father ended their call before he could.

God, he hated when the old man got the last word.

He heard a sniff and turned to find Zoe looking at him with tears in her eyes.

“How much did you hear?” he asked, wary of her answer. He didn’t want her to think he wasn’t serious about her or them.

“Was that your dad?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

To his surprise she wrapped her arms around him.

He kissed the top of her head. “Mad Vlad is what Sebastian and I used to call him behind his back.” He heard her laugh, but it sounded hallow. He leaned back to get a good look at her. “Are those happy or sad tears?”

“Both,” Zoe replied, not saying anything more. She couldn’t tell him that half her family thought she was stupid. That they were disappointed in her for marrying someone like him. It didn’t matter that Melanie and Evangeline supported her. Or that Heath said he’d knit Christian a hat to match hers. Her own mother was threatening to disown her, right after she called an emergency prayer circle. There was no way she would hurt her husband’s feelings by sharing their opinions of him. He received enough rejection from his own family.

She allowed him to guide her to a nearby chair and pull her into his lap.

“I put Baxter’s memory sticks in the safe. You can take them home with you tomorrow,” he said, his expression serious.

“Thank you.”

They laced their fingers together, his conspicuously missing a ring.

“I have to buy you a wedding band.” In her love stupor last night, she’d failed to think of anything beyond ‘I’m getting married to my dream lover’. She hadn’t meant to get drunk while they were waiting, but she had been so nervous. So sure Ashton Kutcher would show up with a new Punk’d crew to tell her it was all just a joke. The champagne had helped steady her nerves.

“Somehow the thought of making love to a married woman seems very scandalous for me,” he teased, making her swat at his arm. He raked a hand through his blonde hair. It gleamed in the setting sun, pale golds, dark ambers and wheat strands. “Actually, it’s because it’s you and you’re my wife.” He gave her a side glance. “I think that’s how I’ll refer to you from now. Wife or Mrs. Romanov.”

Her heart sped up, until it was beating against her chest like hummingbird wings. She loved the titles. “While I’ll call you Mr. Zoe Ambrose or Zoe Ambrose’s husband.”

He gave her a bone melting smile. “Ah, yes, I suspect you’re more famous than I in literary circles. Tell me, love, will your brainy friends welcome me into their fold? Or will they sip serious drinks, give me serious frowns and try to school me on how movie adaptations are bastardizing novels.”

Christian was insanely funny, completely sweet and… entirely unlike his persona. Heck, he was entirely unlike the asshat he’d been at the airport last week. Had it really been only a week? It seemed as if a lifetime had passed, but now everything was in fast forward.

“What has caused that most serious frown?”

“I like you better now,” she blurted, inadequately prepared at explaining what she meant. “Now who’s seriously frowning? But what I mean is that you are totally a different person than almost a week ago and...”

“You’re wondering if it’s an act, if you’ve made the right decision, if you’re willing to go against what your family thinks of our rather hasty decision.” He gave her a knowing look. “Shall I go on?”

“You’re doing a better job at explaining me than I am.” The antique diamond ring sparkled and flashed in sun.

“Oh, for the love of God,” came Sasha’s voice through the open door and then the he graced them with his awesomeness. Or at least that’s what he said as he walked out on the balcony. His moss-colored eyes assessed them both, but settled on her. And narrowed.

This couldn’t be good.

“You’re wearing that to my party?”

His party? She looked down at the ankle length skirt and peasant top she was wearing. It had not been a part of her gift from her aunt. It had been a part of her retail therapy purchase.

“What’s the matter with it?”

Sasha grabbed the hem and shook it. Tinkling bells sounded.

“I thought I heard something.” Christian’s eyes were riveted on the bells, too. “I like it.”

“You would.” Sasha turned to her. “Do your clothes normally give out your location?”

“Some.” More like a lot. But the face Sasha sported made her keep that little tidbit to herself.

“You’re in for it now.”

Sasha grabbed her hand, pulling her after him.

“Where are we going?” She glanced over her shoulder. Christian trailed behind them.

“Don’t change too much, eh? I like her as is.” Christian headed to the elevators.

She gaped at him. “You’re leaving?”

“I have another meeting with Peak,” Christian stopped at the doors, his brows creasing together. “Maybe I should cancel and stay here.”

“Don’t worry, Laurie. I’ll keep Meg as pure as Bella Swan on her wedding night.” Sasha guided her to the second master bedroom.

“I cannot believe you just referred to Little Women and Twilight in the same sentence.”

“Sacrilege, I know.” He stopped suddenly, then stepped to the side, revealing racks of clothes, shoes and displays of jewelry. A man and two women smiled at her.

Wide-eyed, she looked up at him. “Is this for me?”

“So your husband says.” Sasha walked around her, his hands behind his back. “I’d say you’re a size eight, yes?”

More like a ten, but hey, who was she to argue?

He wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul. “A shame we can’t stretch you out. It’s all in the way the dress lays, you know.”

“I’m done,” she snapped, tired of his insults. No amount of potential fun make-over was worth this humiliation. She walked away, heading for the door. She’d find her own clothes to wear.

“I’m sorry, please come back, Amber…rose” he said, but to her it was as if he had shouted the words.

“What did you call me?” She pivoted to face him.

An angelic smile graced his mouth. “Ambrose—it is your last name. Going for the sports team angle.”

Relieved, she walked back to him. “Okay, but you have to be nice or I’ll wear something worse than this to your party,” she threatened, shaking her skirt. The bells tinkled.

Grimacing, he shook his head. “There can’t be anything worse than that.”

“Oh, but there is. Imagine tie-dye plaid tangerine and purple with striped leggings and a matching hat,” she improvised, trying to think of hideous, even to her, wardrobe combinations. “Birkenstocks and a feathery boa complete said ensemble.”

He looked like he was going to be physically ill. “Peace; I cry peace. For the love of God, woman, stop!”

She glanced at Sasha’s assistants. They were busy talking amongst themselves, unfazed by Sasha’s outburst. Heck, they were probably used to his theatrics.

“It’s a good thing you married a man with lots of cash to make you look good.”

“I’m not after his money. I have my own. And my own house and car. And things. A yard. Trees.” She racked her brain for more of her assets. “Waterfront property.”

“And blue birds singing a happy working song as you pick flowers from your carefully tended garden. Yes, dear, I’m well aware of your assets.” His eyes traveled down her body. “And how Christian would like to merge his with yours. Why couldn’t he have picked someone a little less gauche is beyond me.”

She crossed her arms. “Two feather boas in lime green and sparkly eye shadow. And I’ll get Brennen to streak my hair with bright yellow dye.”

A grin broke out on his face and he laughed. It was warm and completely without artifice. “I like you, Zoe.” He turned to the racks of clothing, pulling out dresses and holding them out and up to her.

“Purple looks best on me,” she offered.

“I suspect there aren’t many colors that don’t look good on you.” His compliment eased the butterflies multiplying in her stomach.

A hot pink and feathery dress was held out to her, but she shook her head.

“Not enough feathers?” he teased with a crooked smile.

“Too young.”

He put it back, then handed her another. “How’s this one? Vintage Vivienne Westwood.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Go try it on, dear. We can tailor it to fit you.”

While she was having her hair and make-up done, Sasha entertained her with stories of growing up with Christian and his brother. “Speak of the devil,” he said with a chuckle. “Your husband just texted me. Why don’t you pick out a pair of heels while I run a quick errand, yes?”

She toyed with a sparkling necklace while she waited.

Sasha returned with a packet of papers. “This is for you.”

Glancing at the first sheet, she almost dropped it after reading the first few lines. “A background check?”

“He said it was only fair.”

“That was nice of him,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“He has the same information on you, dear.”

Of course Christian would. He was an actor and one of the heirs to an Oil and Mineral Conglomerate worth billions. Both of which would draw the crazies. So why wouldn’t he have background checks on everyone? But for him to give her one back…The paper crumpled as she made a fist. “I’ll read the rest, after your party.”

“Breathe, Zoe.” He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders for moment. “The dog days are over for you. No more hiding in corners or behind potted plants unless you take Christian with you. He’s also extremely fond of sneaking away at parties, but I think you already know that.” He left the room, whistling a tune that got stuck in her head.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Please tell me you’ve had enough socializing for tonight,” Christian murmured in her ear, his hand splayed across her lower back.

He hadn’t left her side once. No matter who smiled at him with a come-hither look, he’d ignored them all and focused his charm on her. Exclusively.

Heat seeped through her. “Ready when you are.”

“Give me a minute to speak with Sasha, then we’ll go.” Christian visibly tensed. “Who the hell invited her?”

The crowd parted, and a woman emerged from the depths.

“Jaylen probably invited herself,” Zoe muttered.

Jaylen Stone, a gorgeous blonde, was a former lover of Christian and held the distinction of dating him for almost two years. Rumors had flown, fast and furious, that the two were headed down the aisle. When Jaylen had moved in with Christian, Zoe had immersed herself in her house and career. Ignoring everything, but renovating and writing.