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  Made for Marriage

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Proofread by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This story is dedicated to all the dashing men I fell in love with as a teenager while watching the original American Movie Classics late into the night. Paul Newman, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart and Spencer Tracy all helped to make babysitting my rotten cousins a little bit nicer.

  Made for Marriage

  Fine art fraudster Hugo has the perfect escape plan, and he needs to get on with it if he’s going to outrun the feds. Still, he can’t resist one final caper before he leaves. But things go sideways in a big way as soon as the wholesome Laney captures his heart.

  Laney’s having a perfect summer vacation with her best friend Stella. When a mysterious stranger charms his way into their girls’ outing, her Fourth of July is about to explode into something much hotter than she expected.

  Neither of them will ever forget their dynamite one-night stand. The question is, will they ever recover from what happens the next morning?

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  An excerpt from Maid for the Billionaire

  Chapter 1

  Hugo

  Did this drink just punch me in the brain or am I in the same hotel bar with Stella what’s-her-name?

  I can’t think of her last name but she’s the top-tier tech mogul who outbid me at an art auction. I remember clearly because, remarkably, she attended the auction for herself, without the use of a broker.

  The art in question, if I recall correctly, was a rare watercolor. The art deals I miss out on always stick in my craw.

  I check the time on my watch. Damn. I should really get going. I glance out at the ocean, visible from this open-air bar; the water is calm, practically calling me to heave-ho the hell out of here.

  The unsuspecting billionaire feasts on a leisurely, carb-heavy brunch across the table from a blonde bombshell companion whose back is to me. I cannot identify the other lady, but her flimsy sundress is doing nothing to hide her lethally curved backside. The two ladies laugh about something in the way that old friends with their own coded language tend to laugh about things that other people don’t understand.

  Nobody is ready to part with their millions quite like a relaxed billionaire on vacation.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. This strong drink, the high noon heat, and some childhood sentimentality surrounding the July Fourth holiday must be affecting my judgment and making me want to linger.

  Don’t be stupid, Hugo. You’ve escaped the feds this long, and you’re almost scot-free. You don’t need just one more job.

  The boat is prepped and waiting for me at the resort marina just steps away. I am minutes from embarking on a new life in the South of France with a briefcase full of untraceable gold bars.

  It’s all planned out, man. Don’t be a fool.

  I sip my Pimm’s cup and mentally run through the art pieces I could sell her today. Yes, even on a holiday, I can get shit done. I could even have it delivered and installed in her house on the opposite coast before she arrives home from vacation. Names of several different sellers come to mind. This job will be effortless. People have no idea how easy it is for guys like me to read their taste preferences. True, I have that Hufnagel in my memory bank as a reference for this particular mark, but that’s just a jumping off point.

  Take Stella, for instance: mid-century classic, pastel colors. Looking at her practical, classic attire, I’d guess she likes nature scenes. Still lifes. She probably doesn’t go after Warhols like a lot of new money collectors, and probably wouldn’t know what to do with a Pollock. She might desire a Picasso if it deeply moved her on a personal level, but she’s not going to chase after it just because it’s a Picasso.

  Her companion, I can’t read from here. But if I had to judge her by her Target handbag and sandals, she’s not in the market for a million dollar work of original art. Chunky, mismatched jewelry on her wrists, and the glint of a toe ring at her feet tell me she’s a free spirit. Her long, french braids, and a fresh lotus tattoo on the back of her right shoulder scream “Namaste.” If I had to guess right now, I’d say her walls are covered with gigantic prints of mandalas and quotes about feminine empowerment. Nothing wrong with that. Pretty fucking hot, if you ask me. I may be an art professional, but I’m no snob.

  I zero in on what they’re drinking, then ask the bartender to send over two Bellinis, one of them a virgin.

  Am I really doing this? Yes, yes I am.

  Chapter 2

  Laney

  The waiter approaches with a tray of drinks I don’t recall us ordering. When we question him, he nods toward the bar.

  “Compliments of the gentleman.”

  Really? I think, rolling my eyes. I don’t care if my best friend Stella is recognized by the elite, she deserves to eat her food in peace. And, who in his right mind hits on a clearly married, pregnant woman?

  I turn to look and lock eyes with someone who looks like they stepped off an on-location film set in the Riviera. Instantly, my body reacts. A deep down-and-dirty chemical reaction that makes me wish I wasn’t showing so much skin, because all of it is flushing pink at the moment. He brings to mind old Hollywood, but a little shaggier and a whole lot sexier.

  As a rule, I don’t have any interest in the obscenely rich types who often come sniffing around Stella. I watched this amazing woman build her tech business from the ground up, and she’s never lost her way. Her ego is the same as it always was. Yesterday, she didn’t understand why her husband Luke and I snickered about her using a Groupon for our tour of the Blackbeard Pirate Museum. “What?” she’d asked us, counting everyone’s heads like a teacher on a field trip. “There are six of us. Do you know how much that will be if we pay full price?”

  Luke fell for her before knowing anything about her vast, hard-earned wealth, having been a struggling actor trying to make ends meet as a housekeeper.

  As for me, I’m not much into guys in fancy suits. So when this rangy golden god has me gripping the table to steady myself, I know something has flipped a switch. Holy Moses and a burning bush.

  Wearing expensively casual linen and leaning against the bar like he owns it, he raises his amber drink in our direction. His relaxed half grin oozes charming bad boy. I find myself both attracted and repulsed. If I had to choose, I’d say the fact that he’s staring at me like a farmhand eyeing a side of bacon after a long day of work might tip the balance more toward “attracted.”

  I feel so awkward that I never know how to respond when guys send drinks ov
er to the table.

  I follow Stella’s lead and take what’s offered. I raise my glass and politely nod and smile in a way that surely looks completely dorkalicious.

  Oh no, he’s coming to the table. I hiss, “Stella, do I have spinach in my teeth?” I show her my teeth and she laughs.

  “Sweetie, you didn’t order a salad, so no.”

  Lifting one hand to reveal an expensive, ruggedly beautiful watch set against his tanned wrist, he points his index finger at Stella and says in a thick French accent, “Sailboat by Benton. Christie’s, 2015.” The first words out of the man’s mouth, I could not have guessed in a hundred million guesses.

  I wonder for a moment if he’s experiencing an aphasia episode. Knitting my brows together in confusion, I glance at Stella, ready to grab her and run away from the crazy man.

  Stella replies. “Yes, that was me! How did you know what I bought at that auction? Do I know you?”

  He extends his hand to Stella. “Fabian Faberge. You wouldn’t know me; I’m only a lowly art dealer. But I remember you. You outbid me on that piece.”

  She speaks through a mouthful of breakfast pastry. “Did I? Sorry about that.”

  Even though his name sounds completely phony, I gotta hand it to him, he is smooth as thousand thread count sheets.

  “May I join you?”

  Oh my god, Stella, do not let him sit down. I can’t help but think he’s playing at something. But also, please do let him, because he smells amazing. That scent and that mop of hair has me considering how uncouth it would be if I jumped his bones right here at the table.

  She raises her eyebrows and shrugs. “It’s fine, as long as you don’t try to steal my croissants.”

  Fabian chuckles and says he wouldn’t dream of it. As he takes a seat at our table with the ease of Paul Newman, he removes his authentic Aviator sunglasses and slides them into his jacket pocket. Pushing his sun-bleached mop out of his eyes, he turns to me with a thousand watt grin.

  I extend my hand. “Laney.”

  He doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that he’s not getting my last name. He takes my offered hand in his and kisses the backs of my fingers while watching my face. “Enchanté.”

  His voice against my skin sends sparks all over my hand that travel up my arm. How is this working on me? It feels like it’s right out of a movie.

  His whole look and demeanor makes me think of the old money class who are on perpetual vacation. In my right mind, I should not like this person, but that subtle wink when he lets go of my hand tells me he sees everything going on inside me, all over my face. “May I ask how you lovely ladies are enjoying your vacation?”

  Stella, who is the nicer one of us, goes on to tell him a little too much information, if you ask me: we’re here with her husband and two daughters and another family friend, we’ve rented cottages on the water about half a mile down the beach from here, we’re here for just a few more days, and it’s her and Luke’s wedding anniversary soon.

  I give her my wide eyes and try to tell her through ESP that she must have lost her mind.

  Fabian congratulates her on her marriage, and then says, “If I may be so bold, I would love to offer you ladies and both of your husbands an anniversary gift of a free round of golf or a spa treatment here at this resort. The owner is an old friend of mine.”

  Smooth, I think. Though there are worse ways to finagle my marital status out of me. “Luke will definitely take you up on the golf. Thank you,” says Stella.

  He turns and waits for me to speak, smiling and running the pad of his thumb over his lip, like he’s trying to remind me that those gorgeous lips were just touching my skin.

  “I’m not married,” I say, because some damn part of me wants this total stranger to know that.

  His eyes roam over my hair, my shoulders, my eyes and my lips.

  “Georgia O’Keeffe,” he says almost under his breath.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “No, sorry. I’ve never been to an art auction before, and I’ve certainly never purchased an O’Keeffe.”

  Stella’s smiling eyes are wide as she takes a long swig of her virgin Bellini. I know what she’s doing. She likes him for me.

  “It’s not that,” he says gently, his eyes landing on my mouth. He ever so slightly licks his lips. Good gravy, it’s too early in the day for people to be licking their lips in one another’s direction. “I just remembered one of my clients has run into some financial troubles and has an O’Keeffe that he's expressed an interest in selling. You remind me of it. Someone should buy it for you.”

  He blinks at me slowly as I let this sink in. His eyes express a wolfishness as they travel up to meet mine and for the first time I see something real in them. “It would be a wonderful investment for you. If you have kids, a fine piece of art could pay for college, who knows what.”

  I straighten myself up. “I work for my money, but thank you.”

  He utters a series of apologies in both French and English.

  “But that isn’t going to stop me from buying it for you,” Stella interjects. “I bet it would look wonderful in your studio.”

  I shoot her a look that says “absolutely not,” and she shoots me back a look that says, “we’re just having fun with a total stranger—relax.”

  Fabian smiles at Stella. “That speaks very highly of your friend, if you would decide to give her such a valuable gift.”

  Stella raises one eyebrow and dabs a napkin on her lips. “She’s the best.”

  Fabian turns to me. “And what do you do in this studio? Are you an artist?”

  I shake my head. “I own a spa.”

  “Merveilleux! What sort of spa?”

  I list off the things on offer, like I automatically do to potential customers. “Swedish massage, mud baths, facial treatments, detoxifying foot baths, hydrotherapy, isolation therapy, yoga, Pilates. The usual.”

  Again, with the winking. “Please book a spa day for me, I have not had a decent massage in ages.”

  My mouth goes dry when I think of anyone other than me giving him a massage. What is wrong with me?

  “It’s in California?” I say.

  “Even better. I’ve never been to California and I would love a friend to show me the sights."

  I blink at him rapidly and run my hands over my dress to dab the sweat forming on my palms. “I’m not much of a high roller, I’m afraid. I’d probably just take you to In-N-Out Burger and a show at the Hollywood Bowl."

  His full-throated laugh sounds like the most sincere thing that has come out of his mouth since I laid eyes on him. “Marry me, belle fille.”

  I gape at him before I realize he’s kidding, and all three of us laugh together.

  Needing to take the focus off myself, I ask him how he got into the art dealing business. Distractedly, he looks at his watch, and I can't help but wonder if I'm actually a complete bore. Even if I am a bore, it's refreshing to see someone checking a watch instead of a phone.

  Fabian seems uncomfortable with my question and I think he’s going to make up an excuse to bug out. I can’t say I blame him; I’m not all that exciting and compared to the women he usually flirts with, I’m probably a 2 out of 10.

  Instead, Fabian reaches for two cocktail napkins, removes a fancy looking pen from inside his jacket, scribbles something on the napkin, and slides it across the table to me. I would have thought he could just use his phone to shoot me his digits and a calendar event, but I do sort of like his old fashioned way of doing things.

  “The hotel where I’m staying, that is the address. There's a party there tonight, and it has the best views of the fireworks anywhere on this beach—incroyable. I would be honored if you would accompany me, Laney.”

  “I, uh, I …”

  “Sure, she would,” Stella volunteers. “Just give me all your info, because I’m going to run a background check, of course. I do that for all of her dates. Should only take five minutes.”

  Fabian doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“Of course,” he says, and writes it out on the back of a business card that Stella hands to him. “Anything for a date with your charming friend. And I will phone my client today about the O’Keeffe and follow up with you.”

  Stella is practically giddy with excitement. "Have your guy email me a photo and the amount, and I’ll write you a check.” She hands him her business card, but he doesn't offer one to her, nor does he produce a mobile phone to enter her digits. Now, it's just odd. Does he not have one? Will he have to use the phone in his hotel room to make a deal? Is that what business people used to do before email and mobile phones? I have no idea. Maybe he's just one of those people who likes to unplug from technology while on vacation, I tell myself.

  Something strange comes over Fabian’s face but I can’t pinpoint it.

  “I look forward to doing business with you, Stella,” he says.

  He turns to me, biting his lip. Something almost like regret seems to be clouding his eyes that were charming the panties off me just a minute ago. “And I hope to see you tonight, mon amie,” he says before kissing the back of my hand once more.

  Chapter 3

  Hugo

  I can’t go through with this.

  That phony name is ridiculous. The fake French accent was passable, thanks to my own heritage on my mother's side.

  I know all this fakery is for the best. It gives these dear women plausible deniability if the feds ever question them about my whereabouts.

  But now I'm squeamish about the whole thing. I simply cannot go through with this scheme.