The Perfect Wrong, page 2
Calling it weird is a mammoth understatement.
Even weirder, they went from dating to I do in barely a season. I knew Dad was infatuated when he started mentioning this woman in every conversation, but I never expected this kind of insta-love.
Sure, Evangeline looks exactly like the sort of hot, prestigious trophy wife a towering older airline executive should have.
She’s also a washed-up Hollywood bombshell with three ex-husbands and at least two bankruptcies behind her. I looked into her to make sure she wasn’t a total gold digger.
If the tabloids are honest—and I’ve seen her mentioned plenty in places like The Chicago Tea—she’s been fighting to claw her career back ever since she starred in a few slapstick teenage comedies a decade ago.
I’ve barely been around her for a full week, so I shouldn’t be so harsh.
Still. I just don’t get it, and maybe I don’t want to.
It’s not like my straitlaced father to elope with a stranger. Much less an aggressive, demanding Hollywood starlet with so much baggage she could employ a small army to carry it.
I don’t mean to be shallow.
I don’t like pinning down her whole character from a few brief conversations and some unsavory baggage. Who doesn’t have that?
But honestly? So far, it just seems like beauty is all she’s got.
And I’m a little afraid to think my sensitive, headstrong Dad might just be one more overworked rich guy whose brain falls out when he gets his first chance with a hot younger woman.
I guess I’ll just have to trust he’s—
My brain freezes.
There’s a figure standing on the cliff overlooking the ocean. If it weren’t for the blaring LED in his hand, I wouldn’t even see him.
He’s only there for a second before he leaps, plunging into the black Pacific like a water sprite.
“Holy crap!” I gasp, bolting up.
Is he crazy?
Is he high?
This stretch of shore isn’t the smoothest at the bottom, especially by the cliffs. If he’s not careful, he could get cut to pieces.
I swallow dryly, summoning the courage to rush over and find out if I’m going to see a man who’s been knocked comatose or worse—lifeless.
Only, before I take a single step, I see something bobbing on the water, this dark round shape.
He’s emerging from the water, dragging himself onto the beach with heavy, halting steps.
Apparently alive and still in one piece.
His arms rise above the waves like black flames in the darkness, huge and powerful, as if he’s parting the ocean like Moses all for himself.
“Whoa,” I whisper.
At least he can’t be hurt. The dude wouldn’t be swimming like a total pro if he had a busted leg.
He must be one of those hardcore wave chasers, the kind who know these beaches like the back of their hand. Have I seen him before?
When I get a better look, though, I realize he’s not just another surfer clown asking for a mile-long hospital bill.
The guy means business.
And he moves like he’s just come up from dealing with Poseidon himself.
He’s wearing a full wet suit, complete with a snorkel mask and oxygen tank. Definitely no ordinary sight on this remote, fairly exclusive beach.
At first, I’m weirdly fascinated, wondering if he’s just a die-hard swim fanatic, or maybe a hobbyist diver who stayed out too late and strayed off course.
His feet kick up sand as he fights ashore, heading for a rocky spot farther down the beach, where I see another light.
It’s a little camp of sorts. I notice more gear, a few black crates stacked up with a jacket slung over everything.
I frown.
I’m not crazy overprotective of Dad’s property, but this guy shouldn’t be messing around out here, especially after sunset. He could easily get hurt.
Also, I’m guessing he missed the bright-red PRIVATE PROPERTY signs lining the cliffs every twenty or thirty feet at the edge of our property.
Finishing my drink with a huff, I set my glass down on a rock and start to approach him.
I still can’t make out much in the dull light. He’s too far from the party’s bright lights to be more than a massive shadow.
And his back is turned, his head bowed and focused on his diving gear like it’s the most important thing in the world. His mask and oxygen tank are off by the time I’m standing a few feet away, and he’s working on that wet suit.
He sheds it quickly like a second skin, revealing a statue cut from pure granite underneath.
Oh my hotness.
...is he completely naked under there?
I suck in a breath so sharply I’m surprised it doesn’t startle him.
I’m a little relieved when I see navy-blue trunks as he kicks off the rest of the suit—but only a little.
This man is a sea god heaved up by the deep.
His back alone looks powerful, refined, like a rock-hard swimmer who’s been mastering his craft for years.
Muscular creases collide with long, dark stripes inked on his flesh.
His tattoos are one with the night, a warning of sharp, vicious, dangerous things.
Oh, and he’s big—he must be pressing seven feet in all his giant glory—but he’s so smooth, so sculpted, so graceful.
His skin looks natural, healthy, and real in a way Marnie’s Tangerine Man never will be.
My breath catches.
I know, I know.
I’m living out every awkward smut heroine’s moment where she catches the hot guy half-naked and you can bet he’s about to spin around and chew her out in T-minus one second.
And I know it’s silly to prefer a body cased in ink rather than too much tanned leather, but I can’t help myself.
I cough, deciding we’d better speed this up.
When he starts turning, my eyes almost bug out.
His broad chest could slay a whole gaggle of underwear models—even if they laid their perfect bodies under the world’s best tattoo artists.
More dark stripes slither up his arms, pitch-black flames licking his biceps, and something dark and beastly and menacing covers his broad chest.
A dragon?
The monster sprawls across his skin, guarding what looks like a pitchfork. It kind of reminds me of my gramps’ old Navy patches that Dad keeps hanging in his office. He’s always been proud of them.
Oh, and he’s an older man, but not too old.
He’s mature.
Probably somewhere in his mid-twenties, fresh out of college with a dark glint in his eyes that only a heavy life can bring.
Our eyes lock.
His are bright green, set in his chiseled face like sinful emerald framed with just the right amount of cropped sandy dark hair and stubble that could scratch so sweetly on a woman’s skin.
His tight jaw holds the most capable mouth in the world, lips made for kissing and cursing and giving the whole world hell.
Maybe even one especially lucky lady.
“Didn’t know I had an audience. How long you been there gawking while I strip?” he growls, giving his rubber suit a swift kick behind him and marching toward me. “Where’d you come from, princess?”
Oh.
In my little stare down, I forgot I walked out here to remind him he’s trespassing.
Hilariously, the biting tone in his voice makes it sound like I’m the intruder.
“Um, you...you’re not supposed to be diving here.” I clear my throat weakly and point at the nearest PRIVATE PROPERTY sign behind me, wondering if he can see it in the deepening darkness.
Mystery Man focuses his eyes through the darkness before he says, “Aw, shit. I thought this whole stretch was public?”
“No. My dad owns it. This is his house.” I shake my head for emphasis.
Why is it so hard to form words?
The man cocks his head and smiles. It’s a lazy, obscene smile like he’s oh-so-amused I’d deign to ask him to do his weird hot stripper diving elsewhere.
“What did daddy do to buy himself a beachfront like this? Hell, who’d he fuck to make a pretty thing like you? The rich guys I know all look like something I’d find crawling in a trench a thousand feet down.”
My mouth drops.
I’m floored at the crudeness spewing out of him.
Then the big, gorgeous lunatic closes the space between us and throws his arms around me, pinning me against that massive chest.
What. Is. Happening?
Despite being beneath the cool waves only a few minutes ago, his chest is surprisingly warm, hotter than my blood and horribly tempting.
Is he freaking psychic?
Has he honed in on all the nervous thoughts I’m too chicken to acknowledge?
I’m thankful for my shorts. If I had bikini bottoms on right now, I’m sure he’d feel them soaked, and then I’d drop dead from embarrassment for sure.
“Normally, I don’t take orders from girls in their pj’s who are scared out of their wits,” he whispers in my ear, his breath so hot it matches the boil in my blood. “But I normally don’t fuck up and crash a billionaire’s private beach club either. What’s going on over there? Big-ass pool party?”
He gestures with his head over my shoulder.
Just the right angle for his sandpaper stubble to rake my shoulder, ruining any urge to fight him off for at least another ten numb seconds.
Of course, he’s noticed the light and thrumming noise from the crowd and their music that’s giving this stretch of shore a pulse.
“I’ll be damned.” He pulls back, staring me straight in the eyes. “You don’t look like much of a party girl, princess. Then again, I’ve been around long enough to know the quiet ones are always the loudest. Go on back to your fun. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Excuse you?” I blurt out. “I just came to warn you about trespassing. Not invite you to—”
“What?” he flares, heat sharpening his green eyes. “You saying I’m not good enough for your shindig? Looks to me like it’s fuckboy central.”
I swallow, this odd guilty pang twisting my belly.
“No, it’s not like that. You just...you need to be careful out here, okay? If you made an honest mistake, fine, whatever. But it’s a private party and I don’t know you. It’s my dad’s house. I can’t just let every strange guy who throws himself off cliffs join the party.”
He raises a dark brow, his glance ice-cold and assessing.
“You see any other strange guys out here?” He pauses, folding his cannons for arms. “Am I too dangerous for your rich dick friends?”
Before I can answer, he snorts sharply.
“I’m a lot less rowdy than Peter Pan and the boys over there, I promise,” he stabs a finger out. “I’m old enough to pick up after myself like a grown boy, too.”
As soon as I turn, I see a tall kid standing on a table. He’s pouring beer straight into the waiting mouths of the laughing idiots perched under him, all of them clapping like the drunken seals they are.
“Oh, God,” I mutter, palming my face.
What do I even say to that?
“Come on. One drink. I’ll enjoy it like a civilized dude, dry off, watch the pretty fires, and be on my merry way,” he whispers, embracing me softly from behind.
I’m so not used to being touched.
Especially not like this.
Especially not by god-men like him.
Even his hands are big, proper paws. They slowly skim down my body as he releases me, driving me fully insane.
Holy hell.
This can’t be happening, getting felt up by a total stranger and enjoying it.
Some crazy instinct flips on in my head.
Before I can think, my hand flies across his face, connecting with warm flesh.
My palms are needles and—and I’ve just slapped Mystery Man.
I inhale sharply.
“Oh, crap. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry I lashed out. I never meant to hit you like that. I just got carried away when you started feeling around for—”
What, exactly?
Maybe I screwed up, misread him, even if he was breaching my personal space.
“For what?” he demands coldly, reaching down into the leather duffel bag at his feet.
My toes curl in my sandals as I watch him pack up his gear.
Okay. So he may be touchy-feely, but I’m not a total bitch.
“Look, if it’s just one drink, then maybe—”
“Forget it,” he clips. “I’m gonna bounce. I can always party on beaches with people who don’t shit diamonds anytime. Sorry to bust your fairy-tale bubble, princess.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides.
“Ugh, will you stop calling me that?” I shake with frustration. “Dude, you can have your drink. For the record, I didn’t mean it, just like I didn’t mean to chew you out and ruin your night.”
“For the record,” he spits back, all green-eyed challenge. “It’s awful fucking difficult keeping my hands to myself when I see a firecracker in front of me.”
Dead.
I actually tilt back a little before my balance catches me at the last second.
Just in time, too, because he flashes me a smile too good for this world, complete with dimples.
My heart dives as I watch him stow his scuba gear. The zipper echoes loudly through the night, and then he’s standing, marching away with something tucked under one arm.
Clearing my throat, I run after him and gently reach for his shoulder.
He whirls around when he feels my touch, holding a fresh change of clothes.
“What? You didn’t get a big enough eyeful the first time?” he snarls.
“I’m trying to be nice. I’m not as rude as you think and you’re not unwelcome here,” I say with a sigh. “Look, I get it. You think I’m a snob—daddy’s spoiled little princess or whatever—but if you want...we’ve got an open bar and there’ll be music for a few more hours. It’s no big if you want to hang around and have a few drinks. Be my guest.”
He raises his brows, moving his eyes slowly up and down my body.
“You’re serious, huh?”
I nod firmly.
I’m not sure what makes my heart race faster—the guilty conscience I’m trying so hard to appease by taking a gamble on him or watching how his tattooed muscles flex when he drops his pants and boxers, ready to roll them on.
He hesitates for a long second, the silence eating me alive.
“Well?” I venture. “Are you coming?”
“Keep your panties on, lady. I guess it sounds like more fun than being slapped by a party princess again. Now turn the fuck around while I get dressed. Unless, you know, you want to put your hands on this body without the kitten scratch.”
Oh, boy.
His mouth is going to make me regret this, isn’t it?
Probably long before I find out if I’m doing the right thing by inviting him to join us—or if I’m making one big fat half-naked mistake with a merman who’s put me under his green-eyed spell.
* * *
I lead Mystery Man over to the small private bar and watch as he pours himself a dark stout from the tap and throws together a fresh margarita for me.
“So, what were you doing out there diving this late? Are you a professional Batman impersonator or something?” I stare at the neat white button-down shirt he’s changed into. It hugs his wall of a chest so perfectly it’s almost obscene.
“Work. Fitness. Training. Bit of pleasure, too, if I’m being honest. You’d be amazed what you can see along this stretch of beach up there when the lights start twinkling. Hell, you must know, considering your father owns all this. Pretty damn pristine slice of land.”
He sips his drink with a smile as he looks around, taking in the scenery.
I raise my glass to my lips, unable to rip my eyes off just how sculpted he is.
Now that I’ve got him relaxed and talking, he definitely sounds too smart to be one more surfer dudebro or workoutaholic gym rat. That leaves one good guess.
“Are you Navy or something?”
“Something,” he says with an elusive wink, taking a long, thoughtful pull from his beer. “You know I didn’t come here to talk shop. I’m here to unwind. I like your bar digs, and the tunes aren’t half-bad.”
“You’re a Kate Bush fan?” I blink at him as “Running Up That Hill” booms from the speakers just a short distance away.
“I’m an atmosphere fan.” He holds up a silent finger, his voice a whisper. “Pretty lights. Calm beats. Cold beer. Gorgeous company.”
I look away too quickly, blushing for what must be the twentieth time since I met him.
Smooth, Delia.
My eyes wander over the party scene. Only a few couples are still swaying drunkenly around the fire, fumbling into the sand underfoot with barking laughter. I’m sure Marnie and Tangerine Man are long gone.
“I didn’t get your name,” he says, standing up and—if I’m not just imagining it—darting his eyes across my top.
I try to keep my face from turning into a Roma tomato.
“Cordelia. But everybody calls me Delia for short.”
“Fuck, for real? There’s a name I’ve never heard outside the Johnny Cash song.” He smiles. “It’s a pretty name. It suits you, your highness. I wonder, though, does Princess Delia dance dirty with strange men who won’t say what they do for a living?”
What the what?
Is he seriously asking me to dance?
The eager look he gives me over the rim of his tall glass says yes.
Wow. Nobody’s done that since high school prom, and the skinny boy in thick black frames I danced with then had nothing on this ocean god.
Honestly, his tight-lipped mystery should bother me more. He even jokes about how he’s holding his cards so close to his chest.
What does he do for work?
It must be a military thing, I’m sure. This city is crawling with secret agent men built like arrows, even after San Francisco downsized its naval presence a long time ago.
He gestures at the open fire nearby, polishing off his drink.
“Well, Delia?” he urges, holding my eyes. “What do you say?”
