I Don't Want to be Married Read online

  Rosalind exhaled, chewed her lip in apprehension, and carefully removed the license with her fingertips.

  “My husband-to-be’s name is Allan Richard Smith. His address is Eighty Riverside Boulevard, Unit two-six-one-oh, New York City, one-oh-oh-six-nine.”

  The clerk nodded. She spotted, adjacent to the driver’s license, his medical insurance card which included his social security number.

  Holy Beejesus. Sweet, everything in one shot, halleluiah.

  She rattled off the numbers and replaced the wallet, careful not to touch his butt.

  Less than five minutes later, the clerk handed them their official original marriage license and a copy.

  “Congratulations and good luck.” He pushed his glasses further onto his nose. She ignored him and they stumbled away like tumbleweed on a windy day. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Rosalind let loose the laugh she’d been holding.

  I know what I’m doing.

  A bright neon sign caught her attention as it flashed eleven o’clock. She had to make it back to her hotel by one.

  Looking around, she spotted ‘The Little White Chapel,’ thankfully within walking distance of the courthouse.

  “Allan, we need to walk across the street.”

  “Walk? I want to sleep.”

  “Not yet. Stay with me, Allan,” she encouraged and gently tapped his face twice.

  “Hey, stttoopp . . .”

  “Shhh, here we go, walk.”

  He did what she demanded and they reached the chapel’s entrance. She propped Allan against the wall, held him with one arm and yanked open the heavy white doors. She heaved him inside while he groped her at every chance.

  An older woman with black hair, wearing a form-fitted dress, hurried to them.

  “Welcome to The Little White Chapel on your very special day.”

  “Hi, thanks,” Rosalind replied, then took in the interior and its overload of white. Which in an odd sort of way appeared very traditional, even respectful, elegant, and clean. Right out of a movie.

  A hefty man with gray hair, a short beard, and glasses joined the woman. “My, my, welcome. If you’re looking to tie the knot you’ve come to the right place.”

  “Do you have a selection of packages?”

  “This way. Sit and we can discuss how to create a special day for you.”

  Yeah right, some special day, forced into marrying a man I don’t know.

  She pushed Allan and he stumbled into a couch.

  “I have three packages. The first one is ‘The Sin.’ It’s only the ceremony. Second is ‘The Roulette,’ it’s the most popular. You get the ceremony performed in our famous Casino Chapel, matching silver bands, a red rose for love, and a wedding photo. The third, ‘The Royal Flush,’ gives you matching gold bands, a deluxe rose bouquet, a set of twelve coffee cups and four key chains with your wedding photo on them. You can share them with family and friends,” the form-fitted woman recited.

  “What about the marriage certificate?”

  “Our gift to you, we laminate one.”

  “I’ll . . . we’ll take The Roulette package.”

  Allan suddenly burst out in a baritone voice, singing lyrics to an old school song about getting married.

  The woman smiled indulgently. “I see someone is excited. We’re ready when you are, so you can go right in.”

  “Sweetie, time to get married,” Rosalind pronounced.

  She hauled him off the couch toward the chapel.

  He blinked woozily. “Where is everyone?”

  His remark made the two witnesses’ heads turn. The minister stared at Allan with a questionable look. It wasn’t hard to perceive their unspoken questions, and a wave of apprehension washed through her as she pictured being grilled over how many drinks she’d let her ‘boyfriend’ suck down.

  “Please excuse us. We hit a huge jackpot on the way and stopped to celebrate. I guess one of us drank a little too much champagne,” she said and kissed Allan for appearance.

  “Oh, how wonderful. What a way to start off your marriage.” The woman beamed at them.

  Rosalind returned the smile, relieved they’d accepted her explanation.

  The altar seemed to click and ring bells. She realized it was actually a slot machine. Other slots and computerized blackjack tables played by themselves. It looked and sounded like a casino. She moved Allan in front of the ringing slot-altar.

  “Whyy are we doingg an . . . another rehe . . . rehearsall?”

  “Shhh, honey.”

  “Where’ssss Johhn?”

  To quiet Allan, she clasped him to her and kissed his lips. The kiss worked; he stayed quiet. Though he wobbled, at least he paid attention to the minister.

  “Let’s begin. We’re gathered here today to unite this man and woman in matrimony. Do you Allan Richard Smith, take Rosalind Susan Dunne, to be your wife in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, till death do you part?”

  No sugar frosting or words of advice, merely a sampling of the time-honored words. She held her breath.

  “I do.”

  Rosalind blinked. He’d said the words in such a clear voice, she thought for a millisecond he meant them. His blue eyes were focused for the moment.

  The minister turned to her.

  “Do you Rosalind Susan Dunne, take Allan Richard Smith, to be your husband in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, till death do you part?”

  All she had to do was say the words and she’d be one step closer to securing her inheritance. A speck of doubt inched its way to the surface.

  “Yes, I do.” Rosalind rushed the words before the ramifications could make sense to her.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the minister stated.

  It was done. She was married.

  She turned, then stopped short like a fifth ace in a poker game when Allan heaved her into his arms and planted his mouth on hers in a gentle yet persuasive kiss. It was nothing like the kiss she’d given him. Her knees went weak and a weird fever seared its way down past her abdomen.

  As a tide of desire swept through her, she felt herself transported, her emotions unfamiliar. Their tongues met. Rosalind wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair as the kiss went on and on.

  Her self-made defenses weakened. The sound of someone clearing their throat forced reality forward. The crux of the game she was playing hit her hard. She jerked away from Allan and they stared at each other.

  “Sorry,” Rosalind whispered.

  Man, can he kiss. I wouldn’t mind being called a Wingless Angel to spend a night with him.

  Maybe she should, seeing as he was now her husband.

  “Here is your paperwork. Congratulations, you’re one lucky lady,” the woman said, nodding in Allan’s direction.

  Slowly and sadly, Rosalind moved to her handsome husband’s side and gripped his hand.

  As if the man could want someone like her, who spent days on end mucking out stalls and smelling of horses instead of some expensive perfume. He was simply a stepping-stone to her inheritance, business only.

  “Honey, we have an audience, let’s go to our room.”

  “Mmmmm, you taste good,” Allan whispered. He tried to pull her into his embrace despite the fact she held him at arms’ length, unsure if she could handle another round of kisses from him.

  “We’re done here. Time to go to the hotel.”

  Rosalind tugged Allan from the bizarre Casino Chapel to the front doors, waving to the man and woman.

  They weaved and stumbled their way across the street. The neon clock displayed eleven-thirty.

  Shit. Sam would have her hide if she was late.

  “Move, Allan. We need to get to your hotel,” Rosalind
huffed. She pushed and shoved him into the truck as if he was an ornery bull. Once she buckled him in and closed the door, she climbed behind the wheel and checked her iPhone. Eleven-forty-five.

  “Yessss, my rrrrooom to have sex.”

  She turned to answer him, just as her new hubby’s head lobbed to the side and hit the window with a loud thud.

  He’d passed out, thank God.

  Her simple plan had worked. Get married. Get money. Get a divorce. The blue, signature Hilton Hotel sign loomed in front of her. Now, the hard part. How would she get him to his room?

  She drove to the side of the building and found a spot to park, away from all the other vehicles. Cutting the engine, she gripped the steering wheel, took a number of deep breaths, and shut her eyes.

  I can handle this. If I can drown in my own sweat while working, I should be able to half carry a man.

  On the count of three, she opened the door and stepped down. The heels of her boots clicked as she dashed to the passenger side door and yanked it open. Allan’s face almost ate the tar, saved only by the seatbelt.

  “Shit.”

  She reached across him, unsnapped it, and he fell toward her. She clutched him by the shoulders and shook him.

  “Mr. Smith. Allan, wake up.”

  His eyelids fluttered, then opened, and he smiled in an erotic way.

  Crap, his smile was sexier than David’s.

  Her heart raced faster than a bucking wild horse. Rosalind tried to look away from his impish smile, but failed.

  “Hey honeyyy, are youuuu cooome . . . are youuu cominggg to my roommm?”

  “Um . . .”

  All at once, Allan straightened and slid out of the truck. She stood ready to catch him, but instead she was wrenched into his arms, and he kissed her. Her own eagerness to kiss him took her by surprise and she wondered at the spiral of lust coursing through her.

  Allan’s arms locked her tight against his male body. His telltale desire pressed into her. Her protective fence fell again. Recklessly, she allowed her dormant desire to take over. Somewhere in the depth of her consciousness she knew she should step away, but she couldn’t. His hands held her hips closer, until there wasn’t a bit of spare space between them. All her rational impulses vanished as she clung to him.

  I’ve ended up with a drunken rooster with octopus hands. Lordy, lordy, Tom’s kisses never had her feeling like this.

  And the kiss continued.

  Their tongues battled like a bunch of rattlesnakes, neither winning. Through the fog, Rosalind heard a clock chime.

  Midnight. Time for the fairytale to end. But I’m no Cinderella.

  Once again, this time regretfully, she pushed herself from Allan’s arms and seized his hands.

  “Yes, we’ll go to your room. Now come on,” she urged.

  “My rooooom? Naked?”

  Allan untangled himself and dove at her. He missed and stumbled. She reached to catch him and found herself in his arms.

  She exhaled impatiently. “I don’t have time for this.”

  With some twisting and turning, she wiggled out of his embrace, put her arm around his waist, and urged him to walk. He staggered next to her as she half-carried him. Encouraged by the fact no one was around, she hurried them to the lobby. To her horror it was bursting with activity. Rosalind steadied Allan and moved toward the elevators.

  “Your room key, please.”

  They stopped and she stared at the security guard.

  Damn. Shit. And a pile of cow manure. Think fast.

  “Honey, the man needs to see our key. Which pocket is it in?”

  “In myyy wallet not mmmyyyy pocket.”

  For heaven’s sake. Not the wallet.

  It displayed a life of its own. She dug her hand into his rear pocket.

  Man-oh-man alive, his ass is nice. Too nice.

  Unable to resist, she pinched the firm piece of flesh.

  “Hey, thattt wasn’t nice.”

  “Shh,” she muttered, and flashed the keycard at the guard. “Here it is.”

  “Thank you, have a nice night.”

  “Whyyyy did you pinnnch my ass?”

  “Shhh, someone will hear you.”

  Rosalind plastered her mouth against his to shut him up, but Allan abandoned her lips to raise her hand and kiss the inside of her palm, then her fingers. Stunned, she couldn’t move or think. Desire flushed through her body, crying for release.

  The elevator doors opened. The sexual spell he’d evoked dissipated. She escaped his grasp and wrapped her arm around his waist to support him.

  She guided him into the waiting elevator and turned. No one seemed to be aware of them or recognized Allan. Luck seemed to be on her side.

  As soon as the doors closed, Allan’s hands traveled from her neck to her breasts. He whispered in her ear and her body quivered at the warmth of his breath as it touched her skin. Yet she felt compelled to fight his embrace.

  In the foreplay battle, one of his hands abandoned her breast to encircle her waist. He won and clasped her tightly to him. She felt her shirt come free from her belt. Sudden shivers cascaded down her spine as his warm palms moved upward to her bra.

  The doors opened. Rosalind jumped back fast, as if someone doused her with cold water.

  His embrace was dangerous. Her skin tingled, branded by his touch.

  “Behave,” Rosalind scolded. “We’re almost to your room, get those legs moving.”

  “You have a lus . . . lussciouus body. What’s your name?”

  Laughing, she tucked in her shirt, took his smooth hands, and led him down the hall.

  Me, a luscious body? The man’s three sheets to the wind.

  “What’s your room number? We can’t get into bed naked unless we find your room.”

  “Fivvvve-forrrty-oneeee.”

  They backtracked a few rooms. She slid the card into the key slot. Bingo, a green light blinked and she pushed the door.

  “Thisss is itttt. Weeee get nakkked nooowww?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Naked, oh yeah. I’d love to see him in his birthday suit. No. This is business. He’s off limits.

  He pushed past her into his suite. Shaking her head, she took a quick glance down the hallway. Not seeing anyone, she kicked the door shut and turned to find Allan walking half-naked toward a pair of French doors. His discarded shoes, shirt, and belt lay on the floor. They seemed to cry out, ‘Follow me for a reward!’

  “Mister, what are you doing?”

  “Getttting naked. Timmme tooo have sexxxx.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Definitely eye candy.

  She’d seen a good many bare-chested men working and living on a ranch. Allan’s shirt had hid—far too well—his muscular shoulders, chest, and a six-pack abdomen.

  With her mouth open, she watched him take off his socks and pants, revealing burgundy satin boxers. Rosalind licked her lips. He disappeared into what she assumed was the bedroom. She followed, stopped a tad inside the room, and flipped the light switch. He stood next to the bed clad only in those sexy shorts.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. I’d like to sample what he’s offering.

  Struggling to rid her mind of such sexual thoughts, the main reason she was in his room—bedroom—flooded her. She reached inside her jacket, took out the marriage certificate along with a thick envelope, and held it toward him.

  “Umm, thanks for doing this for me. Here’s the money. I’ll call you in two months or when I have the divorce papers in my hands.”

  “Divvoorce. Not married yet.”

  “Yes you are. We are . . .”

  A loud belch cut her off. Allan raised his hand to his mouth.

  “Parrrdonnnn . . .”

&n
bsp; His word hung in the air, then he fell like a ragdoll and landed halfway on the bed with a leg hanging over the side, completely passed out.

  Chuckling, Rosalind set the envelope and document on the table. She went to him, straightened his leg onto the bed. In shock, she stepped backward as his willy played peek-a-boo from the boxers’ flap.

  Oh boy. That thing was larger than any she’d seen.

  Though no one else was in the room, she glanced around furtively before giving his body the onceover from his toes to his head. Uncontrollable want took hold of her.

  He was better than anything she’d seen on a Saturday night at Fort Ripley.

  For the first time all night, Rosalind studied Allan’s face. He was gorgeous. In his peaceful, inebriated state, his square jawline and high cheekbones gave him a quality most men took for granted. His nose sported a bump toward the arch and she wondered how he’d broken it. In a boyhood fight? Or in a contact sport like football?

  She blew out a quick, short breath. With her fingertips she brushed aside several strands of hair that cloaked his eyes.

  If he hadn’t come to the rodeo, would their paths have crossed? Did he have a girlfriend or a fiancée?

  What have I done?

  For a split second, regret nagged at her, clouded by her fiery attraction to him. She placed her hand on his calf and gently sailed her fingers the length of his leg. The sexy hairs tickled. Her hand stopped at the edge of the silky boxers. The material was cool and smooth to the touch. His dormant manhood had become long and stiff.

  She shifted her eyes to his face. No movement; his eyes remained closed. Taking more liberties, she bypassed the boxers and touched the thin line of hair, slowly sliding her hand higher past his six-pack to his chest. It rose and fell with each breath he took. Light brown, it curled around her fingers. She ran her hand over and over the width of his chest, enjoying how the coarse hairs felt.