I Don't Want to be Married Page 6

  As he lifted his head, the picture of his wife caught his attention. The old saying, A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words, came to mind. What was her story? What would have mandated a woman to become so desperate that she’d marry a stranger?

  He knew appearances could be deceiving. His phony foster parents said they cared for him. Girlfriends professed their love, although usually it was feigned in order to continue reaping the benefits of the relationship. Executives inflated their company’s financial resources to later find the firms insolvent due to stupidity. He had a right to be apathetic and uncaring. It was what most people expected and he obliged them.

  How many hours do I have to act as if I don’t care? Twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight? Or will it be days?

  Allan pondered the unsaid question of why he hadn’t immediately gone after the woman—his wife, who created this mess.

  Chapter 7

  “Mr. Smith, my husband said you owe him big time for cutting short his honeymoon.”

  Allan raised his head and set the damning newspaper aside. His angel had arrived. He hadn’t given her a choice. Tiffany, his faithful secretary, walked closer to his desk sporting a sunburn and about a million braids in her dark hair.

  “From the looks of it, you didn’t need any more sun.”

  “For your info, sunbathing wasn’t the reason I was on vacation. Remember?”

  “I’m sorry, Tiffany,” Allan replied apologetically. “Paul is going to be joining us, too. I’ll send you and your hubby anywhere you want to go after this problem is taken care of for me. I’ll even extend it to a month.”

  “A month? Who’s going away for a month’s vacation?” Paul spoke from the door.

  “Good afternoon, Paul. Me.” Tiffany offered a smile.

  Allan stood and regarded the two best people on earth, here to help him out of his predicament.

  “Oh,” Paul grumbled.

  Tiffany settled in a chair near Allan’s desk with her iPad. “Launch your tale from the beginning. What happened and when?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I awoke the morning of John’s wedding with a killer headache, discovered the ring on my finger, and found a note with an envelope full of cash.”

  “And that didn’t cause you any concern?”

  Allan heard the disappointment in her tone and refused to look at her or Paul.

  Tiffany’s right. I can’t answer the question. And that concerns me the most.

  “No . . . yes, damn it. I thought it was a joke. You know, like the groomsmen pranking me. Men being sex-craved idiots. As the day went on and on, no one said anything. They didn’t even comment on why I was wearing a wedding ring. Even after John’s wedding. I came home and ignored the problem, okay?” Allan paced the office and waited for the two of them to say something-anything.

  “Show me the marriage certificate,” Tiffany requested.

  He crossed to his desk, and handed her the document.

  “I can call the police,” Paul suggested.

  “No.” She shook her head. “The marriage certificate is real. Mr. Smith will have to file for a divorce. Unless you never—” She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, unless you never consummated the marriage. If so, a judge might allow an annulment.”

  The room went quiet. Allan pressed his lips together and clasped his hands behind his back, then resumed his pacing.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d slept with her.

  What a fucking mess.

  Paul broke the silence. “She might have something. A judge could say in your drunken state, mixed with the painkillers you’d taken, you temporarily lost the ability to make rational decisions. Such as getting married.”

  “I don’t recall having sex with the woman. Shit. I didn’t even know what my so-called wife—Rosalind—looked like until you showed me the paper this morning,” Allan sniped, folding his arms irritably across his chest. “This can’t be happening. I’m at a loss here. I have no solution. What should I do?”

  “You’re married, Mr. Smith, whether you like it or not. It’s a good thing Katherine went on her grand European vacation before your return from Las Vegas,” Tiffany stated. “We need to think about the press and what you want them to know.”

  At the mention of Katherine, Allan clamped his jaw. He realized she hadn’t even called him once. Why he’d ever started a relationship with her wasn’t clear to him. “We shouldn’t say anything, let the tabloids run their course,” Paul chimed in.

  If he did nothing, would his life be the same? Rosalind was sending the divorce papers. They’d probably arrive in the morning. He could sign them, and put an end to this madness quickly. Maybe Paul was right.

  “We need to make a statement,” Tiffany said. “Think of the company’s clients.”

  “Fine,” Allan conceded. “We can’t lose our clients. I’ve worked hard advocating them to believe in us after the Dell and Nvidia disaster. I don’t want to give the impression I act impulsively, when it was simply a case of an accidental mixture of alcohol and a pain medication.”

  “We can acknowledge the marriage,” Paul pointed out.

  “Make it short. You can include I had a night of indiscretion that shouldn’t have happened, period. We can release more if the tabloids get wind of the divorce.”

  After that, Allan’s office became chaotic. Paul worked on a statement to send to the clients and Tiffany started on the PR news releases. When two a.m. came around, Allan announced it was time to call it a night, and sent them home.

  Tired, angry, and hungry, he arrived at his condominium at The Rushmore. To his surprise, Katherine was waiting for him, dressed in a short black skintight dress and high heels.

  “When did you return from Europe?”

  “This morning. Did you miss me?”

  She hadn’t changed. Miss her? Heavens, no. He avoided her question and went to the wet bar to pour himself a vodka on the rocks. “Did I forget about a dinner appointment or something?”

  “No, Allan. Sweetie, are you getting a divorce?”

  He gulped down the shot and turned. It wasn’t Katherine who invaded his dreams and left him wanting her so badly he’d had to take cold showers, but his wife. Which he hadn’t comprehended until today.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Good,” Katherine sniffled.

  He watched her wipe at a tear she’d somehow produced, and saunter to him. Her stilettos clicked on the tile floor. She placed her cold hands on his chest, unbuttoned his dress shirt, and leaned in for a kiss. He indulged her and met her lips briefly. She pressed her body tight against his, wrapping her arms around him.

  “I’m willing to be your mistress for a million dollars. I don’t mind sharing,” Katherine whispered into his ear.

  Disgusted, Allan hissed, “You’ve exhausted your time here.” Unwrapping her clinging arms, he thrust her away. “You need to leave.”

  His jaw tightened. For an ex-lover to suggest a fee for sexual favors, wasn’t—nor would it ever be—in his game plans.

  Ignoring Katherine’s grasping arms, he moved away and headed to the bedroom, took out his cell phone and pressed star-nine to summon the doorman.

  “Start packing your stuff,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Allan?”

  “Don’t.” He threw two suitcases on the bed. “Now!”

  Slowly she emptied drawers and the closet.

  How dare she imagine he’d pay her or anyone to have sex? Not in his lifetime. So long and good riddance.

  She stood pleadingly by the suitcases. He slammed them shut as the doorman arrived. She reluctantly followed him to the door. “Please, Allan. I’m sorry. I’ll stay for free.” Her whining had started to edge toward hysteria.

  “Kindly escort Ms. Williams from my h
ome and remove her name from my approved guest list. She is never allowed in here again,” Allan instructed.

  He blocked the rest of Katherine’s pleas as the doorman led her to the elevator. Allan breathed in deeply when the doors slid shut. She’d lasted six months, which was a record for him.

  It’s for the best. Fuck. My perfect life is crashing around me.

  He became conscious of the fact they hadn’t been intimate since before John’s wedding. She’d refused to go to Vegas with him and instead flew to Italy. Then she called to inform him she’d extended her trip with stops in France and England.

  He hadn’t complained. He’d granted the lengthy tour with an underlining objective of it being a goodbye gift. Their relationship, with all of her constant demands and spending of his money, had become more burdensome and boring than fulfilling.

  Being single was what he liked. Women. And more women. Anytime he wanted one. A true bachelor life.

  No wife for me. He could never love one woman. Not when there was such a variety of ladies in the Western and Eastern Hemispheres yet to meet.

  Sex was his second area of expertise. Hot and sweaty. Fast and hard. Or slow and wanting. It depended on his mood. The women he dated always returned for more.

  His reputation as a lover was well known. Due to his wealth, notoriety, and dating habits, his lawyers mandated an agreement be signed in order to protect him and his money from unscrupulous women. Tiffany referred to it as the Gigolo Document. It was intended to prevent the women from disclosing any details about them or him, either during or after the relationship ended. This included interviews with the press or tabloids, writing memoirs, or discussing any aspects with the public.

  There was to be no expectation of support or palimony payments. The woman had to assert she was entering into the relationship on her own free will and was not being coerced in any way, nor was she executing the document under duress.

  It further provided in the event of any child or children being conceived during the dating period, a paternity test must be performed to prove he was indeed the father. The care and custody of the child would be vested in him, and the mother would have limited to no contact.

  Should the woman fail to abide by these terms, severe consequences could be imposed. If the woman refused to sign the agreement, he would simply walk away. Without this protection, he’d be dead in the water for any and all kinds of blackmail conspiracies and other legal complications.

  In the past, several women tried to negate the document, to no avail. The agreement would be binding in all courts of law, foreign or in the United States.

  During the last several years, one-night stands were the easiest. They’d sign it on the way to his condominium. For the lady of the month, he’d sweeten the deal with an exclusive Black American Express card.

  Most of the women he dated envisioned only his money and wanted a piece of it. He obliged by lavishing them with jewelry, clothing, shoes, and vacations. In a way, he was paying for sex. However, he chose when and how to part with his hard earned money.

  The number one reason he’d never wanted to marry was divorce. He’d seen how destructive it could be to men with money. The laws never went easy on wealthy men like himself. He could lose half or more of his net worth to an ex-wife. Even with an ironclad prenuptial agreement.

  Allan showered and lay down to sleep. The bed reeked of Katherine’s perfume. She must’ve taken a nap before he’d gotten home. His eyes remained open as thoughts and scenarios kept his mind working, not allowing him to rest. Finally around five a.m., resigning himself to not getting any sleep, he dressed and returned to the office.

  Nerves assailed him. All his planning and failsafe precaution hadn’t saved him. The rodeo queen snared me.

  Instead of pressing the button for the twentieth floor and his office, he stopped on the sixteenth floor to check on the European markets before they closed. Brokers ran around making last minute trades. In talking to a few of them, Allan discovered that news of his marriage had affected the market by about a four percent drop. Since their day was almost complete and the U.S. brokers would be arriving for the starting bell, he headed to his office.

  Feeling more at ease with his decision to sign the divorce papers, he waited for them to arrive. As the morning progressed and the U.S. markets opened, all hell broke loose. He received word clients were calling to cancel their accounts and requests for withdrawing funds were flooding in. Then to add insult to injury, the stock market plummeted one-hundred plus points.

  He paced around his office dwelling on the ramifications, before sinking into his desk chair, frustrated.

  Could his marriage work like an investment? What if he could make her hold on to it until it hit rock bottom?

  “Excuse me, Mr. Smith, do you want our lawyers to review the divorce papers when they arrive?”

  Allan spun his chair around. Tiffany and Paul appeared fresh and ready to help fight his battle.

  “No.”

  “They should take a look at them. They might—”

  He interrupted bluntly. “Tiffany, I’ve decided on a new course of action. I’m delaying the divorce. Maybe I’m sleep deprived, but my wife needs to be taught a lesson. No one messes with me and wins. I aim to ruin Mrs. Smith’s life as she has mine.”

  He never lost when it came to stocks. The only way for the value to rise was to nurture it slowly. On his terms.

  Sex. And I’m the king.

  He smiled devilishly at how his thoughts might prove to be viable.

  “I have to advise not . . .”

  Allan raised his hand. “I know it’s a huge risk. What do I have to lose at this point? My clients are running. Katherine and I are finished. How much lower can I go?”

  Tiffany’s and Paul’s surprised expression caught him off guard. Allan clasped his hands behind his back.

  Paul broke the silence. “Don’t do this. I can persuade our clients to change their minds.”

  “Katherine left?” Tiffany tilted her head curiously, the beads in her hair clicking at her movement. “It’s a good thing she’s been out of the country. Otherwise your wife could sue you for infidelity.”

  Allan kept his composure. “No, I kicked her out. She asked for a million dollars to be my mistress.”

  Paul cleared his throat with a cough. “You shouldn’t treat women as the new penny stock waiting to hit the bull market. I know what you’re thinking. You can’t keep tossing them away for futures. They can burn you if the entities in question rebound.”

  Tiffany laughed, and then bowed her head when Allan gave her his death stare.

  Rebound? How? He held all the trump cards. All the women he’d allowed close to him were treated like goddesses until he found another one to drool over and conquer.

  Maybe he did treat women like personal portfolios of stocks and dealt with them to his benefit until he lost interest. Allan shrugged. It doesn’t matter.

  He stood abruptly. “I’m leaving to meet Mrs. Smith in person. I’m not signing the papers until she gives me a night of sex as payment.”

  Allan scrutinized Paul and Tiffany as their mouths dropped open.

  I’m king once again.

  Gripping the steering wheel, Allan stretched and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. He couldn’t believe his private jet hadn’t been able to land closer to Randall. Who would’ve thought the place where his lovely bride lived wouldn’t have an airport? The lack of anything resembling a runway forced him to land at Minneapolis-St. Paul.

  Where does she live, Timbuktu?

  He’d hoped to have been there by now. Instead, he found himself in a cheap, rented car driving north to some unforsaken town, not even a city. Thank heaven the damn white stuff wasn’t coming down.

  He hated snow. If it had been snowing, he would�
�ve been ticked off. Living in New York City his entire life had turned his enjoyment of winter to dislike. He’d experienced enough of the white crap to outlast anyone’s appreciation of it for a lifetime.

  It wasn’t the snow that bothered him, but the bitter cold that went right through to the bone. Number one reason he headed south for long weekends.

  With the car heater turned to max, the rental’s GPS system flashed one-hour drive time. His next priority was to find the nearest Starbucks for a desperately needed vanilla latte. The GPS indicated one was close. Allan spied the green-white sign and grinned. John called him a coffee—sucker. So what if he spent twelve to twenty-four dollars a day on his drinks? He drank a lot of coffee.

  The first sip hit his taste buds with irresistible satisfaction. In the rental, he concentrated on his next destination, Randall—and then his revenge.

  His cell phone rang, interrupting the local radio channel chatting about the weather, via the car’s bluetooth.

  “Hello, Tiffany.”

  “Have you arrived? How did she handle the papers not being signed?”

  “Still en route. She lives in no man’s land. Any leads?”

  “I’m making progress on how the newspapers mysteriously learned of the wedding and broke the story to the damn globe. My hubby is pulling strings at the Times to confirm who leaked the pictures. There must be a money trail.”

  A muscle quivered in Allan’s jaw. He slowed the car as the speed limit dropped to thirty.

  “Thank him for me. It’s fucking freezing here. Schedule a week at my house in Naples to thaw out.”

  “Not before I finish my honeymoon,” Tiffany laughed.