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
