Married To The Maverick Millionaire. Joss Wood

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       One

      Quinn Rayne flew across the parking lot on the Coal Harbour promenade, his feet slapping an easy but fast rhythm as he dodged both tourists and residents taking a late afternoon stroll on the paved and pretty walking and biking path next to the marina. The earbuds in his ears and his dark sunglasses were an excellent excuse to ignore the calls of recognition, the pointed fingers.

      Even after a decade of being in the spotlight, he still wasn’t used to being an object of curious, sometimes disapproving, fascination. Surely the residents of Vancouver could find someone new to discuss? There had to be someone in the city who was a bigger badass than he was reputed to be.

      As he approached the marina, he slowed his sprint to a jog and then to a walk, fingers against the pulse point in his neck and his eyes on his watch. After two minutes he nodded, satisfied. He might not be playing professional ice hockey anymore, but he was as fit as he’d ever been. He’d see whether his players, when they returned to practice next week, had also maintained their fitness. For their sakes, he hoped so.

      Quinn walked to the access gate to his wharf. He punched in his code to open the gate and jogged down to where his yacht was berthed. Because he owned one of the prime sites, he had unobstructed views of Burrard Inlet, with Stanley Park to his left and Grouse Mountain in front of him. Living on the water was more adventurous than living in a house and God knew how much he craved adventure.

      Quinn stepped onto the Red Delicious and quickly ran up the steps to the main deck, the quickest way to access the living area. He slid open the door, pulled his earbuds from his neck and tossed them, his cap and his sunglasses onto the sleek table to his right. He glanced at his watch and wondered if he had time for a shower before Mac and Kade arrived to report back on a meeting they’d attended earlier with Warren Bayliss, their partner and investor.

      Bayliss was an essential part of the ongoing process to buy the Mavericks franchise from the current owner, Myra Hasselback, who was also considering selling out to a Russian billionaire who owned a string of boring sports franchises. Quinn didn’t need his brother’s string of degrees to know that when he, a full Mavericks partner, was excluded from the meeting Warren called, then there was trouble in paradise.

      And that it had his name on it.

      Quinn walked into the massive open-plan living area and immediately noticed the small form tucked into the corner of his oversize sofa, a cup of coffee in her hand, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. One foot was tucked up under her butt; her other—long, slim and sexy—was bent. She’d been sitting like that on the beach at Sandy Cove the first day he’d met her, gap-toothed and grinning, a six-year-old dynamo. She was his girl-next-door or, to be technical, the girl from three houses down. His childhood companion and his teenage confidante.

      Sensing his presence, she turned her head, deep-red curls bouncing. Freckles splattered across her nose and onto her cheeks, each one perfect. God, he loved her freckles, had missed those freckles, her face.

      He slapped his hands on his hips, not sure if he was just imagining her or if she was really sitting there, bright hair and makeup-free but so damn real he could barely breathe.

      “Red. What the hell are you doing here?”

      Her smile slammed into his sternum and Quinn’s heart bounced off his rib cage. Callahan’s deep, dark eyes danced as she jumped to her feet and Quinn found himself smiling, properly smiling, for the first time that day. He reached out, grabbed her and swept her into his arms. She weighed less than a feather and he easily whirled her around. The scent of wildflowers hovered around her. It was in the hair he buried his face into, on the warm, smooth skin he could feel beneath the barrier of her shirt. Her laugh rumbled through her and instantly lightened his mood. She’d always had the naughtiest, dirtiest laugh.

      Cal Adam was back and his world made a little more sense.

      Her feet still off the ground, Cal placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed away from him, her eyes clashing with his. “Hi.”

      “Hi back.”

      “You always had the prettiest eyes,” Cal said, the tips of her fingers coming to rest on his cheekbone. “Ice green with a ring of emerald.” She patted his cheek and rubbed her hand through his too-long, overly full beard. “Not sure about this, though. You’re hiding that sexy face.”

      Quinn tightened his arms, his lower body responding as she wound her legs around his waist. A picture of her wet and naked, in exactly this position, appeared on his internal big screen, but he brushed it away. This was Cal, his oldest friend, his best friend—having lascivious thoughts about her was weird. And wrong.

      He patted her small, tight butt. “Glad to see that you’ve picked up a bit of weight since the last time I saw you.” It had been nearly two years ago and she’d been in hospital with a stomach bug she’d caught in Panama. Cal had looked almost skeletal. Always petite, at least she now looked on the healthy side of slim.

      Cal smiled again, dropped a quick kiss on his lips, a kiss that had Quinn wanting more, needing to find out whether her lips were as soft as they appeared, whether that mouth that looked like it had been made for sin could, actually, sin. What was his problem? Was he now such a player that it was a habit to take every encounter with every woman to the bedroom? Even Cal?

      Cal wiggled, her feet dropped to the maple floor and Quinn released her. She stepped back and pushed a curl behind her ear.

      “Red Delicious, Q? That’s an odd name for a boat.” Cal made a production of fluttering her eyelashes. “Or did you name it after me?”

      He grinned. “You wish I did. Nope, it was pure coincidence.”

      “Honestly, she’s stunning,” Cal stated, looking around. Quinn followed her gaze. The sleek lines of the sixty-five-meter yacht were echoed in the minimalist furniture and cool white, grey and beige. Sometimes he thought it a little stark...

      “It needs some color. Some bold prints, some bright cushions,” Cal said, echoing his thoughts. Despite their long time apart, they still thought along the same lines.

      “She’s beautiful and bigger than your last yacht. How many does she sleep?”

      “Ten on the lower deck. The master cabin is aft with a walk-in wardrobe and spa bath and there’s another full cabin forward. Two small cabins midship There’s another smaller, cozier lounge...that’s СКАЧАТЬ