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  Married to the Secret Billionaire

  Penny Wylder

  Copyright © 2019 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Ankor

  2. Ankor

  3. Sinclair

  4. Sinclair

  5. Ankor

  6. Sinclair

  7. Ankor

  8. Sinclair

  9. Ankor

  10. Sinclair

  11. Sinclair

  12. Ankor

  13. Ankor

  14. Sinclair

  15. Sinclair

  Epilogue

  Quickie

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1

  Ankor

  It’s another perfect day in paradise. I take my favorite route down to the beach, the one that runs behind the resort, accessible only through an obscure gate that nobody but the hotel staff and me seem to have found. It’s easier this way. Less risk.

  The moment my feet touch sand, I breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever else I might be dealing with out in the real world, here, when it’s just me and nature, I can relax. Forget about all the people who want—no, need things from me. Forget about the pressure, the performance I have to constantly put on for the world.

  All the bullshit, in other words.

  It’s why I came here. Why finally, after so many years of putting up with all the aforementioned bullshit, I decided enough was enough. I’m not about to give this up for anything.

  My gaze drifts toward the distant part of the beach, already crowded at this hour for Maui. Up where I am it’s a little more secluded—there are a lot of rocks, which means less surfers here, which means less girls sunbathing and hoping to catch the eye of one of said surfers. It’s a blessing and a curse. Means far less eye candy for me, but also less risk.

  Still, I can’t help stealing a long glance across the sand, toward where all the beautiful women—models, actresses, heiresses and post-grad girls with trust funds and daddy issues—are bathing their long limbs in the sun. It’s tempting, I can’t lie. But I’ve imposed a rule for myself. After last time, I’m not making any mistakes again. I’m not going to lose paradise over a pair of sweet, soft tits. It’s just not worth it.

  So, my self-imposed rule is no hooking up with anyone for my first three months here.

  It’s been two months and one week, and trust me, I’m counting down the days already. But I need to wait. I need to be sure I’ve really blended in, done it right this time. The last thing I want is to hook up with some society climber who recognizes me. Then I’d just have to start the countdown clock all over again, somewhere new. Somewhere less idyllic than Maui, too, most likely.

  So, with a grimace, I turn away from the sunbathers and stride toward the empty stretch of sand on the far end of the beach. Instead of beautiful girls with sexy curves, I drink in the palm trees that reach all the way down to the shoreline here, and the rocky tidepools. I walk until my legs throb, and then I turn back around, sweat making my shirt stick to my back, and head back the way I came, up the back stairs and into the resort. It’s almost time to begin my shift.

  All part of the act, the disguise. Nobody would expect to find me working, least of all doing this, and in this spot, too.

  I picked this resort carefully. It’s sprawling, beautiful, but it’s also not one of the hottest resorts in town these days. It tends to attract an older crowd. Less showy money and more tired retirees who are sick of displaying their wares.

  Funnily enough, despite the fact that I’ve only just turned 33, I find myself starting to relate to the retirees more these days. Maybe I’m just aging young. Or maybe it’s because I’ve already lived through enough wild lives to want a quieter sort of life than most other people in my former social circle.

  When I reach the pool, which is already filling up with said retirees, all women, and all well over the age of 70, old Mrs. Jenkins waves in greeting. “How are you this morning, Ankor?”

  “Just fine. How about you, Sandra?”

  “Oh, you know.” She affects a grimace and kicks her legs at the side of the pool. “My arthritis has been acting up again. Hoping a morning swim will clear it up.”

  “I hope so too. You try that stroke I taught you yesterday?” I ask, stripping off my shirt, and trying to ignore the way all the old ladies immediately fixate on my abs. I’m not an idiot; I know most of them don’t take this class for my brilliant teaching methods. But still. They’re all sweet in their own ways. And I can’t lie, after over two months of self-imposed solitude, it’s nice to have the company. At least for the next couple hours of my day, I can relax and enjoy myself. If that enjoyment means I have to become the butt of a few innuendos, well, I’m man enough to take it.

  “You know I just cannot get the kick right,” Mrs. Jenkins is saying.

  “Oh me neither,” pipes up Ms. Humbolt. “Is it both legs at once? It doesn’t feel right when I try.”

  “Let’s go over it again.” I dive into the pool, and when I surface, I find all their eyes on me, and wicked smirks on their faces.

  “Maybe you could demonstrate with a few laps,” Mrs. Orial suggests, and the others chime in their agreement as I laugh.

  “You all aren’t getting out of class that easy, Bethany,” I reply, to a chorus of good-natured groans.

  But for all their flirtations, they’re an enjoyable group. Mrs. Jenkins and her husband have been coming to this same resort every winter for the past fifteen years. She knows more about the ins and outs of life in this part of Maui than anyone except some locals, and she’s been more than happy to fill me in on all the resort gossip—who used to hook up with who on the staff, who had their security badge temporarily revoked for smuggling liquor to some partying college kids in one of the presidential suites, that sort of thing.

  Ms. Humbolt is another regular. Mrs. Orial is new. Her husband passed away last year, after years of wanting to travel but never getting up the courage. She decided to travel in his honor instead. I can’t help admiring that. I hope one day I’ll be lucky enough to have a bond like that with someone. The kind where both of your goals seem to fuse into one dream.

  Though, of course, I’d rather my partner still be alive when we go pursuing our goals.

  I push that thought to the back of my mind. It’s ridiculous to be thinking about dating or partners when I can’t even risk a hookup right now. Besides, I’ve learned my lesson about trusting women. They’re only ever after one thing, when it comes to me, and I’m not about to fall into another Lily-shaped trap.

  I’m better off alone, I tell myself. After a while, I can start fucking again, ease a little of the tension that’s been torturing me over the past couple months. And after that… Well. One step at a time.

  I finish teaching the women the backstroke—it’s a tricky one, since you have to get the buoyancy right, and more than a few of them never learned how to swim properly in their youth, or even just how to float. It always surprises me, the things some people don’t pick up, whether from fear or leading sheltered lives or just plain never wanting to learn. But it inspires me, how these women are willing to pick up new skills so late in life.

  It makes my day fun, even if I never pictured
myself working this kind of a job in my life.

  I can’t lie, it also brings a smile to my face thinking what my family would think if they could see me now. Their son, little more than a glorified swim instructor. They’d lose their goddamn minds.

  It’d be worth it.

  As the lesson winds down, I help the ladies from the pool one by one. Bethany grips my hand a little tighter and longer than strictly necessary and lets her gaze roam over my chest before she winks at me. “Thank you for another enlightening lesson, Ankor. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to seeing you here every day.”

  I’ll bet you do. I resist a laugh. “It’s my pleasure, Bethany.”

  “Oh, no, I’m pretty sure it’s mine.” She winks and finally lets me go to collect her towel, and this time I do chuckle softly.

  They’re all right, these gals.

  I run a hand over my drenched hair and check the poolside clock. It’s almost lunchtime. I’ve got a two-hour break, and then I have my afternoon lessons. Those tend to be less the old lady crowd and more the rambunctious children of families at the resort who will do anything to offload their hyper kids for a few hours. It’s the less exciting part of my day—or rather, a little too exciting for my taste. Still, I get on with the kids all right. And they can be amusing when they aren’t shouting and screaming their way through my lessons, so I need to shout myself just to be heard.

  With a deep sigh, I start back toward the beach entrance. There are a few vendors who sell food from carts up and down the beach. I’ve long since learned it’s the best spot for local food around here. The resort food is fine and all, but why come all the way to Hawaii if you’re only going to eat the same meals you’d be able to buy for yourself back in New York or San Fran?

  I’d much rather sample the local fare. Live like I’m really here, instead of just pretending that I’m back home but with a beach and pool added this time.

  My mind is already drifting toward what I want: there’s a cart that does a fantastic Hawaiian plate, and I could use the protein boost right about this hour of the day. Then I hear it. A loud shout—not the usual playful kind you hear around here, but one filled with real, deep panic.

  I’m only halfway down the stairs leading from the resort toward the beach. I shade my eyes and squint against the midday sun’s glare. It doesn’t take me long to spot the commotion. Already there are people pointing, staring, gawking. And in the center of all those pointed fingers, a man with a child in his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Someone help!” I can hear his voice from here, the deep, throaty panic of it.

  My body kicks into motion in response, adrenaline flooding me. I take the stairs two at a time and come out flying onto the sand. But I’m still at least a five-minute sprint away from where the man is now kneeling on the sand, his kid sprawled on the beach in front of him. If it’s what I think it is—a drowning accident—every second is crucial now. Every moment the kid doesn’t have oxygen running to his brain, more cells will die off, and soon it could be too late.

  I force my muscles to pump faster, harder.

  I’m still running flat-out when I notice a woman break away from the crowd around the man. She drops to her knees beside the kid while I’m still a few hundred yards away.

  By the time I reach their side, she’s bent over the little boy, lips pressed to his, a thumb pinching his nose shut as she breathes into his lungs. I watch her lean back and begin compressions, in the steady, familiar rhythm.

  She’s got this, clearly. She acts like someone who’s been highly trained in CPR, who knows her way around an emergency. Her face, now that I have a clearer glimpse, is a mask of utter calm.

  A beautiful one, too. She’s got perfect pink bow lips and a narrow chin, coupled with high cheekbones and blue eyes, bigger than I would have thought possible. Combine that with her bright auburn red hair, tied up in a sloppy damp bun at the moment, and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, not to mention the long, flowing white gown she’s wearing, and a broad-brimmed sunhat that shields most of her face from the sun, and she looks like she stepped right out of some kind of fairy tale onto this beach.

  She leans down to blow again, and I hold my breath, along with what feels like the entire rest of the beach within hearing distance.

  For once, I forget about the risk that all these witnesses pose to me. All I can think about is the boy, his sobbing father next to him, and this woman, like a heroine.

  Behind me, I hear shouts, the whistle of the lifeguard. I spot him pushing his way through the crowd. Before he reaches the trio, there’s a gasp, and a splutter of coughing.

  Everyone ringed around the group begins to gasp too, applauding as the little boy rolls onto his side with loud, hacking coughs. The woman glances up at the father, only now breaking into a faint, barely-there smile. The father is babbling his thanks, still crying, and he reaches down to gather the little boy into his arms just as the lifeguard arrives to begin asking questions.

  For a split second, her gaze shifts. It locks onto mine, almost as if she could sense the force of my gaze on her. Those big blue eyes of hers look deeper than the ocean behind her. She tilts her head a little, birdlike and curious, when her gaze meets mine.

  That’s when the crowd really swells, more people pushing in front of me to find out what happened or, worse, to snap photos on their phones. They jostle between us and I lose sight of her among all the mass of humanity.

  Vultures, I think. But the sight of all those cameras makes my heart spike in panic, reality flooding back in. I remember who I am. Where I am.

  And, as much as it kills me to do it, I force myself to turn away. I stride back toward the resort across the empty beach—empty now, because just about everyone on it has joined the mob scene around that woman and the boy she rescued.

  But even as I walk away from them, I can’t tear my mind from her. The way she stepped in so calmly, with such conviction, to help. The way she hadn’t looked ruffled or afraid at all, even when every other person in that crowd had looked near panicked.

  She knew what she was doing. And she was impressive as hell doing it.

  Who is she? I find myself wondering. A lifeguard, perhaps? But I don’t recall seeing her anywhere around here before—and I definitely would have remembered a face like hers. I only glimpsed her for a split second, but she’s already imprinted in my memory. The soft curve of her lips, the serious, steady look in her eyes.

  The curve of her body underneath that flowing dress. It was nothing like the outfits the other girls on this beach wear, barely-there skimpy things that leave little to the imagination. Not that I’m complaining about that. Normally I’m a man of simple taste, and I don’t like to spend too much energy on imagination when I could focus on reality instead.

  But two months and more without sex has left me more familiar with daydreaming than ever before, and that in turn makes me wonder what she’d look like without that sundress on. Whether those freckles I glimpsed across her nose like a scattered constellation would appear on the rest of her body, too.

  What she’d taste like, if I kissed that sexy, pillowed mouth of hers. What kind of soft, beautiful body she’s hiding, and why she doesn’t show it off like the rest. Is she shy? I think about the giant sunhat. Or maybe she just burns easy.

  I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. Whoever she is and whatever she’s doing here doesn’t matter, either. I’m still weeks away from ending my self-imposed hookup ban, and besides, she had the look of a tourist, someone just passing through. She’ll likely be long gone by the time I feel comfortable letting myself sample the local goods again.

  And frankly, that’s probably a good thing. Because that woman had the look of somebody I might not just want to sample, but someone I might get a little too addicted to, if I let myself.

  2

  Ankor

  All night, she turns circles in my head. In my dreams, I see her on the beach again, except this time there’s no crow
d between us, separating us. There’s also no emergency distracting us, claiming her attention. This time, it’s just the two of us on the beach, and when I reach down to draw that flowing dress off of her body, she smiles and lifts her arms to encourage me.

  Of course, thanks to my frustrating as hell sleep cycle, I wake up just before the dress falls to the sand beside us, not letting me get a single glimpse of what’s beneath it.

  With a groan, I slap my buzzing alarm into silence and roll out of bed, forcing myself through the motions. In the shower, I shut my eyes tight and let the fantasy run a little longer, the hot water cascading over me as I picture those big blue eyes of hers locked on mine, the way they did on the beach, just for a second. I picture those thick, pillowy lips of hers kissing down my body, until they wrap around the tip of my cock. Then she’d peek up at me again from beneath her long dark lashes, smiling a little, and…

  Fuck.

  Yeah, I really need to get laid soon. With a growl of frustration, I finish showering off and get dressed for class again, just like every morning. I slept a little too late for my morning jog along the beach this time, but that’s fine, I figure. I’ll have time over lunch, assuming some other emergency doesn’t crop up and steal my attention—or risk exposing me to too many damn cameras—again.

  I head to the pool and find the usual crowd. I wave and smile, greeting each woman by name before we start the lesson. Usually I have them warm up in the shallow end with some easy exercises. Knee-ups, stretching under the water, some kicking while they’re holding onto the side of the pool, to get their equilibrium right.