Page 7 of Forbidden Access

His scowl deepened. Why the hell had he thought about her? His ex-wife had been out of the picture for years.

“I—I can’t tell you why,” he’d said, feeling like a prize prick. “It’ll be announced tomorrow.”

She’d paled.

“There’s nothing wrong, is there? You’re not sick or anything?”

She cared. That only made it worse.

“It’s for security purposes. That’s all I can say at this point.”

Hopefully, that would be enough. He couldn’t tell her any more than that without risking the truth coming out. It had to look real in order for it to work.

His bride’s name, along with a carefully curated wedding photo, would be released tomorrow, once they’d had a chance to get them taken. It wasn’t Rose’s real name, of course. Or her nickname, Thorn, which he thought appropriate. It was a carefully constructed legend, with all the online history and social media accounts one would expect.

Damian had offered the gardens at his mansion for the “official” photographs since they were expansive, naturally beautiful, and backed onto open fields, which in turn were surrounded by bushes and tall trees. The property was easier to secure than a hotel or wedding venue, and the vastness meant it was difficult for the press to spy on them.

His new bride smiled and waved through the bullet-proof glass at the reporters camped outside the gates. He had to admire her poise. Her strawberry blonde hair was piled up in a messy bun with tendrils kissing her cheekbones, softening her features, and exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Her skin was dewy and smooth, and the make-up around her green eyes made them glow like emeralds. She radiated joy. Hell, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was indeed a blushing bride.

Then again, she was a seasoned undercover operator, trained to convince the world she was someone else. She took his arm and smiled lovingly up at him as a photographer stuck a lens against the glass.

Damn, she was good.

He wondered fleetingly how many times had she been in similar position, pretending to be in love with a man in order to fulfill her mission or complete the op? The thought disturbed him, even though it shouldn’t.

After the earlier briefing, he’d swapped his work attire for the dress suit he’d brought with him and his personal protection office—it was hard to think of her as that—had changed into a wedding gown. Rented, he’d assumed, or maybe she kept it in the closet for just such occasions. Either way, it fitted her like a glove.

When she’d walked into that hotel suite, he wasn’t the only man at a loss for words. She looked fucking incredible, like a model in a bridal magazine. The dress was an elegant, silk creation with a plunging backline and made him want to run his hand over her smooth, bare skin.

The thin straps clinging to her toned shoulders were asking to be slipped off, and he could picture the slinky fabric that clung to her curvy figure falling to the floor. When she walked, the dress swished around her legs, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of a silver strap and coral toenails.

Seeing her in the wedding gown had reminded him of his own wedding. Nine years ago on a private beach in the Caribbean. He’d been younger and full of hope for the future then. His wife-to-be had looked stunning in a similar white silk wedding gown, her glossy dark hair falling down her back. He still recalled the way she’d gazed at him, her eyes brimming with love, not unlike Thorn’s in the limo, except with Rebecca, it had been real.

He inhaled sharply as the memory stung. Her friends and family had watched as an unknown computer hacker married into one of America’s most nefarious crime families.

But it had all been lies. Every bit of it.

His and Rebecca’s relationship. Their marriage. His company’s backing by Alek’s organization. Nothing had been real. A fact he’d discovered the hard way when it had all come crashing down two days later.

He took a shuddering breath.

Fuck.

Even though this was a carefully planned operation, it brought it all back. Another scam marriage. Another fake bride. He shook his head, the weight of the past dragging him down.

“This must be the shortest engagement in history,” he muttered, as they passed through the gates. The wrought iron mechanism closed softly behind them, while two armed operatives faced the crowd outside to prevent anyone following them in.

Christine would probably resign, he thought and immediately felt guilty about his lack of remorse. Shit, why had he led her on? Why had he let her think there was a chance, when there wasn’t?

Just in case he got lonely. Horny?

He sighed. What kind of person did that?

The limo dropped them at the top of the driveway, outside the house. Just in case anyone was watching through a telephoto lens, he walked around and opened the car door for his bride.

“Welcome home, honey,” he said, earning himself a sharp look. Thorn definitely suited her. Maybe that’s why he got a kick out of baiting her. She was always so closed, so controlled that he found himself deliberately provoking her to see if he could get a reaction. So far she’d refused to rise at any of his remarks, which only made him push harder.

She kept her eyes peeled, surveying their surroundings as if she expected someone with a rocket launcher to jump out of the bushes and take aim. To be fair, he couldn’t rule that out, but considering the thousands of pounds of security he was paying for, it was unlikely.

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