Bad Husband (EBOOK)

Heather sniffed and swiped a finger under each eye as Colin and CeCe drove off in their car.
“So, the master businesswoman known as Heather O’Keith has real human emotions?”
She stiffened, whipping around to glare at Clay Steele, successful businessman, rival entrepreneur, and sexy as fuck male . . . despite the awful porn star name.
“I have plenty of feelings,” she snapped. “Just because I don’t make a practice of showing them in my fucking boardroom doesn’t make me less of a woman.”
Clay’s stare drifted down and then back up. “Anyone who says you’re not a woman has lost their fucking mind.”
Heather froze.
Had he—?
Had the man who’d done nothing but dog her steps in the business world, who made it a point of tormenting her by stealing clients and undercutting bids, had he just complimented her?
How in the . . .?
Then she saw the glassy look in his eyes.
Ah. Drunk.
“You’ve had a few too many,” she said, waving a hand to signal the town car parked at the corner. Of all the things that came along with busting her ass to have a flush bank account, having enough money to afford a personal driver was a perk that she really enjoyed.
“So?” he asked, not quite belligerent but close.
Idiot man. But she’d seen way too many of them in this situation to be the least bit cowed. “I hope you’re not an angry drunk.”
“No.” Both brows came up, waggled. “I’m a horny one.”
Despite herself, she chuckled. “With a porn star name like yours, I’m not surprised.”
“Hey!” he said and followed her when she strode toward her car, the back door now conveniently open. “I’ll have you know, my name is a family one, passed down generation by glorious generation.”
A roll of her eyes as she pushed through the open door, plunking down on the plush leather seat. “Maybe so. But you’re still drunk.”
His expression sobered enough that she stopped short of slamming the metal panel on his head.
Didn’t stop her from wanting to do it, though.
His next words made her regret the thought. “Rough day for me today.”
Dammit. Why did he have to go and show that he had a human side? Heather wanted to loathe him, not have sympathy for the man.
Clay seemed to realize he’d said too much and so he stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He tilted his chin in the direction Colin and CeCe’s car had disappeared. “Who were they?”
“Friends.” No. At this point they were family.
“Ah.” One of his hands exited his pocket and shoved through his hair, leaving the thick brown locks mussed. Not that it detracted from the image. Rather, it made Clay Steele appear slightly more human instead of his typical.
Which was godlike.
Tall, broad in the shoulders, lean in the hips, with chocolate-colored hair and unusually vibrant mocha irises.
He’d been in her mental spank bank for months.
“I’d give a lot to have one of those again.”
His words made her frown in confusion before she realized she’d spoken aloud, though thankfully about CeCe and Colin being more than friends, and not about her tendency to masturbate to the image of Clay bending her over the bed, pinning her against a wall, grabbing her by the ankles and—
“A family?” she asked, blinking the images away.
“Yeah.” A sigh as he turned for the sidewalk. “See you at the next convention, O’Keith.”
“Wait!” Acting on an instinct she didn’t want to examine too closely, Heather put one foot out of the car, reached to snag his wrist, and hauled him to a stop. “Let me at least take you back to your hotel.”
“I’m getting drunk,” he said but allowed her to pull him inside the sedan so her driver could shut the door behind them.
“You’re already drunk,” she said.
He stiffened. “More drunk.”
“Fine,” she said, half-worried he was going to launch himself from the car. She’d never seen Clay like this. Usually he was so cold and uncompromising, impenetrable, even under the toughest of negotiations. He was . . . well, he was typically as Steele-like as his last name decreed.
She wrapped her arm through his to prevent any unplanned exits from the vehicle and gave the driver the name of her favorite bar. “If you really want to drink, let’s do it right.”
And then she’d drop him at his hotel.
Except it didn’t happen that way.
Yes, they hit the bar.
Yes, they drank.
Yes, they got plastered.
But then they woke up . . . or at least, Heather woke up.
Naked.
With a softly snoring Clay Steele passed out next to her in bed.
That wasn’t the worst part.
Because Heather woke up naked with a softly snoring Clay Steele in her bed and she was wearing a giant diamond ring on her left hand.
Still not the worst part.
That came in the form of a slightly crumpled marriage certificate tucked under her right cheek.
And not the one on her face.
She pulled it from beneath her, a cold sweat breaking out over her body, dread in every nerve and cell.
She still wasn’t prepared for the horror she found.
The marriage license had been signed by . . . Heather O’Keith and Clay Steele.
Holy fuck, what had she done?