His San Diego Sweetheart. Yahrah St. John
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business and hadn’t been able to get out to the beach until the late morning. Then, he’d had to cut his surfing time in half because of the Prescott George meeting. He needed to breathe in some fresh, salty ocean air. Hopping into his Ferrari, Vaughn headed back to his second home, the beach.
* * *
Miranda Jensen sucked in several deep breaths. She was glad the surf god who had majestically surfaced from the Pacific Ocean wearing a snug-fitting wet suit was gone. She colored when she thought about how she’d stared so openly at the magnificent specimen of a man. Unabashedly, she’d watched him glide the zipper of his wet suit down as he’d shaken off the excess water. He had a sculpted torso which had revealed hard, defining muscles underneath and eight, yes, eight-pack abs that were impossible to ignore.
The man was ripped!
His chest had been surprisingly smooth and hair-free and Miranda would have loved to flick her tongue across the brown discs of his nipples.
Sweet Jesus!
What was wrong with her?
She’d struggled to gulp in air as he’d walked straight toward her, never taking his eyes off her. At first, she’d thought he was going to make a pass at her. There was obvious interest lurking in those penetrating dark depths. He’d seen her giving him the eye, but instead of talking to her, he’d kept moving, leaving Miranda to wonder if it was because of her man curse. She was still hypersensitive when it came to men these days. How could she not be? She had a bad track record when it came to the opposite sex and the broken heart to prove it.
Since her breakup with Jake, whom she’d thought was the love of her life, Miranda had had a series of unsuccessful relationships. Jake had unceremoniously kicked her to the curb in a favor of a promising career in Japan with a pretty something coworker he’d met abroad. Her rebound guy, Anthony, was a womanizer and notorious cheat. She’d caught him in bed with one of her supposed friends. The last joker, Chris, she’d dated had only been after her money, ingratiating himself into her family in the hopes he’d hit the jackpot. Thankfully, she’d gotten hip to his real agenda before she’d married him; otherwise it would have been a disaster of epic proportions.
And now all Miranda could hear was the sound of a clock ticking in her head.
No, it wasn’t her biological clock.
It was the timer on her fortune, which was about to slip through her fingers if she couldn’t find a groom. She had her grandfather to thank for putting her in the predicament she was in. He’d passed away a couple of months ago and as a condition of his will, he required that his only grandchild, Miranda, marry by the age of thirty or forfeit her inheritance altogether. If she didn’t marry, the huge sum of money that was rightfully hers would go to one of her grandfather’s charities and forever vanquish Miranda’s dream of opening her own upscale bed-and-breakfast by the ocean. Or at least postpone it.
Fury boiled inside Miranda’s veins.
She valued her independence, but perversely she needed to be tied to a man in order to achieve her personal goals.
But this time love would have nothing to do with it.
Miranda didn’t know if she’d been trying too hard to find Mr. Right. Or whether she was just one of those people who were destined to be alone. Nevertheless, the rejections and lies of her former lovers had hardened her heart. She’d vowed that no man would ever hurt her again. If they were after her money, so be it.
But it would be on her terms.
She’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a hotel administrator in Chicago to go husband shopping. She was hoping to find a man and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse: a marriage of convenience with a huge cash payday.
After her Adonis had come out of the sea, Miranda had left the beach and gone to a nearby café for a cool beverage. It was casually chic and she hoped offered a good drink. It wasn’t like she’d been dressed for the beach anyway. Her lace sheath dress was definitely not beach attire and as for her pumps, she was still trying to get the sand out of them.
“Can I get you another drink?” the bartender inquired. “It’s happy hour now and cocktails are half priced.” When she didn’t answer quickly, the bartender walked away to help another customer.
Miranda glanced down at the pomegranate martini she’d been nursing since she arrived. She’d only been in San Diego for twenty-four hours. Her best friend, Sasha Charles, had picked her up from the airport last night and deposited her at her hotel. Sasha had offered Miranda to stay at her place, but Miranda had been adamant that she didn’t want to put her friend out. That wasn’t the real reason. She didn’t want to share her real plans with Sasha because she knew Sasha wouldn’t approve. And so she’d opted to stay at a hotel instead. It was an elegantly appointed hotel that would suffice for what she hoped was a short stay.
Miranda was hoping that she could find Mr. Right quickly enough that she would meet the one-month deadline looming over her head, before her inheritance was given away. Her parents, Tucker and Leigh, were just as upset as she was by her grandfather’s stipulation. She’d been hoping to find a loophole, but her attorneys had been unsuccessful. And now desperate times called for desperate measures.
She was just about to order another martini when the surf god from this morning came strolling into the café. He sat down at the far end of the bar away from her and talked to the bartender. Given the easy rapport they shared, they must know each other.
She allowed herself a few minutes to adjust to seeing him fully dressed. But this time, he was no less potent than he’d been on the beach earlier. In fact, she’d say he was more so. Her devastatingly sexy stranger had closely cropped black hair, an angular face that held bushy eyebrows and facial hair that was more than a five-o’clock shadow, but not a full beard, and the dreamiest eyes she’d ever seen. He was dressed in distressed jeans that clung to a gloriously tight behind, from what Miranda recalled, and a graphic T-shirt that hugged his defined biceps. Miranda couldn’t forget how delectable his body had looked earlier and licked her lips in remembrance.
Why was she having such a reaction to this man?
He clearly didn’t have a nine-to-five job. Why else would he have been at the beach when most people were at work? And here he was again, which told her that he could be exactly the sort of man who could be compelled by the promise of a hefty cash payout.
Decision made, she slid off the bar stool with as much modesty as she could in a dress, grasped her purse dangling from the stool and moved toward her mysterious stranger. What was the worst he could do? Brush her off? He’d done that earlier and she was no worse for the wear.
“Ahem.” Miranda coughed loudly, bringing her right hand to her mouth.
He glanced up from his conversation, but didn’t make any effort to speak. Instead his dark eyes gleamed like glassy volcanic rock as he boldly raked her from the top of her hair to her now aching feet. Pumps were definitely not made for all the walking she’d done today. “Are you done with your appraisal?” Miranda inquired. Flirting could work to her benefit if it garnered his interest. Though he would soon find out she had an agenda.
“Nearly.” He continued to scan her critically for several more moments before he beamed his approval and looked her dead in the eye.
“And?”
A perplexed look crossed his features. “And what?”
“Do you like what you see?” Miranda inquired.
“Yes. Yes, I do very much.”
Miranda’s insides jangled with excitement as she slid onto the bar stool beside him. The bartender came to her immediately. “Have you decided if you’d like another?”
“Actually, I’d like something stronger.” She turned to her companion. “What would you recommend?”
He grinned a delicious, stomach-curling smile. “Max, get her a bourbon, same as me.” He swiveled around to face her. “It’s a bit