One Night Stand Bride. Kat CantrellЧитать онлайн книгу.

       One

      The Las Vegas tourism department needed to change their slogan because what happened in Vegas did not stay there. In fact, what had happened in Vegas followed Hendrix Harris home to North Carolina and landed above the fold on every media outlet known to man.

      He wanted his money refunded, a spell to wipe the memories of an entire city and an aspirin.

      Though even he had to admit the photographer had perfectly captured the faces of Hendrix and Rosalind Carpenter. The picture was erotic without being pornographic—a trick and a half since it was abundantly clear they were both buck naked, yet somehow, all the naughty bits were strategically covered. A miracle that had allowed the picture to be print-worthy. It was a one-in-a-million shot. You could even see the steam rising from the hot tub.

      And thanks to that photographer being in the right place at the wrong time, Hendrix’s luck had run out.

      He’d fully expected his mother to have a heart attack when she saw her son naked with the daughter of the wealthiest man in North Carolina. Especially since Hendrix’s mother had warned him to keep his clothes on once she launched her gubernatorial campaign.

      Joke was on Hendrix. No heart attacks. Instead, his mother was thrilled. Thrilled that he’d gotten chummy with Paul Carpenter’s daughter. So thrilled that somehow she’d gotten Hendrix to agree that marrying Rosalind would fix everything.

      Really, this whole scandal was his fault, and it was on him to make amends, or so he’d been told. The Carpenter family had old money and lots of influence, which provided a nice balance to the Harris new money.

      Grumbling in his head because he loved and respected his mother too much to do it out loud, Hendrix threw himself into the task of figuring out how to contact Roz. Their naked Vegas romp had been most definitely of the one-night stand variety. Now he would have to convince her that she loved his mother’s plan.

      Hendrix didn’t hate the idea of marriage, per se, not when it solved more than one problem. So it was now his goal to make sure a big fat yes was Roz’s response to the question Will you marry me?

      The only problem being that he hadn’t actually spoken to her since that night and they’d expressly agreed they wouldn’t see each other again. Minor detail. When he put his mind to something, rare was the obstacle that didn’t get the hell out of his way.

      Luck crept back onto his side. Roz hadn’t blocked all the web crawlers that posted her address to one of those seamy “find anyone for a price” sites. Hendrix had no qualms about throwing money at this problem.

      Hendrix drove himself to the building Rosalind Carpenter lived in on Fayetteville Street instead of taking a car. Arriving with fanfare before he’d gotten this done didn’t fit his idea of a good plan. After she said yes, of course there’d be lots of sanctioned pictures of the happy couple. And they’d be dressed.

      His mother hadn’t properly appreciated just how hard her son had worked to get his abs to look so centerfold-worthy. It was a shame that such a great shot of what had been a truly spectacular night with the hottest woman he’d ever met had done so much damage to Ms. Harris’s family values campaign.

      He charmed his way past the security desk because everyone liked him instantly, a fact of life he traded on frequently. Then he waited patiently until someone with the right access to Roz’s floor who was also willing to listen to his