The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: Enemies to Lovers Standalone Romance (Big Bad Billionaires Book 0)

by L. Steele

"If the Murphy's hadn't adopted me I'd never have come here, never have met you or had this life. I want to give back as much as I can," I say.

  "And we will," Jace agrees. "And the app," he reminds me. "We need to get that baby launched before this one arrives."

  "Yeah," I breathe out the sound.

  Sheer joy grips me. I'm full inside, and not only with the child.

  It's more, a lot more. A feeling of finding my space. With this person who is not perfect, but who has been through his own ups and downs and came out on the other side stronger. Deeper. More mature and more open.

  That feeling of openness I had sensed when he'd walked into that room at the Four Seasons hotel has only grown since. It's as if once he started to give, he can't hold back.

  Jace is making up for time lost, for everything he didn't have. For the feeling of belonging he so missed when he was a child.

  Jace hadn't accepted my loan. He had plain refused to even consider it, until I had told him my idea of an app that I wanted his company to launch, and that I wanted us to be partners in it.

  It's an app that will help match couples with adoption agencies. We'd also launched a grant. For couples who couldn’t afford the adoption process, half the cost would be borne by our new company.

  This would allow more children to find homes.

  My parents would have wholly approved of it. Both sets of them.

  After much urging, Jace had finally called Darren to tell him we were back together. And to announce the impending birth of our child. Darren had been overjoyed. He'd offered the next installment of his inheritance right then.

  Jace had accepted, and funneled the money into a charity we'd set up. Anja's Gift now helps children in need around the world.

  "You don't mind that my inheritance will not be there for our children?" He looks at me, the green flaring as I know it does when he's in the grip of intense emotion. Like now.

  Jace is clear he intends to make it on his own, without his father's help, a decision that had earned him his father's respect. Now Darren calls us every week. Getting to know us, sharing the journey we are on in creating our own family.

  "It helps so many more," I say. "You made the right choice." I pause to revel in our love, then speak again. "We're going to be late to meet your friends," I remind Jace.

  I've already met Karina, Damian and Arpad. And Eric of course is part of our little family.

  My mind skips across what needs to be done for the day, only to stutter, when Jace bites the side of my throat.

  "They can wait," he growls.

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  Three months later

  When you lose everything, only to get it back a second time, you'll never take anything in life for granted again.

  I fling open the window of the house Jace and I bought a week ago and lean out as far as I can, breathing in the crisp morning air. It's autumn, the colors across the valley reflecting amber and gold.

  A dense wave of heat rolls over me and I sense him even before he slides his arm around me. Pulling me close, Jace places his hand protectively over my belly.

  Bending, he lifts the hair away from my neck, rubbing his cheek against the delicate skin.

  The familiar tug in my belly ... this time joined by a rolling sensation. Tiny waves travel out from my belly button, almost like little bubbles popping inside.

  I stiffen, then whisper. "Did you feel that?"

  When he grows still, I place my hand over his and we wait, both of us focused on that tiny space inside of me, where life sprouts anew.

  Another flutter followed by a tiny punch and I gasp, caught by surprise. The life inside me knows us, wants to be part of our little circle.

  I laugh this time, and then gasp when she kicks me as if warning me I only have a few months more before she joins us and takes over our life.

  "We're still going ahead with the adoption, aren't we?" I ask, and sense him nod above me. We'd decided to adopt a child the very day I'd found out I was pregnant. I intend to adopt many more. Create a home filled with laughter and love, the way my adoptive parents had for me.

  "If the Murphy’s hadn't adopted me I'd never have come here, never have met you or had this life. I want to give back as much as I can," I say.

  "And we will," Jace agrees. "And the app," he reminds me. "We need to get that baby launched before this one arrives."

  "Yeah," I breathe out the sound.

  Sheer joy grips me. I'm full inside, and not only with the child.

  It's more, a lot more. A feeling of finding my space. With this person who is not perfect, but who has been through his own ups and downs and came out on the other side stronger. Deeper. More mature and more open.

  That feeling of openness I had sensed when he'd walked into that room at the Four Seasons hotel has only grown since. It's as if once he started to give, he can't hold back.

  Jace is making up for time lost, for everything he didn't have. For the feeling of belonging he so missed when he was a child.

  Jace hadn't accepted my loan. He had plain refused to even consider it, until I had told him my idea of an app that I wanted his company to launch, and that I wanted us to be partners in it.

  It's an app that will help match couples with adoption agencies. We'd also launched a grant. For couples who couldn’t afford the adoption process, half the cost would be borne by our new company.

  This would allow more children to find homes.

  My parents would have wholly approved of it. Both sets of them.

  After much urging, Jace had finally called Darren to tell him we were back together. And to announce the impending birth of our child. Darren had been overjoyed. He'd offered the next installment of his inheritance right then.

  Jace had accepted, and funneled the money into a charity we'd set up. Anja's Gift now helps children in need around the world.

  "You don't mind that my inheritance will not be there for our children?" He looks at me, the green flaring as I know it does when he's in the grip of intense emotion. Like now.

  Jace is clear he intends to make it on his own, without his father's help, a decision that had earned him his father's respect. Now Darren calls us every week. Getting to know us, sharing the journey we are on in creating our own family.

  "It helps so many more," I say. "You made the right choice." I pause to revel in our love, then speak again. "We're going to be late to meet your friends," I remind Jace.

  I've already met Karina, Damian and Arpad. And Eric of course is part of our little family.

  My mind skips across what needs to be done for the day, only to stutter, when Jace bites the side of my throat.

  "They can wait," he growls.

  The series continues with Sinclair and Summer’s story. Want to find out how a douche bag billionaire alphahole is brought to his knees? Click here

  What happens when a Mafia King has his plans spoiled by a sassy little spitfire who takes over his life in an arranged marriage gone completely wrong. Read this Dark Mafia Billionaire Romance to find out. Click HERE

  Read an excerpt from Sinclair and Summer's story...

  Summer

  "Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."

  "Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.

  "Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.

  "Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"

  "It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head, "You have to admit that when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"

  "Why?" I wave my hand in the air, "Because they hate each other?"

  "Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I—"

  "Proposed to?" I huff.

  His face lights up. "You get it now?"

  Yeah. No. A headache begins to pound at my templ
es. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.

  I toss back the drink, and his eyebrows rise.

  "What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely feel the alcohol, besides its free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"

  "Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."

  "Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more."

  A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.

  One has to do what one has to… when everything else in the world is going to shit.

  A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes, the band around my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?

  The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.

  "Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.

  My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes." I square my shoulders.

  "No. She’s had enough."

  "What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.

  Indigo eyes bore into me.

  Fathomless, deep like the ocean. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths swoops over me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with. I gulp.

  "Like what you see?"

  I flush, raise my gaze to his face.

  Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes across his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his lips. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Just how I hate them. The corner of his mouth curls. Asshole.

  Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass and he holds it up and out of my reach.

  "Give me that."

  He shakes his head.

  "That’s my drink."

  "Not anymore." He hands my glass over to the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."

  I splutter, then reach for my drink. The barstool tips, in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.

  What the actual hell?

  I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!

  The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scrabble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.

  "Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.

  "You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"

  "Hmph."

  I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.

  Look away, look away. I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?

  He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn't do that, no way.

  A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.

  His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's the only discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core, across my melting lower lips... He'd mark my inner thigh, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! Goosebumps rise on my skin.

  He is sex on a stick, no doubt about it.

  No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.

  "Arrogant wanker."

  "I’ll take that on advisement."

  "You’re a jerk, you know that?"

  He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Jesus, clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his ass is uncomfortable. I chuckle.

  He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.

  "Fuck you." Blood rushes to my cheeks.

  "Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge. Heat curls low in my belly.

  Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.

  He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.

  While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.

  "Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers, from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet. "—to redeem yourself…"

  "You have me there."

  He tosses back the last of his drink, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of dull steel around his wrist catches my attention. Huh? He wears a Casio watch? That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than a 1000% percent. Weird. I reach up and he straightens.

  I lurch back.

  "Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.

  A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.

  I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.

  Sin

  My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.

  What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked over her.

  A huffing sound fills my ear.

  I turn to find Max, my dog, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he pulls back his ears.

  All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the empathetic sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.

  Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me. Huh? He hates women, but not her, apparently.

  I straighten and my nose grazes hers.

  My arms are on either side of her torso. Her breasts rise and fall. Nipples pebbled to attention against the fabric that stretches across her chest. My mouth waters. I glance up, lock my gaze with hers and a squeak escapes her lips.

  Pink hair flows around her face. Pink? Whoever colored their hair that color past the age of eighteen?

  I stare at her face. How old is she? Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth—luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters. What the hell?

  She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold spark in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You're demonstrating the plank position?"

  "Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."

  She gulps and her pupils dilate. Ah, so she feels it, too?

  I drop my head toward her, closer, closer.

  Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle, my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink and are those shoulder pads she has on?

  Her eyelids flutter down again. She tilts her chin up.

  I push up and off of her.

  "That… Sparkles, is an emphatic ‘no thank you’ to whatever you
are offering."

  Her eyelids spring open and pink stains her cheeks. Adorable. Such a range of emotions across those gorgeous features in just a few seconds? What else is hidden under that exquisite exterior of hers?

  She scrambles up, hair swirling around her, eyes blazing.

  Ah! The little bird is trying to spread her wings? My dick twitches. My groin hardens, Why does her anger turn me on so, huh?

  She steps forward, thrusts a finger in my chest.

  My heart begins to thud.

  She peers up from under those hooded eyelashes. "Wake up and taste the wasabi, asshole."

  "What does that even mean?"

  She makes a sound deep in her throat. My dick twitches. My pulse speeds up.

  She pivots, grabs a half full beer mug sitting on the bar counter.

  I growl, "Oh no, you don’t."

  She turns, swings it at me. The smell of alcohol envelops the space.

  I stare down at the beer-splattered shirt, the lapels of my camel colored jacket deepening to a dull brown. Anger squeezes my guts.

  I fist my fingers at my side, broaden my stance.

  She snickers.

  I tip my chin up. "You're going to regret that."

  The smile fades from her face. "Umm." She places the now empty mug on the bar, carefully, right back in the wet circle made by the mug when it had sat there earlier.

  I take a step forward and she skitters back. "It’s only clothes." She gulps, "They'll wash."

  I glare at her and she swallows, wiggles her fingers in the air, "I should have known a stick-in-the-mud like you wouldn’t have a sense of humor?"

  I thrust out my jaw, "That’s a ten-thousand-pound suit you destroyed."

  She blanches, then straightens her shoulders, "Must have been some hot date you were trying to impress, huh?"

  "Actually," I flick some of the offending liquid from my lapels, "It was you I was after."

  "Me?" She frowns.

  "We need to speak."

  She glances toward the bartender who's on the other side of the bar. "I don’t know you." She chews on her lower lip, biting off some of the hot pink. How would she look, with that pouty mouth fastened around my cock?

  The blood rushes to my groin so quickly that my head spins. My pulse rate ratchets up. Focus, focus on the task you came here for.