by Eliza Ellis
The Mail Order Billionaire
Eliza Ellis
Eliza Ellis
Contents
Website
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
THE MAIL ORDER BILLIONAIRE
Eliza Ellis
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. The reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, without the express written consent of the author constitutes a copyright violation.
THE MAIL ORDER BILLIONAIRE
DC BILLIONAIRES 3
Copyright © 2019 Eliza Ellis
Cover Art Designed by Victorine Originals
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
“Dr. Pearson, while I respect the credentials behind your name—I have the same myself—you can’t expect your experiment to be a success.”
Dr. Deanna Pearson smiled stiffly at fellow psychologist and sociologist, Dr. Marissa Allen. She had expected this challenge when Carlie, the host of a popular morning talk and gossip show, called twelve hours in advance to say that she had an extra guest and would Dr. Pearson mind a little conversation. Marissa was well known in her field of romance and reproductive psychology. Although Deanna lauded Marissa’s papers as revolutionary, she had found that her own methods of predicting love and happiness actually resulted in…love and happiness.
“Take a look at your own track record,” Marissa continued. “You have one failed marriage under your belt and a string of—”
“Not a string,” Deanna said with a polite chuckle and shake of her head, even as her chest tightened. Her first marriage was… There were extenuating circumstances. She’d been civil, but she wasn’t going to allow Marissa to mischaracterize her life and thus undermine her credibility as a respectable psychologist in the same field. Not after all she had accomplished and what she’d contributed to the field.
“—unsuccessful relationships. You claim to be able to accurately predict—you’ve made it a science—the romantic outcome of two people who’ve never met! Your model is nothing more than a modern-day mail-order-bride service with questionable statistical data that conveniently can’t be refuted.”
Deanna forced her tight smile a little higher. “If you’d like to conduct your own study, Dr. Allen, then by all means do. Your success in this field is highly recognized, and I, too, respect your letters.” Deanna couldn’t help the drop in sarcasm at the end. “But I resent you calling my business a mail-order-bride service. I bring together people who, on paper, are very well suited—”
“Exactly!” Marissa threw up a finger. “On paper!” She jabbed that same finger at Deanna.
“But they’ve all been successful,” the host interrupted, her own two hands splayed in the direction of both Marissa and Deanna, as though she anticipated having to hold each woman back. “Dr. Allen, you can argue that there isn’t any comparison, but Dr. Pearson’s results can’t be ignored. She’s successfully matched one hundred and ninety-nine couples over the past several years. Zero separations. Zero divorces.” The host smiled in Deanna’s direction. “Hasn’t she earned her title as the ‘DC Love Doctor’?”
She could live without the title. “And might I remind everyone,” Deanna said with a lift of her chin, “that it’s completely scientific. You can predict how humans will behave. Our nature doesn’t change. Love is inevitable, with the right precursors and under optimal conditions.”
“Love follows no rules,” Dr. Allen said emphatically. “You can’t predict where and how it happens. You’re playing God if you think you can control love.”
“And yet, I have,” Deanna said simply. The crowd clapped loudly.
“Then match yourself,” Dr. Allen said flatly.
Deana laughed heartily. “I have no reason to be matched. I’m perfectly comfortable and content with my career and what I’m doing.” She shrugged. Her gaze scanned the audience who appeared tense. “I am Cupid,” she reaffirmed. “Cupid doesn’t need love. Cupid gives love.” She refocused her eyes on her medical opponent. “I see no reason to change the players in the game.”
“Because you can’t match yourself,” Dr. Allen challenged. She leaned forward, her icy blue eyes freezing Deanna in place. “Those who can’t…I think that applies to you.”
“That’s below the belt, Dr. Allen,” Carlie said gravely. “Dr. Pearson seeks to help others. She doesn’t have to fall in love herself if she doesn’t want to. With so many players and losers out there just waiting to waste a good, educated woman’s time, why take the chance?”
Murmurs of agreement and nodding of heads came from the crowd.
“Because she can predict her own success!” Dr. Allen cried. “That’s the whole reason we’re here today, right Carlie? Let her find her own romance. If it really works, then the ultimate proof would be the one woman who flat-out rejects being matched herself.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down her nose at Deanna.
Deanna told herself she wasn’t going to be talked—peer pressured—into trying the experiment on herself. Her numbers spoke well for what she had spent years studying and then even more years working to perfect. She’d even used Marissa’s own data from studies on behavior. And now her mentor was challenging her to do what Deanna had been avoiding since the dissolution of her own marriage.
“Algorithms and data aside, does Dr. Pearson actually believe what she’s hocking?” Marissa’s tone was haughty.
A low sound came from the crowd as a number of them leaned forward, their eyes wide with unspoken expectation. Weren’t they on a respectable talk show? Not something that required bodyguards to hold guests back and DNA tests to clear up confusion? At some point, did the crowd expect her to launch at Marissa for a hair-tugging fight?
Because Deanna itched to stoop that low.
Her entire credibility as a psychologist and mathematician was at stake because one doctor dared to challenge Deanna’s love life. Deanna didn’t want love. Didn’t need love. She had thought she found it, and it had turned out to be a lie. Trusting her heart had proved nearly fatal—literally.
Now she trusted science and found love for other people. They deserved it. Somewhere along the way, she hadn’t, and that’s why she was now alone playing Cupid. However, it had all been a blessing in disguise. She had found her calling as the DC Love Doctor, effectively supplanting her rival across the couch. People wanted to see results, not read pages and pages of data in medical journals. The crowd here and watching at home w
anted to witness actual romance, not work the math behind it. Most of them probably couldn’t even recall anything beyond their high school algebra class. Nothing wrong with that, but it only emboldened Deanna to do what she did best: find love for other people.
She wasn’t included in that group.
Couldn’t be included in that group if she wanted to maintain her medical objectivity.
“I think Dr. Pearson has the numbers to prove her science behind matchmaking and falling in love,” Carlie said with a gentle smile to Deanna. “Right, everyone?” They responded mostly with cheers mixed with a few jeers.
Deanna took a deep breath. “Thank you, Carlie. I know I don’t have to prove anything. Numbers don’t lie.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is why I’m willing to add myself to the numbers.”
The crowd gasped.
“Uh, Dr. Pearson, you don’t really have to—”
“No, Carlie, I think it would be a fun and challenging exercise. One that would obviously not be futile, as I’ve already proven,” she said with a feline smile to Dr. Allen. “Why not?” She added a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders to her cheery voice.
“It would be the ultimate proof,” Carlie agreed with a nod of her head. “By midnight, you should be married!”
Midnight? What? Deanna hadn’t agreed to that.
“That would be an amazing episode for your show, Matched by Midnight.”
Matched by Midnight. Yes, she was one of the guest expert doctors on a reality show that matched strangers for a romantic experiment. This isn’t an experiment. This is my life!
Carlie looked at Dr. Allen. “If she succeeds in matching herself, Dr. Pearson would be the foremost psychologist on love. Don’t you think, Dr. Allen?”
Her expression tightened and she snorted. “If she successfully matches herself.”
“Why wouldn’t she be able to? She’s got the formula.”
Marissa smoothed her graying hair behind one ear. “In all my years studying love and the psychology of reproductive health, I know it takes more than a simple math problem to calculate the probability of a match made in heaven. I still argue, despite the numbers, that it can’t be done. Too many variables that would require a floor-to-ceiling chalkboard to solve that equation. Love has more to do with the heart of the people involved than it does with science. And as a medical professional, I’m willing to admit that.”
The host raised her brows and looked at Deanna. “Dr. Pearson? Your final response.”
Deanna inhaled and exhaled slowly, taking what precious seconds she did have to remain calm and collected. After all, she had just had a mild stroke and offered herself as a guinea pig. At least, that’s what she had heard herself say.
The last impression she wanted to leave in the minds of the viewers was that she was a quack scientist. “I would agree that one would need a massive chalkboard if they were conducting complicated math. But I don’t rely on such antiquated methods to prove my point, Dr. Allen. Respectfully, science is ever-changing, and new ideas are being proven true every day. And in all my years of expertise, I have proven one hundred and ninety-nine times—”
“Soon to be two hundred,” the host interrupted. The crowd cheered and clapped.
Deanna laughed cheerfully and produced a wide grin in acknowledgment of their support. Inwardly, though, she quaked. However, her voice remained steady as she said, “Yes, soon to be two hundred times, that the science of probability has its rightful place in our profession. And I have harnessed it to bring love and happiness to people like you and…me!” She quirked her brows in a final silent challenge to Dr. Allen, who sat with her hands clutched in her lap, the age lines around her mouth deepening with the stiffening of her jaw and the taut pursing of her lips.
“And you’ll be harnessing a lot more money, too, given your success,” Carlie claimed. “And that’s all the time we have today. I’d like to thank my guests, Dr. Allen and Dr. Pearson—soon to be married. Don’t forget to invite us to the wedding.” She chortled. “Tune in next time as we continue our series in love when we talk about the science behind sex and what women can do to emotionally protect themselves.”
The producer gave the signal that they were off the air. Deanna’s shoulders relaxed. It was over. She stood and walked to Dr. Allen, who exited the stage quickly. Deanna turned to the Carlie, who gave her a lopsided smile.
“Don’t worry about her. She’s the old way of thinking. You’re the new. Are you excited? I bet you can’t wait to meet your husband!” She clutched Deanna in a suffocating hug.
No. She definitely could wait.
But she didn’t have that kind of time. By midnight, she had to be married.
Chapter 2
Maxim pinched the bridge of his nose and growled as he listened to his brother on the other end of the line.
“I can hear you, Maxim. You knew the rules when you moved to DC. Don’t act like this is suddenly unexpected.”
Maxim didn’t hide his heavy, disapproving sigh. Yes, he was well aware that when he left his country of Degonia without permission, that the king wouldn’t put up with his rebellion and disobedience for very long. Maxim had relied on his brother’s sympathy for him being a spare heir. And for a couple of years, it had worked. Maxim had the freedom to pursue his passions. Good things always came to an end.
Maxim rolled back in his office chair and slammed his feet on top of his desk, shaking his cell, as it sat on speakerphone. “I didn’t think it would happen this soon, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t do that, Maxim. And how could you put it off any longer? Don’t forget the duty you have to your family and country.”
How could Maxim forget? Duty and honor had been drilled into the brothers since conception. Being the elder, His Royal Highness Novak Tudor Radan Stefan Malenkov ascended to the throne at the unexpected deaths of their parents in a helicopter accident five years before. Since that time, Novak had the arduous task of gaining the public’s respect as their new monarch, although it wasn’t a challenge. Novak had been the dutiful son and heir to the throne. He never got into any trouble, was always diplomatic, and consistently oozed respectability. He rivaled Queen Elizabeth in his staunch display of dignified royalty and preservation of protocol. It had elicited such love from the people.
Maxim was the spare.
Slim chance he would inherit the throne. No chance, really, now that his brother’s wife—Jelena—was expecting their first child. If a boy, that child would sit on the throne, pushing Maxim’s seat further and further down the line. Which was fine by him. He had never wanted that responsibility. The order of his and Novak’s birth hadn’t been an accident.
Except, with the death of their parents, more was being expected of Maxim than he had ever thought possible. In moving to America, he had hoped his brother would forget the arranged marriage his parents had set up between himself and Princess Leonor of Svlinden. And with the money he had earned while here, Maxim had hoped to leverage it for more freedom.
“Did you hear what I said, brother?” Maxim asked in a bored voice. “I have made the list of world’s richest men.”
“Yes, I heard. You’ve surpassed a billion dollars. Congratulations. Would you like me to throw a party for you?”
“You should,” Maxim said with bite. “Your country is losing—”
“Our country, brother. Don’t forget where you come from.”
Maxim balled his hands into fists. “Our country,” he ground out, “is on the brink of financial ruin. While you’ve been worried about my relationship status, I’ve been making money that could actually help. Have you read the plans I sent you for the northern farms? I believe—”
“Marrying Leonor doesn’t detract from that goal. Her father has agreed to deliver contracts that would provide much needed funding.”
This was also true, although he questioned the willingness of Velin to give Degonia a thing. Hadn’t he lost his own throne when the people revolted? Velin and
Leonor were royals in title only.
Maxim’s way didn’t involve having to promise a lifetime of fidelity and servitude.
It wasn’t as if he and Leonor didn’t have anything in common. They were both considered the best-looking royals of their respective countries. He practically worshipped the gym and what it had done for his body, and Leonor was graced with a face and figure that could satisfy any man’s desire. They each had a healthy thirst for money and all the luxuries it could provide.
Although why she would agree to marry him eluded Maxim. He was considered a poor royal. Marrying her would aid in making his country solvent again. Unfortunately, Novak and Maxim’s parents hadn’t chosen Novak’s bride wisely, and her birth country had deposed the monarchy shortly after their marriage.
Now it was up to the spare to save the country.
Ugh. He hated responsibility, as did Leonor. On paper, they were well matched. They even had dinner not too long ago when she was on an official visit to the city. She hadn’t mentioned marriage—to her credit—but the expectation hung in the air between them. Maybe she had pushed for Maxim’s return and that’s why his brother was so desperate to have Maxim return after a couple of years.
“There is nothing you can say against Leonor,” Novak challenged. “She is everything you’d want in a spouse. Money, beauty, and she’d probably turn a blind eye to your…activities.”
