Billionaires & Babies: The Complete Series

by Leslie North

  “So picture this. Picture me.” He sent the ten executives his best dazzling grin. The kind they needed for ratings. The one that Donovan knew made women, which accounted for half of the room, shake in their boots.

  He’d spent the last eight minutes going over his proposal. Now he needed to drive it home.

  “The most eligible bachelor of the gaming industry.” His gaze swept over the brunettes near the front, who had been frowning for most of his proposal. He zeroed in on the golden blonde at the back. She’d caught his eye since the second he entered the room. He amped up the smile.

  “And I need a wife,” he went on. “I needed a wife yesterday. I have no aversion to creating the sort of high jinks you need for ratings. I’m okay with nudity, even.” A titter went through the room. “And I clearly have zero problem being in front of an audience whose yea or nay could change the course of my future.” He held his hands out from his sides, lifting a brow. “So what do we say? Can we marry off this incredibly handsome gaming CEO for ratings or what?”

  Donovan stole a glance at his phone, which had just illuminated with a message. The clock showed he’d hit his ten-minute pitch timing perfectly. Now came the feedback.

  Seats creaked as some executives leaned back and adjusted their position. Donovan had come up with this idea a few weeks ago in response to the bet launched between him and his friend Nick, after their best buddy Brian got hitched. Whoever found a wife first would win a cool million dollars. Donovan didn’t need the money—not by a long shot—but he wanted to win.

  He and his buds had always seen competitiveness as akin to godliness. He who competes best—and hardest—wins. And what harder bet was there than marriage?

  Donovan didn’t care about the happily-ever-after. He just wanted the prestige. And almost as much, he wanted the face time for his company. Being the star on a reality TV show meant automatic publicity for his company, Fitz Gaming. They were positioning themselves to take on the big names in the first-person role-playing games, with a hugely secret and potentially game-changing project in the works. This reality show couldn’t have been more perfectly timed.

  But time was running out. It needed to get underway now if he was to have any hope of the timelines coordinating for both the bet and the launch of his company’s new project. Nick had sent one of his own developers to hone a matchmaking app, like setting a bloodhound on a fugitive.

  If Donovan wanted to win, he needed to put a ring on it first.

  He just needed one willing finger. Preferably with looks and brains to match.

  But even that was negotiable.

  “Your idea is very compelling,” one of the top-ranking producers purred, her black glasses sitting low on her nose. She’d been watching Donovan through slits, as though carefully ripping apart every word he said. “And this area of television is almost always highly watched.”

  “But it needs to be done well,” another producer butted in, holding up a finger. “If it’s not done well, it doesn’t matter how many muscles the guy has. We saw that with Rock of Love. Donovan doesn’t want to be another Kid Rock.”

  “There’s no way in hell he’d be another Kid Rock,” another producer countered. “But there’s no way in hell I’d take this project.”

  A lively discussion erupted, and Donovan tried to keep tabs on who said what. It was hard to follow over the hullabaloo. The producers didn’t agree—that much was certain. For every loud voice in favor, there was an equally loud voice with compelling reasons why not. Donovan didn’t let the smile or his straight back falter.

  Donovan’s eyes kept flitting to that honey blonde at the end corner of the table. She’d been mostly silent, conferring quietly with those immediately around her, her silky-looking tresses pulled into a loose topknot. She looked every inch the casual California producer, but there was something else about her. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  She was deep in conversation with a producer at her side. The honey blonde said heatedly, “No, but it’s worth it.”

  The producer at her side said, “But you’re junior.”

  All eyes turned to the two of them. Honey Blonde seemed startled that attention had turned their way.

  “Anything to add from down there?” the slit-eyed producer asked.

  “Ian and I were discussing the viability of this show in the current market,” the prettiest lady in the room said. A grin tugged at his lips as she spoke. “I think this is a gold mine. And an extremely strong project.”

  “But Melissa,” the slit-eyed producer at the front of the table said. “Ian is right. You’re junior. You’ve never headed a project like this before.”

  “I can do it,” Melissa said, pushing up her glasses. Big, brown eyes locked on Donovan, which made his stomach clench with anticipation. Please let this be the woman I get to work with.

  “I don’t have time on my schedule,” a producer across the table from her said, “but this project should get the green light. I’ll oversee Melissa’s work if that’s all it takes.”

  Another murmur erupted. The raven-haired production lead at the front of the table sat back, steepling her fingers. “I do think this project deserves the green light.”

  Donovan pumped his fist internally.

  “But I’m not convinced we have the staff for it.”

  Melissa leaned forward, commanding the attention of the table with an assurance greater than her status should imbue. “I can do this. And more than that, I want to do this. It’s exactly the type of entertainment I liked to be involved in.”

  “I want Melissa,” Donovan blurted, pointing at her. And maybe he did want her—in more than one way. A pleased smile crossed her face, and something warm passed between them. Something that promised a hell of a good time. “That’s the sort of enthusiasm I want for this show. Because yes, I know this is your company’s decision, but I also have certain objectives. Certain standards, let’s say. I want someone totally invested in this project.”

  “That is absolutely me,” Melissa said, nodding. “And if any of you are concerned about my experience, trust Frank’s.” She pointed at Frank across the table, who nodded his agreement. “He won’t need to supervise much, though. I’m more than confident I will bring this show from greenlight to Emmy.”

  “I’ve seen her in action plenty of times,” Frank said. “She basically saved our asses in Vegas during the filming of You Against the House. She’s got this.”

  Donovan couldn’t stop the pleased grin. This was as good a yes as he needed. As far as he was concerned, this project was happening.

  “So this sounds like a go then.”

  The slit-eyed producer at the front sighed, shrugging. “Let’s see it through.”

  “Great.” Donovan shut his folder of notes and zeroed in on Melissa. “Melissa, may we speak a moment?” The rest of the producers stood, milling around, and more chatter erupted.

  She nodded and stood, adjusting her loose-fitting blouse. He couldn’t rip his gaze from her as she came his way. Delicate peep-toe shoes, skintight jeans, a style that screamed cute without much effort. No thousand-dollar nails, no hair that she refused to allow out of place lest a camera swing her way. She tossed him a bright smile as she came up, hand extended.

  “So we can formally introduce ourselves,” she said, her small hand fitting easily inside his. “I’m Melissa Hampton. Junior producer at Perspective Studios.”

  “I’m Donovan Fitz. CEO of Fitz Gaming. And soon to be your newest plaything.”

  Melissa laughed, and a blush stained her fair neck. He’d made her blush within the first minute. Good work.

  “I want you to come over tonight,” Donovan said. “To my house, so you can get the lay of the land and we can start brainstorming what this show will truly look like. Does seven sound okay?”

  Melissa blinked, hooking her thumbs on her belt loops. “Okay.”

  “I’ll have dinner there, so you don’t need to eat beforehand. Any dietary restrictions?”<
br />
  She shook her head no, looking a little dazed. Donovan pulled out his phone, and they exchanged numbers.

  “I’ll text you my address later. Don’t be late.” He sent her a wink, though it was definitely not standard protocol for business meetings.

  Something about Melissa activated his flirt drive. Not that it took much to be activated. But he normally didn’t mix work and pleasure.

  This, however, would prove to be something different entirely. This was inherently a combination of work and pleasure. And if that was the case, he might as well throw the rulebook out and just see where he ended up.

  If all went well, it would end in marriage.

  But in the meantime? He drank up Melissa’s figure from behind as she turned to collect her things.

  In the meantime, this could be a lot of fun.

  2

  Melissa navigated to Donovan’s mansion carefully. Driving slower than she ever had in her life. Double and triple checking street names and GPS instructions.

  She wouldn’t be late because of it—she allowed herself plenty of time to get there. She just needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

  Because all signs were pointing to a fever sweat at this point. That, or some sort of Inception-like reality where she achieved all of her career goals in one fell swoop just from asserting herself in her first-ever executive’s meeting that she’d only attended on accident.

  The whole day still felt like something she’d dreamed about, rather than lived. Convincing her hard-assed senior executive producer to take a chance on her. On this project of all things, with a man who could melt her panties with only one glance. He’d looked at her approximately ten times over the course of that meeting. Her panties were toast.

  She groaned when she pulled up to the last house on the street. Mansion through and through. She’d been in the television business long enough to see the richest millionaires on the West Coast, but never an actual billionaire like Donovan. She didn’t understand why people like him wanted more limelight. He couldn’t actually want a wife. These shows were never about what they purported to be. Curiosity swarmed her, but as she pulled onto his red-brick cul-de-sac, parking in front of a gleaming black garage door, she realized she needed some ground rules. For herself.

  Because his was new territory she waded in. And she could lose control—fast.

  Something about Donovan promised to be wild. His looks alone were enough to make her consider diving into the deep end. So she needed to be clear. This show was the priority—making it a blockbuster and proving to her senior colleagues that she had it in her. That she was capable of popular, high-quality television.

  The goal was to make it to executive producer by the end of the year. And Donovan could be her ticket to success.

  As she shut her car door, the front door swung open, and Donovan beckoned to her from the doorway. He’d changed from their meeting earlier that day. Instead of perfectly pressed black slacks and a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves, he had on black workout pants and a muscle tee. Biceps mounded as he waved his arm, snagging her attention.

  Why had he worn a muscle tee? She forced a smile as she stumbled up to his door, suddenly self-conscious. Not only had she agreed to meet a billionaire for dinner at his estate, he was a billionaire who looked like this. Ripped and bronzed. Dark chestnut hair, blue eyes that arrowed right through her.

  She’d fall all over herself if her career didn’t depend on her staying cool and collected.

  “You made it,” Donovan said, gesturing for her to come in. She stepped into a small foyer. An ostentatious chandelier hung above their heads, glittering and complex. Typical mansion things, she supposed. “Let’s start with a tour.”

  “Absolutely. I’m ready to get to work,” she said, tilting her head as she looked around, unearthing a notebook from her purse. “I can already tell your house is going to be the perfect set.”

  “Most parts of it,” he said, urging her to follow him down the hall. “I’m planning on limiting filming to only half,” he said over his shoulder. “The socially acceptable half.”

  “That sounds intriguing. The socially unacceptable half is what interests me more, I think.”

  Donovan sent her a heart-stopping grin over his shoulder as he led her into a bright, airy kitchen. The walls were painted in alternating shades of lemon yellow and mandarin orange. Spotless, gleaming pots and pans hung from hooks centered around a kitchen island that she could have lain on, sprawled out, and still not come close to the edges.

  “Gorgeous,” she murmured, unable to stop herself from glancing at him, too, while she scribbled a few notes about the layout. The scent of garlic hung in the air, and something bright, like lemon. “What’s cooking?”

  “That’s our dinner. For after the tour.”

  She tapped her pen against her lips, belly rumbling with anticipation. This man was already equal parts business shark and thoughtful host. “You’re okay with the nighttime cameras and all that for filming?”

  “Sure. Just as long as it’s in the approved rooms.”

  “Right. The socially acceptable nighttime shenanigans is all we’re going to air, don’t worry.”

  Donovan snorted, strutting her way. Masculinity rolled off him, that heartbreaker smile pinning her to her spot. She swallowed, mouth dry.

  “I’ll show you the rest of the floor plan. Then we’ll get to the better half of the house.”

  Donovan took her through a sitting room, formal dining room, broom closets, fully decked-out basement, and three guest rooms upstairs. Once he shut the door of the third guest room, he said, “Ready for the secret stuff?”

  “Obviously.”

  He led her down the hallway, passing the large, opulent staircase that twisted from the first to the second floor. A set of double doors waited at the end of the hall.

  “This is the master bedroom,” he said, pushing the walnut doors open. “I’ll stay in a different room for filming. I just can’t have my sanctuary invaded.”

  Just as she was about to ask why, he led her inside. The room itself was bigger than most studio apartments. They stepped into a sitting room of sorts, with dark, flat screens lining the wall. Clothes were draped over chairs; the dress shoes he’d worn earlier that day lay haphazardly by the doors. A small cabinet of gaming controllers hung open. There had to be at least ten in there. Expensive-looking speakers lined the televisions, and very puffy, swank gaming chairs looked toward the dark televisions.

  “Wow.” She pocketed the notebook. This was off the record, for all intents and purposes. “Let me guess. As a gamer guy, you sleep inside one of these TVs?”

  A bright laugh escaped him. “You’re good. I can already tell we’ll have fun.” Something hot zipped through her, and she followed him through a curtain made of silky strips hanging from a doorframe.

  “I’d probably sleep inside one of my games if I could,” he admitted. “But this is my real room.”

  A dark zen oasis greeted her, everything in blacks and deep, swimming grays and creamy silver. This part, at least, was immaculate. Not even a dresser graced the inner sanctuary. It was monkish, but in a rich way.

  “Wow.” She clicked her tongue. “This feels kinda sacred. Should I take my shoes off? Or maybe leave an offering of some sort?”

  His gaze darkened. “All who enter are required to leave blood behind.” Panic spread, but he cracked a grin a second later. “Come on, I’m not that crazy. But that’s sort of a good idea for this project I’m working on…” Donovan swished back through the curtain, and she followed, watching as he grabbed a notebook and jotted something down. “Okay. Moving along.”

  There was one more room of note that the camera crew would not be allowed to enter, and it sprawled more like an art gallery than a room, tucked into the third floor of the house. Shiny wood floors stretched from one end to the other, massive rugs of varying colors and styles throughout.

  And on the walls, nearly every square inch was covered
by enormous flat-screen TVs.

  “Holy crap,” Melissa said, trying but failing to count how many televisions were in here. Not to mention how much all of this must have cost.

  “My game room,” he said with a sexy smirk. He gestured to one of the low couches in the center. At least ten couches and even more overstuffed gaming chairs filled the center of the room, facing outward toward the corresponding screens. “It’s kind of epic. And exactly what I always wanted as a kid.”

  “I bet there are some raging gamer parties in here.” She jerked her head toward the bar at the far end of the room. “You probably hire bartenders, too, huh?”

  “Less than you’d think. When we game up here, it’s serious stuff.” About what she expected from the CEO of a gaming behemoth. He relaxed into the couch, a contented sigh escaping him. His long frame was damn near perfect. Expensive sneakers topped off his casual gym look. Which reminded her…

  “So no exercise room?”

  “Actually, yes.” He snapped his fingers. “Forgot about that. I have a…well…out building, I guess. But it’s a workout room. Sort of a detached garage. Also a party room in there. For the nights when my guests need to keep going but I need a good night’s sleep.”

  “This is sounding more and more like a winning show,” she cracked, tugging out her notebook again. And it was true. This guy’s lifestyle, his house, his wealth, his reach—it almost made her job too easy. “As long as you provide the drama and plenty of sexy high jinks, I think this show will rocket to the top.”

  “Sexy high jinks.” He sent her a devilish smile. “That’s my middle name.”

  Heat flooded her. Add on that he was more than willing to ham it up for the cameras, in any way possible. They might as well give her the executive producer title now.

  Donovan herded her back down to the kitchen. “It’s time to eat. I pounded it out at the gym today, so I need the cals.”

  A laugh burst out of her. “Need the cals?”

  “Calories, Melly. Can I call you Melly now?” He strode through the kitchen, chest puffed out, the king of his own empire. And man, was she a pauper in his wake. “You know. Don’t you work out? I can put you on my app if you want to go head to head.”