At the Billionaire’s Wedding

by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe

  “That Bitch Karen.”

  Not That Bitch or Karen but That Bitch Karen. She had once published a story outing Jane as the author of her novels, and insinuating that they were based on Duke (which they were), which caused tons of trouble for him, since his investors wanted news of his private life out of the media and reports of his company on the front pages. The whole thing almost broke them up.

  Damien paced around the room, loosening his tie, and rolling up his sleeves. She could see that he was coming undone.

  There was a haunted look in his eye. Her smooth, debonair man was troubled by something and she felt out of her depth, not knowing what to say or do.

  “I am desperate, Roxanna. I need the story.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else…”

  He strode toward her and pulled her close, flush up against his hard abs and chest. Her face tilted up to his as he lowered his mouth to hers for the sort of kiss that was an intimate promise of more for later.

  God, is it later yet?

  It wasn’t. And he was just avoiding all her questions. She couldn’t help him if he wouldn’t confide in her. She wouldn’t expose her friend for the guy she was just dating.

  They were just dating. On the DL. Secretly. Nothing serious.

  For the first time that irked her.

  “I won’t do it,” she said, breaking away. Jane had made her promise no more meddling. No more online shit. No more borrowing phones, or surprise Facebook updates. No Tweets, or Pins, or Instagrams. She didn’t want the details of her special day leaked all over the world for strangers and crazy ex-boyfriends to find out about. This was Jane’s wedding to her real-life romance hero, and she wanted it to be private.

  Damien frowned. “I’m sorry Roxanna, but then I’ll have to find someone else who will.”

  “Are you joking?” She had to ask, anyway. Again.

  “You keep asking me that,” he said half impatiently, half laughing.

  She wasn’t finding this funny at all. To demonstrate it, she grabbed his loosened tie in her fist and growled, “I won’t let you publish anything about this wedding.”

  “Is that a challenge, Ms. Lane?”

  She gave him her most seductive smile and said, breathlessly, “Oh, yes it is, Mr. Knightly.”

  Chapter Two

  That moment when you want to rip off your girlfriend’s dress and make love to her, but have to make small talk with strangers.

  On the terrace

  Roxanna had put on some slinky blue dress that made him deeply regret the need to socialize with the other guests on the terrace. He wanted to take her back to the room, strip the dress off, lay her down on the bed, and make love to her until they were completely and utterly spent in a tangle of sweaty limbs and gasping for breath.

  Damien schooled his features into the sort of cool, aloof expression befitting a ridiculously wealthy aristocrat, but inside he was churning. He wanted her intensely, but she was angry with him. Without this story, he was screwed.

  It occurred to him, as he sipped a much-needed drink, that he’d been counting on her to save him from the stupid, catastrophic situation he found himself in. But it seemed now that he would lose her if he went ahead with the story, somehow. Or he would lose the only other thing he cared about in the world.

  Damien Knightly was not accustomed to losing.

  He watched her slink across the terrace—pausing to toss a coy smile over her shoulder at him. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and went off to greet Jane. They did their girlish hellos—lots of hugs and laughter as if they’d been parted for months instead of days.

  Damien hardly knew Jane. She was Roxanna’s best friend, roommate and a novelist who wrote some sort of smutty books about English lords and whatnot. He was better friends with the groom, Duke Austen. Although friends might be a stretch. They did business together and socialized together frequently, though they never kicked back with beers to watch a game and bitch about women. Still, Damien entertained the idea of reporting on his wedding. He had to.

  The story of the billionaire tech guy and the romance novelist who based her books on him was too rich for any news outlet to resist. Someone was going to do it. Might as well be someone who could control the story and images instead of some scummy paparazzo taking grainy shots from the bushes on behalf of, say, The Daily Post, which was the most tawdry, salacious publication, barely a step above the rubbish handed out free in the Underground.

  Damien’s brooding was interrupted by another guest—a gentleman he could identify with, given the man’s expensive suit.

  “How do you know the couple?” the expensive suit asked him.

  “I’m an acquaintance of the groom,” Damien replied. Then he added, so that Expensive Suit wouldn’t get any ideas about her, “And I’m with the maid of honor.”

  He didn’t know what he and Roxanna were. Girlfriend wasn’t quite the right word. It was too girly for her. He was embarrassed that the phrase woman friend even crossed his mind. He was probably physically incapable of uttering such rubbish. Lover was just too ridiculous. She was just … his Something.

  The bride would probably have the perfect phrase, but he would die a thousand deaths before asking her. Obviously.

  “Friend of the groom as well,” the Suit replied. “We were roommates at Stanford before Duke dropped out.”

  “The stories you must have to tell,” Damien said, with a grin. Maybe he would get this story even if she wouldn’t.

  “You wouldn’t believe what that guy got up to,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s just say they didn’t call him the bad boy billionaire for nothing. I can’t sell out a friend, though. At least, not without more to drink.” Damien was about to offer to get them both another round when he introduced himself. “I’m Piers Prescott, by the way.”

  “Knightly. Damien Knightly.”

  “You don’t sound American—British?”

  “Yes. I divide my time between London and New York. Where are you traveling from?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  Damien noted that his gaze settled on one of the girls standing in a circle with Jane and Roxanna. He probably had plans to sleep with her, because that is what one did at weddings—drank excessive quantities of champagne and sought out someone for a one-night stand to regret in the morning.

  Such a bracing lack of romanticism was required as an antidote to the sappiness of weddings.

  Like any British gentleman, he had a severe aversion to the sentimental, emotional, or anything that might be deemed a feeling.

  Like gentlemen, he and Piers made the rounds on the terrace, chatting with all the other guests. They met Duke’s lawyer, Archer Quinn, who mentioned having work to do on the trip. Another guest asked if it was about the People magazine deal, to which Archer replied, “No comment.”

  If it was what Damien suspected it to be, a deal with a magazine could only complicate things for him more. He just sipped his drink, feeling the slow, hot burn of regret as the whiskey went down. He didn’t want to sell out his friends or wreck his Something with Roxanna. But he wasn’t keen to lose a precious family heirloom either.

  The conversations continued with other wedding guests—there were lots of young, severely underdressed software developers and the pretty young women they were ogling.

  But he only had eyes for Roxanna. That minx was slowly threading her way through the crowd toward him. Their gazes locked. His drifted to her perfect pout of a mouth, then lower. He had perfected the cool exterior. But he had not been able to tamp down the flames he felt inside whenever she was near.

  Roxanna leaned in close to whisper in his ear, a rush of air stealing across his skin as she spoke: “I won’t put out unless you tell me why you need this story.”

  He breathed in deeply, inhaling that scent that was just her and that went to his head. And he said in a low rumble: “And I will not ‘put out’ as you Americans so crudely put it, until you write the story.”
/>   “This is going to be a long week,” she lamented, tracing her fingertips down the lapel of his bespoke suit. In her other hand, a nearly empty champagne glass dangled precariously.

  “Do we need separate rooms?” He didn’t mean it.

  “Oh hell no,” she said in a low, throaty voice that made him aroused. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. You may retire to the floor if you find you are unable to restrain yourself from my gorgeous self.”

  Roxanna Lane was everything he wanted in a woman: beautiful and bold, passionate, fiercely intelligent, outspoken, and not cowed by his aloof demeanor.

  They had met when they were stuck in an elevator together at the Jezebel offices. Instead of spending the time fuming about being late for a meeting, or taking the opportunity to return calls and answer e-mails, Roxanna had had him laughing, sparring, and regretting the installation of security cameras.

  A series of “accidental” encounters and casual invitations ensued. Then he began to pursue her in earnest.

  She made him break all his rules about separating business and pleasure and about separating pleasure and emotions.

  Which is why he hated to ask her to do this story. But there was only one thing that mattered to him more than anything and it was on the line.

  Chapter Three

  That moment when you admit you like a boy.

  The bride’s bedchamber

  Two days later

  The bride twirled around in her utterly gorgeous and obscenely expensive wedding gown, with layers of chiffon and lace and pure loveliness swirling all around her. Roxanna lounged on the bed, drumming her red manicured nails on her lips as she watched Jane admire her own reflection in the mirror: a young woman in a rapturously perfect Monique Lhuillier dress … with her hair in a sloppy ponytail and a seamstress named Abby at her feet, making the final alterations to the hem—or trying to.

  “I just love this dress,” Jane gushed.

  “It is the perfect dress,” Roxanna agreed. It wasn’t her style, but it fit Jane to perfection, with all the delicate layers and romantic flourishes.

  “I can’t wait for everyone to see it,” Jane gushed with a dreamy look in her eye. “Especially Duke.”

  “About that…” Roxanna began, sitting up. She’d been walking around for two days wondering why Damien needed the story, what he wasn’t telling her, and what the hell she was going to do about it. She’d thought about confiding in Jane, but she seemed so happy and busy with wedding things. So Roxanna had kept it a secret. If there was a greater torture, she couldn’t imagine it. Now she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  In the mirror, Jane looked nervous.

  “So my mysterious millionaire lover wants me to sell you out. He wants me to write up snarky stories on your wedding and leak all kinds of pictures of your dress and you barfing at your bachelorette party.”

  Jane looked horrified. And then solemn.

  “If you agreed to this, you will no longer be my maid of honor.”

  “Way to give me a reason to do it, Jane. Jeez,” Roxanna said sarcastically. She wasn’t exactly the bridal party type of girl, especially after being a bridesmaid in her sister’s wedding. But Jane was different and Roxanna was happy to be her maid of honor.

  “Roxanna!”

  “Of course I refused.”

  “You’re the best.” Jane beamed.

  “I know,” she replied, a bit morosely.

  “But…” Jane prompted, as if sensing more. And indeed there was more.

  “He says he needs the stories for a reason that he will not share. I’m going crazy imagining why he could possibly need a picture of you barfing at your bachelorette party.”

  “Can we please stop talking about me casting up my accounts?” Jane said, slipping into what she called “Regency-speak,” aka the language of the historical romance novels she wrote. “And if that’s what you have planned for my hen party, then we need to have a serious conversation.”

  Roxanna stared at her blankly: “I was supposed to plan your hen party?”

  “Roxanna!”

  “I’m kidding!” she said, laughing. “Of course I have something fabulous planned.”

  “No strippers! Swear to me on your iPhone.”

  “By the way, what’s with having no cell or Internet service here? WTF? I’m going crazy without it and exhausted from walking up to the gazebo for cell service every time I want to check my email.”

  “I am well aware,” Jane huffed, her cheeks turning bright pink. “Duke suggested relocating the wedding back to New York, after all the planning and everyone flying in!” A nerve. This had obviously hit a nerve. The lack of Internet was all anyone could talk about so far, including Jane. “It’s not that there isn’t any Internet. You can get online at the gazebo. It’s just slow. And frankly, I don’t see why people cannot put down their phones for a few days and enjoy this beautiful house and grounds and my wedding day.”

  “Take a deep breath, Jane.”

  “Besides, you know we don’t want word to get out about the wedding location, especially any pictures. I’m quite happy if people aren’t able to Instagram or whatever the kids do these days.”

  There was no way in hell Roxanna was going to do the story Damien requested.

  “Well, it’s just like your novels,” Roxanna said diplomatically, even though she was dying to check Twitter.

  “That’s what I said. It’s romantic.” Jane smiled happily at herself in the mirror.

  “Anyway, this lack of Internet is buying me some time with this story, which I am not doing. But Damien has some Secret Reason. Aren’t you just dying of curiosity?”

  “No. I’m worried about a video of me getting a lap dance from a hulking male stripper showing up online.”

  “I promise I won’t let that happen.”

  “Thank you.”

  “At least, I won’t record it,” she said with a grin.

  “Roxanna!”

  “Just kidding, Bridezilla!” Roxanna said. “But seriously, what am I going to do, Jane?”

  This time Roxanna sighed dramatically. For extra emphasis, she flung herself back on the supremely comfortable bed and stared at the detailed crown molding on the ceiling.

  “Well, I’m wondering if I should confiscate your phone,” Jane said, looking nervous again.

  “That will not be necessary. Hos before bros.”

  “That is so crass.”

  “But the sentiment is sweet,” Roxanna replied. “At any rate, I’m not selling out my friend for my whatever-he-is.”

  “Your mysterious millionaire lover. Dashing paramour. Sinfully seductive Rogue. Lord of Your Heart.” Jane went on and on with her names while Roxanna made gagging noises. But then she said something that made Roxanna’s heart stop for a second. “But if you love him, you have to do it.”

  “Um, what are you talking about?”

  She tried to sound all confused and sarcastic. But jeez, her insides had a violent reaction to the L-Word. All quivering with excitement, or something like that. How embarrassing.

  “If your Whatever with him is going to become Something, then you have to show that you love him above anyone else. Including me.”

  “I’m not giving up my dignity and selling out my best friend to show him that I lo—have romantic inclinations in his general direction.”

  “You need to find a way for you both to win. And me. I don’t want wedding pictures leaked. We’re working on a deal to sell them to People in exchange for a donation to Little Paws Rescue. Think of the puppies and kittens, Roxanna.”

  She did think of the puppies and kittens: little warm, soft, and squirmy balls of fluff that would never ask you to sell out your best friend and would snuggle up and lick your face.

  “OMG, this is torture. Torture.” Roxanna smacked the mattress. “The question is: do we think his Secret Reason is more deserving than homeless puppies and kittens?”

  “If he thinks it’s a valid reason, then it probably is
. I’ve only met the man for, like, ten minutes but he doesn’t seem the kind to care about stupid, frivolous stuff. We have to find a win-win situation.”

  “You are such a hopelessly optimistic romantic,” Roxanna said. “I don’t know how we’re friends.”

  “And yet we are the best of friends.”

  “The very bestest,” Roxanna said.

  Jane didn’t reply for a moment. She bit her lip and scrunched up her face as she did when she was deep in thought. Finally, the bride spoke.

  “Abby, is there a bridal shop nearby?”

  “Are you having second thoughts about this beautiful dress? You certainly won’t find anything this fine around here. There’s Oldwart’s Bridal Shoppe in Melbury, but … Well, it’s not Monique Lhuillier.”

  “Jane, have you finally gone mad?”

  “No,” she said, with a wide grin and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “I have just come up with a scheme for everyone to have their happily ever after.”

  A top-secret meeting in the butler’s pantry (with the door closed)

  “We need to stage fake wedding dress photos,” Jane told the impossibly handsome and outrageously gay concierge, Mark. She, Roxanna, Cali—the other bridesmaid and Jane’s best friend from college—and he were packed into the small space to have a confidential conversation.

  To his credit, Mark didn’t even bat one of his ridiculously long eyelashes.

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  “Roxanna must do a story on our wedding, leaking all the details or else Something Bad Will Happen to Damien Knightly,” Jane said in a grave tone.

  “Oh my God, what?” Cali asked in a whisper.

  “We don’t know,” Jane answered gravely. “But we believe that Damien is not the sort of man who would do something like this without an excellent reason.”

  “He isn’t. And there is an excellent reason, he just won’t tell me what it is,” Roxanna said.

  There were things he talked about: business, his family, what he was thinking, books, movies, and all that sort of thing. They did not talk about feelings, or their “relationship,” or This Big Secret Reason. Yet.