At the Billionaire’s Wedding

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

  Perhaps she would get him drunk and seduce the answer out of him.

  Or hold the story hostage until he confided in her.

  Or just go ahead with Jane’s insane plan.

  “Knightly, the impossibly handsome and distinguished and actual peer of the realm with whom you have arrived?”

  He never used his title, saying they were outmoded, but Knightly was actually Lord Northbourne, which delighted Jane endlessly but wasn’t a huge deal for Roxanna.

  “Yeah, that guy,” Roxanna said.

  “You must like him,” Mark said. “I don’t see how anyone could resist him.”

  “Whatever,” Roxanna said with a shrug.

  “He makes you feel whatever?” Cali asked incredulously.

  “You want me to help stage fake wedding dress pictures just four days before the real wedding for a guy who makes you feel whatever?” Mark chided, not quite believing that she cared so little.

  “Roxanna has a very colorful vocabulary,” Jane explained. “But it is woefully deficient in words and phrases with which one might communicate their innermost feelings, particularly of the romantic variety.”

  Everyone crammed into the butler’s pantry looked at Roxanna expectantly.

  There was nowhere to hide, but she looked anyway. Nope, no way out.

  “Fine!” Roxanna exclaimed. “He makes me feel all the feelings.”

  “It’s also for the puppies and the kittens,” Jane added.

  “So we need photographs of the bride in a fake wedding dress and holding a fake bouquet so you can leak the fake pictures just days before your actual, already-planned wedding while there is essentially no Internet access,” Mark said. “This shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

  “Thank you, Mark!”

  “Of course. I know exactly where to begin. Don’t worry, Jane. This is your day.”

  “And now it’s my days!” Jane exclaimed.

  Roxanna and Cali shared pained smiles.

  Up to no good in Oldwart’s Bridal Shoppe

  Getting to Oldwart’s Bridal Shoppe was almost more difficult than getting to Brampton House from New York City. After their conversation with Mark, they had to escape a conversation with Jane’s mom, who was already asking about grandchildren, Duke wanted to talk about “the Wi-Fi situation,” and one of Jane’s aunts couldn’t find her daughter, Kimberly, who was probably out hooking up with one of the developers.

  Everyone wanted to chat with the bride. They also wanted to know why the three of them had ensconced themselves in the butler’s pantry when there was a whole house of properly sized rooms.

  “Just planning a little surprise for Duke,” Jane said, smiling.

  “A secret surprise,” Roxanna said.

  “One that isn’t an outrageous last-minute request at all,” Cali said.

  “I can’t wait,” Duke said.

  “You can tell me, darling!” Jane’s mom, Miranda, exclaimed. “Especially if it’s about grandbabies!”

  “Not right now, Mom. You’ll see!” Jane said. “Mark, could you bring a car around for us?”

  “Anything for the bride,” he murmured. “I’ll have George come around with the Rolls-Royce.”

  “I’ll never tire of hearing that,” Jane sighed, smiling.

  Roxanna and Cali exchanged tight smiles.

  The car slowly cruised out of the gates of Brampton House.

  “No paparazzi! Phew!” Jane exclaimed. “I heard rumors some guy with a camera was lurking around. It’s been a nightmare keeping the location secret from the media.”

  “The things you do for the puppies and kittens,” Cali said. “It’s so sweet.”

  George took the back way and drove slowly down the insanely narrow, winding roads.

  Finally, they arrived at a small shop on the High Street of a town that could be best described as Ye Olde English Village.

  Oldwart’s Bridal Shoppe was exactly as one might imagine it: small, dusty, and lit with the kind of fluorescent lighting that would make a supermodel look bad. Dresses—dozens and dozens of hideous dresses—were stuffed on racks lining the walls. It was a far cry from the sleek, Spartan boutique in Manhattan where Jane had bought her actual dress.

  “I don’t suppose this place is going to serve champagne while you try on dresses,” Roxanna murmured, as a surly teenage girl with loads of heavy black eyeliner gazed up at them from her perch behind the counter.

  “Doubtful,” Jane agreed.

  “You need this dress,” Cali said, pulling one off the rack. “It’s just like the one you taped on the mirror in your freshman year dorm room.”

  “Let’s just say my tastes have changed,” Jane said, eyeing the white poof with something like horror. “In both men and dresses.”

  “Let’s just say thank God for that. That thing is the epitome of awful.”

  “If you think that’s bad, wait until you see this one,” the salesgirl said, reaching for a champagne-colored gown with a lot of lace and beadwork and ruffles. A lot.

  “What are you waiting for, Bride? Go try some dresses on!”

  Jane disappeared into the dressing room and emerged a few moments later in an explosion of satin ruffles and sequins.

  “Oh no, you can’t laugh,” Roxanna said. “We need pictures of you beaming because you have finally found The One Dress.”

  “I’m dying. I need to laugh.”

  Cali just shook her head no. “This is serious, Jane. Even though you look like a cupcake, you cannot laugh.”

  “A cupcake who is also is a stripper in Vegas.”

  “OMG I can’t even breathe,” Jane said in a strangled trying-to-suppress-laughter voice.

  “Smile for the cameras, Jane,” Roxanna chirped as she pulled out her iPhone and started clicking away.

  “I think I need another dress,” Jane said.

  “Try this,” Cali said, grinning as she handed over another fashion disaster. Masses of white feathers covered a full, A-line skirt. The bodice was swathed in lace and decked in sequins. It was a bit excessive.

  “You were not kidding about your ugly decoy wedding dress,” Roxanna said, eyeing the dress that was not only ugly, but unflattering on Jane. “These pictures are going to be something else.”

  “I will not have my big day ruined. I will not have it,” Jane said, quite possibly stamping her foot underneath that voluminous mass of fabric and feathers. A few feathers floated off the skirt, into the air, swaying gently to the floor. “But I have also never seen you so into a guy who is actually worthy of you.”

  Ah, back to that.

  “He asked me to report on your wedding,” Roxanna said. “Is that really worthy?”

  “But he said he had a good reason,” Jane replied.

  “That’s what he said…”

  “And I’ve seen that he’s made you super happy for the past few months. Taking you on proper dates instead of just meeting up for drinks. He invites you over to spend the night at his grown-up apartment, not to crash at a place he shares with a bunch of guys in some far-flung neighborhood of Brooklyn that is only accessible by the G train.”

  So that’s what made an eligible bachelor these days. Dinner dates and a grown-up apartment near the subway.

  “It’s just the sex,” Roxanna replied. She suddenly developed an intense interest in the collection of veils on display. Who knew there were so many different styles? Who knew they could all be so ugly?

  “It’s never just the sex,” Jane insisted. “I’ve caught you whistling merry tunes while you do your makeup before work.”

  “I do not whistle merry tunes,” Roxanna muttered. Wow, this veil was lined in white satin and this one was studded with little rhinestones.

  “It’s okay to like a guy, you know,” Jane said.

  “Said the romance novelist. And bride.”

  “Her mind has always been clouded with romance,” Cali chimed in. “She’s been insufferable about it since forever.”

  “One of us has to be romantic!”
Jane protested adorably.

  She was just so nice, and proper and optimistic about everything. At first, Roxanna wasn’t sure they would make good roommates when Jane answered her Craigslist ad, but now she couldn’t imagine the apartment without her. Fuck, she would be leaving soon!

  “I do like him. I really like him. He does make me feel all the feelings. But I also like things just the way they are. Not too serious. Not too much pressure.”

  “He’s not like Josh,” Jane said softly.

  Josh was her college boyfriend who had somehow managed to slowly smother her spark, which was remarkable, given that she was a pretty sparky girl. But once she broke up with him and moved to New York City, Roxanna became downright fiery. She had vowed never to let another person dull her spark again. To her, that meant never letting anyone get close enough to do so.

  “I know,” Roxanna sighed. “Damien is different.”

  “You should fight for your true love,” Jane said earnestly.

  True love? Jeez, she’d only been having a thing with the guy for a few months now.

  “I think you’ve been reading too many romance novels again,” Roxanna said. But there it was again: that weird flutter in her stomach at the thought of the L-word.

  “If you don’t love him, tell me now. This fabric is starting to itch and I want to take this hideous dress off. But if you do love him, get your phone out and start taking pictures.”

  Roxanna exchanged a glance with Cali. Then she got out her phone.

  They had a hysterical time trying on a few more dresses and taking pictures that were purposely askew, as if they’d been taken surreptitiously. Then Jane bought one to carry out so they could also take pictures of the bride picking up her dress and so they could get more pictures of her wearing it at the house. It was perfect: Damien would get his story, Jane would keep her privacy, and the puppies and kittens wouldn’t be deprived of their donation from People magazine.

  On the way back to Brampton, Roxanna whistled a merry tune and thought perhaps there was such a thing as happily-ever-after.

  Chapter Four

  That moment when your plan goes totally wrong.

  At the gazebo

  Later that afternoon

  Roxanna found Damien at the gazebo, the one place on the estate that had cell reception. As a result, many of the guests had congregated there to make phone calls and check their e-mail, Twitter, and whatever else they were desperate to do online. The wedding planner had thoughtfully provided places to sit, small bites, and splits of champagne.

  There was a faint Wi-Fi signal emanating from someplace at the edge of the property. Archer Quinn, Duke’s lawyer, had gone to investigate and hadn’t been heard from in some time. He was either dead or had found Wi-Fi and Damien thought it was worth risking the former for the latter.

  Damien leaned against the balustrade of the gazebo, gazed at his phone and fixated on the weak cell service quite a few people were all trying to use. Going through his e-mails was slow, painfully so, and made him almost want to give up and chuck his phone off into the bushes.

  Not one of his e-mails was from Roxanna, explaining what she had been doing all day. He had woken up alone and annoyed to be alone. It was almost worrying that he hadn’t seen her here until this late in the day. The sun was just setting when he saw her strolling up the path, hips swaying with every step.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Roxanna said coyly upon arrival. “How has your day been?”

  “A vicious fight for Internet access and a ruthless battle with the contents of my inbox.”

  “I’m so bummed to have missed that,” she said, affectionately stroking his arm. It was the sort of little intimate gesture that couples did. Real couples. Not just “having a thing at work” couples. Good God, he liked it.

  “What trouble have you been into this morning?”

  “Oh … just the usual maid of honor duties. Helping the bride with dress alterations, checking out the flowers, the cake. All the stupid little wedding details only girls want to hear about.”

  “I am appalled that I am curious.” Truly, he was—and he hoped all the stupid little wedding details were documented. His birthright kind of depended upon it.

  “For all the wrong reasons, I bet,” she retorted and he winced at the word bet. He wouldn’t be making any more bets anytime soon. “Let me show you,” she said, pulling her iPhone from her back pocket. “But you have to promise me something.”

  “Whatever you want,” he said.

  “Remember that,” she said with a mischievous smile. She was up to no good and he didn’t mind.

  “Show me,” he murmured, leaning forward and breathing her in. It was only then that he realized that something had felt off, missing, all day and that it was her. That was hardly compatible with their previous arrangement of discretion at work, indiscretion at night. But all of a sudden that plan didn’t seem to be what he wanted. He wanted to pull her close, listen to her talk about the trouble she’d gotten into that day—knowing her, there would be some sort of “misunderstanding” with authorities, or an audacious scheme, or someone’s feathers ruffled. Then, a kiss. And then the kind of lovemaking that left one’s mind blank and heart pounding.

  “She’s having second thoughts about her dress,” Roxanna said, showing him a picture of Jane in the sort of dress that made him want to run in the opposite direction. She looked like a bird in that dress stuck with feathers.

  “I encourage her to have third or fourth thoughts about that dress,” he said.

  “Oh! And these are the flowers and some pictures of the Gold Saloon. But you don’t care about all that.”

  “You are amazing,” he said, pressing a kiss on her cheek.

  “I haven’t published these yet,” she warned.

  There was a tense moment between them. She stared brazenly into his eyes. He bit back a growl. She didn’t blink.

  “You want to know why I need this story so badly,” he said finally.

  “Your intelligence is one thing I find so sexy about you.”

  He was about to tell her. There was no reason not to, other than that it had been such a stupid move on his part and she just said his intelligence turned her on. But then there was a rustling in the bushes—too big to be a squirrel or some other little rodent. It was possibly a deer or a fox. But the unmistakable sound of a soft click click click click click click told him exactly what kind of rodent was lurking in the bushes.

  Species: paparazzi. Habitat: wherever famous people go, especially if the masses are excluded, and especially if there is a wedding.

  Known Predators: people who value their privacy, the law, and Damien Knightly.

  He leapt over the balustrade, dropping into the bushes, while Roxanna shouted after him.

  “Damien! What the hell are you doing?”

  He quickly spied the bastard: a trim, ginger-haired man with a Canon camera bearing a huge, extra long lens around his neck. He knew that bastard. It was Snooper MacBracken, infamous and reviled freelance paparazzo and gossip. Damien had no doubt that Algernon Gardner at The Daily Post had hired him.

  Then Snooper, the bastard, spied him and started running away, clutching the camera and shielding his face from all the branches. Damien sprinted after him. And then, good God, Roxanna was dashing after them both. For a few moments, the only sounds were of footsteps pounding against the earth, brush and foliage being shoved aside, and heavy breathing.

  And then a thud. Followed by a certain four-letter word.

  Roxanna had tripped over a root and sprawled on the ground. His heart clenched—was she all right?

  “Roxanna! Are you okay?”

  Her iPhone, which she’d been holding in her hand, went flying in the air toward … oh bloody hell.

  “Get the phone!” she screamed.

  Damien dove for it, colliding with Snooper. They both hit the ground and wrestled for it.

  Snooper MacBracken did not fight like a gentleman. Damien wasn’t sure why he
expected he would. He took a fist to the face. Stunned, he released his grip on the iPhone for just a second. Just one little second as his hand instinctively went to the pain.

  Snooper grabbed it, and tried to push Damien off. After some scuffling, the wiry bastard succeeded in scrabbling to his feet—phone in hand—and he ran helter-skelter through the woods.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Damien panted. He leapt to his feet and took off at a sprint.

  Armani loafers were not ideal for running. Neither were bespoke suits from Savile Row. It didn’t matter. Especially when he saw a clearing looming ahead—and a road. With a motorcycle. The man had an escape plan, and in his hand, pictures that would destroy a friendship and pictures that could cause him to lose his most treasured possession.

  “Damien hurry!” Roxanna shouted.

  His lungs were burning. Muscles, screaming. He dug down deep for every shred of strength and force he possessed. Sprinting faster now, he was Just. Behind. The. Bastard. He launched himself forward, grabbing the paparazzo and taking them both down to the ground. They hit the earth with a thud.

  The phone flew from MacBracken’s hand. Roxanna dashed over to snatch it up with a ferocious scowl.

  “Bugger off,” Damien growled, gripping the man’s T-shirt in his fist and twisting hard until it was a little too tight around the neck. Snooper’s face started to turn red.

  “Damien, darling…” Roxanna’s voice gently reminded him not to go too far.

  “Fuck off,” he spat at the pap. Then he stood, watching his foe shuffle to his feet and sloppily run toward his motorcycle. With a roar of the engine, he was gone.

  He heard Roxanna approaching behind him. Every fiber of his being was attuned to her, and how she alone possessed the ability to ruin him or save him.

  He wasn’t just thinking about the story.

  “You have a very rakish James Bond thing happening right now,” she said, eyeing him hungrily. He glanced down at his gray suit and white shirt, all rumpled and askew, with dirt and sweat stains, possibly even some blood.