At the Billionaire’s Wedding

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

  She reached out and lightly touched his cheekbone where he’d been hit. He flinched, slightly.

  “I hope you’re okay. But for what it’s worth, I like it,” she murmured.

  “Not the time, darling,” he said. His heart was hammering. And he glanced down at the phone in her hand with pictures of the wedding of the year—and the pictures he needed to win the bet, save his family birthright, and not be the one to lose a two-hundred-year-old family treasure.

  He hated that he was torn between business and pleasure. He took a long lusty look at Roxanna and thought about tumbling her right here, right now.

  “I can see that you are in the throes of a major crisis,” Roxanna continued casually. “Anytime you want to, you know, confide in your … whatever the word is for what we are… Or should I just say me. Anytime you want to confide in me… Go for it.”

  He stared at her for a moment, trying to tease out all the things contained in that rambling speech while there was limited flow of oxygen to his brain.

  She had, perhaps inadvertently, started the “What are we? How serious is this?” conversation. There was something about how he didn’t confide in her. And then there was the way this normally bold and brash woman suddenly became ever-so-slightly shy and uncertain.

  There was one thing to say: the truth.

  “I bet Algernon Gardner of The Daily Post that I would be the first to publish pictures of the wedding.”

  “What did you bet him?”

  “I wagered The London Weekly.”

  He winced, remembering the one night when he had had one whiskey too many and, so certain of Roxanna and their access to the bride and groom, agreed to a wager that he thought he couldn’t lose.

  He thought he knew her, and that she was like him: emotionless, driven to succeed in business at all costs. He didn’t know her. She was loyal, devoted, and caring to her friends.

  “Oh wow,” she said dramatically, eyes widening. “That is horrible, Damien. That is a disaster. That is the worst possible thing, isn’t it? It’s like stabbing you and twisting the knife right in your heart.”

  He started walking back to the house. God, he hurt.

  “Thank you for reminding me why I don’t make a habit of confiding in people.”

  She followed behind him.

  “I’m sorry. Apologies for not reminding you why people don’t usually confide in me.” He smiled a bit, but she didn’t see it. “Fortunately for you, I have a devious mind.”

  “Splendid.”

  “For example, you might be interested to know that those pictures were fake.”

  He stopped, turned around. She was serious.

  “Fake? That looked just like Jane in that ghastly dress.”

  “But it was a ghastly dress.” She repeated this and mimicked his accent, too. “Obviously she would never wear it. We spent the morning at Oldwart’s Bridal Shoppe in the village.”

  “And the flowers and other things?”

  “The work of Mark, the most amazing hotel concierge who didn’t bat an eyelash when Jane told him we needed to stage fake photographs of the bride.”

  “Why?”

  “Because selling out my friend is not an option,” Roxanna said. And biting her lip, she added. “But I wanted to do this for you too. I figured you would have a good reason.”

  “Thank you,” he said. And then because he was so grateful he said it again. “Thank you.”

  Roxanna Lane was amazing. He knew in that moment that she was the woman he wanted on his side, by his side. Always.

  He swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately.

  Then he set her back on her feet and said, “We need to publish. Immediately.”

  Chapter Five

  That moment when things get serious.

  Roxanna had left her bag with her laptop at the gazebo, where the other guests of the wedding had kept an eye on it while reveling in this one little patch of cellular access.

  “What was that all about?” Piers asked, leaning against a pillar and glancing up from his phone.

  “Nothing,” they said at the same time

  “Really?” Duke asked, glancing up quizzically from his iPhone.

  “Damien was just chasing off a paparazzo,” Roxanna said.

  “Thanks, dude,” Duke said, even though Damien was so not a dude. He was too posh for that. “Jane is obsessed with making sure nothing about this wedding shows up online.”

  “Oh, I know,” Roxanna said. Then she proceeded to spend the next hour making sure the fake wedding pictures were posted online. On Jezebel.com.

  The Bad Boy Billionaire’s Bride

  They’re the wedding pictures I know you all have been waiting for: one of tech’s most debauched dudes is getting hitched. Who is the woman who managed to reform this bad boy billionaire when so many others have failed? Jane Sparks, the future Mrs. Jane Austen, who publishes romance novels under the pseudonym Maya Rodale. Jezebel—and only Jezebel—has scored exclusive photos of the bride getting the final fitting for her wedding gown. The groom should stop reading now, but the rest of y’all should take a look and try to guess the designer!

  Writing snarky articles, uploading the pictures, and formatting everything was something she did every day. But there was something different about it when Damien was beside her, watching as she corrected typos, rewrote a phrase, or tweaked the HTML. She was acutely aware of her every move, and acutely aware of him.

  Usually, their workplace interactions consisted of him striding around glass-walled conference rooms, dominating meetings, issuing orders, and bossing people around while she snuck glances from behind her monitor.

  Then there were all the little illicit moments: walking too closely in the hall and accidentally brushing up against one another, a stolen kiss in the stairwell, sending sexy text messages when she knew he was in budget meetings, or when he knew she was on deadline.

  She finished tweaking the article for SEO, added a few links to previous stories on Jane and Duke, and did one last preview.

  “Time to publish!”

  Within seconds it was live on the website.

  Moments after she sent in her post, there was a ping from someone’s phone. Duke’s iPhone. He looked at it, followed the link, then looked over at them with a really lethal glare.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Darling, I think we’d better run,” Damien murmured.

  Roxanna laughed as they dashed along the path to the house, Duke chasing angrily behind them. Her heart didn’t stop pounding for the trip back—because of the running, she told herself. But then it didn’t stop once they got back to their room and locked the door behind them.

  Anticipation, that.

  They laughed over their adventures. They kissed. Lips against lips, imperfectly but perfectly wonderful. Her back up against the door, his weight leaning into her. She threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him deeply.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Shhh. It could be Duke.”

  “Just a sec!”

  “Just wanted to see if you were ready for dinner.” It was Cali.

  “I need a few minutes,” Roxanna called out. “We have to get ready,” she whispered reluctantly.

  “Then we’ll finish this later,” Damien murmured, pressing a kiss on the hollow of her throat.

  And they began to get ready for dinner.

  It should have been so unremarkable. Off with the skinny jeans and into the slinky dress. Off with his disheveled and dirty suit, then into another sexy black suit from Savile Row. Putting clothing on shouldn’t be so sexy. Though they had undressed each other dozens of times, they had never really put on clothes together.

  They had spent nights and days together, lying in bed, tangled in sheets. They had spent Hurricane Geoffrey delightfully ensconced in his apartment, watching the rain by candlelight. There were long lunches marked with “do not book” on the calendars. There were sexy late nights. There were dinners at the m
ost intimate and exclusive restaurants where they had the most discreet tables, the best wine, obsessively attentive service. There were gifts of lingerie and expensive bouquets of flowers. There was something secretive and illicit about them, not because there was anyone else—there was no one—but because they worked together. Though, while it wouldn’t be ideal to find themselves the subject of office gossip, it wouldn’t be the end of the world or their careers.

  They were not a “we” or an “us” couple. They didn’t do events together. The bathroom door was always closed. Neither kept a drawer of toiletries and such at the other’s place. They were all about the romance and not at all about the day-to-day. It went without saying that Roxanna had never thought of them as a “couple who attends formal events together.” But Jane had insisted she bring her mysterious millionaire lover as her date and in this moment, Roxanna wasn’t sorry at all.

  She liked him. Maybe even more. Maybe she could even enjoy this intimacy.

  Because there was something about this—dressing together for a formal dinner at a house party wedding—that felt more intimate. It felt downright seriously romantic. Like they were a couple. A serious couple with joint bank accounts, arguments over who remembered to pay the maintenance bill (oh shit! She already missed living with Jane, who took care of that stuff), and who said “we” at every opportunity.

  The kind of couple she had no interest in being ever again after Josh.

  But here and now and worlds away, Roxanna lounged on the bed, wearing her favorite underthings from La Perla, debating whether she wanted to keep this slinky dress on or change into something else and watching him tie his tie. As grown-up, fabulous, and chic as it all was, she still managed to feel like an angsty teenager again. There were all these questions she wanted to ask him. About the bet, and them. Us. Whatever.

  They were not the sort of people that made a big thing about relationships. They liked their freedom, being beholden to no one. Having only the beautiful, sexy parts of being together with none of the day-to-day drudgery. They were not people who had “the talk.”

  But here they were, a couple at a wedding—was there a more “couple” activity? Perhaps this … watching him button his shirt instead of unbutton it. Learning that he pulled on his trousers one leg at a time, like any other man. Having Damien instead of Jane zip up the back of the little black dress she had decided to wear.

  “So about The London Weekly…” she began as he oh-so-slowly pulled the zipper up when she wanted him to yank it down.

  He stepped away and started fastening his cuff links.

  “It is my family’s pride and joy. The newspaper that made the Knightly family fortune and which launched our media empire. All the way back in 1816.”

  "Media empire.” She couldn’t resist whispering the words under her breath, mimicking his accent.

  “My family has a business, too,” she said.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s a contracting business back home in Jersey. My dad does all the heavy lifting and my mom manages the business.”

  “Makes one wonder how you ended up a journalist in New York City.”

  “I was always nosy and meddling and bored to tears back home. I got out as soon as I could,” Roxanna said. “But we’ve saved your paper, right?”

  “As long as it doesn’t come out that those pictures are fake, yes. But if it’s discovered that we knowingly posted staged photographs, I’ll have not only lost the paper, but jeopardized the reputation of my websites.”

  “Oh fantastic. And my byline is on that. There goes my career.”

  He gazed at her. “I promise you won’t be fired.”

  “You bet I won’t be,” she retorted. He could not fire her after this. She would sue the pants right off of him before he even considered it. “So why did you make the bet?”

  “Because I was sure that I would win.”

  “You were counting on me to sell out my friend for you,” Roxanna stated, slightly shocked, slightly bitter. “That speaks volumes, doesn’t it? You think that I am that infatuated with you. Or that I don’t care that much about my friend. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase hos before bros?”

  It was the sort of crass American saying that made him wince, which is why she had to say it. She was gratified by the expected reaction.

  “Honestly—I wasn’t thinking about your friendship with Jane. Or our relationship. Only that we would have unrestricted access to the event that the whole world is dying to know more about.”

  After taking a moment to consider all the information—and decide on a pair of strappy black satin Sarah James stilettos—Roxanna asked: “Well, what did you stand to win?”

  “It doesn’t signify.”

  “Way to make me way more interested,” she replied, sitting on the bed, slipping on the shoes, and watching his gaze darken.

  “What a way with speech you have, Roxanna.”

  “Oh, shut up, you stuffy old aristocrat,” she said, tossing a pillow his way.

  “I am not old. Or stuffy,” he said, sounding awfully stiff.

  “Whatever you say, your lordship." But he wasn’t old. Or stuffy. He was young and hot and reserved, which she found incredibly alluring, all the more so in a world where most guys shared way too much online. But he did need to be teased, for he was far too serious.

  “So, do you want to talk about…” He paused, delicately. Her heart pounded. Then, in his insanely sexy accent he said the one word that set off the butterflies in her stomach: “Us.”

  Oh, God. The talk. She had brought it up, but now she wished she hadn’t. Things could just go on, all sexy and casual forever, right? Of course. There was no reason for her heart to be beating so hard.

  “Us?”

  “You mentioned it twice today.”

  “Did I?” She feigned ignorance.

  “You did.”

  “Do you want to talk about us?”

  “I’d rather show you,” he said.

  She had been sitting on the edge of the bed. He stood before her, then eased her back until she was flat on the mattress and he was lowering himself onto her. He pushed up her very little black dress, his open palm possessively skimming her thigh.

  Roxanna gazed into his eyes. Dark. Mysterious. Mischievous. Then she closed her eyes and surrendered to just feeling … his mouth, possessively claiming her from her lips to her neck to lower down to her breasts. That dress she had just put on moments ago was already being pushed out of the way. She felt the hot, hard length of him against her. God, did she want him now.

  They had to go to dinner.

  To hell with dinner.

  His mouth crashed down on hers. Then she was lost in the taste of him, the feeling of him. His weight upon her, pinning her to the mattress, not that she wanted to be anywhere else in the world. His hands, skimming all of her as if he couldn’t get enough of her long legs, or her breasts, or her belly or any inch of skin that was hers. The way he so plainly wanted her turned her on so much. Almost as much as how she just plainly, desperately wanted him. All of him.

  She started to undo all those buttons he’d just done because she needed to feel him, too, feel his hot skin under her palm. The beat of his heart was faint, but she could feel it.

  “Take off this dress,” he whispered urgently.

  “Yes, boss,” she whispered. Then she stood and pulled it off.

  He playfully swatted her bottom. “Don’t you forget it,” he murmured.

  She just smiled—and rolled her eyes. Because in the bedroom—and, well, everywhere—she acted however she damn well pleased and they both liked it.

  “Keep the shoes on,” Damien ordered.

  “Obviously.”

  Her stilettos were crisscrossed across his back, gently digging into his bare skin. A growl at the back of his throat; a purr from her.

  “These trousers have to go.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  And like that, they were gone and he
was hard, straining against her.

  They were going to be late for dinner.

  The rest was… The rest was rough, urgent, kisses. Deep breaths, quick breaths, can’t-get-enough-air-this-pleasure-is-going-to-my-head breaths. She felt them steal across her skin. Soft sounds of pleasure.

  The rest was … feelings. Her fingers wove through his soft hair or her nails down along his back. His weight upon her. His cock hard and full inside of her, in and out, in and out, until she thought she’d scream. Every inch of her skin tingling with desire.

  The rest was … the taste of salt on his skin, the intense pressure building within until she couldn’t help but cry out. His mouth on hers, his fingers sinking into her hair, and his own sounds of climax.

  The rest was… For Damien, there was no more. This was it. She was it. The only one. The only woman for him.

  His heart was still pounding from their lovemaking and it didn’t slow down at the realization that this was it. She was it. He was done.

  When they descended the stairs to dinner—with her in a slightly wrinkled dress and he with his tie askew—he clasped her hand in his. When they entered the saloon for cocktails, he didn’t let go.

  Roxanna watched Jane and Duke, so utterly, radiantly happy, while she and Damien drank champagne, chatted with other guests, and held hands all the while. She started to wonder… What if they never let go?

  What if—gulp—she and Damien weren’t just two lovers or whatever. What if they weren’t just something but Something. Or even, the one thing.

  Roxanna Lane was not the kind of girl to freak out or panic or indulge in debates of what does this mean, either with others or in her own head. Except, she was now panicking. Because, heart thudding, she suspected she knew what this meant.

  Chapter Six

  That moment when you’re surrounded by a mob of armed and angry men.

  The stag party

  Thanks to Roxanna and Jane’s scheme, The London Weekly—and his birthright—were secure. That is, as long as word didn’t get out that the pictures were staged. That is, as long as no one else got real photographs of the wedding. Relieved as he was—and appreciative—it occurred to Damien that these staged photographs didn’t quite solve his problem. Once the issue of People magazine hit the newsstands, everyone would know that his were fakes. He couldn’t quite bring himself to mention it to Roxanna and he wasn’t certain what he would do.