BILLIONAIRE’S CURVY BET
by
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
INDIA
He will ask you a question . . .
And your answer must be No.
The moment I see his ring I know this is a setup. Not sure who is being setup, but it’s still a fucking setup. I should call the cops and the FBI right now and end this. End him, if that’s what it takes to get my money back.
Not just my money but my power, my self-respect, my hard-won victories, I think as I feel the man’s gaze on my curves while I try to ignore him and focus on my drink. He is handsome, I’ll give him that. Not my type, though. He’s got player written all over that arrogant smile. those dark green eyes, that long, lean body he’s angling in my direction.
“My name’s India,” I say when it’s obvious he’s about to talk to me anyway. No point in pretending. I just wanted to make sure this was the guy Mother and Father expect me to meet. The guy who’s going to ask me a question. A question to which the answer is No. Should be easy enough.
“I need to ask you something,” the man says after introducing himself as Ingram.
“No,” I say quickly. “The answer is no.”
Ingram flinches like I just slapped him across the face, and when I see a flash of panic in those cool green eyes, I know he’s in the same boat as I am. His assets and property seized or locked down, bank accounts erased, credit cards blocked, safety deposit boxes sealed. All because we joined some secret society back in college. Can’t believe I was so excited to be one of the first three women to be accepted to the Society. How could I have been so stupid?! That weird induction ceremony where we were all summoned to a hotel room and lectured by recorded messages from a man and woman who called themselves Mother and Father? How could I not have realized I was joining some psycho cult run by lunatics! Hell, I’m surprised Mother and Father haven’t asked me to sacrifice a cute little piglet under the full moon. Though maybe that’s coming next.
“I haven’t asked you the question yet,” Ingram says, rubbing his smooth jawline and narrowing his eyes at me.
“What difference does it make?” I say. “I have to answer no or else I’ll be in line at the soup kitchen by the end of the week. In this fucking dress.”
Ingram snorts, and then he glances at my dress and shrugs. “They’ll probably let you cut in line. I sure as hell would.” He flashes a smile, but then blinks and goes serious. “In fact I might be in line with you by the end of the week. Especially if you say no to what I’m supposed to ask.”
I stare for a moment, and then I swallow hard and nod. My gaze softens, and I speak quietly. “Mother and Father?” I say.
Ingram nods. “Who the fuck are they?”
I look down at my ring. Then I look at his ring and frown. “Why are you asking me?” I say. “You should know. You’re clearly been part of the Society longer than I have.”
Ingram raises an eyebrow. “You calling me old, little girl?” he growls.
I almost smile. He’s most certainly older than I am, but he clearly doesn’t care. And that flirty, growly voice as he looks into my eyes . . . huh . . . maybe he would be my type under different circumstances. Maybe when this is all over . . .
“Let’s just get this over with,” I say. “What’s the question you’re supposed to ask.”
But Ingram shakes his head like he’s not sure if he’s ready to ask it. I think a moment, and then I snap my fingers.
“All right. How about you just tell me the question instead of asking,” I say, beaming because I’m so damned smart. Always was the smartest, starting from grade school. Except for that whole I-joined-a-crazy-cult-by-mistake thing, of course.
Ingram raises an eyebrow and touches his chin. “So if I tell you the question, it won’t count as asking you the question.”
“Correct,” I say. “That way we can talk about it.”
Ingram looks at his platinum Rolex. Then he looks out the tinted window of the Club and squints. “I guess I have some time.” He takes a slow breath and looks me square in the face, his green eyes shining almost like he’s excited, like he’s relishing the challenge of whatever it is Mother and Father want him to do. “They made a bet . . .” he says, leaning close enough that I pick up his masculine scent, a natural aroma of cedarwood and tobacco leaf that catches me off guard.
And then my guard is broken down and trampled by what comes next.
“They bet I couldn’t get you to marry me by sunset,” Ingram says. “That I couldn’t get you to say yes. Couldn’t get you to be mine.”
I stare like he’s speaking in tongues, and then I shake my head and smile like I’m hoping this is all a dream. “Well, you . . . you can’t,” I say, blinking in confusion. “Who gets married to someone they just met?”
Ingram shrugs. “They do that in arranged marriages, don’t they? Those usually work out.”
“I don’t know if usually is the right word,” I say, wondering what the hell kind of cult has got their claws into me. “Anyway, I am not having this discussion. Not with you, at least. I should have my head examined for not calling the FBI already.”
“Relax,” says Ingram, tapping his ring on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. A moment later a glass of dark single-malt scotch slides across the polished bar. He tosses it down like a kid drinking cranberry juice, and then he turns to me and smiles. “I’ve already got the FBI, the NSA, and everyone in between working on it.” He glances at his gold-plated phone that’s sitting silently by his glass. “I expect a call any minute informing me that all my accounts are back.”
I shake my head and smile up at him. He’s cool on the outside, but I can see the turmoil behind those green eyes. Somehow that makes me relax a little. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the sense that I’m not alone in this.
The word “alone” echoes in my head as we share a moment of silence, like we’re both hoping our phones ring and it turns out to be a prank or a glitch or maybe a tear in the fabric of the universe that’s now been sewed up and smoothed out. But nothing happens, and I get the distinct sense that’s what’s supposed to happen: Nothing.
Nothing until we face each other and play this game.
I glance at his phone and then back up into his eyes. “Would it help if you called your FBI contacts back and told them the same thing just happened to me?”
“Maybe,” says Ingram without making any move towards that phone.
“Um, so how about we do that?” I say.
Ingram rubs his jaw and raises an eyebrow. Then he exhales and shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice oozing authority, like he just made a decision that’s final, binding, set in stone, inked in blood.
“OK . . .” I say slowly, trying to sound calm. “And . . . and why?”
He smiles slowly, those green eyes narrowing. “Because they bet me I couldn’t get you to marry me by sunset. And I have a hard time backing down from a bet.”
I widen my eyes and wait for him to say something that actually makes sense. But he’s just smiling like a wolf, staring like I’m his prey, breathing like he’s on the hunt. Then he reaches out and touches my hand, sending a spark of electricity through my body, a wave of excitement that makes my thighs tingle, my toes curl, my nipples stiffen. It’s the gentlest of touches—just his fingertip on my knuckle. But it feels like I’ve been struck by lightning, tapped by fate, dinged by destiny.
Again the word “alone” rings in my head like a solitary wedding bell. I’ve been alone for what feels like forever, and although it worked well for me while I climbed the ladder, smashed through the glass ceiling, claimed the wealth and power that I deserved, lately it hasn’t been working so well for me. Turns
out there’s no shortage of gold-digger men out there, and for the first time in my life I realized that money can sometimes get in the way of love.
Well, money can’t get in the way here because there is no money, I think as I stare into Ingram’s eyes to check if he’s serious or just seriously insane. But then I break the eye contact and shake my head when I remind myself that I’m the crazy one if I get distracted from the real goal here: Get my damned millions back!
“You have a hard time backing down from a bet?” I say, repeating Ingram’s words just to make sure I’m hearing correctly. “This isn’t a game, Ingram.”
Ingram exhales and leans in just a little. “Maybe it is a game,” he says, furrowing his brow and nodding. “Mother and Father seem to know that I’m a betting man, that I see a bet as a challenge, a chance to prove myself right and prove the other guy wrong.” He pauses, looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable but in a weirdly good way. “And I bet they know something about you too.”
“Really? Like what?” I say.
“You tell me,” he says. “Your task was simply to say no, correct?”
“Yes,” I say. Then I smile. “I mean no. You know what I mean.”
He grins, his handsome face lighting up and lighting me up with it. For a moment I almost forget that this isn’t a date but is instead some twisted criminal prank that I can’t believe we’re even engaging with.
“Let’s just play along for a minute,” Ingram says. “What happens if you say yes and we do get married by sunset?”
I swallow hard and think. “Well, considering I was instructed to say no, I assume there will be consequences for me.”
“Consequences to marrying me? Damned right there’ll be consequences. All of them good,” he whispers, totally flirting with me even though this isn’t the fucking time.
I shake my head and try to hold back my smile. But it breaks through anyway, and suddenly we’re both grinning like idiots—which means we probably are idiots, given the enormity of what’s happening.
“OK, I’ll take this seriously,” Ingram says, still smiling. “Consequences for you . . . let’s see. I assume that means Mother and Father won’t give you your money and assets back if you don’t turn me down. You agree?”
I nod. “I assume that’s their game.”
“And what kind of assets are we talking about?” Ingram says. “Ball park figure. A million? Ten million?”
I close one eye and scrunch my face up. “More,” I finally say. “A lot more.”
Ingram’s eyes go wide and he stares for a minute. “Seriously?” he says, glancing down at my smooth bare arms, my brown shoulders, that hint of cleavage.
“Is that surprising?” I demand, clenching my fist below the bar and reminding myself that breaking his sexist nose probably isn’t helpful right now. “You arrogant piece of—”
“Whoa! Timeout!” Ingram says, waving the conversation dead and turning bright red. He rubs his jaw and exhales hard. “I guess I deserved that. I guess a part of me made the totally unacceptable and sexist assumption that any woman who looks so fucking hot in a red dress can’t also have tens of millions of dollars in the bank.”
I’m still fuming, but the sad truth is that I’ve seen the same subtle prejudice even from other women, some of whom have even quietly asked if I had an older husband who died without getting me to sign a pre-nup. In a weird way, Ingram did a little better because he seems to accept without question that I earned my millions the American way: By working my ass off for ten long years, sacrificing every other part of my life along the way.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I ask with raised eyebrows. “Because it’s not. You pretty much just said that a hot woman can’t also be smart, powerful, and wealthy.”
“That is absolutely not what I said,” Ingram says firmly. “I meet smart, powerful, wealthy women who are hot as hell all the time. Problem is, they’re all either crazy or married. So which one are you?”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You don’t know when to stop, do you? Nope. You just keep doubling down on your own arrogance and ignorance,” I say.
Ingram shrugs. “I always double down. Told you I was a betting man. And speaking of bets, can we get back to the topic at hand before you punch me in the face and we both get arrested for fighting?”
“Wouldn’t be much of a fight,” I say, holding up my fists and sporting a mean look that makes my nose tickle. “I’ve knocked out bigger, badder wolves than you.”
Ingram grins, holding his hands up in surrender. “I don’t know if that’s a joke, but since you’re wearing red like Little Red Riding Hood, this wolf isn’t taking any chances.”
“I thought you were a betting man,” I say, holding the tough-girl look and throwing a slow, fake punch at the big bad grinning wolf.
Ingram grabs my wrist, and when I playfully swing with my other hand he swiftly takes hold of my other wrist. Now he’s got me trapped, and a wave of heat passes through me when I feel how strong he is—and how he’s controlling that power in a way that makes me feel safe with him, like he’s my best bet out of this crazy situation.
Problem is, I think as we smile at each other and he lets me go, that might put me in an even crazier situation.
“Sorry to burst your billionaire bubble, but you aren’t marriage material,” I say, straightening out my hair and sipping my non-alcoholic drink which is way too sweet. I was kinda-sorta teasing but not really, sorta-maybe flirting but of course this isn’t the time and he isn’t the guy.
Though could he have been the guy if we’d met under different circumstances, I wonder as Ingram dismisses my jab with a grunt and taps on his empty glass with that black Society ring.
“How many drinks is that?” I say, frowning as Ingram knocks back another scotch like it’s a jello-shot at a frat party.
He stares at me like I’m an alien, and his face clouds over like he can’t believe I just said that. Shit, I can’t believe it either. What the hell do I care? Ohmygod, would I be that kind of wife if we got married?!
Now I’m all messed up in my head because suddenly I’m thinking about marrying Ingram. Not thinking about it like I want it. I don’t think so, at least. I don’t want it. Do I? I can’t want it. Can I?
“So I’d have to stop drinking when we get married?” Ingram says, a lopsided smile breaking on his face as he touches my arm with the back of his hand.
The contact gives me goosebumps, and I look away to hide my smile. Thankfully my brown skin makes it easy to hide my blush; still, I can’t hide from the annoying fact that I’m actually attracted to Ingram. Not to mention the vaguely flattering fact that he’s attracted to me. I saw the way he checked out my ass when I walked in here, and I remember how my nipples stiffened when I looked into those eyes and saw what was going on in his filthy mind. Shit, maybe in a different life this could have been something. An evening of fun, if nothing else.
“Still nothing,” says Ingram, looking at his phone and then his watch. “That’s not a good sign if even my contacts at the FBI haven’t got a lead.” One more glance at the sun through the window and then he faces me. “And we haven’t got much time, India. Look, even not doing anything is a decision. If we just sit here like fools until the sun goes down, we both lose.”
I shake my head and smile. “Nope. You lose. I win. I had to say no to your question, and if we aren’t married by sunset, it means I’ve said no.”
Ingram grins and slowly shakes his head like he’s got me in his wolf-trap. “I haven’t asked you the question yet,” he whispers through that wicked grin. “And until I ask, you can’t answer. So we’re in a deadlock, a stalemate, a game of chicken with our entire net worths on the line. That get your blood pumping, little girl?”
My blood does pump a bit harder, most of it going to my head and throbbing in my temples. He’s technically right, I realize. He told me the question, but he didn’t actually ask it yet. And I can’t answer a question that hasn’t been
asked. Asshole is right. If we do nothing, we might both lose.
My minds spins through the possibilities, most of which seem to be lose-win situations: One of us needs to lose for the other to win. Which of course is a problem when you’ve got two ambitious, competitive people who are used to winning and sure as hell don’t like to lose.
I wonder if there’s a win-win scenario, and I try to ignore the little whisper at the back of my mind that maybe marrying Ingram is the winning play. I almost hate myself for having that thought, and I have to excuse myself and head for the restroom to get my head straight.
The Ladies Room has a lobby with a plush purple couch in the center of it, and I collapse into the soft suede and stare up at the ceiling. It’s painted black and dotted with scores of pin-sized lights that make it feel like a starry night in here. Soon I’m lost in my thoughts, and I find myself thinking of something Ingram said about arranged marriages and how common they used to be for like . . . well, forever, actually. Marriages based on love are a pretty recent invention . . . and one that’s somehow resulted in a divorce-rate that would make an alien wonder why humans insist on doing something that doesn’t seem to work out very often.
That little factoid is part of the reason I’ve avoided marriage like the plague, I think as I stare up at the starry ceiling. And with my net worth, a divorce would be fucking expensive.
“Ohmygod,” I mutter, frowning and pulling at my lip until it hurts. “Have I denied myself the chance of falling in love because I’m so darned logical and analytical? Did I overthink it to the point where I believe the stats that most marriages fail and therefore decide that it makes better financial sense to just never get married? Have I been unconsciously making the safe bet with my own life, my own wealth, my own . . . heart?”
I sit up straight on the couch, gasping as I feel something click inside me (in a good way . . . I think). It really feels like this train of thought is going somewhere—and that it’s somehow connected to what’s happening.
“Is that what Mother and Father are doing?” I whisper out loud. “Trying to force us to confront ourselves, face up to the beliefs that have been holding us back from happiness?”
Billionaire's Curvy Bet Page 1
