The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  “Really? I figured you were on the prowl.” He smiles at me, and my damn heart flutters again.

  “For a client,” I clarify.

  “For a client, of course.” His smile is intoxicating. I hate this goddamn scotch, but I wonder how it would taste on his lips…

  Holy fuck, pull yourself together.

  “So what do you think, Ms. Kirkland? Can we stop dancing around this?” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “I’ve got my checkbook right here. I’m sure you can carve out some extra hours in the day for me.”

  I sigh, setting down my glass. “You know I can’t do that. How pissed off would you be if I set you aside for some new flashy client, just because he offered me a bonus?”

  “Extremely,” he says, with a flash of his teeth. “So let’s hope your current client is more understanding than I would be.”

  “Mr. Wakefield, what do you expect me to do?”

  “Just to be honest,” he says, his smile fading. The room grows a little colder. “If you don’t want to work with me, why don’t you just say so? Stop blowing me off.”

  There’s an uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I should just tell him the truth - should’ve told him the truth from the beginning - but even now, I don’t want to.

  “I’m not blowing you off,” I respond, as convincingly as I can manage. “I’ve just been very busy.” I make a vague gesture in front of me, like “hanging out at a scotch tasting” is some kind of universal signal for “very busy.”

  “Right.” He smiles wryly, leaning on the bar again. “So busy you’ve been spending all of your free time exchanging emails with The King of Smut.”

  I check my phone one more time. Five minutes to go, but you can’t be too careful. “Your words, not mine,” I tell him, coolly. I refuse to get sucked into this. Of course, he knows that downtime and work-time aren’t the same thing. He’s here, after all.

  “I know what I am,” he says, raising the glass to his lips. “Never pretended to be anybody else. Most everybody else is as much of a degenerate as I am, they just try to hide it in polite company.”

  “You’re not a degenerate,” I tell him, refreshing the ticket app again. “Tone down the drama, Mr. Wakefield.”

  He laughs and licks the remnants of the scotch off of his lips. God damn. “Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. You’re right. I’m sure you make sex jokes with all of your prospective clients, Mistress Cassandra.”

  “Will you give it a rest?” I glance up at him, annoyed but amused. “I don’t care what you used to publish or where your dick’s been, but the kind of woman you want to marry, will. It’s a tough case, that’s all. I need to make sure I’ve got the time and energy to devote to it.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “So you already know what kind of woman I want to marry?”

  “You told me. No models, no actresses. Your history a much easier sell in the entertainment industry, as I’m sure you know.”

  “That’s still a pretty broad category,” he points out. “Plenty of ‘normal people’ aren’t going to care that much about my past. You just said you don’t.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not marrying you.” I shrug. “Excuse me, Mr. Wakefield. I have some important business to deal with for a second.”

  The tickets are about to go on sale. Breathlessly, I refresh the app.

  Yes. They’re live.

  The minute I try to add two VIP passes to my cart, my heart starts to sink. It’s taking too long. Way too long. The site’s overloaded, and Becca’s worst-case-scenario prediction might actually come true.

  No. I’m getting the stupid passes. I want them. I deserve them.

  Again and again, I refresh, watching with painful anticipation as the Please wait… message gives me false hope, over and over again.

  And then, I see the one thing I’ve been dreading.

  Sold Out

  Seven minutes. That’s how long tickets will stay in someone’s cart before they expire. There’s still hope.

  Whoever runs their Twitter account has been really good at keeping up to date with concert news, so I pull up the feed and take a look. The latest update was posted just seconds ago.

  @Broken_Machine_Music: At this point, all the VIP passes are either sold or in the process of checking out. Thanks, and we hope you enjoy the show!

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  This can’t be happening. How did I miss out? Was there something wrong with my connection? It’s not right. It’s not fair. My heart’s thumping in my chest, even as some logical voice in the back of my head tries to tell me how silly I’m being. None of this actually matters. It’s ridiculous that this is the only thing to get me excited since…well, I can’t really remember.

  “Important business, huh?”

  I almost jump out of my skin. Wakefield’s standing right behind me, of course, peering over my shoulder like that’s a totally normal thing to do.

  “Important to me,” I snap, as I whirl around to face him. “Can I help you with something?”

  He’s smirking, and I could fucking punch his lights out. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a Broken Machine fan.”

  “It was supposed to be a gift,” I insist.

  “Your guilty expression says otherwise,” Wakefield replies. “But that’s all right. Everyone’s allowed to have vices.”

  I need a drink. And not expensive scotch, either. Something I don’t have to feel bad about guzzling.

  “Well, I’m glad I have your approval. Now I can sleep at night.” This room suddenly feels too small, too stuffy, and I need to get the hell out of here.

  “What’s wrong? Tickets can’t have sold out already. I mean, I know they really get the estrogen pumping, but…” Wakefield leans close to try and read my screen, upside-down this time, and I catch a whiff of his scent.

  God, he even smells good. Like…sandalwood and an old library…

  Get a grip!

  “VIP passes,” I mutter, my ears starting to burn for reasons that are only partially related to my questionable taste in music. “I was going to take my sister. Special treat.”

  “Oh, it’s a VIP pass you want?” He makes a casual gesture. “I can get you one.”

  I stare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I can get you one,” he repeats, with a little sarcastic upturn of his mouth. “Do you want it, or not?”

  What the hell is he playing at?

  And does it even matter? Could I possibly accept him? There’s an actual physical ache in my chest at the thought of getting my hands on one of those passes. I want it so badly I can taste the rum and coke I’ll be sipping when I finally see frontman Matt Riley face to face.

  There was a time in my life when I would’ve been too scared to meet them, too tongue-tied. But now I’m smooth and polished. I know exactly what to say to put people at ease, to make them smile. I might even be able to get a chuckle out of him. Have a moment of real, human connection with somebody who - as silly as it sounds now - had a profound effect on my life.

  God damn it.

  “I don’t suppose I have to ask what you want in return.” I meet his gaze, calmly. If I betray how badly I want that pass, I’ll lose all my credibility.

  “You suppose right.” He shrugs, hands deep in his pockets. “What’ll it be, Ms. Kirkland?”

  I laugh a little. “Seriously? Did you think that’s how you’d get to me? Concert tickets?”

  “A simple ‘no thank you’ would have sufficed,” he says, raising his eyebrows a little. “Unless you’re just deflecting while you try to figure out how to work this to your advantage. But you won’t. This is very simple, Ms. Kirkland. I’ve got something you want, you’ve got something I want. Yes, or no?”

  Am I really about to do this?

  I refresh my phone, one more time. Maybe somebody’s credit card is expired. Maybe someone got an important phone call in the middle of checking out…normally I’d never wish that kind of misfortune on anyone, but hey, if
it’s happening anyway…

  “I need two tickets,” I tell him, looking up again. Might a well be clear about things, even if I’d rather crawl across broken glass than accept his charity.

  “I can get you one,” he repeats. A little shrug. “Take it or leave it.”

  I’m fuming silently. There’s no doubt in my mind he could get a hundred VIP passes if he really wanted to, so the fact that he’s turning this into a power play is both infuriating and insulting. I never had that discussion with Becca - what if there was only one left? But I know she doesn’t care about this concert half as much as I do.

  Am I really rationalizing this? I can’t accept a favor from Wakefield. Hell, let’s call it what it is - a bribe. I’ll never get him out of my hair.

  That’s the problem: I don’t want him out of my hair. So what do I want from him, exactly? A flirty pen pal? I knew that wasn’t going to last forever, once he figured out I was never going to work for him, but still…

  I don’t know what I wanted.

  “Think about it,” Wakefield says, breaking through my clouded thoughts. “The offer expires at midnight tonight.”

  “What are you, my fairy godmother?” I glare at him as he turns to leave.

  “Could be,” he says. “It’s up to you, really.”

  “Only if you wear the dress,” I call after him.

  After a couple of seconds, I realize everyone in the damn room is staring at me.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “I need some air.”

  Their eyes follow me out the door, and moment later it occurs to me that I appear to be following Wakefield, which is great. Just great.

  I don’t smoke - have never smoked in my life - but I feel like I need a cigarette. If nothing else, it would be a better excuse than whatever that whole room currently thinks I’m doing. I need to take a second to gather my thoughts, but of course Wakefield’s already leaning against the outside of the building, with his foot up on the wall like a delinquent teenager as he scrolls through his phone. I can’t just stand out here and pretend like I don’t notice him.

  Ah, fuck it.

  He must hear the click of my heels on the sidewalk as I approach him, but he doesn’t look up until I address him. His lips, however, do curl up into a smile. I’m almost sure it’s for me.

  “Walk with me, Silent Bob.”

  He launches himself off the wall and ambles along next to me. “Considering my offer? I was mostly kidding about the deadline. But if you take too long, I might end up married on my own, and then where will you be?”

  “I thought maybe I should be honest with you,” I tell him, exhaling softly. “You’re right, Mr. Wakefield. I don’t know how to help you. I really am busy, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t even know where to start. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept a gift from you.” I glance at him. “Or a bribe.”

  “I have faith in you, Cassandra,” he says. “You don’t seem like someone who backs down from a challenge.”

  “And you don’t seem like a manipulative bastard, but here we are.” I half-smile at him.

  “Oh, now, that’s just a lie.” He shakes his head. “If you want to walk away from the offer, that’s no skin off my ass. But…”

  I really, really don’t need to be thinking about his ass right now.

  “Think about it,” he says, when I don’t respond. “But don’t think too hard, that’ll get you into trouble - or at least, it always does me.”

  And with that, he disappears around a corner.

  Chapter Four

  Devon

  I’m not saying that I thought Cassandra Kirkland was hot. But when her shoe hit the back of my skull, I probably didn’t lose my erection as quickly as I should have.

  I swear I hired her with the best of intentions. Things just happened to fall into place - I was feeling that itch all bachelors eventually feel, getting tired of the anonymous encounters, forgetting names, depressing booty calls with someone whose company you can barely stand. When I found out that she was the premiere matchmaker for the city’s elite, well - that’s Devon Wakefield. Always has to have the best of everything.

  From there, things got a little bit twisted. I thought she might balk a little at the job, but I didn’t expect her to string me along with flirty emails for months. I’m still not sure why I played along.

  Well, all right. I can think of a few reasons.

  But why is she doing it? That’s the real question. If she doesn’t like me enough to work for me, why does she like me enough to email me ten times a day?

  These are questions I’m better off not asking. I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’d like to have Cassandra in my bed, but do I need her? Of course not. If not her, I’ll find someone else. I always do.

  “Wake up, Dev.”

  I scowl across my desk as the balled-up straw wrapper skitters by my arm. “It’s called thinking, Noah. You should try it sometime.”

  “I’ve seen you thinking, plenty of times.” Noah Archer swallows a mouthful of the ridiculously sub-standard Tex-Mex takeout that he insists on bringing me when he wants to talk. “This isn’t thinking. This is daydreaming.”

  Noah doesn’t know about Cassie. I can’t quite figure her out, and that irks me. I’ve never seen a publicist take her client’s personal foibles so…well, personally. As devoted as they are, at the end of the day it’s just a job. But Cassie had something else. There was a fire in her eyes.

  Normally, I’m not shy about this kind of thing. I’ll freely talk about any woman who catches my eye, because I know I can have her if I want. But Cassie…

  Cassie is different.

  It’s not that she’s untouchable. Far from it. I know I could talk my way into her bed, it would just take a little more time. Before her matchmaking business launched, I’d look her up from time to time. Pure curiosity. And, well - I wanted to see her face again. Try to figure out if my memory was right.

  Turns out, her face isn’t easy to find. I thought I’d struck gold when I dug up her college acapella group, but even they didn’t manage to get a snapshot of her without a curtain of hair across her eyes. She seems to have some kind of supernatural ability to dodge the camera at just the right moment. And that…well, that’s interesting.

  I can see a lot from a photograph. More than most. I’ve stood behind the lens enough times in my life. People hide parts of themselves in pictures, but they show much more.

  It’s actually a lot easier to hide in real life. People have all kinds of things they can do, and not do. They mirror each other. The secret to being “likable” and “charming” is just to be everything the observer wants you to be. Just copy them. Everybody’s a little bit of a narcissist. When they see themselves looking back, they practically get a boner. Most people know this, so they do it, instinctively. They let themselves be manipulated by it, and they don’t even notice.

  That’s why the relationship between the photographer and the subject is so weird. You can’t mirror a photographer. They’re in a totally different position, physically and mentally. You don’t have a lot of options. You either have to make up something to project from scratch, or…as a last resort…actually be yourself.

  Here’s what I want to know: what is Cassandra Kirkland hiding?

  ***

  Cassie

  I swear, it’s not just about the tickets.

  It’s the principle of the thing. I might pride myself on being sensible, but I’m still stubborn. I wouldn’t be successful if I wasn’t. And part of me wants to prove that I can match someone like Wakefield - to him, to myself. To the world.

  It’s time for a reconnaissance mission.

  I have the perfect prop for these situations. It’s a custom Hermès bag, something no Upper Eastside trophy wife worth her salt can resist commenting on. One of the clients from my former job in public relations gave me the bag, as a goodbye gift - I think he was a little bit in love with me, so maybe I should’ve felt bad
about accepting it, but hell. The thing cost more than my car, but it still cost less than my client would spend on one leg of his private jet trip to the Bahamas, so I guess I’m not overwhelmed with guilt.

  I’m at one of the “places to see and be seen,” up in one of the neighborhoods Wakefield would likely want to settle down. It’s a nail salon where everything costs twice as much as it should, but they give you free herbal tea in a fancy waiting room in hopes that you won’t notice.

  My bag is key. The trick to getting everything you need from people is to make sure that they start the conversation - nobody feels awkward or interrogated when they’re just having a friendly chat.

  It only takes me a few seconds to find my ideal target. She’s about the right age, platinum blonde, probably a size four. Her skin is flawless, her eyes are sharp, and she’s got a hint of a sly smile about her.

  I sit down a few seats away, making sure my purse is prominently visible on my arm.

  “Oh my God, where did you get that bag?”

  I glance over at her with feigned surprise. Her eyes are wide with curiosity - and a touch of envy.

  “This?” I look down, as if to check which one of my remarkable purses I’m carrying today. “Oh, it was a gift.”

  “Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Is it discontinued?” She leans closer to peer at it, and I take the invitation to move a few chairs over and present it to her.

  “Custom made, actually. I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy…you know how it goes.” I laugh it off like it’s no big deal, and that makes her eyes widen even more.

  “That’s crazy. Watch yourself, I might steal it right off your shoulder.” She grins. “Lucky. Are you in PR?”

  I nod. It continues to be a good cover story, and it’s close enough to the truth that I’m able to play the part very well. “I wouldn’t recommend it, but sometimes the swag is pretty nice.”

  “Really? That bad?” She raises her eyebrows. “I guess some people can be pretty high-maintenance.”