The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  I shrug, not wanting to give him an inch - he’ll take a mile. It’s tempting to say yes, to give in, because I haven’t really been able to do a single damn thing for him yet. And yes, I feel bad. I feel guilty that I strung him along and wasted his time with those stupid, flirty emails, letting him think he was charming me into working for him.

  This is the least I can do, right?

  Oh my God, am I really thinking about doing this? Have I completely lost my damn mind? Pretend-dating Devon Wakefield, my own personal sexual napalm, is either going to end in insanity, or…fuck. I don’t even know.

  I don’t want to find out.

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wakefield, I have another meeting today. It was very nice talking to you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he says, as he stands to leave.

  That was almost too easy.

  Almost.

  He stops at the door, chuckling softly. “Interesting,” he says.

  I can’t help it. So help me, I’m going to take the bait. “What?” I ask him.

  Wakefield turns around, slowly, and he smiles at me. “Thousands of algorithms, over forty different header images…but only one of them is me.”

  It takes me a second.

  Okay, longer than a second. Ten seconds to wrap my head around what he’s saying, and another forty or so for my brain to stop stuttering and react.

  “Oh, goddamn it,” I blurt out, to an empty room. Mr. Wakefield’s probably halfway to the parking lot by now, and his toned abs are still glowing on my computer screen.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there when Becca walks in.

  “Hey, sorry if you were looking for me, I got an emergency call from downstairs, something about a sprinkler leak, but when I got down there nobody knew who’d put in the call, so we spent twenty minutes trying to figure out if there was a failure with one of the sensors, and then…” She drifts off, frowning at me. “Hey, are you okay? You look pale.”

  “Becca?” I say, softly, not really looking at her.

  “Uh, yeah?” She’s sort of smiling, I think. Nervously. I can’t really tell, out of the corner of my eye.

  “Can you run down to the nearest hardware store, grab a flamethrower, bring it back here, and incinerate this entire building with me in it?”

  Chapter Six

  Devon

  She’ll think about it.

  Of course she will.

  I want to start whistling a jaunty tune as I walk back to my office, but I’m already fighting to hide a grin, and I think most of the people I’m passing want to stab me. There’s no room for smiles on a wet, gray autumn day in the city.

  But how can I be in a bad mood when Cassandra Kirkland wants me?

  She plays it close to the chest. Most women have a tell - and most don’t even bother to hide it, because I make it easy to flirt with me. I usually keep it lighthearted. There’s nothing to gain by making them think that batting their eyelashes or licking their lips is some kind of commitment.

  Cassandra, she keeps it cool. She’s difficult to read. I wouldn’t want to play opposite her in poker. But I’m starting to see the cracks in her facade. Namely: I am exactly her type.

  Those algorithms are damn close to flawless. There’s only one person in the world that they don’t work on, and that’s an oddity. Everyone else has a type, and that type’s not hard to find. Every time lovely Cassie likes a photo on Tumblr, on Facebook, shares something with her friends, pins it to her wall, my site knows about it. Somewhere in the depths of FindPeople’s code, there is a database that knows Cassandra Kirkland better than she knows herself. And that database searched every single model we had, and spit back…me.

  The photo shoot was something I did on a whim. I’m no model, and that’s not false modesty speaking. Those people put themselves through hell for our viewing pleasure. Under the harsh lights and unforgiving lens of the camera, there’s no room for flaws, and I’m far from perfect. But when a friend pointed out that I had a certain look that was missing from the site, I couldn’t really argue. It was probably worth trying - I mean, if my picture never came up, it didn’t matter, right? No harm, no foul.

  It ended up being a lot more popular than I anticipated. The whole thing certainly gave me a little bit of a chuckle, and a slight ego boost, although I never cared that much about the opinions of random strangers.

  But then there’s Cassie.

  Beautiful, sharp-eyed, voluptuous Cassie. If I had a type, she might be it. I just never knew until we met. Even with her shoe jarring the back of my skull - she’s got an arm on her, by the way - I was captivated. I’ve got no idea why.

  And it turns out she feels the same way about me.

  Of course, she didn’t remember my face. I can’t blame her. It definitely wasn’t the most memorable part of my anatomy on display that night. If I’d walked in on her naked, I probably would’ve had a similar amnesia problem.

  Here’s the thing: Cassandra finds me irresistible. That part’s obvious. The less obvious part is how much willpower she actually has, and where it’ll stop her. She has a touch of the unpredictable about her. With most women, I could take this knowledge and run with it. Invite them out for a drink, with a reasonable certainty that we’d end the evening in bed.

  Cassie, though? I’ve got no idea. It’s not that my ego couldn’t take the hit, but I don’t like walking into things without a conclusion mapped out. Would we kiss? Would she glance over her shoulder, shake her head a little, bite her lip, and then agree to go home, but just for a night cap? No funny business? (Of course, funny business. There is always funny business if they bother to bring it up, because that means they’ve got funny business on the brain and it’s not going anywhere until they’ve had a taste.)

  Or would we just part as friends? As matchmaker and client?

  I have no fucking clue.

  So, I’m not dating her. Not for real. We’re only pretend dating, and I’m going to pay her for the privilege.

  It’s not just pretense. I truly don’t know how to date normal people, people I’ve got a genuine interest in beyond the bedroom; everybody says be yourself, and I’m not sure exactly who I am on dates, but it’s definitely not me. For anyone who’s not a model or an actress, I know I’d come across as smug and contrived and basically insufferable. If anyone’s not going to pull any punches in teaching me how to be a Real Live Boy, it’s Cassandra.

  I just hope I can survive the process.

  ***

  My phone rings in the middle of a stockholder’s meeting.

  I glance down to see Cassie’s name pop up on my screen. If they notice the smile that twitches at the corner of my lips, they don’t say anything.

  “Sorry,” I tell them, snatching it off the table before they have a chance to react. “I have to take this. Important client. Help yourselves to the, uh…”

  My eyes slide to the anemic tray of assorted baked goods that passes for catering these days.

  “…bagels,” I finish, quietly, as I slip out into the hall.

  “Ms. Kirkland.” My voice is, I hope, warm and seductive. I try. “It’s so lovely to hear from you.”

  There’s a soft, sudden intake of breath. “Oh. I figured I’d get your voice mail.”

  “You? Never.”

  She chuckles. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mr. Wakefield. I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”

  “And?” I clear my throat. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I do have a meeting to get back to.”

  “Why on earth did you leave?” she demands. “Call me back when you have time.”

  “I always have time for you,” I assure her.

  I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “You can stop laying it on with a trowel. I’m going to do it. But we need to talk about the time and place.”

  “No, we don’t,” I reply. “Just tell me when you’re free, I’ll plan everything for ou
r first date.”

  A beat of silence.

  “We haven’t talked about my a la carte rates,” she says.

  “Name your price,” I reply, smoothly. “Have your assistant send me your schedule, I’ll take care of everything. Got to take me for a test drive first, right?”

  She sighs. “We’ll talk about this later, Mr. Wakefield.”

  Gritting my teeth, I shove my phone back in my pocket. She just can’t make this easy, can she?

  When I walk back into the conference room, everyone’s muttering amongst themselves. They fall ominously silent as I approach the table.

  “Well,” I say, with forced cheerfulness. “What do you think, gentlemen? Anything else I can clear up for you?”

  “Actually, yes.” The oldest and sternest of the bunch clears his throat. Great. “I have a few questions about this graph. It doesn’t seem…”

  He hesitates, his finger hovering over one of the data points. At one point in time, every single one of these guys was a captain of industry in their own right. Now most of them haven’t actually run their own businesses since the Carter administration.

  As much as he wants to seem shrewd, he can’t find a flaw in my projections.

  “Yes?” I prod him, my voice as steady as ever. “Please. I’d be happy to discuss any issues you have.”

  Slowly, he shakes his head. “Yes. Well. I’d like to review this with my financial advisor…”

  “Of course,” I cut in, smoothly, snatching the paper from under his nose. “I’ll make sure to send along a secured copy to your assistant’s email address. This is privileged information, you understand, and after the incident last year…”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he mumbles. His eyes narrow slightly as he stares me down, trying to get me to crack. Theodore Newman doesn’t know the first thing about modern corporate sabotage or cyber-security. He’s relying entirely on my poker face to let him know if this situation is legit.

  I did my research. He’s got six meetings on this trip, and we’re only the second one. By the time he gets back home, he’ll have forgotten all about this presentation. The breakfast was an unfortunate oversight. Nobody even touched the bagels. But with any luck, they were all too hung-over from try-hard Freddy Peterson’s party last night that they aren’t even thinking about food.

  I shake everyone’s hands, smiling, cheerfully leading them out to the elevator. Another meeting down. That gives me about six, nine months of breathing room.

  I’m still living on borrowed time, but at least I’m not making it any shorter.

  “Maggie.” I rap my knuckles on my assistant’s desk as I pass by, but she doesn’t even flinch. “I need you.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Maggie deadpans, looking up at me through her owlish glasses. “What is it this time, sir?”

  “I need an impressive place to take a lady of substance,” I tell her, drumming my fingers on the polished wood. “But not impressive like ‘look at me, I’m so rich.’ Impressive like - ‘wow, I wouldn’t think that affluenza son-of-a-bitch would think so creatively.’”

  She blinks a few times. “And you want me to figure it out for you.”

  “Well, yes.” I shrug. “I’m busy, Maggie.”

  Slowly, she pulls out a sheaf of papers from one of her desk drawers. “Is this business, or personal?”

  “Little bit of both.”

  Maggie gives me one of her Looks.

  “Personal,” I amend. “Mostly. Just…make it good, all right?”

  “Friday evening?” Maggie glances up at me.

  Shit. She never did tell me when she was free.

  “Yeah, make it Friday. If I hear differently, I’ll let you know.”

  On my way back to my office, I fire off a text. Making plans for Friday night. Let me know if that works for you.

  The response comes lightning-quick. You mean your secretary’s making plans.

  Well.

  I’m hurt, I reply.

  Can’t do it anyway. I’m working. Make it Saturday, she says.

  I mash the intercom button on my desk. “Maggie, make that Saturday.”

  Cassie sends another message right on the heels of the last one. If you want, you can just give me your secretary’s number and cut out the middleman.

  I tell her: I’m not going to dignify that with a response.

  This woman’s going to be the death of me.

  ***

  When I pass by Maggie’s desk again at the end of the day, she lifts a finger to stop me in my tracks.

  “Yes?”

  “That historic theater uptown,” she says. “I got you a private screening Saturday in one of the boxes. Dinner service, champagne, the whole deal. Any movie you want to see.”

  I pause for a minute, turning it over in my head. It’s extravagant, but not ostentatious. Thoughtful and different. And it’s not so elaborate that Cassie won’t believe I came up with it myself.

  “That’s good,” I tell her.

  “I know,” says Maggie, dryly. “Should I tell them what to play, or do you want to choose when you get there?”

  I consider this for a moment. Letting Cassie choose at the theater would be a nice touch, but it’s also a lot of pressure on a first date. She probably expects me to take charge of the situation and let her just sit back and enjoy the experience. After all, this isn’t really about what she wants. It’s about what she thinks the women I’m going to date will want.

  I’m definitely overthinking this.

  “Do they have How to Marry a Millionaire?”

  Maggie’s mouth thins slightly. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?”

  I shrug, already done with this nonsense. “I don’t know, Maggie. You pick, then.”

  She drums her fingers on the desk. “You want to wear an earpiece so I can coach you through the whole thing, sir?”

  “You’d enjoy that a little too much, I think.” I glance at her sidelong, with a sour expression. “You know how I feel about this kind of thing, Maggie.”

  “Yes, and so will every woman you date until you learn to put a little more thought into the little things. That movie’s about gold-diggers learning the virtue of a man’s character, even if he has no money. At best it’s mildly insulting, and it’s definitely sending the wrong message.”

  “Because I’m a man with all of the money, and no character.” I stare at her, balefully. “Feel free to contradict me any time.”

  Her mouth twists into something resembling a smile. “Maybe something like Sabrina? Alfie? Vanilla Sky?”

  I roll my eyes at her. “American Psycho? Come on, Maggie. I don’t think she’s going to read any secret messages into my film choice.”

  Maggie shrugs that shrug, the one that says fine, it’s your funeral. She’s grown adept at getting her point across without words.

  ***

  I step out of the town car in front of the historic theater, brushing some imaginary dust off my jacket. I tried to make arrangements to swing by Cassie’s place and pick her up, but of course she gracefully declined and said that she would meet me there.

  Of course. After I spent a year basically stalking her via inbox, she doesn’t want me knowing where she lives. It’s only fair. Even though she entertained it, she now knows that I’m a bit of a pushy asshole.

  Cassie is already there, standing outside the entrance in a charcoal pea-coat that doesn’t completely hide the elegant red dress that perfectly hugs her curves.

  Shit, I’m in trouble.

  “This place is gorgeous,” Cassie murmurs, her eyes alight as she takes it all in. “I had no idea it was tucked away here.”

  It’s tempting to gloat, but that would go against the spirit of the thing. If I wouldn’t gloat on a real date, then I shouldn’t do it here.

  “I used to come here and people-watch,” I tell her. “All the time. Turns out, if you’re good-looking enough, you can hang out in the lobby of a theater for hours and nobody says a damn thing.”

>   She chuckles. “Yeah, if you looked like Stanley Tucci in The Lovely Bones it probably would have been a different story.”

  I relax a little. That could’ve gone over like a lead balloon, but I guess it’s more charming if I just acknowledge my privilege as an uncommonly handsome man.

  She’s a little ahead of me now, taking in the surroundings. Then she stops and glances back at me, smiling. “What are we watching? Other than people, of course.”

  My smile freezes a little. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “Oh, so we’re doing the mysterious billionaire thing. Okay.” Her teeth briefly catch her lower lip, and I have to look away.

  God, she’s stunning.

  These are not the thoughts I need to be having right now.

  Of course she’s stunning. The sky is blue. The Pope is Catholic. None of these immutable facts are of any help to me right now. I have to focus on the task at hand, which is…

  Shit, I don’t even know anymore.

  Am I really trying to win over Cassie Strickland? She’s very clearly not the sort of woman to be persuaded into anything. She is driven, she is passionate, and she’s…well, I’d be an idiot not to admit that she’s smarter than me. Smarter than most people.

  But she’s also a human being. A human being with needs. And as my website’s algorithms prove, I’m perfectly positioned to meet some of those needs.

  If only she could learn to trust me.

  “Come on,” I tell her, tipping out my elbow. She hesitates for a moment, then grasps it. “We’re upstairs. Let’s get settled before dinner.”

  Her eyebrows tick up in surprise. “We’re eating here?”

  “Of course.” I lead her up the magnificent spiral staircase to our private box, nodding at the various attendants who mark the path. “I get fussy if I don’t eat dinner before nine.”

  There’s a moment of silence where I wonder if she gets the joke, and then she snickers. “You know, calling yourself a spoiled trust-fund baby doesn’t actually make you any less of one.”

  “I can’t help who I am,” I reply. “Can’t help where I was born, just like anyone else. But at least I’m aware of it.”