The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  “It’s not what it looked like,” I inform him.

  “Ah, of course. He’s a client.” My companion laughs.

  “I can’t confirm that,” I reply. “I take client confidentiality very seriously.”

  “Sure, of course,” he says.

  “Usually I’m much better at avoiding the lenses.”

  “I believe you,” he says, with a smile. There’s something about it that I don’t like, but I brush off the feeling. I’m probably still just feeling embarrassed.

  “I am surprised, though,” he says, after a long pause. “Doesn’t seem like a smart move for Wakefield to be hiring a matchmaker, of all things.”

  “Again, I can’t speak to that,” I reply, coolly. But my curiosity is getting the better of me. “Do you know him?”

  “Somewhat,” he says, hesitantly. “I shouldn’t be talking about this either, but I’ve reached a certain level of not-giving-a-fuck, to be honest.”

  I frown into my drink. “What do you mean?”

  He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sticking my neck out, but I can’t just let you go on thinking he’s…something he isn’t. Shit. I’ve already shot my mouth off, I might as well just spit it all out, right?”

  I half-smile at him, my mind racing. “You’re not really making a lot of sense right now.”

  “I know,” he says, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. If it gets back around that I’ve told you about him, I’ll be kicked out of every rich-asshole club in this city. Much as it pains me to admit it, I need that networking. My livelihood depends on it.”

  My patience is wearing thin, but he’s starting to worry me. “Listen, if there’s something you feel compelled to tell me, I’ll treat it with the same confidentiality as I treat my clients. I know how to keep a secret. You don’t have to worry about blowback.”

  My companion nods. “I get it. I know. But it’s an intimidating prospect, speaking out against a guy like him. I just think you deserve to know.”

  I sit there, in tense silence, waiting for him to speak again.

  “His company,” he says, finally. “Fine People. It’s going under. They’ll be firing bankruptcy before the end of the year.”

  I shake my head, frowning. “That’s…that can’t be right.”

  “I thought the same thing,” he says. “At first. Then I did a little digging. I’ll admit, I got sort of obsessed. I knew Wakefield back in school. We had a bit of a…I don’t know, a friendly rivalry going on. At least, it was friendly on my end. And I thought he felt the same way about me. But when it came to grad school, someone managed to sabotage my admission chances. Yeah, I did some stupid things when I was a freshman, but nothing the other guys weren’t doing. Ultimately it was my so-called frat brothers who threw me under the bus, because they didn’t want to get shut down. But underage drinking and inappropriate behavior was enough to get me blacklisted, and that was that. I lost my chance. My father still hasn’t forgiven me, and it’s been over a decade. I know it’s not really anyone else’s fault. But it wasn’t fair. I always suspected it was Wakefield who told them, but I couldn’t prove it.”

  He takes a deep breath, and goes on.

  “So when I happened to hear a rumor from one of his former freelancers, saying his company was going under - I had to find out more. And the more I found out, the worse it got. He was hiding it from everyone. To keep the place running, he ate through everybody’s pensions. He’s going to lay off the whole place in a few months, and he’s going to do it without a breath of warning. No severance packages. Nothing. There’s not going to be anything left by the time he’s done bleeding all the accounts dry.”

  I stare at him. “That’s insane. I hope you know how crazy you sound right now.”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” he says. “But I’ve seen enough. His shareholders haven’t quite caught on yet, but they will soon. The house of cards will come crashing down. But he’s already taken care of himself, he’s got his own money socked away for a rainy day. He’ll be able to live the rest of his life pretty comfortably, even if he never works another day in his life. Wish I could say the same for all those employees, all those freelancers. Honestly, even with some of the shit he pulled in college, I thought Wakefield was better than that.”

  I shake my head, slowly. None of this makes any sense. I looked into all of Fine People’s filings, nothing indicated there was trouble afoot. Sure, they’re not publicly traded, so there’s a limit to what I can see. But still. This can’t be true, can it?

  Can it?

  I don’t even know this guy’s name. But now isn’t the time to start acting suspicious. If he is lying to me, he’s doing it for a reason. And the last thing I want to do is play into anyone’s hand.

  But if he thinks I believe him, then I’m one step ahead.

  “I knew there was something about him,” I mutter, through gritted teeth. “I knew it. He’s just too charismatic, you know?”

  His face breaks into a smile. “I knew you’d be smart enough to understand,” he says. “But please - I’m serious. You can’t tell anyone. If he finds out that I stuck my nose into his business like this, he’ll burn my life to the ground. I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

  Have you?

  I’ve been around enough men like Wakefield. I know what they’re capable of, too. Money is power, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Just by those standards alone, this story makes sense.

  No matter how charismatic, no matter how thoughtful he might seem at times, he’s still the kind of person who can climb over others’ hunched backs to get what he wants.

  But this is all circumstantial. I’ve got no reason to believe this stranger, other than my own biases. And as well-founded as they might be, that’s not fair.

  More importantly…I don’t want to believe.

  What kind of crazy does that make me?

  After all of the experiences I’ve had with men like him, I still don’t want to believe that Devon Wakefield is truly one of them.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” I say, finally, when the silence stretches on too long. “I promise. I won’t let on that anything’s different.”

  “Thank you,” says my companion. “That means the world to me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next time Devon calls, I almost don’t answer.

  I sit there, staring at the screen, my heart beating like a snare drum. At the last possible second, I hit the green button.

  “Ms. Strickland,” he says, in the calmest, smoothest voice imaginable. There is absolutely no innuendo in it. No hint of what happened. He could just as easily be calling one of his shareholders.

  “Mr. Wakefield,” I reply, in what I hope is the same tone.

  “I realized we never made an appointment for our next session,” he says. “So I thought I would reach out. I’m not sure what you had in mind, but I’d love to continue working with you.”

  Now, I have a choice. I can accept this new reality, where we’re apparently both going to pretend nothing happened between us. Or, I can tell him it’s over. Tell him I can’t work with him anymore. It’s not his fault, it’s not really mine either, it’s just the way things are.

  “The holidays are coming up,” I hear myself saying. “A lot of people struggle with some of the issues that come along with that. Family, gift-giving, all those expectations. We could work on that, if you like.”

  “I would,” he says. “Send the details to Maggie, will you? She’s got total control of my calendar.”

  “Of course.” He’s never pawned me off on his assistant before. He’s trying to create distance between us. I know I should appreciate it, but instead, there’s a twisting pain in my chest.

  ***

  I’m meeting Devon at “his new place uptown.” He tells me he’s thinking of relocating there permanently. I wonder what the commute’s going to be like for him, then I remember what the stranger in the bar told me, and I don’t ask.
>
  He assures me, without prompting, that contractors are going to be there all day working on the master bath remodel. So we won’t be alone. He doesn’t say that last bit, but he doesn’t need to.

  It’s a beautiful condominium in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Not as ostentatious as his apartment. There are kids playing basketball in a well-manicured court behind the buildings.

  If you’ve absolutely got to raise a family in the city, this would be the place to do it.

  The doorman lets me in, and I buzz up to Devon’s place on the second floor. Before I even knock, I can feel the whole floor vibrating from the construction. The neighbors must be annoyed. I wonder if he’s already paid them hush money.

  Devon comes to the door quickly, dressed in jeans and a white v-neck tee shirt. He’s got a dish towel slung over his shoulder, and he looks, as the kids would say, like a snack.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Please, come in,” he says, his eyes quickly glancing away from mine. “I’m sorry about the noise. You know how it is. They tell you two weeks, and a month later they’re still breaking up the tiles.”

  I nod sympathetically. I’ve been living in the same apartment for ten years. The most I know about remodeling comes from binge-watching Love It or List It.

  “I’m working on holiday meal prep,” he says, as I follow him into the kitchen, trying not to stare at his denim-hugged ass.

  “Don’t you have people to do that for you?” I ask him, before I can stop myself.

  “Yes, well, that’s not as impressive as doing it myself, is it?” he replies.

  “Guess it depends on your priorities.” I force a smile, trying to soften my tone. He’s absolutely right - being able to cook a holiday meal is impressive. Probably too small of an issue to focus too much time on, but at least he’s on the right track. And I’m pretty sure he’s being sincere.

  “I found an Alton Brown recipe,” he says, poking at the tablet he’s got propped up on the counter. “There’s a brine. I thought brine was for olives, but apparently it’s for turkeys too.”

  I stifle a laugh. “I guess so.”

  It takes me a moment, but I’ve realized where this is coming from. He wants to bring something to the table. Both figuratively, and literally. He wants to prove he’s more than just money and a pretty face.

  It’s kind of adorable.

  Glancing around the kitchen, I notice what looks like a white, wire shelf leaning against the counter. “Is that…” I gesture vaguely.

  “Yeah, I had to clear out some space in the fridge,” he says absently, flicking through pages on the tablet.

  “For the…?” I pull the door open slowly.

  “Uh huh,” he says, at the exact same time that I say, “…dinosaur?”

  The bottom shelf, holding the alleged “turkey,” is bowing so far under its weight that I can’t help but wonder how it hasn’t snapped in half yet.

  “It’s, uh…that’s a big bird,” I comment, finally.

  “I got the smallest one they had.” He frowns, turning to me. “Is it…is it okay?”

  “Who’s they? An ostrich farm?”

  He sighs, turning away from the tablet. “I knew I was overdoing it.”

  It’s actually, legitimately, a little bit heartbreaking. He’s trying so hard, and this is a guy who hasn’t had to try hard for anything in a long, long time.

  “It’s fine,” I assure him, with a smile. “We’ll make it work. Do you have a roasting pan?”

  “Of course,” he says, leaping back into action. He rummages through one of the cabinets above the stove, while I keep on staring at the bird and wondering how he brought it home without a crew of movers.

  “Here,” he beams, presenting one of those black pans speckled with white, found in every grandmother’s kitchen.

  “Oh, boy,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.

  “What?” he asks, instantly. “Is something wrong? I’m sure it’ll fit. I’m pretty good at eyeballing things.”

  “I mean, it’ll…it’ll fit,” I agree, taking the pan from him and turning it over in my hands. “Technically. But it’s going to be wedged in there pretty tight, I’m worried it won’t cook properly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because ovens use convection heat. That means hot air needs to flow freely around the food, or it won’t get completely cooked. Whole birds are tough to get right as it is, because the white meat is prone to drying out, and it’s already on top where it gets cooked the fastest. Unless you spatchcock them, or cook them upside down…”

  I trail off, and notice Devon gazing at me in mild disbelief. “When did you find time to go to culinary school?”

  “I didn’t,” I shrug. “I just like to cook. Watch a lot of Food Network. You know. The usual.”

  “Well, it’s impressive to those of us who set the kitchen on fire when we try to microwave popcorn,” Devon says.

  “I really hope that’s a figure of speech.”

  “Of course it is,” he replies, a little too quickly.

  “Well, we’re going to need a bigger pan,” I point out, setting the rejected one on the counter. “Why don’t we head out to Williams Sonoma and see what’s good? I’m sure the remodel will be fine without you.”

  For a minute, he looks like he’s going to say no. But then the tile grinder kicks up again, and he winces.

  “Maybe a break wouldn’t be so bad,” he says. “I’ll just remind Manny to text me if anything comes up.”

  “Put on some earmuffs,” I yell after him, as he walks into the blast zone.

  ***

  This should feel awkward. It should feel incredibly awkward. Walking through a cookware store with a guy who had his fingers in my pussy just a few days ago, and we’re both pretending it didn’t happen. But for some reason…it doesn’t.

  There’s something about him that radiates a sense of…not peace, exactly. Definitely not peace. There’s nothing zen about the way he makes me feel when he shoots me that devil-may-care smile. But all the same, it still feels right.

  I stop suddenly, reaching out and gripping the handle of a lobster pot, like it’s going to somehow get me through this.

  “What do you think about this one?” He gestures vaguely towards a high shelf, but I don’t look up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “You know what.” Why the fuck did I bring this up? He was content to let it lie.

  “I still don’t understand,” he says.

  “I ran out on you,” I mutter, as quietly as possible. “I didn’t…I didn’t return the favor.”

  “I didn’t expect anything,” he replies, softly. “So you don’t have to apologize.”

  “Then why’d you do it?” The idea of a man being unselfish in bed - or in the living room, as it were - is a new one for me.

  “Because I wanted to,” he murmurs, his eyes locking with mine. They’re dark, so dark, like his pupils have swallowed up everything. My pulse is racing, I can feel it in my throat.

  Suddenly, the air in the room changes.

  I’m the only one who notices it. I’m sure of it. But I can feel the sudden tension, just as clearly as I could hear an approaching thunderstorm. I whirl around, and through a gap in the shelves, I catch a glimpse of a short, dark-haired man ducking around a corner before he’s spotted.

  Pizelle.

  “We have to go,” I blurt out, grabbing Devon’s wrist without thinking.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, though he lets me pull him towards the exit. I can feel several of the staff staring at us; we don’t look like prototypical shoplifters, but then again, neither did Winona Ryder.

  “Nothing,” I insist. “Just someone here I don’t need to see. Nothing you need to worry about.”

  I hail a passing taxi, and it jerks over to the curb so quickly the tires squeal. I guess men who look like Devon don’t often ride in anything other than their private town cars.

&nbs
p; He’s just after a good tip, but right now, this cab driver is my personal guardian angel.

  I know Devon wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. Well - I think I know. Not in front of other people, anyway. But that shouldn’t be his responsibility.

  As soon as we’re inside, Devon turns to me. His tone is serious, urgent. “Cassie, you’ve got to let me help you. Or let someone help you. Whatever’s happening, you don’t need to deal with it alone.”

  “It’s fine,” I insist. I can feel all the blood draining from my face. “Again. Not my first rodeo. I can deal with it.”

  “Please call my friend,” he begs, fishing a business card out of his wallet and pushing it into my palm. “He’s dealt with this kind of thing before. He’s got a sixth sense for creeps. He’ll be able to keep you safe. You shouldn’t have to be worrying about this.”

  “I’m not worried,” I lie.

  He looks at me, unspoken frustration in his eyes.

  I’ve seen it plenty of times before. I’ve always been fiercely independent to a fault, and it almost always pisses someone off. But there’s a reason I’m like this. If you want a thing done right, you have to do it yourself.

  ***

  We didn’t even end up buying the stupid roasting pan, but Devon insists that I come up anyway, because he doesn’t want me going back to my place alone if Pizelle is still following me. As much as I want to argue on principle, he’s right. Pizelle will eventually get bored and leave once he realizes he’s not getting past first-floor security.

  As we approach the front door, it’s eerily quiet. I wonder if they’ve finally finished grinding up rocks, or whatever it is they’ve been doing all day.

  “Manny?” Devon calls out, as we walk inside. “Manny, is everything okay?”

  I follow him towards the bathroom, peering around his shoulder out of pure curiosity. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but it’s pretty much just a generic half-torn-up bathroom, but a lot bigger.

  The tools are still there, but the contractors aren’t.

  “Must’ve gone to lunch,” Devon mutters, turning on his heel. “I wish he’d told me.”