by Eva Luxe
Match Wanted:
A Billionaire Fake Fiancé Romance
Copyright © 2018 by Eva Luxe and Juliana Conners.
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is completely coincidental and not intentional. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author, other than brief excerpts for the purpose of reviews or promotion.
Credits
Cover Design by Cosmic Letterz
Published by Juliana Conners’ Sizzling Hot Reads
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Eliza
Chapter Two
Beckett
Chapter Three
Eliza
Chapter Four
Beckett
Chapter Five
Eliza
Chapter Six
Beckett
Chapter Seven
Eliza
Chapter Eight
Beckett
Eliza
Chapter Nine
Beckett
Chapter Ten
Eliza
Chapter Eleven
Beckett
Chapter Twelve
Beckett
Chapter Thirteen
Eliza
Epilogue
Eliza
Sneak Peek Excerpt of Billionaire’s Secret Baby
Chapter One
Eliza
“Fantastique!” I squealed as I pressed end call.
“Madame Eliza, are you okay?” my assistant, Lucy, asked.
We were nestled in my office where we were busily planning a matching event when the good news came in.
I leaped out of my chair from behind my massive hand-carved desk and clasped my hands together.
This was astounding.
“Oui, I’ve been invited to Matcher’s Island, and I’ve been nominated for matcher of the year.” The island was in the British Virgin Islands to the east of Puerto Rico, and the only way one got to go there was by invitation.
And the invitations were only sent out once a year. But there was a catch. I was single and showing up to Matcher’s Island without a man would ruin my reputation as a matchmaker. Which in turn would hurt my bank account. Being single was the very reason I’d avoided going for the past few years. I didn’t want to hear the whispers about my lack of a man, but this year was different. I was a nominee.
You would think with me being one of the world’s greatest matchmakers that finding a match for myself wouldn’t be all that complicated, but it was. Not only was it complicated. It was impossible. There simply wasn’t a match out there for me.
I hadn’t dated in eons, not since I’d broken up with my heartless ex Louis Bernard. He had not only cheated on me, but he’d stolen half my client list and set up a match-making business of his own. He matches for money, not love. It’s no secret that he deals in escorts. He’s nothing but a glorified pimp. People like him are intent on ruining the good names of us honest matchmakers.
“Madame, you look lost…” Lucy said, holding a pen to her mouth. “This is good news, no?”
“Yes and no,” I said, playing with the opal and diamond pendant hanging from my necklace. “There’s a slight problem I need to work on.”
“Such as?”
“I’m single. If I show up without my perfect match, the vultures will circle, and the other matchmakers will rub their hands in glee.”
“I see…” Lucy tried to conceal her horror, but I saw it in her eyes. “We’ll come up with a solution. Your match doesn’t necessarily need to be the one. He can be the one for right now.”
“Perhaps.” She knew about my fruitless attempts to find a man. Deflated, I sank down on my chair and pushed my laptop away. I had to find someone whether it was real or fake.
I always said, there was a match for everyone. Mine was just taking a lifetime to find, but he had to be out there somewhere.
“Lucy, it’s time,” I said, dropping my pendant and giving my hands a quick clap. “Send out memos to all registered men that I’m open to finding my match.”
“All registered men?”
“All of them. One way or another, I’m going to find my match. It’s about time I stopped dallying around.”
“Yes, madame.” She nodded and dashed off to begin her magic. While she was gone, I sat in my office preparing myself for the whirlwind of emotions to come. I hadn’t tried to find a match in years, and I had to prepare myself for the same outcome—heartache and heartbreak. If anything, I just needed a somewhat worthy man to stay by my side for a week.
“Madame?” Lucy chirped over the intercom.
“Oui? Something wrong, ma chère?” I asked, drumming my fingers against the polished top of my desk. In front of me sat a pile of papers about the attendees for the next Match de Amour function, but, for now, until I found my match, everything else was on hold. Sometimes, I had to focus on my own needs.
“Madame, shall I also run your info through our system to see if there might be a match on file? It’s been a while since we’ve done that, and, well, you never know.”
I was surprised it had slipped my mind to do that in the first place. I pursed my lips in thought. Lucy’s idea was a good one, but then I remembered the pain of all those times a search involving me came back empty. However, since the last time I’d tried and failed, more men’s information had been entered into the database
“Oui, run my information and see who the system comes up with. If anything pops up, ring me. If it doesn’t, don’t ring me. I don’t want to make this any more emotional than it already is.”
“Yes, of course, madame.”
Did I even have a hope of finding a match? There was simply no one out there to feed my kinky appetite. For years, I’d had to make do with my fingers and various silicone toys. I wanted to feel teeth on my breasts and nipples, a warm tongue licking my clit and piercing my pussy. I wanted someone with emotion and love behind their actions. As much as my battery-operated toys scratched an itch, they never quite hit the right spot.
The invitation to Matcher’s Island popped into my emails and burned itself into my eyes, unearthing too many buried memories. The nomination was one I’d waited for. It was supposed to be a joyous celebration of acceptance into the world of matchmaking, not some emotional merry-go-round.
Matcher’s Island was a business trip if anything. One that could either drain my bank account or help fatten it up beyond my wildest dreams. Not that I didn’t already have a big bank balance, I did and could happily take very early retirement, but it was my reputation I needed to protect and build on.
My rivals were ready to tear me apart and turning down the invitation again would give them the fuel to do so.
I’d worked too hard to lose everything just because I was single. Who said I had to have a match to be a matchmaker anyway? If I had my way, I’d go there on my own, but I was expected to show up with a man by my side, and that is what I would do.
Half an hour flew by, and Lucy had not called. Not that I was surprised. Trying to find my match was like trying to find a white cat in a snowstorm—next to impossible.
Oh, et puis merde—oh, to hell with it. I shot out of my seat with a new determination. I would find my match, regardless if he was my real match or not.
****
The next day rolled around, and swaths of men came to my special function to see if they were worthy of being my match. I stood at the top of the steps leading down to the ballroom and observed the sea of men in expensive
suits and glittering Rolex watches that were worth millions.
It amused me to see how the men in attendance wore their dicks on their wrists. The statement with watches these days was simply ‘I have a bigger penis and more money than you.’
With such a large selection of rich and handsome men, my match had to be here somewhere, hadn’t he?
Making my descent to the ballroom, all eyes focused on me. My red-hair was draped over one of my shoulders and hung in large waves. I’d applied subtle makeup to emphasize my cornflower blue eyes. The dress I wore was a custom-made cream creation that accentuated my curves and highlighted my smooth, creamy skin. My necklace of choice was a yellow Tiffany diamond framed by two rows of brilliant white diamonds. I never felt fully dressed unless I wore a pendant necklace. Buying and owning them was the one addiction I allowed myself.
I made sure to exaggerate my walk by swinging my hips from side to side. All the men in attendance kept their eyes trained on me, mentally undressing me the closer I got to them, fantasizing about what goodies were hidden beneath my dress.
To them, I was a trophy, and to me, they would be nothing more than a marketing tactic. These men weren’t looking for love or a true match. They wanted to lay claim to one of the most notorious matchmakers in history.
None stood a chance with me—one glance around the room made that much obvious. If I had to take a fake match, then he would at least have to have some class and tact.
Champagne flowed, and countless men drifted my way attempting to tickle my fancy.
“… and my profit margin is always in the millions upon billions every month,” one of the men chattered on, doing his best to impress me with his big bucks and diamond-encrusted Rolex.
Boring.
No intellect.
No class.
Another man butted in and pulled me aside. His grip was tighter than I appreciated.
“Excusez-moi, let go of me, you’re grabbing me too tight.” I snatched my arm out of his hand. He reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Upset I wasn’t into his rough handling, he grabbed me back. “Monsieur, if you don’t let go of me this second, I’ll do everything I can to ruin you, and you know I can.”
His face paled, and he dropped my hand. “I’m sorry, Eliza. Please forgive me.”
As soon as this dreadful meet and greet was over, I’d have Lucy remove him from our system. Men like him weren’t welcome.
Exhausted by small talk, polite chit chat and grabbing hands, I went back upstairs to one of my meeting rooms with Lucy silently following behind. I found my way into a room far from the event and waited for Lucy to catch up. As soon as she walked in, I slammed the door shut and threw myself down onto a black plushy recliner.
“J’en ai ral le cul! I’m so fucking fed up! Those men are pompous idiots.” I shouted digging my nails into the recliner. What a waste of fine champagne and wine.”
“I’m so sorry, Eliza. I’ll go and tell them the event is over, oui?”
“Thank you, Lucy. What would I do without you?” I sunk further into the recliner. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and allowed the wash of darkness to cool me down.
I remained in the room, waiting for the event to end and for the men to leave. Mon Dieu. Not even my clients went through this much stress when it came to finding a match. It didn’t take them nearly as long to give their heart to someone. I admit, sometimes, it took three or four matches before my clients found their soul mates. But me? I broke all the records.
As far as finding a man to bring to Matcher’s Island, well, that was another beast to slay. I didn’t just need a match, I needed someone with manners and class, and someone who, if necessary, would fake his interest in me. The last thing I wanted was a man-whore whose penis did all the thinking. That wasn’t asking too much, was it?
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the noise from the event died down. That was my cue to emerge from my hiding spot and go downstairs to grab some much-needed champagne. I needed some fizz, and the wines I had in my private wine fridge wouldn’t do the job.
I peeked out the door and slowly dragged myself to the steps to see how many men, if any, were left. When I saw no one, I ran down the steps and grabbed the nearest bottle of champagne only to find it empty.
“Oh really? Just my luck!”
I turned around to go find another bottle when I bumped into a chest. A very strong and solid chest.
“Oh sorry! I didn’t think you’d turn around that fast,” the man said. There was a deep timbre in his voice that left me covered in goosebumps. I looked up from his chest, and his lips curved into a heart-stopping smile. A slight five o’clock shadow covered his strong jaw, and amusement filled his hazel eyes. His short hair was a delicious salt and pepper shade that left me weak at the knees.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur. I thought everyone had left.” My heart fluttered, and I gulped down a few breaths. There was something oddly familiar about the man in front of me, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“Left?” he asked looking confused. He held up one of our matching applications. “I’m here to enter my information to find a match.”
“Match? You mean for my event?” Surely, I couldn’t be this lucky? I didn’t believe in coup de foudre—love at first sight—but I most definitely believed in lust at first sight.
“Well,” he said, giving a small laugh and seeming to be a little embarrassed. “I guess, for anyone that’d match with me…”
Merde. For the life of me, if I didn’t have a pesky rule where people had to input their information before any matching was done, I’d have taken him for myself. But, perhaps, once his information had been entered, he might turn out to be my other half.
“Why, yes, of course,” I said, giving him a wide smile. “We’ll find the perfect match for you.”
I took his application, and Lucy magically appeared by my side, taking it from me to input his information into our system. Maybe he was someone else’s match and not mine. One thing I didn’t tolerate was people stealing other people’s matches. Including me—no matter how attractive I found the client.
It was a breath of fresh air to see there was still a possibility of a match out there for me.
Whatever. Business had to be done—after I got drunk.
“My assistant, Lucy, will input your information and will let you know if there’s a match.”
“It’s by a computer?” he asked, crossing his muscular arms.
“Yes and no. It’s a hand-coded program I built from the ground up. The technology we use is cutting edge. It took me ten years to design the matchmaking algorithms, and I still tweak it every day.”
“You must be some kind of mathematical genius.”
I gave a nonchalant shrug. “I know numbers and analytics. My system learns from people’s likes and dislikes. There are many factors to think about, like dissonance.”
“How so?” he asked seeming intrigued.
“For example, you might tell us you wanted to meet a sweet, Christian girl with blond hair and blue eyes. You’d like her to be a teacher between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, and she must be a good cook who would enjoy entertaining your business associates. But, after weeks of browsing, you might discover you’ve actually connected more with ballsy brunettes who have corporate careers and want to keep building their careers even after marriage. They don’t cook and won’t learn. My system models my client’s behavior through their likes and dislikes. The same principles that power my algorithms power Amazon, Netflix, etc. They recommend what you need before you know you need it. My algorithm constantly beavers away behind the scenes, combing through terabytes of data to find the perfect match.” I gave my head a quick shake. “Sorry, I’m babbling. I’m sure my interest in algorithms holds no interest for you.”
“On the contrary. Your knowledge and passion are impressive,” he said and chuckled. “You must be very good at your job.” His words lit a small flame between my legs and made me want to squirm, but
I stood still. This man didn’t need to see how his praise affected me.
“Yes, I guess I am, but sometimes being good at my job has its drawbacks,” I said sadly, waving him off and walking around him. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Lucy will take care of you for now.” I needed to empty him and everything else out of my mind. Not introducing myself was rude, but I didn’t want to know his name. What would be the point? He’d be anything but my match.
“Lucy, I’m leaving for a few hours,” I said, surprised at the sharpness in my voice.
“Oui, Eliza.” She ran over from her desk and gave me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry. I’m fine, and I apologize for sounding so snappy. You don’t deserve to be talked to like that.”
“It’s been a long day, Madame.”
“Yes, it has,” I concurred. Without a backward glance, I left the Match de Amour building.
The Sour Lemon Bar, a few blocks from my office, was dark and cool with a gentle brush of air conditioning. Once inside, I settled myself on top of a stool by the counter. I wasn’t dressed for a place like this, but who the hell cared. I certainly didn’t.
The bartender glanced my way and on noticing my somber mood, slid a small rectangular menu toward me. The drinks were listed in order of strength. What a wonderful idea. I ordered the strongest shot to help knock me out of my misery.
“That’s a dangerous drink right there,” the bartender warned.
“I’m sure I’ve had stronger. Don’t let my appearance fool you.” Back in France, my family made moonshine that brought tears to even the most hardened drinker’s eyes. And as my father said, ‘it would put hairs on your chest.’ The American stuff was no match. Much too weak.
The bartender shrugged. “Whatever the lady wants.”
“The lady wants you to keep them coming.”
He swirled a couple bottles in the air, poured them into a cocktail shaker and then shook it with all his might. A few seconds later, a blue and red concoction was set down in front of me. I held the glass up and examined the syrupy contents. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.
