The Bad Boy Billionaire's Wicked Arrangement

by Maya Rodale

  “If you’re such a brilliant, billionaire tech entrepreneur, what do you need investors for?” I asked. I wasn’t an expert in math, but something wasn’t adding up.

  “I cashed out of my first startup before it went bust and I’m set for life, but I don’t have enough to take Project-TK to the next level. But I will be a billionaire if I can pull this off.” He paused for a moment. Then he added, in a low voice, “It’s not about the money. It means that much to me. I can’t be the guy that always chokes.”

  His passion was clear and for a moment, it left me speechless. His eyes had darkened and he spoke intensely. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be wanted with the intensity that Duke wanted success.

  “Third time’s a charm, right?” I murmured. It was all I could think of to say.

  “C’mon Janine. It’ll be an all-expenses paid weekend in San Francisco for you,” he said, a faint grin and playful touch of my hip.

  “One weekend in which I pretend to be your plus one.”

  “Just for a few dinners, cocktail hours, that sort of thing. I’ll be in meetings with a bunch of stuffy, boring bankers and lawyers, bored to death and playing games on my iPhone while pretending to answer emails. You can shop, schedule spa appointments, work on your novel or whatever. As long as you behave, and even more importantly, make sure I do.”

  “My novel? How did you know about that?”

  “I’m assuming you have aspirations to write one, given your Facebook status updates about moving to the city to write a novel. Or maybe you can spend the weekend brushing up on the security features of your phone.”

  “I thought I could trust my friend. Apparently not over drinks,” I muttered.

  “Drunk girls are the worst,” he said with a grin. “In the best way.”

  “If I had a ring, I would hand it back after a comment like that,” I replied. “Honestly, whatever happened to acting like a gentleman?”

  “This is going to work perfectly. You’re so prim and proper.”

  “I haven’t agreed yet.”

  Duke just smiled and my temperature started to rise. It was just a nice smile. There was temptation and promises and mischief and I caught myself holding my breath for what came next. That smile, it was a prelude and lord help me, I wanted to know what this man had in mind.

  That is, until it happened.

  Duke dropped to one knee. He clasped my hands in his. A hush fell over the rooftop. All the fabulous people suddenly were interested in me. Us. This farce.

  “Jane, will you marry me?”

  I looked around—everyone was watching this scene unfold. A few even had their camera phones held aloft in spite of the waiters telling them no cameras were allowed. This video would be on YouTube within minutes. If I said no . . .

  It’d be one more awkward thing to explain to everyone. His investors or whatever would think he was crazy. I’d surely never see him again. I’d return to my regularly scheduled life of shelving books instead of hot and heavy hook-ups against the bookshelves.

  If I said yes . . .

  It’d be an adventure. I wouldn’t be Jane who didn’t or jilted Jane or just Jane. I’d be Jane who moved to Manhattan and snared the bad boy billionaire. People did not give her the pity eyes.

  But then again, the whole thing was a total lie and eventually the charade would end with another break-up. Then I would definitely get the pity-eyes from everyone. Poor girl pretended to date a guy. How lame! I couldn’t do it.

  Duke squeezed my hand.

  My lips parted but no sound came out.

  He stood, beaming, and kissed me full on the mouth.

  “She said yes!” he declared, even though I had done no such thing! The bar erupted in applause. The manager brought over bottle of Veuve Cliquot on ice.

  “What the hell was that?” I hissed.

  “Smile, darling,” he said, handing me a glass of champagne. “They’re still watching.”

  I smiled. Oh, did I smile. But inside I was in an advanced state of shock. Did he really just do that?! What the hell just happened?! Stop giving me that smile and stupid smoldering glance!

  “You owe me,” I said. “You owe me big time. You owe me so much I doubt even you can afford it.”

  “Name your price, Sweater Set,” he said, clinking our champagne flutes together.

  “Besides remembering my name?”

  “You can ask for more than that,” he said softly.

  He couldn’t give me the one thing I wanted: Sam. I still held out hope that he was just going through a phase and would eventually realize what we had—and could have. Then we could get back together and buy that house and live happily ever after.

  And if that was too much to ask . . . I sipped my champagne and puzzled it over.

  I wanted to feel good again. Successful, loved. Not a hot mess one step away from complete disaster. I wanted to be like my old self: Jane who had her life totally together.

  And if that was too much to ask? Then I wanted everyone to think I totally had my life perfectly together. I could write the novel, like I’d said I would. But Roxanna was right. I needed a totally hot and successful date for the reunion.

  “I need you to be my date for my high school reunion.”

  “That’s it?” he asked, pleasantly surprised. As if he expected me to ask for a few million bucks.

  “Yes. I know, it’s ridiculous but . . .”

  “No, I get it,” he said quietly. “I was the voted most likely to end up in jail, as well as most likely to win the Nobel Prize.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “It had something to do with the FBI arresting me at 14 for hacking the New York Times to make the front page headline about blow jobs preventing cancer. Still couldn’t get me a date to prom, though. They obviously don’t keep abreast of the news. What about you, Janie? Most popular?”

  “Hardly. I spent too much time in the library studying. Most Popular was Kate Abbott, and her favorite extracurricular activity was making my life miserable. However, I was voted least likely to be arrested.”

  Over a glass of champagne we smiled and for the first time I thought we’re maybe not so different after all. We were still trying to prove ourselves to people who never cared about us in the first place.

  “C’mon, Sweater Set,” he said taking my hand in his. “We have to go hack a love story.”

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Duke Austen’s Penthouse Apartment

  var jane = { name: “Jane Sparks”, age: 28, looks: “hot” }

  WE HOPPED IN a cab and Duke told the driver to take us to the corner of Bowery and Bond. The car lurched into traffic immediately, heading east and speeding through the tree-lined streets of the West Village.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  “I think that’s moving a bit fast, fake relationship or not.” And then, when he didn’t answer because his head was looking down, riveted to his glowing iPhone screen, I asked, “Who are you texting?”

  “My dev team. I’ll explain later. Why don’t you text your roommate where you’re going. Tell her if you’re not home by tomorrow morning—”

  “—to call the police and that you’re the number one suspect. Already on it.”

  Jane Sparks: Hey, off to Duke’s place. We’re going to hack a love story (wtf?). Call the cops if I’m not home in a few hours.

  Roxanna Lane: K. And congrats on your engagement!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I clicked on the link she sent. It took me to a YouTube video of Duke on bended knee before me. Behind me, the Manhattan skyline lit up against a dusky purple sunset sky. There were 347 views. Already.

  Jane Sparks: OMG that was just fifteen minutes ago!

  “The video of our proposal is already online,” I told Duke.

  “I know,” he said, still typing like a madman.

  I took a moment to check Facebook out of habit. 46 people had already liked our “engaged�
�� status. I started to read the comments until I read one the said, “Wow congrats! Didn’t even know you were dating someone!” Ugh.

  My mom called again and I ignored it.

  Roxanna Lane: Um, also I got a tip about the story. Can hold off for an hour or two if you want to prep but then I’ve got to go post something or lose my job. Xo!

  “So you know my roommate, the gossip columnist?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “People are already talking about us. She says she had to publish a story on it ASAP but she’ll give us an hour or two to prep, whatever that means.”

  “Already on it.”

  Duke put his phone in his front pocket.

  The cab slammed to a stop. Horns blared. Pedestrians swarmed around the car, like a rushing river around boulders. He turned to face me.

  “Jane . . . You can still get out of this. You can get out now and walk home and we’ll laugh this off as a practical joke and then pretend it never happened.”

  “Or?”

  “If you come home with me, there’s no going back. No pretending it didn’t happen. We’re gonna make this real.”

  I had made it this far . . . From the quiet, sleepy streets of Milford to the always loud, always bright streets of New York City. Sam’s kiss was no the longer the last one on my lips. I’d already overcome Jane Who Didn’t a little bit, more and more. It started with a kiss, a drink, a prank, this cab ride and could lead to whatever the night held. I was scared of all the unknowns. But I knew I couldn’t go back to being the Jane who was fired and jilted and spent the past six months in quiet and lonely desperation. Something had to change.

  “Let’s go,” I whispered.

  The cab lurched forward and made a sharp right turn, launching me right into Duke’s lap. He caught me and didn’t let go. In the dark back seat of the cab with the city flying outside the windows, he kissed me. Pulled me onto his lap, tightened his arms around me, and kissed me.

  I kissed him back, even though I wondered if this was part of the ruse or if it was something else. I kissed him because I was lonely and because his kiss chased away the cold I’d been feeling these past few months. His hands were warm, caressing the bare skin of my back. I felt him hard beneath me. I hoped we were stuck in traffic. For a while. Because when he kissed me, I forgot everything.

  We broke apart only when the taxi came to a stop in front of a modern building on the corner of Bowery and Bond.

  THE ELEVATOR DOORS closed behind us and after one hot, frantic kiss with me pressed against the walls the doors opened to the penthouse, revealing a large, modern space. I was sort of breathless from the kiss, but still had to gasp at his apartment.

  One wall was purely glass, showing a breathtaking view of the uptown Manhattan skyline including the Empire State building and the Chrysler building. The living area opened to a large kitchen and dining area decorated with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops and top-of-the-line fixtures. The long dining table was covered with massive, wafer-thin Apple monitors.

  Two guys and two girls stood around the kitchen island, sipping bottles of Miller Highlife and working on sleek Mac laptops.

  They looked up when we arrived.

  “Jane, meet my dev team. Rupert, Kyle, Amy and Jessica. This is Jane. My fake fiancé.”

  Rupert spit out his beer. The others burst out laughing. I glanced up at Duke; he was clearly enjoying this.

  “Hi,” I said awkwardly. “Nice to meet you all.”

  “Congratulations?” Jessica asked.

  “We saw the video. Nice proposal, dude,” Kyle said. He and Rupert wore faded T-shirts under open plaid flannel shirts with broken in jeans and sneakers.

  “Thanks. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world sees it and starts Googling us. In fact, I know it’s started already,” Duke said. “So if we’re going to pull off this whole ‘I’m engaged to Sweater Set and settling down’ thing, we need a backstory that goes back further than last night when Jane and I met.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s no proof of our relationship online, other than that video. So we have to create it. The problem is that Jane here is still living in the nineteenth century, technology-wise.”

  I opened my mouth to protest. It’s not like I used an AOL account and still had dial up.

  “So we need tweets, check-ins, stupid lovey-dovey pictures on Instagram,” Amy said.

  “Exactly,” Duke said.

  “A sex tape. You should totally make and leak a sex tape,” Rupert suggested with a lecherous chuckle.

  Jessica, Amy and I rolled our eyes.

  “Jane?” Duke questioned.

  “That is not happening. At all. Ever.”

  “Exactly the reaction I was expecting. A second option, which will be slightly less fun, is hacking Twitter, Foursquare, Facebook and Instagram to create proof of our longstanding, secret relationship.”

  Ok, he had me at secret romance. This was the kind of thing I loved reading about in paperback novels after a long day. It was the kind of story I’d considered writing one day. Or maybe I’d start tonight? A Secret Romance by Jane Sparks. In fact . . .

  “Like the movie Green Card,” I said, smiling at the thought of one of my all-time favorite romantic comedies.

  “I haven’t seen that one,” Kyle said.

  “What?!” I might have gasped in shock. Then I remembered that he was a dude and I was a chick and thus the same movies we did not watch.

  “That’s because you were six when it came out, dude. In 1990,” Duke replied.

  “Gawd, Duke, you are old.”

  “Shut up, infant.”

  “I think they used a Polaroid camera to take pictures of themselves,” I ventured.

  “What’s a Polaroid?” Rupert asked, smirking.

  Duke tossed an empty beer can at his head proving that he at least didn’t act much older than these guys.

  “I just Googled it,” Kyle said, peering up from his laptop. “Google says it’s a kind of vintage camera equipment.”

  Duke reached for another beer, presumably to throw at Kyle and quite possibly to hit and explode over what appeared to be thousands of dollars of computer equipment that we apparently needed to use desperately. Tonight.

  I touched Duke’s arm, the slight pressure enough to remind him to restrain himself. He looked down at me and whispered, “See? I need you.”

  “Where do we begin?” I asked.

  “Kyle, Jessica, and Amy are experts in Python, Scala and C, so they’ll hack into Twitter, Foursquare and Facebook and create past check-ins, tweets, and all that. Rupert is a genius with Photoshop. Basically these guys will create the “proof” of our relationship that anyone would find if they searched for us. Which they will do, if they aren’t already.”

  “I’m going to pretend I understand what you just said,” I said, and Duke grinned. “Can you really make all that stuff happen?”

  “Sure,” Duke said easily, as if I’d asked him if he could breathe. “Python, Scala and C are programming languages. We just need to get into the system and write the story we want to tell.”

  “I’m sure we can manage it, given enough beer,” Rupert said.

  “And blow jobs,” Kyle added. The lady coders and I rolled our eyes.

  Duke threw a full beer can at him, and that time I didn’t try to stop him.

  “You can see why we need a romance novelist,” Duke said.

  “Obviously these guys are clueless about that stuff,” Jessica added with a withering glare.

  This was an excellent point. I was the resident expert in romance—especially of the fictional variety. Sam used to laugh at me for reading those “trashy” novels. I couldn’t even imagine how he’d react when he found out I was writing one. But I’d worry about that later.

  For the moment, I just wanted to revel in the feeling of being wanted, needed, and considered good at something. It’d been a while since I’d felt that way.

  “Hey, Jane, what
’s your Twitter info?” Amy asked.

  “I’m not on Twitter,” I replied, and there were exaggerated gasps all around.

  “Well you are now,” Amy replied with a grin. “Your handle is now @Jane_Sparks.”

  “What about Foursquare? Instagram? Facebook?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m on Facebook.”

  “Ok, let’s start setting up accounts for her,” Duke said.

  “What’s your password?” Amy asked.

  “I’m not giving you my password!”

  “Janet, they’re about to hack into some of the biggest sites on the web,” Duke said. “They can work around your password but it will save everyone a bunch of hassle if you just tell us now.”

  “Sam0924,” I confessed. If I had known I’d be sharing it, I’d have changed it to something less embarrassing.

  “Who is Sam?” Duke asked.

  “Her dog. Everyone uses their dog’s name for their password,” Amy said.

  “My ex-boyfriend, actually,” I explained, blushing. “And the date of our first kiss. I just haven’t gotten around to changing it. I’ve been busy.” Yeah, real busy moping, feeling sorry for myself and day dreaming all the possible scenarios in which Sam will decide he wants me back.

  “When did you break up?” Duke asked.

  “Six months ago.”

  “Which means we started going out, say, five months ago,” he said. “That gives you a month to get over him. That’s enough, right?”

  I burst laughing.

  Over Sam in one month?! Over the love of my freaking life in just thirty days?! I’d spent the past six months in damp, grey haze that left me cold and unable to see out. In a fit of despair I had left the only life I’d known and moved to the city and threw myself upon the mercy of my college roommate. I did nothing but work and miss him. Every amazing thing I saw in the city, I wanted to tell Sam about it. After every hard day, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms and whine about it to him. I hadn’t just lost my boyfriend but my other half.

  You don’t just get over that kind of loss in a month.