The Bad Boy Billionaire's Wicked Arrangement

by Maya Rodale

  Besides I believed in the Sex and the City girl math that you had half the total time that you were together to get over a guy. That is, until I took this moment to actually do that math. Six years. I had six years to get over him. I had six years to wander around, miserable, missing him.

  “Oh dear God,” I muttered under my breath. These past six months had beaten me down. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I’d survive another six months. Let alone six years.

  “What is it?” Duke asked, glancing over at me.

  “Nothing,” I said. It had to be nothing. I could try to win him back. But I could not just sulk and pout and wait for him anymore.

  “OK, Sweater Set, let’s get started creating our fauxmance. What was our first date? Make me look really good.”

  And so it began. I created a series of perfect dates and romantic moments. Duke’s developers made it all “real” through backdated tweets, check-ins, status updates and pictures.

  As the hours ticked by that night, Duke and I created an entire relationship. Our first date was dinner at a cool restaurant on the Lower East Side, followed by drinks at on the Soho House roof. We went out for after work drinks at Tom and Jerry’s, took long rambling walks in Central Park on Sunday afternoons, romantic dinners at downtown restaurants and evenings at parties. Anyone who really knew me would know it was out of character of me to hook up with a new guy so quickly and stay out so late, so much. Hopefully they’d believe that a whirlwind romance with the hot bad boy billionaire had changed me. The most important thing was that Duke’s investors believed that he’d met a Nice Girl and settled down.

  “How are those tweets coming, Jane?”

  “Working on them,” I said hurriedly. Having never tweeted before, I was slow at crafting the perfect, 140 character description of romantic dates with a guy I hardly knew.

  Drinks with my guy @DukeAusten at Angel’s Share.

  Sunset in central park with @DukeAusten. pic.twitter.com/W4iRVWwbCT

  “Good, because I’m in Twitter,” Jessica said. “Your spoof email worked, Duke. Some moron clicked through and entered their email and password. From that I was able to get in and reset the admin password.”

  “We need some pictures so I can Photoshop the shit out of them,” Rupert said, grabbing his iPhone.

  “Won’t it look suspicious if all our pictures are taken at night?” Duke asked.

  “And in the same outfits?” I asked.

  “Isn’t there an Instagram filter to fix that?” Jessica asked.

  “There will be by the time I’m done tonight,” Amy said.

  While Kyle, Amy, and Jessica worked on their hacking, Rupert, Duke and I grabbed a bottle of champagne and headed out to the terrace to take some photos.

  “Smile kids! You’re engaged!” Rupert said, starting to snap pictures of Duke with his arms around me. The two of us smiling shyly at each other. The two of us laughing at this absurd situation. The two of us toasting and drinking with celebratory glasses of champagne.

  And then a funny thing happened. I wanted to blame it entirely on the champagne, but I couldn’t. I started to get swept up in the moment. All the sparkling city lights, all the bubbly, all the laughter and kisses and the feeling of us keeping a secret from the world . . .

  We clinked our glasses together. CLICK! My heartbeat quickened.

  We each took a sip. FLASH! It went straight to my head and I felt dizzy.

  We smiled because we had a secret. FLASH! I thought about kissing him.

  I smiled like Duke was my one and only true love and I was thrilled at the prospect of a lifetime together with this man. It was the smile I used to give when I saw Sam. When Duke smiled like I was a woman he’d love, adore and worship forever, I started to feel warmth spreading from my belly.

  It was the Champagne . . .

  It was the way he looked at me. It was the way it felt real.

  But how could this scruffy guy in a T-shirt and jeans, this brilliant disaster, fall for me, the bookish girl in the sweater set, knee length skirts and pumps that shhh-ed him at a party? It was absurd. This whole scheme was absurd. But it was too late to back out now.

  The only thing to do was not screw it up and make sure I didn’t fall for him. I had to remember that this was just an epic practical joke. It wasn’t real.

  “Um, maybe you guys should kiss or something.”

  Duke set his glass down and cupped my face in his hands. His eyes searched mine: was he asking for permission? Forgiveness? I didn’t know, I didn’t care. I lowered my lashes and tilted up, heart beating fast as I awaited his lips upon mine.

  FLASH!

  His mouth was firm, I yielded. My heart, it pounded. Duke ran his fingers through my hair, gently cradling my head. Hold still, don’t go. As if I’d want to. As if I could. The memory of Sam’s kiss was fading and I was too intoxicated to reach out and hold onto it. I clung to Duke instead.

  FLASH!

  “Um, OK. I think I got enough pictures of you two kissing,” Rupert said awkwardly. “I mean, one is enough and I got more than that. Glad you guys are so thorough. The internet will thank you.”

  “Let’s get a few more inside,” Duke said. So we took a bunch more where we pretended to be on a tropical vacation, at a crowded rock concert, or on a sunset sail on the Hudson.

  “We should do a few of us on the couch,” I suggested. “You know, for all of our romantic nights in, just the two of us.”

  “Good idea. But those should be selfies,” Rupert said. “It’d be weird otherwise. I’m going to head back to the kitchen and get started on Photoshop.

  “Oh! Can you put in me in cute outfits?”

  “Not sure what that entails but I’ll try,” Rupert said, laughing.

  “Anything from J. Crew,” I told him.

  “Sweater sets!” Duke hollered after him.

  We crashed on the couch and Duke pulled me close, arm around my shoulders.

  He held out the camera and we took the goofy, silly pictures you take when you’re in love and always laughing and fooling around and just enjoying each other’s company.

  I caught myself laughing too hard, leaning in too close, pressing a kiss on his jaw and breathing him in. It’s not real Jane.

  I was brought back to reality by a text message.

  Duke Austen: Enjoyed meeting you last night. Let’s do that again sometime.

  I glanced up at him. Was this real? Or part of the story? There was laughter in his brown eyes. I decided to play along.

  Jane Sparks: A pleasure. Let’s definitely do it again.

  Duke Austen: Are you free tonight?

  I laughed because he was right next to me. Really close right next to me. I was all too aware of him.

  Jane Sparks: I’m kind of in the middle of something.

  Duke Austen: Working on your novel?

  Jane Sparks: Some kind of love story ☺

  Research. Yes, research. That’s what this was. Because if I was going to write about bad-ass rogues who could make a good girl break the rules with just a kiss, I probably ought to spend some time with one.

  “Jane,” he whispered.

  I turned and lifted my gaze to his. Our mouths met for another kiss, as if we were helplessly drawn together. My lips parted, his too. The kiss deepened. A rush of breath. A surge of heat. The pounding of my heart and the desperate urge for more, more, more.

  “Dude—” Kyle called out. “We’re stuck trying to access Twitter’s database. They must have been drunk when they coded this.”

  They hacked and coded and did whatever on the computer until late, late, late at night or crazy early in the morning. They chugged Red Bull and beer. I sipped Champagne and wrote gushing tweets, posted Facebook statuses, and approved Photoshopped outfits I could never afford in real life. Sometime around three in the morning I fell asleep on the couch. The last thing I remembered was Duke draping a blanket over me, dimming the lights and kissing me goodnight.

  Chapter Five

&n
bsp; * * *

  Word count: 3,765

  Jane’s twitter followers: 48

  Boyfriends: 1 (fake)

  Jobs: 1

  258 West 15th Street, Jane and Roxanna’s apartment

  ROXANNA KNOCKED ON my bedroom door, leaned against the doorframe and gazed at my tiny room. The twin bed (all that would fit) was covered in clothes and an open suitcase. My laptop was open to Untitled Regency Romance, to which I had added the words “by Jane Sparks.”

  Even better, I had added words. Thousands of words. A story was starting to take shape. Wallflower (me) meets the dashing Blake Auden, Duke of Ashbrooke (aka Duke Austen). Fake engagement ensues via the Regency version of Facebook, otherwise known as the newspaper. Oh, and there were meddling friends of course. It felt so good to finally be writing. I’d always thought about it and occasionally mentioned it, but Sam had just laughed. Everyone had just laughed.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Roxanna said with a grin as she watched me carefully fold and pack sweaters. “It’s so unlike you. I freaking love it.”

  “It’s totally crazy. I have officially lost my mind,” I agreed. I still couldn’t quite believe I agreed to any of this—the fake engagement and the weekend away in San Francisco that I was packing for.

  Roxanna ambled over to my dresser and rummaged through. She pulled out a pair of pink lace underwear and tossed it into my suitcase.

  “And I’m not packing that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s not going to see my underwear. This is a strictly business arrangement. It’s pretend.”

  Even though those kisses didn’t feel fake and even though pretending made my heart skip a beat. The last thing I needed was more heartache. So I just had to keep my heart out of it.

  “You never know . . .”

  “The whole point is that I am a total good girl. And good girls do not . . . Hey! What are you doing?”

  But it was obvious: Roxanna rummaged through her Marc Jacobs handbag and pulled out a handful of condoms. She dropped them like confetti into my suitcase.

  “Safety first!” Roxanna said cheerfully.

  I just gave her A Look and a weary sigh because I couldn’t argue with her.

  “You know you want to,” she said. My only response to that was to tuck the condoms discreetly into a side pocket.

  “Was he not a good kisser?”

  “He was good.” There was no lying about that.

  “Was he clumsy?”

  “No. Not at all.” There was no lying about that either.

  “And you don’t want to sleep with him?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Because I did want to. I hadn’t felt lust—just lust—in a while. Sam had been my one and only and we’d been together for just shy of twelve years. If I slept with Duke—or whoever else—it would be truly saying goodbye to the life I had lived and the life I had planned on. I didn’t know if I was ready. And I didn’t know how explain any of that. “It’s just more complicated.”

  “Um, no it’s not, Jane. You see, when a boy and a girl are reasonably attractive and they drink alcohol . . .”

  “I think maybe I could fall for this guy. I mean, I don’t know how to separate sex and feelings. And if I fall for him but he doesn’t like me then I’ll be dumped again, only this time, not just everyone in Milford will know. The whole Internet will know! There’s nowhere to run after that.”

  “Oh, Jane. You take everything way too seriously and you’re way too overdramatic about it,” Roxanna said. “I say that with love. As a friend.”

  “It turns out I might have a mind for fiction after all.”

  “Are you writing all this down?” She asked with a nod toward my open laptop.

  “Every word,” I said, grinning.

  “What if he reads it?”

  “I’m writing a historical romance novel. I’m not great at math, but I think odds are in favor of Duke not reading it. At all. Ever.”

  “Famous last words,” she said with a laugh. “But really, Jane . . . this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for all sorts of fun. Don’t let it go to waste, OK?”

  Later that night—after a few more hours agonizing over just the right outfits that suggested demure, abide-by-the-rules girl—I had finished packing. Included in my suitcase: sexy underwear and plenty of condoms. Just in case.

  Roxanna was right: I took everything way too seriously. If I did start falling for Duke, I could just channel those feelings into my writing, which would free up my heart and conscience to have some well-deserved fun with the bad boy billionaire.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Word count: 5,321

  Jane’s twitter followers: 483

  Boyfriends: 1 (fake)

  Thoughts of Sam: 34

  OUR ENGAGEMENT MADE headlines on TechCrunch, Gawker, ValleyWag, SiliconAlley Insider, and Betabeat. The morning after that, we got a mention on Page Six of the New York Post. The day after that I boarded a flight to San Francisco with Duke. Virgin America. First class.

  The flight attendants fawned over him. Do you need a blanket? A glass of champagne? A magazine? Anything?! Duke took this flight regularly (JFK→ SFO), so they all knew him. I wondered just how well . . .

  After I refused Duke’s offer to join the Mile High Club, he popped a pill and washed it down with a glass of champagne.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, appalled. I was supposed to make sure he wasn’t up to his usual boozy, drug-addled antics. And it was only nine in the morning.

  “Relax, it’s just a sleeping pill.”

  I accepted a complimentary glass of champagne and pulled out my laptop, determined to write.

  “What is that antique you’re lugging around?”

  “It’s a laptop computer. Maybe it’s not the latest model, but it’s not like it’s a typewriter or anything.” I’d also been kind of broke lately but didn’t want to say that to the multi-millionaire beside me.

  Duke pulled out his phone and tweeted or texted or whatever. I opened the Word doc with my novel. Untitled Regency Romance Novel by Jane Sparks was no longer just a blank page. It was a story, and one I was determined to have written and published by the time my high school reunion rolled around in just under three months. As long as I was mining this real life “love” adventure, I would be fine.

  I glanced at Duke. My inspiration.

  He yawned, put on the eye mask and went to sleep. Shit. I would have to make stuff up.

  I started to type, imagining everything that had happened in the past week as if it were happening in nineteenth-century London instead of twenty-first-century New York City.

  “It seems we are engaged,” the Duke of Ashbrooke remarked casually. As if he were only commenting on the weather. As if they were acquainted, and not complete strangers to each other.

  “We did nothing to dispel the rumors,” Emma replied.

  “Rumors? It was printed in the paper.”

  “Very well, libel,” Emma corrected, yet again wondering who had sent the cursed—and false—engagement announcement to the newspaper. “But you could still cry off.”

  She so kindly gave him the opportunity to live down to her expectations. She found herself holding her breath and glancing up at his impossibly handsome profile.

  “Do you not want to marry me?” he asked, as if that had anything to do with it. She had not even considered it.

  “Your Grace, I don’t even know you.”

  “A minor detail, and one that is easily remedied.” Then he glanced down at her with dark eyes and a suggestive smile. “It would be a pleasure to become better acquainted.”

  He said this, of course, in a manner that left no doubt as to what sort of pleasure or acquaintance he intended.

  Jane Sparks

  10 minutes ago near San Francisco, CA

  Romantic weekend with my new fiancé! —with Duke Austen.

  When we arrived at our hotel around lunch time, everyone from the check-in
girls to the bellhops fawned over Duke. Could they help him with anything? Did he need anything? The girls, especially, checked him out. At first I had just seen a charismatic, but scruffy guy. But he was really good looking and he carried himself like he mattered, like nothing would stand in his way. That alone was incredibly sexy. I wondered, too, if they knew about the millions. These girls saw. And they wanted. He didn’t exactly rebuff them, either, treating them to seductive smiles that made a girl’s resolve just melt.

  I coughed. “Ahem.”

  Duke grabbed my hand. Kissed me on the lips. The girls sighed and looked away.

  “See? You’re helping already, Sweater Set.”

  Our room was a spacious suite on the top floor, with a balcony and a stunning view of the city. There was a king-sized bed in the bedroom. In the sitting room, in addition to comfortable couches and chairs there was a desk with a sleek new MacBook Air, plugged in and almost ready to go.

  “Give me your vintage computer,” he said. “I have a lunch meeting to go to, but I want to get started transferring all your data.”

  “Is that for me? I can’t accept that,” I stammered. I had looked longingly at them in the store until I saw the prices.

  “This iPhone, too. Jane, I can’t date someone who uses outdated electronics. It’s like you dating someone illiterate. It wouldn’t work and it’s not remotely believable.”

  “Thank you,” I said genuinely, grateful for the gift and oddly warmed by the thought and effort he had put into our fake relationship. “Who is your meeting with?”

  “My CFO, Ethan. My lawyer. And our possible investor, Augustus Grey. Maybe some guys from the banks, too.”

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” I eyed him warily. His outfit of jeans, sneakers and a threadbare Pets.com T-shirt didn’t exactly declare TAKE ME SERIOUSLY and TRUST ME WITH YOUR MONEY.

  “Yeah,” he said, as if he’d heard this all before.

  “Shouldn’t you put on a tie? Or a button-down shirt at least?”

  Duke made a face. I just shrugged. “Whatever. I thought you wanted to appear respectable . . .” With a scowl, he stalked over to his suitcase and pulled out a wrinkled button down shirt and put that on over his T-shirt, leaving it open.