by Maya Rodale
The Bad Boy Billionaire’s Girl Gone Wild
MAYA RODALE
Dedication
For Tony. I bet you think this book is about you.
Acknowledgments
* * *
MANY THANKS TO: Jonathan Haile for providing the soundtrack to this series, the librarians who helped me research Jane’s day job, Tessa Woodward for being an awesome editor, The Lady Authors for their encouragement and camaraderie, Lady Miss Penny for company, and Tony for being my guy.
Contents
* * *
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
An Excerpt from The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants
An Excerpt from Wallflower Gone Wild
About the Author
Also by Maya Rodale
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
* * *
New York City
HERE’S WHAT YOU need to know about my crazy love life: I could start with the day I lost my job as head librarian at the Milford Public library, which was the same day I got dumped by my high school sweetheart and boyfriend of twelve years. Or, I could start when I impulsively moved to New York City. Or when I had a random hookup at a party with some scruffy guy who turned out to be Duke Austen, the billionaire tech entrepreneur. Things really got crazy when my friend Roxanna posted an announcement on Facebook saying that Bad Boy Billionaire and I were engaged.
Crazy was when he said yes.
Crazy was when I said yes.
Crazy was when our grand fauxmance turned into something else entirely. My feelings for him were strong, raw, and completely real. And when he touched me, I nearly exploded from the pleasure of it. He was a brilliant coder, a charming salesman, a tech entrepreneur, the best lover I ever had, and totally inscrutable.
It’s all fun and games until someone starts falling in love . . .
Chapter One
* * *
Park Bar
New York City
WHAT THE HELL had just happened? I stood there, teetering on four-inch heels with the traffic of Tenth Avenue speeding past. Glancing back, the party raged on without me. Everyone was celebrating Duke Austen’s startup, Project-TK, snagging 150 million dollars of investment funding.
I had helped him secure that money by posing as Duke’s Good Girl Fiancé; as a prim, proper, librarian who tended to wear sweater sets, I fit the bill. He had a bad reputation and an engagement with the likes of me demonstrated that he was reformed, responsible, and someone you could trust with hundreds of millions of dollars. In return for my, ahem, services rendered, he was going to be my hot, successful date for my looming high school reunion so that I seemed hot and successful instead of the failure that I felt like when I lost my job, my boyfriend, and my future.
Duke and I—we had a deal.
But now, that deal might be off.
The front of the bar was completely open to the street. I could see Duke inside, surrounded by beautiful women ready to put out when he said the word. Admirers, sycophants, and tech industry titans fawned over him and were now ready to welcome him into their ranks even though they had mocked and doubted him before. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Including me. But while they wanted Duke Austen, brilliant and successful entrepreneur, I wanted Duke Austen, the man whose kisses made me melt.
Our gazes locked. Was that longing? Or was I projecting? I had this awful habit of reading too much into everything.
So I turned and walked away, reminding myself that our “engagement” was totally pretend. Or it was supposed to be. It was a great idea in theory—until our lips locked and I was hooked.
My phone vibrated with a text message.
Sam Chase: I snagged two seats at the bar for us.
I quickened my pace as much as I could while walking in stilettos on the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District. Sam was my high school sweetheart and the man I thought I was going to marry. When he texted earlier tonight, Duke told me to go see him.
The thing was—I wanted to stay with Duke. I wanted it with an intensity that left me off kilter because for so long a life with Sam was everything I had ever wanted.
Ever since senior year, I had our entire lives planned—the wedding, the babies, the house on Brooke Street in the town where we had grown up. I had been expecting a proposal; he dumped me instead because we hadn’t experienced much besides each other.
Now he was in the city for the night and wanted to meet for a drink and Duke was telling me to go see him.
Why did that piss me off so much? Well, I knew why and I didn’t like it. Because our relationship was as real as the cubic zirconia “engagement” ring on my finger, but my feelings for him were true.
I also have to point out that I looked hot. If there was ever a night that I wanted to meet the ex-love-of-my-life, it was when I looked like this. I wore a short, sexy dress with killer heels and a blowout that would put Kate Middleton’s to shame.
So with one last glance behind me, I tottered off into the night.
Employees Only Bar
I STROLLED THROUGH the madness of the Meatpacking District, slowing down as I passed by the entrance to Soho House, where Duke had “proposed” to me. I glanced up to the roof—I could just make out all the fabulous people lounging around, sipping cocktails and enjoying the stunning view of the city. I kept going until I hit Hudson Street, and then I headed south until I found the bar—Employees Only.
There was a fortune-teller in the vestibule. I lingered for a moment, considering it. Remembering that Sam was inside and waiting, I pushed through the door. The room was warmly lit and had a classic New York speakeasy vibe. Sam was at the bar, nursing a beer.
I paused for a sec, taking in the sight of him. If my life were a movie, Sam would be played by Ben Affleck. God, I had loved that man (Sam, not Ben). He was a boyishly handsome, broad-shouldered guy who could have been a Ralph Lauren model if he weren’t so brainy. No wonder I’d crushed on him since freshman year. No wonder I did everything I could to hold onto him. No wonder I cried for weeks after he broke up with me. A girl doesn’t find a guy with looks, smarts, and sensitivity like his every day.
As if sensing me, Sam looked up. His smile took my breath away. I stepped carefully through the crowd of people on my way over to him.
There he was. Sam. Love of my life.
“Jane . . . wow. You look . . .” He stood and looked me up and down. I smiled because I had left him speechless.
I looked gorgeous, fierce. More to the point, I looked utterly different from the small town girl he’d known. And loved. And dumped.
“It’s good to see you, Sam.”
“You’re all done up,” he said. There was an appreciative, almost possessive, sparky gleam in his eye. It’d been a while since he looked at me like that.
“I was out at a party,” I replied, twisting my “engagement ring” round and round my finger.
“With that billionaire fiancée of yours?” Sam asked, lifting an eyebrow as I climbed on the bar stool beside him.
“There was a party celebrating Duke’s startup. They just secured a 150 million dollar investment,” I explained.
“If he has a billion bucks, why does he need investors?” Sam asked.
“It’s complicated. Duke explained it to me one night. Thanks to his previous companies, he was a billion
aire on paper—but he lost it all. This time, he wanted to seek an investor before he personally bankrupted himself to fund the company.”
There was no doubt in my mind he would have. Duke wanted Project-TK to be a record-breaking success more than anything.
“Let me get you a drink,” Sam said.
“Champagne, please.”
“No more chardonnay?” Sam asked, remembering my usual drink of choice.
“Tonight I’m celebrating,” I said, smiling.
As Sam flagged down the bartender, I took the opportunity to check in on Foursquare because that’s what I did now, after Duke had introduced me to all of the Internet beyond Facebook. I also checked in just in case Duke decided “See you later, Sweater Set” weren’t going to be his last words to me tonight and he felt like dropping in to enact some devastatingly romantic scene.
You know, in case my life suddenly turned into a romantic comedy.
Sam said something.
“Mmm. Sorry, I’m just checking in,” I murmured.
“Look at you. All tech savvy,” Sam remarked. I saw his gaze drop to the iPhone in my hand and the giant diamond on my ring finger.
“And look at that engagement ring. Wow.” He took a swig of his beer.
Correction: it was a giant cubic zirconia ring that I bought from a hotel gift shop when we flew out to San Francisco to meet with investors—and convince them we were engaged and that Duke was reformed.
For a second I worried that Sam would know that it wasn’t a real diamond. But then again, what did he know about buying diamond rings? Nothing. Because he had never bought one for me.
I caught myself inhaling sharply at the cruel thought.
That wasn’t like me. This was Sam. I had known he was The One For Me since I first laid eyes on him in Mrs. Travelluci’s third-period chemistry class during sophomore year. I had always thought so—even when he didn’t. I had even assumed that this ruse with Duke would show Sam that I was desirable again so I could win him back. The thing was—now that the plan might actually be working, my heart longed for Duke.
But I was getting ahead of myself, as I tended to do.
“So what brings you to the city?” I asked. Our hometown of Milford was a short drive from the city—but far enough so that we didn’t come too often or just on a whim, but close enough.
“There’s a conference on the use of pronouns in Ulysses,” Sam said. “Riveting stuff.”
“Indeed,” I replied. We were both book lovers—just different kinds of books.
“I’m also teaching at Montclair University while I interview for positions elsewhere.”
“Really? But you had always planned on Montclair.” Or had that been my plan for him? For us. Along with that house on Brook Street, the Blanc Sur Blanc china, and the couch from Pottery Barn.
“Plans have a way of changing,” he said softly.
“That they do,” I remarked. The uncomfortable silence that followed was mercifully interrupted by the bartender arriving with our drinks: a champagne for me and a pint of Sam Adams for Sam.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass to mine. My gaze locked with his familiar brown eyes. “Cheers,” I murmured. We clinked our glasses together and took a sip and I thought about how strange it was to be near him again.
I imagined this moment a thousand times while I rode the subway on my way to work at the New York Public Library, or as I window shopped along Bleeker Street while eating a Magnolia Bakery cupcake or as I lay in bed at night listening to the sound of taxi horns blaring and sirens wailing.
The last time I had seen him was an awkward encounter in the kitchen of the house we rented. The lease was in his name and I had made an absurd, grief-induced declaration of moving to New York City, so I was the one packing up my things and the life we shared. I’d just gathered the last of my stuff and had bit back sobs as I left my key on the middle of the kitchen table when he came home unexpectedly.
“I thought you would be out until later,” I had said, wanting equally to run to the comfort of his arms or run out of the house.
“Plans changed,” he had replied.
Here we were—late at night in New York City and I was looking fabulous when he dropped the bomb.
“Actually, Jane, one of the positions I’m interviewing for is at New York University.”
“Really?” I hoped my voice sounded light, and politely interested. I hoped he couldn’t hear how my heart started beating faster. “We’d be neighbors then.”
My fiction writer’s brain immediately started spinning stories of us getting back together, sharing an adorable one-bedroom apartment in the West Village, visiting cafes together on Saturday where I would write novels and he could correct term papers. Then we’d head off to catch the latest exhibit at the Met (never mind that I’d lived here for months now and hadn’t gone once), followed by dinner at the hot spot of the moment.
Then my brain came to a screeching halt. My plans and determination to settle down into a quiet routine of domesticity are what sent him running before. And my life had gotten a hell of a lot more interesting once I started acting first and dealing with the consequences later. As I took a sip of my champagne, I realized that for the first time in my life I was really living in the present rather than in some abstract, never-to-be-realized future.
“How are things at the New York Public Library?” Sam asked. “Are you enjoying your work?”
“It’s a step up from the Milford Library,” I answered, declining to mention that my position was not and my small salary didn’t go too far in the city. What was more important right now was the way Sam looked at me, as if I were impressive. A catch.
Was it really so wrong to enjoy that over drinks? I decided it wasn’t.
“Wow, Jane . . .” he said dreamily, looking me up and down and smiling faintly. “I just can’t get over how you’ve changed.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” I answered. He had loved me for years—until he didn’t. And now?
“It’s good. If I had . . . If you had . . .” He shook his head, chasing away the thought. “Never mind.”
“If I had dressed like this and lived the fabulous life in the city, we might not have broken up?”
We both seemed shocked that I had actually said that.
But four glasses of champagne had a way of disabling my filter and shutting down my inhibitions. Plus, I had changed. I was no longer cautious, play-by-the-rules Jane. I had already lost Sam—and possibly Duke, too—so what did I have to lose now? It was time to just be me, whoever that may be.
The way Sam was looking at me did nothing to steady my nerves. He hadn’t looked at me like that since high school. Under the stadium bleachers. Across the classroom. In the back of his Ford truck after school senior year.
“It’s funny,” he said, smiling slightly. “You’re not the girl I broke up with. If that makes sense.”
“I am. Just in high heels and a short skirt.”
In a few hours I would go home and put on an oversized T-shirt and boxer shorts before watching an episode of whatever reality TV show was on. I kept that to myself so I could perpetuate his idea that I was a different girl now.
“Fabulous girl living in the big city,” Sam mused. “Engaged to a billionaire tech guy.”
I sipped my champagne. If Sam really knew the truth, he wouldn’t gaze at me with that mixture of wanting and thwarted desire. The engagement was a sham. The hot heels and mini skirt were a distraction. I was still plain Jane who freaked out at uncertainty, wanted to be loved, and was desperate for everyone to like her.
“How is the book going?” he asked.
I smiled. I might have told everyone back home that I was moving to New York to write a novel. I thought it would sound less like I was running away from the wreckage of my life, and more like I was starting a fabulous new chapter. But it wasn’t until Duke and I kicked off our fake engagement that I had an idea of what to write.
“Historical fiction, right?”
“A historical romance novel,” I corrected.
“Like one of those bodice rippers you always kept under the bed?” Sam asked, grinning.
“You knew about that?” I gasped.
“Of course.” Sam said with a laugh. “How is it going? Are there lots of heaving bosoms and throbbing members?”
I rolled my eyes. Comments like that were why I had always told him I was interested in historical fiction. It sounded much more respectable and less likely to be mocked for, say, heaving bosoms and throbbing members.
“Oh yeah,” I whispered.
“So tell me all about the research for one of those naughty books,” Sam murmured, leaning in close. I took a deep breath. I had missed his scent.
“Ladies don’t kiss and tell,” I replied demurely.
“And the inspiration for the hero?” He leaned in closer. Instinctively, I leaned in close, too. His lips . . . a familiar kiss . . .
I couldn’t tell him the truth: The novel was about a heroine desperate to win back the love of her longtime suitor who may or may not have been inspired by Sam (ok, totally was). So desperate that she agrees to a sham relationship with the Duke of Ashbrooke (who was inspired by Duke, obvs). With whom she falls in love.
Though Emma, the heroine, is damn tempted when her longtime suitor rolls back into the picture. Or she would be, when I got home. I’d gotten stuck in my book and now knew what I had to write next.
“You’ll see when it’s published,” I replied, feeling quite flirty until I imagined, for a moment, what would happen when I published it. What if Sam read it? I felt a wave of embarrassment, which didn’t compare to the horrified feeling when I imagined Duke reading it.
Then again, boys didn’t read romance novels. Everyone knew that.
“I know writing a book has been a longtime dream of yours,” Sam said. “I’ll take you out to celebrate when it’s published.”
