Shopping for a CEO's Wife (Shopping for a Billionaire Book 12)
Page 1
Shopping for a CEO’s Wife
Julia Kent
Contents
Shopping for a CEO’s Wife
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
A note to readers
Other Books By Julia Kent
About the Author
Shopping for a CEO’s Wife
by Julia Kent
Snowbound. Sounds so romantic, with visions of cuddling before a roaring fire, hot chocolate spiked with brandy, and a secret elopement.
Wait. What?
My fiancé’s father won’t stop trying to turn our pending wedding into a three-ring media circus so he can get free publicity for his family’s Fortune 500 company. My mother has decided she’s done with All Things Wedding and asks her teacup Chihuahua for mother-of-the-bride advice.
They’ve all gone certifiably mad.
Then the stress from the wedding puts my mother in the hospital, I scream at my future father-in-law in front of a camera crew and the video goes viral, and the romantic wedding that started with Andrew’s grand Pride and Prejudice proposal looks less like Jane Austen and more like Dostoyevsky.
So what do you do when you’re a fixer and you can’t fix something?
You give up on it.
Not on Andrew, silly.
The wedding.
Get ALL of the Shopping series books:
Shopping for a Billionaire 1 (Book 1) – FREE!
Shopping for a Billionaire 2 (Book 2)
Shopping for a Billionaire 3 (Book 3)
Shopping for a Billionaire 4 (Book 5)
Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire (Book 5)
Shopping for a Billionaire Boxed Set (all of the above, books 1-5)
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancée (Book 6)
Shopping for a CEO (Book 7)
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife (Book 8)
Shopping for a CEO’s Fiancée (Book 9)
Shopping for an Heir (Book 10)
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon (Book 11)
Shopping for a CEO’s Wife (Book 12)
Copyright © 2017 by Julia Kent
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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To my broken H key. You weren’t very elpful. My usband, on te oter and, was great. Clark, tank you for being suc a wonderful alpa reader.
To Kim Lane, whose 1999 Salon.com article on tugging made me laugh so hard. I started writing humorous essays myself, later moving on to romantic comedy. Always tucked away in the back of my mind, the topic of foreskin restoration had to come out in my comedic fiction one day. Today is that day.
Chapter 1
The warm, wet cocoon of the deep hot tub’s embrace, as snowflakes tickle my face, is one of those surreal experiences that only my hot, wildly irresistible fiancé’s mouth can top.
And oh, how it does.
We’re slippery and slick, naked bodies moving against each other with a joyful desperation that would make me smile if I weren’t already moaning. At least, I assume that’s me making those sounds. Less than two minutes into this sweet soak after a long day of skiing, we’ve just started with the naked preliminaries before moving on to the main event.
Er, before I move onto Andrew’s main event, I should say.
“It’s so beautiful,” I whisper between kisses, tiny dots of white appearing from the sky, drifting onto Andrew’s nose and cheeks, landing on his eyelashes and disappearing like Cupid in icy form.
His face lights up with a smile, brow and hair wet from immersing himself fully when we climbed in here, his hair starting to freeze in an adorable pattern across his strong brow. Eyes the color of rich brown fur meet mine, eyes I’ve grown accustomed to waking up to every morning, lust and love mingled together most days. Whether they’re wide or narrow, covered by a knitted brow or stretched by a smile, emotion shapes them.
Right now, though, most of Andrew’s emotion is reserved for a very big, shall we say, main event that presses against me, patiently waiting to be ridden.
“You’re so beautiful,” he counters, kissing my hand, lips on the giant diamond ring he gave me when he proposed last year. In the muted light, the sun covered by the gentle snowstorm that gives us this sweet snow show, the diamond doesn’t glitter. It just is, imperial and imposing, a weight on my finger that is a daily reminder of his love.
And how he, you know, lost the first ring in Walden Pond, along with his car key, while pretending to be Mr. Darcy, but let’s not dwell in the past. The very real present is a little more pressing.
A lot more pressing.
Who knew that you could frolic outside in February in northern Vermont, soaking in a steaming hot tub on a second-story deck with a view of the rolling, wrinkly Vermont mountains, jutting out of the landscape like my own personal show?
“The Cheeto-marshmallow treats with the chardonnay are just the cream on top,” I murmur, in heaven as I finish my wine. Nothing tops having your favorite freak food enhanced by alcohol.
“The sommelier at the wine store was pleased to be presented with a challenge. ‘What pairs well with orange salty-sweet?’ is its own category.” He kisses me again, tongues tangling as all my muscles sink into him.
Kissing Andrew is like the Fourth of July, all celebration and pride, fireworks lighting me up across a broad band of sky.
Even with my eyes closed I can see them. Even in the daytime, the white layering of vertical snow making a new dimension, I can see them.
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Wait a minute.
Those aren’t fireworks.
Andrew turns first, his lips breaking away from mine, the shock of cold Vermont air bracing my skin, making me shiver as I straddle him. Any sudden jolt in this particular position, when we’re both naked and shoulder-deep in bubbling water, is cause for careful consideration.
We’re normally carefully calibrated for pleasure.
But the protective centers of my amygdala make all the blood in my body flow to my arms and legs, ready to fight or flee, because what I see when I follow Andrew’s lead makes freezing the only option I absolutely cannot follow.
Paparazzi.
Flash! Flash!
“Hey!” Andrew shouts, his voice deep and angry, the rumble of surprise bubbling up out of his chest like a new jacuzzi jet we hadn’t noticed.
“Amanda!” calls out a man’s high voice. “Look here!”
A tight band of Andrew’s forearm locks around the back of my neck as I get a face full of wet chest. “Don’t loo
k,” he hisses, turning to the protocol I’m just starting to remember.
Flash! Flash! Click! Click! Click-click-click-click-click!
Sounds remarkably like machine gun fire.
Paparazzi follow us everywhere now. Everywhere. You know all those pictures on the front of tabloid magazines in the grocery store checkout aisle? Or the myriad websites devoted to celebrity gossip? The paper magazines are bad enough, but the websites are a separate category.
People make money from running advertising on those sites. Which means they need a constant stream of pictures to draw eyeballs, to make a micro-cent per ad on the page.
That’s right.
I’m eyeball lure. Someone, somewhere, wants to see a picture of me without makeup or kissing Andrew or climbing out of a limo without underwear or buying a rival company’s products, or just being.
My presence in Andrew’s life has turned my very existence into money for someone else.
And a picture of me and Andrew, naked in a hot tub, will draw so, so many eyeballs.
“Is my side-boob showing?” I murmur against his nipple, which is now taut with either protective stress or the seventeen-degree air. Not sure which.
I do know that the main event has turned into a not-so-main event. So much for afternoon hot tub sex.
“Sweet tits, Mandy!” one of the photographers shouts. “Show ‘em to us, baby! Don’t let Andy have all the fun!”
Mandy. Andy.
Oh HELL NO.
A ferocious growl starts in Andrew’s throat, reverberating through him as he pins me closer. Panic floods me. Bad enough I have recurrent nightmares about being naked in public, but having a photo of my boobs on the internet – monetized – is pretty much anyone’s biggest nightmare.
Aside from taking an exam in a class you forgot you were enrolled in.
“GET OUT!” Andrew commands, dropping his legs slightly, making me sink deeper into the water as he holds me up. The girls bob like apples at a kids’ Halloween party, though, uncooperative in remaining hidden.
“Turn this way!” someone else shouts. I can’t help myself. That voice is different. I start to turn.
Flash! Flash!
“Don’t look,” Andrew commands. “Gerald’s on it.”
“Is there more than one?”
“Looks like three of them, and one is on some kind of ladder, because his face is right there. ”
Flash!
The voice is very close, so close I look up to find a grinning asshole with a simple phone, snapping photos as fast as he can, thumb on the camera button so it autoclicks.
“You two look so hot,” he says. Click. Click. Click. Click.
“Go away!” Andrew says, peeling me off him. “Stay under water. Hide yourself.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going after him.”
“What?”
“Gerald!” Andrew shouts.
“Got it!” booms our bodyguard’s voice from the right as Gerald makes a running start and gets to the camera dude, grabbing the phone out of his pocket, tossing it into the hot tub, then grabbing the two sides of the ladder.
“Hey!” the photographer squeaks, shaky and grasping the top rung with a look of sheer terror. “You can’t!”
“I can.”
“I’ll sue!”
Gerald shakes the ladder. The guy drops something, looks down, then looks back at Gerald, who has the face of a middle school spelling bee judge.
Less than zero emotion.
“You can’t do this!” the guy screeches.
“Just did.” Gerald looks over at Andrew, whose legs are now tensed and ready to lunge. I am preventing that from happening by the simple act of being in his lap. The feel of so much coiled power in his muscles is an aphrodisiac.
I must say something. Now.
Leaning in, I nip his earlobe and whisper, “You’re really hot when you’re protecting me.”
He jolts, his head moving away from my bite. Andrew’s staring at Gerald and the photographer, but he moves his cheek against mine and says, “Really? You have to share that fact with me right now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re turning me on.”
“You – you’re turned on by having the paparazzi take pictures of us naked in a hot tub?”
“No. I’m turned on by how your legs and chest and abs and -- ” I use hand gestures to indicate a different body part-- “feel right now.”
“Duly noted.”
“I think you’re doing more than noting that fact,” I say, as said body part rises to the occasion.
“Amanda,” he warns, voice half angry, half aroused.
“What?” I pretend to be innocent. I’m really good at it. I’m a former mystery shopper, after all, and most of the job involves pretending to be stupid.
Gerald’s bent over the ladder. It looks like the photog is backing off, though I hear muttering about lawyers. A part of me wants to get up and see what’s happening, but as Andrew peels me off him and floats to the other side of the hot tub, grabbing a bottle of bubble bath and pouring some in to provide more cover for our nudity, I realize getting out of the tub means even more exposure.
In seventeen-degree weather, literally. If I’m going to lose my nipples, I want it to happen during some kinky sex thing, not because some paparazzi made me freeze them off out of fear.
Bzzzzzz.
That’s not a phone. The buzzing has a weird echoing sound, and just as I look laterally for the source of the sound, Gerald looks up, grabs a walkie-talkie from his belt and barks orders.
Andrew looks wildly around, as if searching for a really big wasp.
“Get the photographer in the white coat. Male, early twenties, Caucasian, wearing hipster glasses. Drone spotted. Warn the local law enforcement.”
Drone? Did he say drone? Like an Amazon Prime delivery? Why would there be a drone?
Gerald looks over the edge of the deck. I hear loud arguing.
“What’s going on?”
“Mr. Lawsuit cut wires at the main gate to get in here. We’ll have him arrested.” He looks up. I look up.
Some kid’s remote control helicopter is flying overhead, about twenty or thirty feet above us, just hanging out.
“Is that a helicopter?”
“Worse,” Andrew says with a snarl. “Drone.”
“Is it delivering something?”
“Hell. It’s delivering hell. Gerald, can we shoot it?”
“SHOOT IT? With a gun?”
“DON’T SHOOT IT!” calls a voice below us. “That’s a thousand-dollar drone!”
Gerald and Andrew share a look, the kind of evil, mischievous grin that gives me a glimpse into what our son might look like as I watch Andrew’s eyes gleam.
“Do it,” he tells Gerald.
Gerald’s just following orders, right?
As he trains his sight on the drone, a screech from above pierces the air, then a whooshing sound follows as the drone suddenly, shockingly disappears off to the right with a speed too sudden to be propelled by any man-made motor.
Slowly, Andrew stands in the hot tub as some guy below us starts screaming obscenities. Wordlessly, Gerald hands a very naked, wet Andrew his robe, and as Andrew shrugs into it, Gerald discreetly hands me mine, turning around, snapping at someone on his walkie-talkie while looking over the edge of our deck.
Sprinting through the patio doors and into the house, Gerald takes off, followed by Andrew, as I watch from the balcony, tempted to follow them. Within seconds they’re in the yard, Gerald a black-suited streak running after the second photographer, who is screaming obscenities as he runs, shouting about lawyers but also taking pictures with a phone held high above his head, pointed toward us.
He goes down face-first in the snow as Gerald tackles him. I quickly pad through the house and down the stairs, stopping at the downstairs patio door, Andrew a physical shield between me and the outdoors.
“Don’t.
Don’t give them a chance to photograph you.”
I look around the room and spot ski goggles and a helmet, slipping my half-wet head into the helmet, leaving the chin strap undone. I hold the goggles up to my face and move next to him, craning my head.
“Nice look.”
“I aim to please.”
Andrew steps out onto the heated-brick patio, wet feet on warm stone. I join him, marveling at the technology in one corner of my mind but mostly fixated on the sight of a stoic Gerald covered in bits of snow, yanking a very uncooperative paparazzo through a foot of powder. Gerald is like a Zamboni, moving slowly but steadily through the terrain, dragging two hundred pounds of pissed-off anarchy in human form.
“Fuck you,” the photographer spits out as Gerald walks past us with him.
“Have fun in court,” Andrew says, crossing his arms over his chest, giving the guy no quarter.
Just then, a flutter of activity from above makes us all look up. The hawk does a drive-by, the drone in his mouth. The bird drops a load of guano. Gerald shoves the photog just in time to avoid getting hit.
The photog takes it in the face.
“Good work,” Andrew tells Gerald as he re-secures the photog, who is now apoplectic.
“Thanks. Photographers zero, Anterdec two.”
“You got lucky, asshole,” the photog screams.
Andrew turns around, shutting the door, leaving his security team to manage the rest. “Lucky. Right.”
“He’s got a point. Who would have guessed that hawk would come out of nowhere and grab that drone? I thought they only dive-bombed little dogs.”
“That’s a trained hawk, Amanda.”
“A trained...hawk?”
“Trained to disable drones.”
“You can do that?”
“I can hire someone to do that. It was Gerald’s idea after he saw an article a few years ago about Kanye West worrying about paparazzi-controlled drones.”
“Gerald’s job is that involved? I knew he wasn’t just your limo driver, but...”
“Security takes many forms. The best security is invisible. It fits like a glove so you don’t even notice it. Costs more, but it’s worth it. It’s how we have to function.”