by Emily Bishop
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No one can find out I’m pregnant.
Landing a job on the set of Billionaire Bachelor was amazing.
But being up close to this year’s bachelor, Blake Berringer, is enough to make me wet on the spot.
He’s an unhinged aristocrat with the face of an angel and the reputation of the devil.
A little part of me wants to get him alone and see if he remembers me.
We met once a long time ago.
But there’s 3 ironclad rules on set:
1) No wandering the bachelor’s property after dark.
Broke this one once.
2) Don’t accept any gifts.
Broke this one twice.
3) Don’t kiss the bachelor.
I can’t even count how many times we broke this one.
I’m such a bad girl.
But some rules are meant to be broken.
The producer is really going to flip her shit when she sees my baby bump.
Will I be fired, or will I be famous?
Prologue
Roxanne
“Are you an angel?”
“Not hardly. Come here…”
“You don’t even know how to drive?” an old lady in a long red gown asks me, her eyes child-like with shock. She isn’t the only one, either. There are four other ancient millionaires crowded around me, looming in anticipation.
“I—I know how to drive,” I answer her, cradling my own arms uncomfortably. “I just…have panic attacks when I try. For right now.”
Damn it, Pepper was right. It’s too soon for me to be doing stuff like this. I’m not ready. I thought it would be okay. It’s a boat, a fundraiser, free shrimp. The thing is, I hate shrimp. I shouldn’t have come.
The old lady gasps. “You must feel so helpless, Roxanne,” she coos. “Like you don’t even exist anymore. Oh, you poor thing. Look, Charles, her bruises aren’t even fully healed yet. Oh, heavens.” She reaches a shriveled hand to touch me, like I’m some broken doll on display.
“Refreshments?” a waiter interrupts, and I dodge the probing fingers to snatch a flute of champagne from his platter.
“Thank you,” I breathe. “And excuse me.” I weave and break through the crowd of murmuring patrons. The old woman yells something after me—something about my bravery and an inspiration, blah, blah—but I’m already breaking through the next cluster of curious, old-money patrons. Their faces are too big, looming at me, watching me with such studious interest, like I’m a wounded bug, and they hope that I can make it, but I’m still so very small compared to them. Compared to everything. I’m small. And empty.
I might be wearing a gown crusted in pearls, but I’m not one of them. They can all see it. They see it in the clouds that never clear from my gray eyes. They see it in the yellowed bruises on my upper-arms, still not completely healed.
I drag four fingers through my freshly dyed curls—black cherry—and inhale deeply, letting the intense ocean air purify my mind.
My body relaxes with each progressive click of my heels. I put more space between myself and these insanely polite zombies.
I can’t believe she asked me such personal questions in front of everyone. I felt like I had to tell her because this is a fundraiser for battered women, and I’m one of them. I’m a poster child now. I’m a walking commercial for Second Chances.
They tell me how sorry they are for what happened to me, and how lucky I am that Ms. Madden found me, that Ms. Madden took me in. This environment is supposed to be encouraging and supportive.
They smile and nod at me like I’m some four-year-old wandering the dance floor at a wedding reception.
I want to scream, I don’t belong on this stupid yacht! I don’t belong in this dress! Jared would love to see me now, see how I can’t do this. I don’t even remember how to talk to people anymore. I don’t remember how to be outside. He ruined me. He won. I ran two hundred miles too late.
I clutch the stern of this decadent yacht, staring out over the tumble and spray of dark ocean waves. Finally alone. My heart brims until I think it’s going to burst as another panic attack grips me. Shit. Shit. Just breathe.
I’m free. Everyone says I’m free now.
I’m surrounded by good people here, aren’t I? Their money pays for the women’s shelter that is my current address. And look at all the pretty Christmas lights strung overhead. Didn’t I see the massive Christmas tree on the main deck, swamped in baubles and tinsel? Didn’t I hear the orchestra playing “Deck the Halls”? How could I feel so miserable, so lost, in the middle of all this festivity?
I want to jump so damn much. Just fuck it.
“I’m lost,” I sob quietly, speaking to the ocean sprawled beyond, like it wants my answer.
I should’ve brought one of my girls with me. Pepper or Iggy. But I’m alone. It’s a blessing and a curse.
I stare out across the vast horizon and raise my champagne glass to it.
“So here’s to you, Jared,” I murmur, rising the champagne flute to my lips and downing it all in one gulp. The bubbles burn. My other hand slides along the smooth, cool metal of the railing, and I let my shoulders soften, let my back curve. My eyelashes kiss closed and I sigh. He’s gone now. He’s gone. But where does that leave me?
I loosen my fingers and let my glass tumble into the immense wake of the turbines. It flips end over end, winking in the moonlight, and then vanishes. I don’t even hear it. It’s just gone.
It could be like that for you, too.
I can’t even sing anymore. I can’t write anymore. I don’t remember how to make friendly conversation. I don’t remember how to handle money. I don’t remember anything except how to make Jared happy. How to run Jared’s house. How to be Jared’s wife. I still jolt when my phone vibrates. I still cry if dinner’s burnt.
I hitch up my skirt and swing a leg over the railing. Then the other.
On this side of the railing, the entire world changes. Winter winds rip at my gown and hair. The floor falls away, falls fifty feet to the black Pacific below. I’m very aware of my fingers all of a sudden. My mouth tightens with determination. My heart’s going like a jackhammer.
No one notices I’m doing this. The rumble of murmured conversation at my back doesn’t break. No one cares. No one even remembers which girl I am after I walk away. If I let go, no one will notice. They won’t turn around and come back. Nothing in the whole world will change. I only had one job to do—be Jared’s wife—and now that I’m free, what is there for me? Who am I? I used to be known for my earthy, resonant vocals. With Jared, I learned to speak softly. Slowly, my entire personality got carved away, and I was just a husk. An extension of him. Now that he’s gone…
“That bored?” a charming British accent wonders from behind me, and I flick a terrified glance over my shoulder.
A blond Goliath fills the space behind me, smelling lightly of aftershave. His shoulders are so broad, he could be more gorilla than man, but he is clean-shaven and fits perfectly into a royal blue suit. Cornflower blue eyes spring out at me. His gold hair is well-kept, trim on the sides and styled on top. He just doesn’t look like he belongs in such trappings. He looks like he could flex and bust out of them.
A fine tremble takes over my body as I begin to seriously doubt the spiraling emotions that brought me to this place.
“Are you an angel?” I ask him in a voice as delicate as spun glass.
“Not even hardly. Come here.” The blond spreads his hands down my shoulders and a brushfire of tingles sets off. I shiver, but he doesn’t notice, concentrating only on collecting me from the wrong side of the railing.
He gently twists me to fu
lly face him, and I feel vertigo when I look into his eyes. They’re so familiar, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.
I meant it when I asked him if he was an angel.
His hands scoop around and hook on the other side of my skirt. “Here you come,” he promises me warmly, lifting me into the air. I yelp and my hands claw behind his neck, clinging to him like a cat. I swallow the lump in my throat as soon as I can feel relatively solid ground beneath my feet. “See?” he says. “You do want to live.”
I gingerly extricate myself from his embrace, though one of his hands is still on me. I feel it burning into the small of my back.
“I just had to get away for a little bit,” I tell him, a hint of my real voice seeping out, husky and sonorous.
“But not forever, I hope.” He moves toward a bench along the stern and gestures to it, guiding me gracefully with one hand still planted at the base of my spine. Other than Jared, he’s the first man to touch me—even this tiny bit—in almost seven years. I should be having another panic attack right now, but I’m not. I’m mesmerized as warmth spreads from his fingers and across my skin.
I settle alongside him, my skirt splashing out in front of us.
“I used to escape all the time, too,” he confesses to me. “Then, a good friend of mine said something very useful: ‘A prison can become home if only you have the key.’”
With that, he flourishes a single, intricately detailed brass key from his jacket pocket and holds it up for me to examine.
“He gave this to me. Here, take it.”
I obediently pluck the key from his fingers.
“Because you can always just go,” I agree, turning the key over between my fingers. “A key changes everything.”
It hits me for the first time since I arrived there two weeks ago: I need to get out of the Second Chances shelter. I need to have my own home. My own bed. A real job.
My own key.
I’m staring at the key so hard, I don’t notice the man stretch out a finger and graze the faded bruise on my jaw.
I gasp, and my eyes flash to his. He stares back at me knowingly, eyes dark with pain. His finger doesn’t move, and I don’t want it to. He’s so warm, his touch so…penetrating.
“It can keep everyone out,” the man whispers conspiratorially. His eyes seem to fill the whole world now. “Or it can let someone in.”
The clinking of forks against champagne glasses draws those deep blue eyes away from mine, snapping the tether that held us so tightly together. As his finger leaves my cheek, I feel the vacuum of December air rush between us.
A distant patron gestures to the golden boy, hollering that it’s time for the major contributors to make their speeches.
“Bollocks, I have to go,” the intriguing man in the royal blue suit murmurs, coming to a stand. His key is still clutched in my hand. He smooths one large palm down the front of his suit and uses the other to point a finger at me. “I’ll find you after this,” he promises, then pivots and marches away.
I slide the key into my little purse.
The yacht docks at the marina in Long Beach almost two hours later.
I never do see the mysterious blond again, and I step off the gangway with his key still tucked into my purse.
I wear it around my neck now to remind myself that I will never be imprisoned again.
Chapter 1
Blake
Cosmo calls my appeal ‘steel wrapped in velvet.’
I never demanded a retraction...
If you’re in the gardens, you can’t tell. You can’t even tell if you’re standing on the balcony. But at the end of the sweeping driveway, just beyond the twelve-foot gates and the matching lion statues, there’s a swath of “journalists” which runs ten feet wide and thirty feet long. Their trigger-happy cameras pop at every shadow. They howl my name like banshees in the night.
I can’t even leave my own damn house anymore.
I heard that a picture of me is worth $500,000.
“Starting early this morning,” Miles comments drily, offering me the customary warmed towel on a silver platter.
“People like them don’t sleep.” I recline my head and lightly drape the white cloth over my face. I hear the tinkle of breakfast plates removed from the table, although I’m not sure which servants are here.
I sit back and relish the refreshing hints of cucumber and mint infused with the towel’s cotton and relax.
“Please tell me there’s nothing on the agenda today.”
“I can tell you that there’s nothing between your 11 a.m. and your 2 p.m.,” Miles offers. “But Candace Madden will be here any minute.”
I jolt and rip the warm towel from my face, skin tingling against the suddenly chilly air. “It’s 7 in the morning.”
“That was what I said.” Beneath his graying mustache, a knowing smile spreads on Miles’ lips. He’s known me for thirty-eight years, and he loves to be right. “But you confirmed with her last week. You said she was an old friend.”
“Not old enough, I’m sure.” I scowl up at him and stand to inspect my attire: blue silk pajamas. Lovely. “Send someone to intercept her from the gates. I’ll be down in five.”
Five minutes later, I’m fastening cufflinks in the master bath, cursing my reflection for scheduling this goddamn meeting. My cobalt eyes are merciless right now, glaring above the nose for which I’m famous: slightly crooked after being broken in a street fight. It reminds me of that American actor with the charming Southern accent. I scrape fingers through shaggy, wheat-colored hair and nod to myself. If only the clean-cut boy I’d been could see me now…
But my shoulders look capable. My mouth, serious. It’s a good change. I’m a man now, just as able to incapacitate an intruder as I am to dance a mean tango.
No one will be able to tell that I was just draping a warm towel over my face, enjoying some light exfoliation.
I smooth my hands down the front of my navy suit and adjust the black tie. There’s an understated luster, and that’s always been my way. Cosmo calls my appeal “steel wrapped in velvet.” I never demanded a retraction.
I stride through the master bedroom and push onto a broad balcony, watching as a fucking film crew slogs across my property.
I know they won’t be able to hear my shouted “What the fuck?” from this distance, so I march through the massive house and blow through the entry doors just as Candace Madden & co. are creeping up the long marble stairway.
“What the bloody hell is all this?” I demand, gesturing to the cameras, the gaffers, the boom mics. They’re all wearing matching black t-shirts which read ‘My Billionaire Bachelor.’
Oh, bollocks.
“It’s Ms. Madden, Blake,” Candace calls to me, struggling forward in spiked heels and a formal dress. I recognize her. She hosted a travel show about fifteen years ago, and we were in Canada at the same time once. She started a charity for battered women, too, and I gave generously to that. I was right. She’s an old acquaintance from various fundraisers—I last saw her at a yacht party, maybe three or four years ago—and she’s someone I hold in esteem. But not enough esteem for all this. Not at 7 in the morning. Not six weeks into a media tailspin. “I know you’re a little camera-shy right now,” she allows, throwing out her hands in surrender.
“A little camera-shy right now?” I scoff. “You’re going to have to get out of here. I didn’t agree to all this.”
“This is part of it!” Candace cries, finally reaching me at the top of the stairs. Her short blonde hair is spiky with an overuse of product, and her makeup cakes under natural lighting. “We have to film everything from beginning to end, Sir Berringer.”
My lip quirks. I was knighted by Queen Elizabeth after returning from humanitarian efforts in Africa in 2013. Referencing it is an easy way to access my good side. Damn her.
My eyes settle on hers, and I consider. Do I want to let an entire film crew into my home just for this interview? This interview I don’t exactly re
member scheduling?
“Hm. No,” I answer easily.
“We came all the way from Los Angeles!”
“You did come a long way to ambush me in my front yard,” I sympathize. “Maybe you can use your establishing shots for next season. It’s not a total waste. The property is beautiful.”
I turn, but Candace tracks after me. “You could really use the publicity right now,” she huffs. “The entire world thinks you’re unhinged, Blake.”
“Why do you think I care?” I demand, muscles tightening beneath my suit, belying how stressful the past few weeks have been. “I don’t need the world or anyone in it.” I turn and say this to her face, even though several cameras blare their little red ‘ON’ lights at us. This footage alone will be priceless for her, but I can’t help that. I need to live my life. I need to say my peace. “If I wanted to, I could be down at those gates right now, begging for everyone to still love me. It would be easy… and pointless.” I turn away from her again, murmuring to Miles that security can escort them from the premises for their own safety.
“What if there was a point to it all?” Candace shrills behind my back. “What if TMZ could call you Lionheart again?”
“I don’t give a fuck about TMZ, Candace.” But my hand still rests on the knob, not turning.
“This could make millions for any of our charities! Or yours!”
I grimace and shake my head. She just doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know how much I hate the cameras and the makeup artists and the cue cards and everything else associated with her line of “work.” Sometimes I wish I was adopted, instead of being the heir to seventeen billion pounds of blood money. Then I would just be another British idiot, instead of the prince of them all.
“Will the show be filmed in America?” I wonder. I do love America. No one knows my face there, and I haven’t been for… how many years? “I don’t think I’ve been to America since your fundraiser. Another Chance?”
“Second Chances,” Candace answers, and I glance back at her. A slow grin spreads on her face. She thinks she’s got me sprawled across that dotted line. “Right. Your contribution rescued hundreds of women in bad situations, Blake.” She speaks slowly to let the weight of her words sink in. “I know that you’re a good guy.”
