by C. J. Anaya
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Author's Notes
The Healer
Acknowledgments
About The Book
Fairy Tale
About the author
Marry Your Billionaire
C.J. Anaya
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2016 C.J. Anaya
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1519625816
ISBN-10: 1519625812
Published by C.J. Anaya Publishing LLC
Front cover by C.J. Anaya
Print Cover by C.J. Anaya for C.J. Anaya Publishing LLC.
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.
Chapter One
Unbelievable!
Madelyn Knightly—Midge to her friends—took one look at the handsome stranger who'd had the audacity, the outrageous nerve, to steal her usual seat at Café Canapé and felt an irrational pang of anger surge to the surface.
He looked vaguely familiar, but she knew she’d never met him before. He was clearly a man of importance, but she failed to place him as she glared at him from the corner of her eye. He was probably a player in Hollywood. Maybe an associate of her father’s, though she wouldn’t know who her father was hobnobbing with since she hadn’t had much to do with Corbin Knightly for awhile now.
Annoyed beyond what most might consider reasonable, she stood in the cafe’s entrance and surveyed her other options while the man sat at her table engrossed in some heated discussion. She tromped past him and huffily planted herself at the table furthest away from the arrogant seat stealer and the man’s associate, a self-important looking gentleman with a large tablet held at the ready, possibly dictating the man’s schedule to him as if anyone out of high school wasn’t capable of something as idiotic as that.
Midge couldn’t muster a single ounce of goodwill as she opened her laptop, flipped to her Scrivener program, and then chanced an open glare at the two miscreants.
She sighed at her illogical anger, an obvious sign that after six years of working through her personal issues she wasn’t any closer to actually working through her personal issues.
The loss of the table bugged her. She loved sitting in that particular spot since it gave her such a spectacular view of a small portion of Huntington Beach. But what disturbed her even more was this nagging familiarity the handsome stranger’s presence produced; this blatant reminder of a life she’d purposely turned her back on, a life she’d avoided like she would a cracked out actress or the paparazzi.
Thinking about the paparazzi, her troubled musings turned to the scheduled visit with her father, which filled her stomach with stone-cold dread. She had no idea why he had summoned her or what he could possibly have to say after several years of sporadic phone calls and little else.
She was just a semester away from graduating with a Masters in English. Nothing in the world was going to mess up her well-laid plans, not even the abrupt loss of her scholarship due to budget cuts, information her counselor had bombed her with just moments before her father’s secretary called to schedule an appointment for that very afternoon.
The scholarship had been a godsend, something that came to her a few days after her falling out with her father. To have her scholarship dry up now was a serious problem she didn’t, as yet, have a solution for. Student loans were an obvious option, but the idea of debt didn’t sit well with her even though it was generally considered acceptable debt. She didn’t like owing anyone anything.
A few quiet moments at her favorite café writing her romance novel, one which was sure to get her foot in the publishing world, should be giving her the opportunity to step away from her current problems. Instead, fate threw in a ridiculously good-looking guy and favored him with the most amazing beach front view, which was completely lost on him.
She glanced out a near-by window and had to admit her view wasn’t all that bad either. Café Canapé was located in the downtown district area where fun shops and restaurants catered to tourists. Midge loved the freedom she felt whenever she walked along the streets, enjoying the surf and turf atmosphere and inhaling that salty sea air.
Midge dropped her eyes from the tempting view and adjusted her non-prescription glasses on her nose. She always felt more confident when hiding behind them, something she’d never vocally admit to anyone. She reached into her bag, pulled out her laptop, and dove into her story. Midge managed only one paragraph before a sense of someone critically studying her flooded her concentration. Instinct made her peek above her laptop, straight into the eyes of the very man who had stolen her table, her concentration, and her peace of mind.
His manly perfection was definitely at its peak. His dark hair was styled in a way that screamed straight-laced and altogether too perfect to be true, while the hint of natural wave looked ready to rebel against its gelled structure. She imagined the image he presented and the real man lurking behind the facade worked much the same way: bad boy with all-American charm. Dark lashes and a square jawline with defined cheekbones just added to his allure.
Totally yummy.
And totally familiar. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d seen this guy before?
Midge lowered her eyes to her work, but her mind strayed to the gorgeous stranger. Without consciously trying, she began to allow her focus to pick apart the low murmur coming from their general direction, and soon it morphed into distinctive phrases. The subject matter; unfortunately, was right up her alley.
“Brody, you can’t back out of this now. It’s too late. The network is offering you an opportunity here, one that shouldn’t be sniffed at simply because you feel appearing on television is beneath you.”
Aha. She knew he looked familiar. The handsome billionaire seated at the table across from her was none other than Brody Prescott, founder and CEO of Shackled And Loving It, an online dating service which boasted outstanding reviews and thousands of successful pairings ending in marital bliss. There’d been a scandal attached to his name several months ago; allegations of breaches in privacy policies. The tabloids had painted the confirmed bachelor as a playboy who used member information to score himself one
night stands. The ensuing debacle had wreaked havoc on his personal credibility and threatened to sink the whole company.
Not that Midge paid attention to the tabloids…much.
She didn’t believe the accusations for one second, at least the allegations he’d broken his company’s privacy policies. A wealthy and powerful man like Brody Prescott didn’t get to where he was by making stupid, career-ending blunders of that magnitude. Most likely, the lie had been weaved by a spurned lover…or lovers.
She did; however, absolutely believe he was a playboy.
The handsome stranger shook his head, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t understand how this reality TV show is going to improve my image, Gregg. I’ll only look desperate and stupid.”
Reality TV? Midge groaned as she thought of her father and his profession. Corbin Knightly was a filmmaker, director, and producer. The last several years of his career had been spent dedicated to developing gritty reality TV series. Before Midge had walked away from the family business, she’d had to work on some of those projects with him. She had not been a fan of the process.
Mr. Prescott’s assistant let out a long-suffering sigh, giving her the impression that this argument had been visited and then revisited with essentially the same outcome. She could almost visualize his body deflating into a small puddle on the vinyl covered chair. She’d have to disinfect the whole thing if she ever wanted to sit at that table again.
“Brody, you’ve already signed the contracts. All the marketing for this show centers solely on you. They’re announcing you as the star of this new series next week. Do you have any idea the kind of legal ramifications we’re looking at if you back out now?”
“Look, when this whole scandal blew up, I was ready to jump on board for some serious damage control. I did the interviews, signed the contracts, and even hit the gym so my abs would be film ready once shooting started. At the time, it looked like our only chance at fixing the damage Felicia’s lies caused, but now I’m having some major doubts about how this is going to work in our favor. I never watch this crap myself and have zero respect for people who do.”
Midge’s opinion of him rose by exactly point-five percent. After all, he was still a rich, spoiled womanizer.
“Brody we have to fix this. You already have a certain…reputation with women. No one is interested in joining the most successful online dating community if its creator isn’t successfully matched or at least attempting to stick with one woman for an appropriate length of time, and you can’t use your own company to find yourself a match. That’d be feeding fuel to the fire of these spreading allegations, no matter how on the up-and-up you go about it. This is the only other avenue available to us. By publicly demonstrating your desire to find a wife and then going through that very process on television, you’re giving people a reason to trust and believe in you again.”
“Do you have any idea how many women I’ve dated without ever having been tempted, even once, to make the situation permanent? All they’re after is my money.”
Midge should feel some kind of sympathy for the guy.
She tried.
She failed.
“That’s why this show is so important. It will paint you in a different light. The women you meet will be vetted to ensure there isn’t a single gold-digger in the bunch. You will have the opportunity to go from playboy to steady suitor within just a few months, and hopefully your image will be saved in the process.”
“Ha,” Midge said, and then punished herself by biting her bottom lip. She hoped they hadn’t heard her staccato burst of derision.
“Excuse me, did we say something funny?”
Well, she’d certainly stuck her foot in it. No possible way to duck behind her laptop now. She prepared herself for Brody Prescott’s compelling gaze before looking up from her work. Even then, his perusal of her left her a bit disconcerted. Having dealt with a few arrogant playboys in her day, she knew better than to exhibit the slightest hint of fear or intimidation. Nothing less or more than total indifference was the way to go in this situation. She squared her shoulders, met his assessment of her with a critical one of her own, and brazenly answered the question.
“I find it amusing that either of you think reality TV is going to paint you in a favorable light. These networks are interested in ratings, and they’ll get them any way they can.” She pulled her glasses from her nose and pinched the bridge of it, frustrated to have inserted herself into the conversation.
“And you think you know the inner workings of what makes reality TV an actual reality?” the assistant asked.
“Far better than you, I’m afraid.” Midge turned her gaze to Mr. Prescott and watched as his expression changed from skepticism to a strange kind of interest.
Wonderful. He finds me about as fascinating as one might find a few juggling chimpanzees: bizarre and inexplicably entertaining.
She used the pointed end of her glasses to gesture toward Brody while directing her comments to the assistant. It was a way to avoid the billionaire’s stare while simultaneously letting him know she felt comfortable talking about him as if he wasn’t present, a tactic her father had taught her as a result of dealing with one too many self-important players in Hollywood.
“These dating shows resemble the type of interactions you might find in a cult community where plural marriage is condoned because some zealot broke away from mainstream Mormons and dubbed himself king of the county.”
“Mormons don’t practice plural marriage?” Gregg asked.
“Not real Mormons. It’s against their religion. You’re thinking of offshoots,” Brody clarified. He turned a slightly amused look at Midge. “I’m sorry, but what does polygamy have to do with this conversation?”
“Multiple women all vying for your affections, and you can’t find one similarity to that of a man marrying an obscene number of brain-dead females?” Midge shot back, giving him a look that implied he was brain-dead for even considering it.
Gregg held up a scrawny arm to get her attention.
“The pictures taken of Brody with different women, and the accusations involved, have painted a rather unpleasant persona. We need to revamp his image.”
“And your solution is to put his less than charming playboy personality on the screen, allow him to date multiple women at one time, and hope he doesn’t offend anyone in the process?” Midge wondered who Mr. Prescott’s image consultant was because the middle-aged assistant resembling a withered tree branch couldn’t possibly be the one calling the shots here. “You’re absolutely right. I would never label Brody Prescott as a heartless womanizer after watching a full season of him kissing twenty plus girls and breaking all of their hearts once he finally decides which one he’ll marry, only to call the wedding off when the season is over.”
Brody pointed a finger at Gregg as if to say, I told you so. “Finally, someone on my side, though I’m offended by your attack on what I’ve always considered to be a sparkling, affable personality.” He gave Midge a cheeky grin. “You should spend time getting to know me before making snap judgments like that. Would you like to start by grabbing some dinner with me tonight?”
She narrowed her eyes at this and quickly redirected her attention to Gregg.
“In the short time I’ve listened to you two speak, I can already tell your boy here doesn’t have the patience for preening prima-donas or high maintenance, self-absorbed drama queens. These types of women run rampant on any reality TV series no matter the subject. Not everything is going to go according to plan.”
She doubted that either of them would take her seriously. She was only twenty-four, after all, and her tight, frizzy bun paired with her frayed jeans and white T-shirt hardly screamed, “Hey, my father produces reality TV for a living. You should totally listen to me!”
“You don’t think I’m capable of diplomatically handling an emotional female?” Brody asked.
Midge thought he looked slightly amused but couldn’t fathom wha
t might have sent him there.
“You probably handle emotional women about as diplomatically as I handle the rise in price of chocolate croissants here at Café Canapé.” Midge turned to the owner of the shop, a balding Italian with whom she’d developed a love-hate relationship over the last six years. She yelled a playful greeting to him in Italian, and then in English said, “It’s still totally unacceptable, Giacomo. No one in their right mind would ever willingly pay ten dollars for a croissant the size of my palm. I don’t care how sinful that Italian chocolate is.”
He threw a few Italian expletives at her, shook his fist, and then walked into the back of the store. When she turned back to Brody it was to see that his shoulders were shaking ever so slightly as he fisted a hand to his mouth.
Midge trudged forward, figuring she may as well disillusion both of them before they continued on with this ridiculous scheme.
“You are dealing with an attack on your image, and since your image of happily wedded bliss is crucial to your company’s means of survival, it makes more sense to actively pursue one woman rather than throw the inner workings of your dating life on a screen for everyone to see and possibly make yourself look like more of a horses rear end than you already have.”
The assistant choked on his espresso—a poor choice considering his abundant nervous energy—and continued gasping for air as the billionaire stared at her with a transfixed expression. She had expected him to become indignant at her unbecoming description of him, but he stared her down as if he were inspecting a curious organism under a microscope and couldn’t quite identify its subgenus.
“One woman, you say? And how will I find one woman to pursue when pursuing several dozen hasn’t produced any winners for me?”
“Were you really in earnest with any of them? Let’s be honest with ourselves, Mr. Prescott. Your choice in women is typical: fake blond hair, fake double-D boobs, fake booty, fake personality. Are we noticing any themes here?” By the smirk on his face she gathered he’d grasped the theme all too well. “You essentially date the same prissy woman, just with a differently painted face. She may look good on your arm, but you need someone who will challenge you, listen to you, and actually respond to what you have to say rather than someone who looks at you vapidly and giggles when she has no idea what you’re talking about.” Midge leaned back in her chair, getting ready to return to her laptop to resume her now useless efforts in world-altering story telling. “In short, Mr. Prescott, you should try dating someone with half a brain. You might be surprised how much that one factor lengthens the time span of your relationships.”
