by Bella Grant
Contents
TITLE
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
STERLING
CHERISE
BONUS NOVEL TITLE
BONUS NOVEL - HEAL ME
CONNECT
MATCHMAKER
(A Billionaire BAD BOY Romance)
Plus Bonus Novel
By
Bella Grant
Copyright (c) 2016. All Rights Reserved
Find all my steamy books at
http://bellagrantbooks.com/subscribe/
CHERISE
“I’m not proud of the new job,” Cherise said. “But it means I don’t have to drop out of school.”
Kara gaped at her, not believing what she’d heard. “Your job is to find a wife for a millionaire?”
Billionaire, actually, Cherise thought, though she didn’t say it out loud.
“Yup. He wants to be engaged in the next six months. I have until the first day of spring.”
“March?”
“March.” Cherise still reeled from the shock of actually getting hired. She’d applied for the job as a lark. Sterling Waters, owner of Waters Enterprise, had visited the New York University sociology department, specifically wanting to hire a grad student to help with this hunt. Ten students were selected to write essays, and three were chosen to interview.
She’d had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to even apply. She wasn’t exactly breaking the contract by telling Kara about the job; to the outside world, she was a personal assistant.
“What does Ricky think of all this?” Kara asked.
Cherise shook her head. “He’s being really weird about it. He thinks it’s an awful idea. I have to do something for money, and this pays ten times better than working at Starbucks.”
“Maybe Ricky should get a job,” Kara suggested. Cherise shot her a look—she knew better than to go down that rabbit hole. “What’s the billionaire like?” Kara asked, taking a sip of her drink and changing the subject.
“Actually, kind of normal.”
Cherise reviewed the interview in her mind. She’d been so nervous to talk to him, but he’d sat down with her and told her what he was looking for and why. It had nothing to do with love or loneliness; it was all economics. His mentor, Ben Bachmann, was turning ninety-eight this year and would not leave the Bachmann Entertainment Group to Waters if he didn’t stop being such a cad. Bachmann told him he had to get married before he died.
“So why not marry a friend for show? Or hire an actress?” Cherise had asked.
“He’ll know. His people will know. The marriage has to be in reasonably good faith,” Sterling told her. He’d fixed her with penetrating eyes, somewhere between grey and very light blue. “I’ll never fall in love, so the person has to be agreeable.”
Cherise stopped him. “Never fall in love? How can you say that?”
He chuckled, though there was no warmth in the laugh. “I promise you, I’ll never fall in love. I’ve known myself for thirty-five years. It hasn’t happened yet, and it never will.”
His words and metallic certainty haunted her. What would it be like to live as someone who had essentially decided they’d never fall in love? He was handsome, she couldn’t deny that—dark hair cut in an expensive style and a sculpted body straight out of a gym.
Cherise wanted to probe deeper into his declaration of a loveless life. This was certainly a fascinating sociological experiment. Maybe she could write a paper on it, compare it with the TV show The Bachelor, make it poppy and fun, and turn it into a best-selling book.
“If you’re chosen for the position, you’ll make fifty dollars an hour, between twenty to thirty hours a week, much of it evenings and weekends. Should you succeed, and I wind up married by the designated time, I will pay all the student loans you’ve accrued so far, and will fund the remainder of your master’s degree. If you do an exemplary job, we can discuss a PhD.”
Cherise had gaped at him. She was so close to having to give up school and go home to South Africa. Her parents would welcome her, but they’d also tell her that America wasn’t a good place for her and that she never should have left. And a PhD? She didn’t dare let herself dream.
At the end of the interview, he’d shaken her hand and told her his people would be in touch. She had expected a curt letter thanking her for her interest, that they decided to go another route, blah blah.
Instead, this morning at ten, a handsome young man in a suit knocked on her door, introduced himself as Brad Chadwell, Sterling Waters’ assistant, and told her she’d been selected for the position. He handed her a huge packet of paperwork, with an AmEx Black Card and pages and pages of rules, including the stipulation that she needed an entirely new wardrobe—hence the credit card.
“Would you like a personal shopper, or do you feel you understand Mr. Waters’ tastes well enough to go shopping on your own? I strongly recommend the shopper,” Brad told her. He gave her an apologetic smile as he spoke.
“Sure. I’ll take the shopper.”
“An excellent choice. Here are the times she has available this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
“We need you to start this evening.”
“Okay.” She was supposed to work on her practicum today, but luckily, she was ahead so taking the day off wouldn’t hurt her studies. She chose the earliest slot the shopper could meet with her, which was 11:15. She’d have to shower and get dressed… Though suddenly, her entire wardrobe seemed inadequate.
She finished the paperwork, sent Brad on his way, and hurried to get ready to meet the shopper, Felicity. In the shower, she lathered her body with soap and thought about Sterling Waters. She’d Googled him and had seen a spread he’d done for charity, posing in board shorts on the beach. He had a surprising number of tattoos for a respectable businessman. She’d heard something about a scandalous squirrel somewhere on his body. He looked a lot like David Beckham, actually.
And it was up to her to find him a Posh Spice.
STERLING
Sterling Waters sucked in his breath as Cherise Meyer stepped into his office. She’d dressed up for her interview with him, but none of her clothes fit her right. Off the rack, they hung poorly on her athletic frame. Her button-down shirt had strained at her breasts to the point that he was worried a button would pop off as they spoke.
He had to remind himself he was changing his ways. All for good old Ben. An old man’s dying wish.
Now, Cherise wore a professional black sweater dress that showcased her magnificent breasts, narrow waist, and round ass. She wore nude stockings and a smart pair of black heels. Her coffee-colored skin completed the package. At least she would be fun to look at while she found him his ball and chain.
He chided himself for thinking like that as he welcomed her into his office. It was time to settle down, he supposed. He’d spent fifteen years running around, and now he could cool his heels. He hoped.
“I’m look
ing for three things,” Sterling told Cherise. She looked damn adorable sitting in his office, notebook poised on her knees, ready to write down his every word.
“She has to be beautiful. Traditionally beautiful. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all the women you’ll talk to will be lovely people on the inside, but I’m looking at the outside. Call me shallow, call me an asshole, I know you’re thinking it. I will not be with someone who isn’t a ‘ten.’ Questions?”
“No, sir.”
He could tell he’d pissed her off by the way her jaw set and the way she hunched forward on the chair. She wrote down a few words, but he couldn’t see what she had written because she held the notebook at an angle. In the interview, she’d had lots of questions. Good ones. He wanted her to use them against his potential brides, not against him. He studied her tight shoulders and imagined himself rubbing them.
She looked up at him, ready for him to continue. Her eyes were dark, luminous pools. Stop it, Sterling.
“I have to be able to stand her. We’re not bringing any unarmed women to this battle of wits. She’s got to be interesting, which is very vague, but as we spend more time together, you’ll figure out what I’m looking for. Make sense?”
“Perfectly.” Her tone suggested she regretted her decision to take the job. Sterling had learned long ago that he didn’t care if people liked him as long as they did what he needed them to do. Plus, he loved her accent. Half the reason he’d chosen her was to listen to her speak.
“I don’t want someone already famous. No actresses, no models. I’d consider an athlete. I want a normal woman.” Her pen scratched on the paper. “Do you need a cup of coffee? A glass of water?”
“No. Thank you.” She seemed thrown off by his offer. “Do you have a preference where I start looking?”
“Somewhere normal people look for dates,” he said. People in his set were mostly paired off and bred like horses, which explained the stupidity among the upper class. Inbreeding.
“I think you want to go for dating sites. OK Cupid, Tinder, Plenty of Fish. You’re handsome, so I don’t think you’ll have a problem finding a few prospects. With Tinder, we need a few photos. Let’s say six. I suggest we depict you doing things normal people do.” She used the word ‘normal’ like it was a slur.
“And what do normal people do?” Sterling leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat. He left his legs sprawled wide.
“What are your hobbies? And don’t tell me anything about private jets or water polo.” He laughed. A real laugh, not the usual snarky one he used. She’d caught him off guard. “Do you have a dog?”
“Dog, yes. German shepherd.”
“A picture of you and the dog in bed, cuddling.”
“Really? Women like that?”
“It’ll be so cute, and will show how much you love animals. Hobbies?”
“Running, hiking, rock climbing?”
“Any hiking photos where you look like a real person?”
“All of them.”
“Send me the two best ones. And climbing pictures? If you’re shirtless, all the better.”
He didn’t have any but was headed to Cascade Lake this afternoon. Evan would never let him live it down, but he could snap a few photos while they were out.
“I’ll get some for you.”
“Anything else you want your perspective wife to know about you that we can show in photos?”
“Car?”
“Is it a car that makes you look extremely rich and inaccessible?”
He pondered the cars in his garage before answering. “I have a motorcycle. It’s a 1983 Yamaha Maxim 650. I built it myself.”
“Perfect. So about you. You like hiking, running, rock climbing, motorcycles. Movies?”
“Wolf of Wall Street.” He grinned at her, hoping to get a rise.
“Maybe something a little less autobiographical.” Touché. He liked her. “Also, something that makes you seem like less of an asshole.”
“Should I pick a romantic comedy?”
“Only if you like romantic comedies.”
“Predator,” he said.
She brought her gaze up from the paper. “Really?”
Why was she looking at him like that? “Yeah. I love that movie. Is it a bad choice? Does it make me seem like I’m going to run for governor?”
“No, I… That’s, like, my favorite movie.”
“It’s a good movie.”
“Two was kinda weak, but I still liked it,” she said.
Sterling found it hilarious that a conversation about an alien bounty hunter was apparently what it took to get this girl to warm up to him. He remembered watching the movie with his dad, and it had scared the hell out of him.
Sterling nodded. “Much better than the Alien vs. Predator movies.”
“God, those were garbage! They should have been great, but that’s what happens when you give something like that a PG-13 rating! Also, I felt like there were too many humans, and they should have just let the aliens and predators duke it out.” Cherise caught herself. “I’ll say you like action movies.”
“That’s a fair statement.”
“What’s the last book you read?”
Was she trying to imply he didn’t read? He rattled off three titles, one of them a popular science fiction novel. He suddenly felt odd telling a stranger all this information about himself.
“Favorite food? Again, don’t pick rich people shit.”
“Calamari. But only on the beach after dark with tequila.”
“Ooh, that’s good. Anything else you want the future Mrs. Waters to know about you?”
That I’ll never love her, Sterling thought. I promise she won’t want for anything and will always be comfortable. But I don’t have a heart to give.
CHERISE
Brad Chadwell—Cherise couldn’t think of the man without assigning him both names—gave Cherise a ride home to the apartment she shared with Ricky.
“Are you always going to be this late?”
In a few minutes, the clock in the hall would chime nine. She’d been lost in thought about some of the things he’d said, oscillating between a normal guy who loved Predator to an ivory tower elite snob. Ricky’s tone jarred her and immediately put her on the defensive. She stiffened, setting her jaw.
“You know, if I’d had to get a job at the mall, I’d probably get home even later.”
“Yeah, but this is a job for some rich creep.”
“He’s not a creep.” The jury was still out on whether that was true or not, but she wasn’t going to allow Ricky to crap on her new gig. Her new job which would keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Ricky was an artist and took up one of the two bedrooms for his studio. To date, he hadn’t sold a single piece, which didn’t bother her so much as the fact that he’d never finished one.
“Look, I’m tired.” She crossed her arms over her chest and drew away from him.
“Hard work playing matchmaker? And what are you wearing?”
“It’s a professional job. I have to look good.”
“So you bought a new dress?”
She thought of the black card in her wallet and realized Ricky couldn’t know about it. The realization washed over her, and she felt grimy and a little ill.
She knew he wasn’t good for her, but they’d been together almost four years. She’d been there for him when his mother died. The money she’d left them had supported them for two years but was almost gone now. Ricky had taken care of Cherise while she was sick and applying to grad schools and taking the GREs. He used to be a good guy, but the more he stayed in, focusing on his art, the more it seemed to bleed out of him. He didn’t even see his mates anymore.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You get fancy new underwear to go with it?” he asked.
She had, but she didn’t want him seeing them. She had no interest in sleeping with him tonight, and if he saw the underthings she’d bought were black, he’d get all ex
cited, and then they’d fight about never having sex anymore. Suddenly, Sterling’s assertions of being incapable of love made a lot of sense.
“Go back to your game, Rick.”
She should read the chapter for tomorrow’s psychology exam, but she didn’t have it in her. She’d get up early, post Sterling’s profiles, then dive into the psych book.
“I never see you anymore.”
“Last night, I asked if you wanted to come out with Kara and me.”
“I want to see you, not Kara.”
“So let’s go on a date. You and me, like old times.”
She did still love him, and she couldn’t exactly admit it to herself in so many words, but she wasn’t in love with him anymore. He’d turned into such a caricature of a whiny millennial artist.
“Friday?”
“I have to work.”
“What, are you going on his dates for him?”
“No, but there’s an event he wants me to go to with him.”
“This whole thing is weird, Cher. Really weird. You get that, right?”
“Yeah, but he’s paying me.”
“Has he paid you yet?”
“I’ll get a direct deposit at the end of every other week. I told you that. Why are you being so obsessive about this?”
“Have you looked this guy up?”
“Of course I have.” He was a cad. A player. Which is why he needed to find a wife in such an unorthodox way.
“And you’re cool with all this?”
“I’m making fifty dollars an hour. And if I find him a wife, he’ll pay for my school. He might even throw in a PhD. I can’t pass this up, Ricky.”
“It’s just weird, is all.”
“You’ve said that. Weird and very lucrative.” And it was fun. She’d never been in a place like his office, all sleek steel and glass and leather. She’d have the opportunity to go to his house and attend a party with Hollywood A-listers and people with more money than God. While she was there, she’d be making fifty dollars an hour, an incomprehensible sum. Why did Ricky have to shit on everything good?
She tried to derail him. “What are you working on?”
