Mr. Blackwell's Bride: A Fake Marriage Romance (A Good Wife Book 2)

by Sienna Blake

  “Marriage might do you good. I thoroughly recommend it. Even Clooney got married.”

  “Find me another Satsumi and I might consider it.”

  As Satsumi approached us, her sweetheart face smiling and radiant, her eyes only on James, he slipped a card into my hand and whispered, “Let’s talk.”

  6

  ____________

  Drake

  I held the black matte business card in my fingers and stared at the crisp, stylish silver font.

  GW Agency

  Exclusive & priceless imports

  Underneath was a number.

  A wife.

  I could procure a wife. One like Satsumi, polite, reserved and completely un-LA. Together we would produce a son or daughter, I didn’t mind which. I’d have a family. I’d have an heir. Someone to groom in my shoes, someone to pass the company on to when I…

  Something tightened in the pit of my belly.

  Yes, this was a plan that could work.

  I needed a wife. One that I didn’t love. Nor her love me. Look how well love worked out for my parents.

  No, my marriage needed to be ordered, efficient and productive. No mess. No emotions. A perfect business arrangement where both parties won and a productive synergy was created.

  Using the GW Agency to arrange a wife would be perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  Why were my nerves tangling?

  My eyes flicked to the door to my office even though I knew it was locked. Sam was somewhere outside holding all my calls and keeping back the tidal wave of people who all wanted their pound of flesh from me.

  I loosened my tie, which felt like a noose, as the ringback tone sounded in my ear. I wouldn’t even be entertaining such a ridiculous thought if it wasn’t for Dr. Tao and his fucking—

  A clear, sweet voice filled my ear. “Good afternoon. How may I direct your call?”

  “My name is…Pierson.” I don’t know why the fuck I used my father’s first name. “Pierson White. I was referred by a client of yours…James Edward Firestone.”

  “Wonderful, Mr. White. Let me transfer you to Ms. Isabelle Taylor, our company founder and CEO. She handles all new customer inquiries personally.”

  I was placed on hold, the soft violins playing Mozart’s Für Elise lulling me into a half-daydream. What the fuck was I doing? Shopping for a wife? I was rich enough that I didn’t need to do it this way.

  But the thought of navigating the Los Angeles dating pool made my head throb. God forbid the female public knew that Drake Blackwell was looking for a wife. That would be the equivalent of spilling blood in a sea of piranhas.

  James was right. This method was precise, discreet and convenient, and if I could secure myself my very own Satsumi, marriage wouldn’t be too hard to endure, would it?

  The music in my ear halted. A female voice spoke—rich, luscious, with more than a hint of naughty. The kind of voice that made any man stiffen a little. “This is Isabelle Taylor. Thank you for waiting.”

  I made my decision right there. “I’m interested in using your service to find a…permanent companion.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I have standards.”

  “So do we.”

  “I want the best. Money is no object.”

  “And I shall personally select your shortlist once I know what will suit you.”

  “I want her to be—”

  Her thick, rich laughter cut me off. “That’s not how I work. We’ll talk and I’ll ask questions.”

  “It would be easier if I told you what I wanted.”

  “It has been my considerable experience that most men don’t know what they want. I don’t presume to challenge how you run Blackwell Industries. Let me do my job, Mr. Blackwell.”

  I stiffened. “That’s not the name I gave you.”

  “I had your phone number traced.” She paused. “What? You think I don’t run background checks on everyone we deal with? As of this moment I know more about you than your doctor. How is Dr. Tao?”

  I should have her hunted down.

  Despite her blatant invasion of my privacy I found myself grinning. It took a lot to impress me. She had done it. I repressed the urge to inquire about her marital status. “Ms. Taylor—”

  “Please, call me Isabelle.”

  “Isabelle, you’re hired.”

  Even through the phone I sensed her smiling. “I thought so.”

  7

  ____________

  Drake

  A few days later Sam stuck her blonde head in through my office door. Colleagues of mine always assumed I was fucking my assistant. She was attractive in an LA way: tanned and blonde, a standard beauty. I didn’t get to where I was by being stupid or following my dick. I don’t fuck around where I work.

  I hired Sam because she was clever. Clever and very, very cunning. Many a time I needed information about what a competitor was doing that no amount of money could squeeze out. Sam was able to extract that information with a hair flick and a flash of leg. She was completely loyal to me. After all these years together, I had learned to trust her.

  “Drake, there’s a courier here with a package.”

  “Tell him to leave it at your desk.”

  “He won’t.” I could hear the annoyance in her voice telling me that she tried that already. “He refuses to leave it with anyone except for you and he won’t go away until he delivers it.” She screwed up her nose. “He smells funny.”

  I laughed. “You’re mad because he won’t bend to your will.”

  Sam made a face at me.

  “Where is the package from?”

  “A company called GW Agency?”

  I froze. It was from Isabelle. “Send him in.”

  “Drake—”

  “It’s not a bomb. It’s not anthrax. Send him in.”

  She stared at me. I knew she wanted more information on the GW Agency. I wasn’t going to give her any. I also knew that the first thing she would do after sending the courier in was to look them up online. She could try. I already had. She would find nothing except for a website as simple and nondescript as their business card.

  As the uniformed courier stepped up to my desk, I pushed aside the papers in front of me, starting to run red with my corrections. I grabbed a dark fountain pen. “Where do I sign?”

  “You don’t.” The courier, a clean-shaven youth who looked more like a bouncer than a messenger, held out a machine about the size of a card reader with a shiny square screen in the center. “I’ll need your right thumb and forefinger.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your fingerprints.”

  I blinked. “Are you serious?”

  “No fingerprints. No match. No delivery.” He spoke with a calmness that relayed to me that this wasn’t the first time he had to explain the deal to a surprised customer.

  Ms. Taylor had my fingerprints now, did she? This made me even more impressed than before. And uncomfortable. Isabelle Taylor was not someone to be trifled with.

  I pressed my thumb and forefinger onto the screen. I was rewarded with two green ticks and a thin package about the size of a slim booklet. It itched under my fingers as the courier guy took his sweet-ass time repacking his machine in his backpack. Come on. Why can’t he do all that outside? Finally, he saluted me goodbye and left my office.

  I tore open the package. Inside was a slim silver tablet. I turned it on, tapping my fingers on my desk as I waited for it to load.

  The screen lit up, GW Agency scripted across the center in silver lettering. There was a single file named Open Me.

  Here we go down the fucking rabbit hole.

  I pressed the file and the program launched.

  Welcome Mr. Blackwell

  Please tap to continue to your personalized catalog

  I stabbed my finger to the screen. Four portraits in color laid out in a two-by-two grid appeared. Four faces. No names. Just the letters W through Z underneath them. My eyes darted from W to X to Y…

  Th
ey were all beautiful. Indeed, Ms. Taylor only selected beautiful girls. There was something about this one…the one labeled X. There was something in her eyes. Something that held mine. Like two black holes drawing me in. While the other three girls smiled with their perfect teeth, this one’s smile was serious and reserved. I sensed something deeper behind her expression. Something…complex.

  It was like looking upon the face of the Mona Lisa. I was drawn in, not really knowing how or why. Tell me, what’s the sadness behind your smile?

  I spotted the text along the bottom.

  Please tap on the individual photo to learn more about each candidate.

  My eyes flicked back to the girl with the Mona Lisa smile. I didn’t need to know anything more about her.

  My phone rang. I picked it up without taking my eyes off the lovely X. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Blackwell.” I recognized Isabelle Taylor’s distinct voice right away. “I trust you’ve received my package.”

  “I’m looking at it right now.”

  “Excellent. I would tell you to sleep on it but if I know you at all, I believe you’ve already made your decision.”

  I traced my finger across the face on my screen. “I want X.”

  “Excellent choice. Now if you—”

  “I want to know her name,” I interrupted, still staring into X’s silent eyes. I needed a name to go with this face. A name. Give me her name. Like knowing her name would make her mine already.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “What?” I finally tore my eyes off X. Nobody said no to me. Nobody. I opened my mouth to yell when Isabelle spoke.

  “Mr. Blackwell. I’m sure you understand what a sensitive matter this is. Protecting the privacy of my girls is as important as protecting your privacy. I’m sure you, of all people, would understand that. Only once the papers have been drawn up and signed will her name be released to you. You’ll see all you need to know about your future fiancée in her dossier.”

  My fiancée. Something kicked in my chest.

  Fear reached out through me like a clawing hand, trying to take back what I was about to do. I should pick one of the other girls, one who I wasn’t so damn drawn to. It would be less complicated that way. Less chance of any complicated…feelings arising.

  I almost snorted at my own silly thoughts. I was Drake Blackwell. If anyone knew how to keep their emotions in check, it was me.

  “Fine,” I said. “Send the papers through.”

  “Excellent. Congratulations on your engagement, Mr. Blackwell.”

  I hung up and traced my finger across her face again. Until then, my mysterious X.

  8

  ____________

  Noriko

  Several weeks later…

  Most women faced their first day of marriage with an anxious, giddy excitement. I only felt trepidation scurrying around the insides of my body like a swarm of ants. I was the only passenger in my new husband’s private plane.

  Jesus Christ. I had never even been out of the country before…

  Now I was hundreds of miles in the air, rocketing at incomprehensible speeds towards Los Angeles where my husband lived.

  My husband.

  I tried to make myself comfortable but the leather seat I was sitting in was too soft. I smiled nervously at the flight attendant—donned in a smart navy uniform, “Drake Industries” emblazoned across her pocket—and accepted her offer of a flute of champagne, something she called Moët, even though I was still too young to legally drink, both in the country I left and the country I’m headed to.

  A private plane.

  My own flight attendant.

  Champagne.

  I could have choked on my own disbelief. There was no point in even trying to pretend that I belonged among such blatant, outrageous luxury such as this. I took a huge gulp, my first sip of champagne, to steady my nerves and coughed as bubbles went up my nose, the fruity taste slightly sharp on my tongue.

  Oh my God. I wasn’t cut out for this.

  What I wouldn’t give to be back home in our simple house, us three girls all crowded on a single futon bed under a single blanket as father read out from his favorite novels. A pang of homesickness ripped through me followed by an aching longing to be back at my papa’s side.

  For my last night in Japan, I lay beside my father on his hospital bed in Kyoto, the closest city to our village. He was going into his first round of radiation tomorrow.

  I’d already signed the contracts. No backing out now. Tomorrow I would be carried away to a new life.

  My father gazed at me with such despair, his chocolate eyes glossy and wet. “Hime,” his voice broke, “please don’t do this. You don’t have to marry that man for money.”

  “Your treatments…”

  “I’d give up these treatments, surgery, everything. Just…don’t go. Please, hime.”

  “No,” I said, my voice coming out hard to counter how soft I was feeling, the backs of my eyes pricking. “I won’t have you die. Not while I still can do something.”

  “My hime.”

  “I’ll come back, Father, I promise.” I lowered my voice so that the bodyguards outside wouldn’t hear and report back to my new husband, excitement and hope filling my hushed tone. “I found a loophole. I can leave him and still keep the money. You focus on getting well and I’ll come home.”

  “What? Is that legal?”

  “He had it written into the contract. I’ll be back in one year. I promise.”

  The tiny plane shuddered as we hit a patch of turbulence. I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears threatened to fall. I would not cry. I would not.

  My thoughts turned to the secret package in the bag at my feet, the bag I refused to let anyone else touch. The way I would guarantee this loophole.

  A sliver of guilt embedded under my skin. It was…deceitful, I know. But I promised Papa that I’d come back to him. My family needs me more than this stranger does.

  What kind of man buys himself a wife?

  I was surprised when Isabelle called me to tell me that he had singled me out. She showed me my new husband’s clean criminal record and assured me that he was well-respected in his community, that I would be well taken care of.

  It didn’t matter how well taken care of I’d be. I wouldn’t stay past a year. I wasn’t the wife for him. I wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s wife.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I missed my family with a soul-deep ache already. They were the ground beneath my feet, the path the sun made across the sky, the predictable ebb and flow of the moon. Now I was on my own, a tiny boat in the midst of an unknown sea.

  One year.

  Four seasons.

  Thirteen cycles of the moon.

  I was already counting it down.

  The plane landed in a private terminal at LAX, the Los Angeles International Airport. The captain announced right before we landed that it was almost nine p.m. The weather was gorgeous, a beautiful spring night to welcome me to California. As soon as the door opened a man rushed in. He performed my TSA clearance right there on the plane. My brand new passport was stamped and returned to me, the man bowing as he backed out of the plane.

  I took the short flight of steps down to the lit tarmac, my feet wobbly even in my simple Mary Jane shoes. My hands were clammy as I gripped the balustrade, my precious bag over my shoulder, the only thing I brought with me.

  A black stretch limousine waited for me at the foot of the stairs, a limo with tinted windows so I couldn’t see in. My head spun. I’d only ever seen one of those in movies. Now I was going to be in one and it was going to take me to my new husband.

  My new husband.

  Just breathe, Noriko. Breathe.

  A driver opened the passenger door for me. “Welcome to Los Angeles, Mrs. Blackwell,” he said as he stared forward like an army officer at attention.

  It took me a second for my brain to register that he was talking to me. I was Mrs. Blackwell. The name hung about me like an ill
-fitting coat.

  I guessed him to be in his early thirties, wearing a full suit and cap even in this heat, showing only his beautiful chocolate hands and twinkling brown eyes despite a serious set to his mouth.

  “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  The driver blinked at me a few times, clearing his throat before saying, “Um, Felipe, ma’am.”

  I smiled and bowed, a habit. “Thank you, Felipe.”

  Felipe frowned at me for a second before he bowed awkwardly back. Was it just me or did I detect a slight blush to the dear man’s cheeks?

  I clambered most ungracefully into the limo, my skirt flouncing ungracefully around me before realizing, to my horror, there was someone already inside. I thought it was empty. It was not.

  A broad-shouldered man in a dark three-piece suit sat facing me in the center of the wide leather seat, one arm outstretched across the back, a gold watch glinting on his wrist. This must be Mr. Blackwell.

  “Well, this is certainly an attractive option.” His voice was deep and boomed around the cabin, resonating with power, causing a rush of goose pimples across my skin.

  Was he calling me an attractive option? I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered. I mean, really, what did I expect from a man who “bought” his wife?

  “I don’t care what Deloitte thinks. He’s not the one with his ass on the line.”

  I frowned. Then spotted the small clip in one of his ears. He was talking on the phone.

  The car door slammed shut, cutting out the wind and rest of the world. I was left alone with him—my husband—the silence between his words deafening.

  I placed my bag beside me and leaned back in the seat as the limo pulled away. The seat was firm, the new leather smell still clinging to the overly air-conditioned air. The rest of the interior was wood paneling and chrome.

  Outside, through the heavily tinted windows, street lights rolled by as we passed out of the airport. He continued to talk on the phone, his voice animated. I had time to study him.

  He wore a tailored suit, open at the jacket to reveal a dark gray shirt underneath with a matching silver tie. I didn’t know clothing brands well, but I could tell it was tailored, clinging to his wide shoulders. He had midnight hair that appeared disheveled, as if he’d run his hand through it a few times, a wide jaw that kept clenching in the pauses between his sentences. His cocoa eyes were hooded, deep-set. He stared right at me, a slight smirk pulling at his perfectly sculpted lips.