Wild Card (Billionaire Bachelors Book 3)

by Lila Monroe

  I lose myself in work for the better part of an hour, sipping my latte and returning emails until I get a call from Hallie.

  “Hey,” I answer happily. “How is life in newly-engaged bliss?”

  “Terrible!” Hallie answers with a groan.

  “What? Why?” I sit up straighter. I assigned Hallie to play fake girlfriend to Max, one of my clients—a publishing heir and seriously wealthy playboy bachelor. It turned out, they were perfect together. So perfect, they fell madly in love. It was against all my rules, but I don’t hold it against them. In fact, I credit myself with bringing them together in the first place. But if there’s trouble in paradise . . . ?

  “The wedding plans!” Hallie replies. “We’re not even getting married for another year, and already his family is bugging me. White tie, or cocktail? Blush pink, or antique white? Destination, or church? Max is going crazy, and so am I. We might elope just to get away from them all.”

  I let out a breath of relief. Weddings are clearly in the air this week, but this is one event I don’t want to see fall apart. “Leave it to me,” I reassure her. “I know a fantastic wedding planner, she can handle everything for you.”

  “Will she stand up to three generations of Carlisles?” Hallie asks, sounding hopeful. “Because Max’s family can be . . . difficult, to say the least. OK, most of them are batshit crazy.”

  I smile, already clicking through my address file. “She planned the nuptials for a minor royal in England last year, so if she can deal with the Queen, she can deal with anyone.”

  “Thank you!” Hallie exclaims. “Seriously, Olivia. You’re a lifesaver. Is there any problem you can’t solve?”

  How about my father’s taste in women, or the fact I need a perfect, drool-worthy date to their ceremony in just a couple of weeks?

  “There,” I say, clicking send. “I’ve just emailed an introduction. She doesn’t come cheap,” I warn Hallie. “But I’m guessing that’s not a problem for you now.”

  Hallie laughs. “No, it’s not. I owe you brunch. And bottomless mimosas.”

  “Sounds great. Maybe next week?”

  “Perfect.”

  I hang up, just as Alice knocks on my office door at ten a.m. sharp. She looks sweetly polished in a navy-blue dress, demure gold studs winking at her ears.

  “Hey there,” I say, looking up from the computer as she slides the pocket door shut behind her. “How was your weekend?”

  “Good,” Alice says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach the top half of her face. “Uneventful.”

  My eyes narrow. “You sure?” I look at her closely. Alice has been with The Agency since the beginning, and she’s invaluable as my assistant, but she’s seemed kind of restless lately. I’ve offered her a raise, more vacation time, you name it, but whatever’s going on with her seems deeper than that. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Alice shakes her head and smiles again, more convincingly this time. “I’m sure,” she says, before launching into the morning’s messages. “Emma called to debrief her date with the heir to the avocado fortune,” she tells me, ticking down her list. “And I got a call from an agent in Hollywood, wanting to talk about one of their clients. Very hush-hush, they wouldn’t even tell me the name.” Then she pauses. “Also, Ryan Callahan is waiting outside.”

  “Way to bury the lede.” I scan the calendar on my computer screen to see if I somehow missed something. “He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?”

  Alice shakes her head. “He said it was urgent, but I figured he could cool his heels for a while. He doesn’t get to set the schedule,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly.

  I smile, but my mind is racing. Sure, Ryan’s been bugging me to find his perfect date, but I didn’t realize he was so antsy. But, he’s a big client, and my whole business relies on satisfied customers and word-of-mouth, so maybe it’s time to smooth things over. “Schedule Emma for tomorrow, tell the agent to send their non-disclosure and have them sign ours, and I’ll take care of Callahan.”

  I plaster a smile on my face and follow Alice out to the waiting room.

  “Ryan, hi. Sorry to keep you waiting,” I greet him.

  “No trouble.” Ryan is lounging on the couch, all six-foot-three of him. Damn, I forget how handsome he is when all I have is a demanding voice on the other end of the phone, but now that he’s here in front of me?

  Hello, lover.

  Not that I would mix business and pleasure. I drag my eyes away from those baby blues and that muscular torso. Ryan is way too arrogant, thanks to years as pro football’s golden boy. He’s used to having women hurl themselves at his feet, which is probably why he’s such a pain in my ass, holding out for some mythical dream woman who will help him navigate the business world with charm and poise.

  Right now, Ryan is looking anything but poised. Thor is hunched beside him, eyeing Ryan with deep and abiding malice.

  “He’s friendly,” I promise, shooing the cat down onto the carpet.

  “Oh yeah?” Ryan asks with a wary smile. He’s wearing jeans and a light-washed chambray shirt, his sandy hair a bit longer than it was back when he was still playing football. It’s no wonder he was voted the NFL’s Most Bangable by basically every women’s website in the blogosphere. He’s every inch the all-American golden boy—and doesn’t he know it. “Tell that to my hand.”

  He holds it up, showing off a nasty-looking scratch.

  “Ouch,” I wince. “Alice?”

  “Already on it.” She opens a drawer, and then bustles around with salve and a band-aid. “All set,” she says, holding onto Ryan’s muscular forearm just a beat too long.

  I give her a look, and she smiles, as if to say, “Can you blame me?”

  “Let’s go into my office,” I tell him. “And you can explain the big emergency.”

  Ryan follows me into my office, taking a seat in one of the deep leather chairs. When I think of professional football players I imagine giant meatheads the size of industrial refrigerators, but there’s something surprisingly elegant about him, a graceful ease in his body that almost reminds me of a dancer.

  “So,” I say, reminding myself firmly of my own rule about not admiring the merchandise, “I’m guessing you’re not here to tell me how much you loved Ashley?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, Ashley was a sweetheart. But she wasn’t the one.”

  “OK,” I say gamely, biting my tongue to keep from reminding him that we’re looking for a date to some investor dinners and not the love of his life. “Tell me more?”

  “I can’t explain it,” he says, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It’s just a feeling. I need someone confident and capable—someone who screams trust me, I have my shit together just by walking into the room. Somebody sophisticated, who knows how to read people. Like you,” he adds. “Except, you know, fun and easy to be around.”

  “Thanks,” I snort, flipping frantically through my mental Rolodex. The truth is, he’s vetoed most of my best girls already, and now that it’s summer, a lot of my contacts are heading out of town. “Well, if you’ll just give me some time . . .”

  Ryan frowns. “My big meeting with Mason Dubeck is in two weeks, Olivia, and it’s all the way in Miami. If you can’t help me—”

  “I can help you,” I interrupt, reassuring. And I can. I’ve matched movie stars and the CEOs of multi-national corporations and three different Euro princes. I’m not about to be flummoxed by some jock in a football jersey. “Two weeks,” I murmur, looking back at the calendar on my computer. “In Miami.”

  Miami . . . which is only a four-hour drive from Key West.

  Where a certain wedding is taking place. And I still don’t have a date.

  I gaze across the desk at him, the beginnings of a crazy idea starting to bloom deep in the recesses of my mind.

  His big, solid shoulders and my preternatural ability to read a room? Not a match made in heaven, maybe. But I could do worse. And so could he.
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  It’s ridiculous. It’s unprofessional. But it’s also kind of . . . perfect.

  And it’s not like I have a whole lot of options, either.

  “I’ll do it,” I say suddenly. Ryan looks surprised.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” I interrupt him, “But you said it yourself, I fit the bill. I know exactly how to deal with finance guys like Mason—and their wives. And on such short notice, you won’t find anyone better.”

  Ryan narrows his eyes at me, and clearly, he’s not the empty-headed playboy he makes himself out to be, because a slow smile teases on the edge of his mouth. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a catch?”

  I grin. “It’s not so much a catch as it is a deal. I scratch your back, and you scratch mine. Or, in this case . . . I play your fake girlfriend, and you return the favor.”

  “You want a date with me?” Ryan’s smug smile is almost enough to make me regret the whole thing. Then I remember Vanessa’s pitying look and imagine a whole weekend of the same, trapped in Key West with her bridesmaids and wedding planner. “Well, gee, Olivia, all you had to do was ask. I mean, my schedule is pretty busy . . .”

  “Not a date,” I correct him coolly. “An . . . arrangement. It just so happens that I have a function that weekend in Florida, too. I could use an escort. What do you say?” I raise an eyebrow and try not to reveal just how desperately I need this trade to work.

  “Do we have ourselves a deal?”

  4

  Ryan

  “Good morning!” the flight attendant chirps, two weeks later, as Olivia and I get settled into our early-morning flight to Key West. “Can I get you two anything before we take off?”

  “Some coffee would be great,” Olivia says with a polite, distracted smile, hard at work wiping the already-spotless lenses of her sunglasses with a little microfiber cloth. “Thanks a lot.”

  I nod gratefully. “I’d love a Bloody Mary, thanks.”

  “Seriously?” Olivia asks, disapproval flickering over her face. She fixes me with a frown. “It’s not even six a.m.”

  I ignore her and grin widely at the flight attendant, a pleasant—and pleasantly stacked—brunette who is fluttering her eyelashes at me. “Actually,” I announce, “better make it a double.”

  I down the whole drink in two long gulps, hoping a little buzz will be enough to take the edge off. I’m not exactly sure how I wound up agreeing to play Doting Boyfriend to the Ice Queen of the Upper East Side. This little quid pro quo made a weird kind of sense inside the plush confines of Olivia’s fancy offices, but now that it’s time to take off I’m having some serious second thoughts.

  Am I really signing up to spend the week with this woman?

  The deal seemed like a life-saver at the time. Sure, Olivia acts like she’s got a stick up her ass, but she’s sophisticated and charming—exactly the kind of woman a man wants on his arm walking into a room of stuck-up investors. I know how to turn on the charm, and I’m pretty much a hero in the sports world, but I found out fast that all of that means jack shit when there’s real money on the table.

  Hundreds of millions of dollars of real money.

  Energy drinks and sneaker deals are one thing, but I’ve got my eye on a new prize. A buddy developed a great idea for a line of health food kiosks, places to grab and go a healthy—and tasty—meal. They could be the next big food chain—if I can secure investment from the people who know their shit. But this is the big leagues, the next level. Guys who care more about profit and loss projections than whether I was voted MVP.

  Two years running.

  Because I may have the sports scene on lock, but the truth is, I know I’m out of my league when it comes to this new world. Way, way out of my league. I didn’t go to a fancy college or get an MBA. And sure, I may be wealthy by ex-player standards, but these guys buy and sell billion-dollar companies. It’s just a whole other ballgame—one I’m still learning how to play.

  Which is why I need someone on my arm who knows the rule—and can stop me from putting my size elevens in my mouth and saying the wrong thing. Olivia promised me she’d find the perfect fit, and her references swear she’s got the magic touch . . .

  But I never expected it to be her in the seat beside me, heading for the biggest week of my life. I’d have figured a beautiful woman like her would have guys lined up to squire her to this wedding, but maybe they all spent five minutes with her and figured it was safer to keep their distance.

  Oh well. Too late to back out now. I catch the flight attendant’s eye and signal wildly for another drink.

  “So we’ll get settled at my dad’s house in Key West today,” Olivia says once we’re airborne, pulling a printed schedule out of a folder and handing me a copy, “then head to Miami tomorrow for your investor retreat, then back to the Keys for the wedding.” She lets out a sigh of resignation. “It’s not the most efficient itinerary I’ve ever come up with, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ll bet,” I say, unable to hide a smirk. I’d be willing to bet that even one nanosecond of wasted time drives her insane. Olivia’s the most organized, tightly-laced woman I’ve ever met, all carefully laid plans and detailed checklists. She’s basically a walking, talking spreadsheet. She even dresses like a librarian, or maybe one of those sexy Hitchcock blondes who could stab a guy in the back as soon as look at him. She met me outside the terminal this morning in a navy-blue suit so closely tailored I’m surprised she can even sit down in it, her long blonde hair scraped into a tight, painful-looking bun.

  And sure, there’s a part of me that wouldn’t be opposed to peeling that suit off her, garment by understated, expensive garment . . .

  But something makes me think she probably has another, identical suit on underneath it.

  This woman is never off the clock.

  Maybe I’m too obvious checking her out because Olivia raises her eyebrows. “I think we should talk about boundaries,” she announces, folding her hands in her lap.

  “That so?” I sit back in my seat, amused. “Have at it, princess.”

  “I just think it’s important to keep things professional,” she says. “This is an . . . unorthodox situation at the best of times, but now that I’m personally involved . . .”

  “Oh yeah?” I can’t resist teasing. “You don’t jump into the hot seat for all your clients?”

  “Of course not,” Olivia snaps, looking slightly offended. “But I don’t want you to go thinking this is some kind of free-for-all just because—because—” She breaks off, blushing faintly. “Look, we both have a lot at stake here, all right?”

  Sticking it to her dad’s new fiancée hardly seems as serious as trying to land a hundred million dollars in investment capital, but who am I to argue? “I will do my very best to control myself,” I promise solemnly. Olivia purses her lips.

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Maybe just a little,” I wink, and she lets out a sigh.

  “Just promise me you’ll at least try to be mature about this. You already signed the paperwork, and it lays out exactly the terms of The Agency’s services.”

  “All three hundred pages,” I joke. “Look, relax, I can read,” I add, teasing. “I’ll keep my hands to myself . . . If you can do the same. Just because I agreed to play your arm candy, doesn’t mean you can get a taste of the goods. I’m not an open snack bar, if you know what I mean.”

  Olivia’s mouth drops open, and she flushes. “I’m not . . . !” She splutters. “I wouldn’t . . .”

  “Sure you won’t.” I’m loving the flustered look on her face, but Olivia has super-human self-control. She reins in her reaction and pulls out her laptop.

  “Enjoy the flight,” she says, ice-cold, and goes back to work.

  OK then.

  We keep to ourselves after that, the sun rising outside the window as the plane cruises south down the eastern seaboard. Olivia pecks away at her laptop—allegedly she’s working, although when I glance over at the screen I
see she’s scanning the Wikipedia page for Dungeons and Dragons, so it’s anybody’s guess what’s actually going on at that agency of hers.

  I’m just emerging from the tiny bathroom when the cute flight attendant lays a hand on my arm. “I’m not supposed to do this,” she says quietly, “but I have to ask. You’re Ryan Callahan, aren’t you?”

  I grin. Some guys hate being recognized off the field, but it never really bothered me—even less now, since the truth is I don’t know how much longer it’s going to happen. I was a big name, sure, but it’s been three years since I retired. Pretty soon I’ll be a question at your local dive bar’s trivia night. I figure I should enjoy it while it lasts. “Guilty,” I tell her, flashing a grin. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Chelsea,” she says, returning the smile. She’s got curly dark hair and an ass you could bounce a quarter off, her mouth like a pink cupid’s bow. “I’m a huge fan. That pass you caught off Hunter Beech in the Super Bowl? I think about it in bed at night.” Her hand moves from my arm up my shoulder and down my chest, squeezing gently. “If there’s anything I can do to make your flight any . . . friendlier, let me know, OK?”

  “Oh,” I say, as her gaze cuts toward the tiny bathroom and I realize what she’s getting at. “Oh.”

  I don’t actually see how the hell the two of us would fit in there at once, but I’m guessing this one has some limber ideas. I pause, glancing back up the aisle to check if Olivia is about to come read me the riot act. She’s put the laptop away and is looking at her schedule again, gnawing her thumbnail anxiously. I’m surprised at the gesture—I didn’t think a person like her got nervous, like possibly it wasn’t programmed into her algorithm back at the robot factory.

  Something about the sight of it makes me feel a little bit softer toward her.