The Billionaire Bride Test

by Elle James

  A twinge in his knee, made it buckle. Rather than fall in front of all those people, Wyatt swung around like he meant it and stepped out smartly.

  And barreled into the woman he’d been following. Her head down, intent on moving, she’d been squeezing past him at that exact moment.

  The female staggered sideways, her hands flailing in the air as she reached out to grab something to hold onto. When her fingers only met air, she toppled over the edge and fell into the river with a huge splash.

  Another lady screamed and the crowd that had been standing on the sidewalk rushed to the edge of the river, pushing Wyatt forward to the point he almost went in with the woman.

  A dark, wet head rose from the water like an avenging Titan, spewing curses. She pushed lank strands of hair from her face and glared up at him. “Are you just going to stand there and stare? Or are you going to get me out of this?”

  Guilt and the gentleman in Wyatt urged him to hold out his hand to her. She grasped it firmly and held on as he pulled her out of the river and onto the sidewalk. She was so light, he yanked with more force than necessary and she fell against him, her tight little wet body pressing against his.

  His arm rose to her waist automatically, holding her close until she was steady on her own feet.

  The redhead stared up into his eyes, her own green ones wide, sparkling with anger, her pretty little mouth shaped in an O.

  At this close range, Wyatt saw the freckles sprinkled across her nose. Instead of making her face appear flawed, they added to her beauty, making her more approachable, though not quite girl-next-door. She was entirely too sexy for that moniker. Especially all wet with her skin showing through the thin fabric of the lime green tank top.

  Then she was pushing against him—all business and righteous anger.

  A round of applause sounded behind him, though he didn’t deserve it since he’d knocked her into the water in the first place. “My apologies, darlin’.”

  She fished the MP3 out of the strap around her arm and pressed the buttons on it, shaking her head. “Well, that one’s toast.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you a new one,” Wyatt said, giving her his most charming smile. “Just give me your name and number so that I can find you to replace it.”

  “No thanks. I’m not your sweetheart and I don’t have time to deal with it.” She squeezed the water out of her hair and turned away, dropping the MP3 into a trashcan.

  With her body shape imprinted in dank river water on his vest and PT shorts, he was reluctant to let her leave without finding out her name. “At least let me know your name.”

  She hesitated, opened her mouth to say something, then she shook her head as if thinking better of it. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” She shrugged free of his grip and took off, disappearing into the throng of tourists on the River Walk.

  Wyatt would have jogged after her, but the number of people on the sidewalk made it impossible for a big guy like him to ease his way through. Regret tugged at his gut. Although he hadn’t made the best first impression on her, her bright green eyes and tight little body had given him the first twinge of lust he’d felt since he’d been in Somalia. Perhaps being on snowbird detail would help him get his mojo back. At the very least, he might find time, and a willing woman, to get laid. Okay, so a few days of R&R in a cushy assignment might not be too bad.

  A flash of pretty green eyes haunted his every step as he wove his way through the thickening crowd to his hotel where he’d stashed his duffel bag. He wondered if in an entire city of people he’d manage to run into the red-haired jogger again. If so, maybe he could refrain from knocking her into the river next time and instead get her number.

  Fiona Allen arrived at the door to her hotel room, dripping wet and in need of a shower to rinse off the not-so-sanitary San Antonio River water. She couldn’t afford to come down with some disease this week. Not when dignitaries were already arriving for the International Trade Convention due to kick off in less than two days’ time.

  If she did come down with something, it would all be that big, hulking, decidedly sexy, beast of a man’s fault. The one who’d knocked her into the river in the first place. When he’d pulled her out with one hand, he’d barely strained.

  Her heart had raced when he’d slammed her up against his chest. She blamed it on the shock of being thrown into the river, but she suspected the solid wall of muscles she’d rested her hands against had more to do with it.

  For a brief moment, she’d remained dumbstruck and utterly attracted to the clumsy stranger. Had it been any other circumstance and she hadn’t been covered in river slime, she might have asked for his number. Yeah, right.

  As the convention coordinator, she couldn’t afford to date or be sick, or for anything to go wrong while thousands of businessmen and politicians attended the meetings. She’d been hired by the city to ensure this event went off without a hitch, and she wouldn’t let a single disgruntled employee, terrorist or hulking bodybuilder knock her off her game. No sir. She had all the plans locked up tighter than Fort Knox and the hired staff marching to the beat of her military-style drum.

  She wasn’t the daughter of an Army colonel for nothing. She knew discipline; hard work and using your brain couldn’t be replaced by help from sexy strangers with insincere apologies. If this convention was going to be a success, it would be so based on all of her hard work in the planning stages.

  Once inside her room, she headed straight for the bathroom and twisted the knob on the shower, amazed at how much her breasts still tingled after being smashed against the broad chest of the clumsy oaf who’d knocked her into the river. She shook her head, attributing the tingling to the chill of the air conditioning unit.

  In the bathroom, she stripped her damp gym shorts and tank top, dropping the soaked mess into a plastic bag. She’d hand it over to the hotel staff and ask them to launder them, otherwise she’d have nothing to work out in. Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t need to work out once the convention began.

  Fiona unclipped her bra and slid out of her panties, adding them to the bag of dirty clothes. Then she stepped beneath the shower’s spray and attacked her body with shampoo and citrus-scented soap. Images of the muscle man on the River Walk resurfaced, teasing her body into a lather that had nothing to do with the bar of soap. Too bad her time wasn’t her own. The man had certainly piqued her interest. Not that she’d find him again in a city of over a million people.

  As she slid her soap-covered hand over her breast, she paused to tweak a nipple and moaned. It had been far too long since she’d been with a man. She’d have to do something about that soon. With her, a little sex went a long way. Perhaps she would test the batteries in her vibrator and make do with pleasuring herself. Although the device was cold and couldn’t give her all she wanted, it was a lot less messy in so very many ways. Relationships required work. Building a business had taken all of her time.

  Fiona trailed her hand down her belly to the tuft of curls over her mons and sighed. Maybe she’d find a man. After the convention when her life wasn’t nearly as crazy. She rinsed, switched off the water and stepped out on the mat, her core pulsing, her clit throbbing, needy and unfulfilled.

  With a lot of items still begging for her attention, she couldn’t afford the luxury of standing beneath the hot spray of the massaging showerhead, masturbating. Towel in hand, she rubbed her skin briskly, her breasts tingling at the thought of the big guy on the River Walk.

  By the time the convention was over, that man could be long gone. He probably was a businessman passing through, or one of the military men on temporary duty. Even if he lived in the city, what were the chances of running into him again? Slim to none. San Antonio was a big place with a lot of people.

  Well, damn. She should have given him her name and number. A quick fling would get her over her lust cravings and back to her laser-sharp focus.

  She dragged a brush through her long, curly hair, wishing she’d cut it all off. With the conventi
on taking all of her spare time, she didn’t have time to waste on taming her mane of cursed curls. Most of the time it was the bane of her existence, requiring almost an hour of steady work with the straightener to pull the curls out. Having left her clean clothes in the drawer in the bedroom, Fiona stood naked in front of the mirror as she blew her hair dry, coaxing it around a large round brush.

  This convention was her shot at taking her business international. If she succeeded and pulled off the biggest event of her career without a hitch, other jobs would come her way on her own merit, not based on a recommendation from one of her stepfather’s cronies.

  When she’d graduated with her masters in Operations Management, she’d invested the money her mother had left her in her business, F.A. International Event Planner. Since then, she’d steadily built her client list from companies based in San Antonio. Starting out with weddings, parties and small gigs, she’d established a reputation for attention to detail and an ability to follow through. She’d worked her way in as a consultant for some of the larger firms in the area when they’d needed to plan a convention based in San Antonio.

  Finally she’d gotten a lead on the International Trade Convention and had applied. Her stepfather put a bug in the ear of one of his buddies from his active Army days at the Pentagon and she’d landed the contract.

  Now all she had to do was prove she was up to the task. If it fell apart, she’d lose her business, disgrace the U.S. government and shame her stepfather. The pressure to succeed had almost been overwhelming. To manage the workload, she’d taken out a big loan, more than doubled her staff, coordinated the use of the convention center, arranged for all the food, meeting rooms, audio-visual equipment, translators, and blocked out lodging and security for the guests.

  As she dried her hair, she stared at the shadows beneath her eyes. Only a few more sleepless nights and the convention would be underway and over. She’d be playing the role of orchestra conductor, managing the staff to ensure everything was perfect. The most important aspect of the event was tight security. The Department of Homeland Security had notified her today that with all the foreign delegates scheduled to attend, the probability of a terrorist attack had risen to threat level orange.

  A quick glance at her watch reminded her that she only had ten minutes to get ready before her meeting in the lounge with the man Homeland Security had insisted she add to her staff to oversee security. This last-minute addition made her nervous. She knew nothing about the man, his background or his capabilities. He could prove more of a hindrance than a help if he got in the way. All she knew was that he’d better be on time, and he’d better be good. With a hundred items roiling around in her head at any one moment, the last thing she needed was an international incident.

  Fiona shut off the blow dryer, ran the brush through her hair and reached for the doorknob, reminding herself to look at the e-mail on her laptop from Homeland Security to get the name of the contact she’d be meeting shortly. Before she could turn the doorknob, it twisted in her hand and the door flew open.

  A very naked man, with wild eyes and bared teeth shoved her up against the wall, pinned her wrists above her head and demanded, “Who the hell are you? And why are you in my room?”

  Get Wyatt’s War Here

  About the Author

  ELLE JAMES also writing as MYLA JACKSON is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of books including cowboys, intrigues and paranormal adventures that keep her readers on the edges of their seats. When she’s not at her computer, she’s traveling, snow skiing, boating, or riding her ATV, dreaming up new stories. Learn more about Elle James at www.ellejames.com

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  Or visit her alter ego Myla Jackson at mylajackson.com

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