The Billionaire and the Virgin

by Jessica Clare

  “You sure you want to do this, sweetheart?” Rob asked her as they headed out the door to her apartment.

  “No,” she told him honestly. “I’m really not sure at all. But I don’t want to live in fear of what they’re going to think, and we’re not going to sneak around behind anyone’s back anymore. If they don’t like it, they’ll just have to suck it up, won’t they?”

  “Damn, that makes me hot when you say that,” Rob told her. “I think I like it when you take charge.”

  She just gave his hand a gentle squeeze. She knew he was nervous. He said he didn’t care what Logan Hawkings thought of him, but she suspected otherwise. He wanted the man’s respect, if nothing else. Marjorie hoped Logan would have an open mind about things, or this afternoon was going to be very, very awkward.

  They arrived at the cafe early and got a table in the back, tucked away from the lunch rush. Rob fidgeted in his seat next to her, but Marjorie was serene.

  She knew what she wanted—Rob. Everything else was just going to have to fall into place and cope.

  Soon enough, the cafe began to fill with customers, and Marjorie watched the door as Rob fiddled with his phone with his right hand, the fingers of his left interlaced with hers under the table. As she watched, she spotted Brontë’s dark curls, followed a half step behind by the taller Logan.

  “They’re here,” she murmured to Rob, and stood up to wave at her friend.

  Rob slowly stood at her side, and as Brontë and Logan approached the table, she saw their expressions change to dismay as they saw who she was with.

  Marjorie raised a hand as they approached the table. “Before anyone says anything, this is not about business. This is about me. And I’d like for you both to hear me out before anyone says anything else.”

  Brontë and Logan exchanged a look. The billionaire looked pissed, Marjorie noticed, but Brontë laid a calming hand on his sleeve and he shrugged, impatience stamped into his features. He pulled his chair out for his wife and then sat down, and Marjorie sat again too. Her hand found Rob’s under the table again and she gave him a confident smile that she didn’t entirely feel at the moment.

  “What’s going on?” Brontë asked, her voice as polite and friendly as ever.

  Marjorie kept smiling. “I just wanted you guys to know that Rob and I are back together.” She looked over at him, her gaze filled with love. “We reconciled yesterday, and since I know things left off badly the last time we were all together, I thought we should hash things out. The truth of the matter is that Rob is exactly the person who he says he is . . . and I love him. He loves me with all my flaws, and I love him. And we wanted to bring this out into the open, because no one is hiding anymore.” She licked her lips, her throat suddenly dry. “And he’s going to be a major, major part of my life, so you’re just going to have to accept him.”

  Brontë’s eyes widened, and a tiny smile touched her mouth. She looked over at Logan.

  Logan was stone-faced for a long moment. He studied Marjorie, and then his gaze slid back to Rob, who was being unnaturally silent. Only the squeeze of his hand told her his true feelings.

  Then, Logan cleared his throat. “I read about what you did with the Cannon Networks. Sold for a billion?”

  “Bill point two,” Rob said.

  Logan grunted. “And you gave it all to charity?”

  “Three charities, actually. One got the majority, but yeah. Two sister charities got an equal share.” He shrugged, and Marjorie knew he was pretending an ease he didn’t feel.

  “Why?” Logan’s question was succinct. “You never struck me as the charitable type.”

  “Because Marjorie hated who I was,” Rob told him. “And I wanted to become someone that she could be proud of. That seemed like the logical first step.”

  “So you gave away a billion dollars for Marjorie?”

  “More or less.”

  Well, this was getting awkward. She could feel her cheeks heating uncomfortably.

  Logan grunted. He leaned back. “It takes stones to do something like that.”

  “You’d do it for your wife,” Rob shot back.

  “I would,” Logan agreed.

  The table was silent for a long moment.

  “Well,” Logan said, picking up the conversation again. “I have to admire a guy that goes all in for something he wants. You ever feel like talking business, you let me know. We can start fresh.”

  Rob’s smile returned, and Marjorie felt like falling to the floor in relief. “Thanks, man, but I’m holding off for now. I’ve got a few ideas up my sleeve for future endeavors, but right now my entire focus is on one thing.” He lifted Marjorie’s hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “This woman right here.”

  And Marjorie couldn’t stop smiling.

  Epilogue

  “Quit cussing,” Marjorie teased Rob, tucking her chin against his shoulder. “You’re scaring people.”

  “I’m not fucking scaring anyone,” Rob growled, staring straight ahead at the card in his hand. “I’m just . . . fucking . . . pissed.” He punched a number on the screen of the test unit he was trying out. “They’re not calling my fucking number on purpose!”

  She rolled her eyes. The man was terribly impatient. “We’re here to test the cards. That’s all. And it’s not like you need the money!”

  “Bingo!” someone called behind Rob.

  He tossed down his electric card in disgust. “That’s it. I’m done. It’s rigged.”

  Marjorie giggled. Such a poor loser, her Rob. “It’s not rigged.”

  “Rigged,” he repeated.

  “They’re your cards,” she told him, and couldn’t stop giggling. “Your prototypes. You brought them. If anyone rigged it, it should be you.”

  “Smith, you’re fired,” Rob called out, stretching an arm behind Marjorie’s folding chair and dragging her against him so he could nibble on her ear. That was one of the wonderful things about dating Rob, Marjorie decided: he didn’t care where they were. If he felt like being affectionate, he’d be affectionate. Be it nursing home or restaurant, Rob wasn’t shy about showing the world that he adored Marjorie . . . and it did wonders for her shaky ego. She loved the attention he lavished on her.

  From behind the bingo caller’s station, Smith rolled her eyes. “If you fire me, you have no assistants left, sir.”

  “Hmmm. You’re right. Never mind.”

  “You could always re-hire Gortham and Cresson,” Marjorie suggested teasingly. “I’m sure they’d be happy to work for you again.”

  “Hell no,” Rob told her. “Those two were completely and utterly useless. Like tits on a chicken.”

  Marjorie snorted. “That’s an interesting mental image.”

  “It’s because you have such a dirty mind.” His hand slid up her thigh.

  She pushed it away, smiling. “Do me a favor? Save the molesting for until after we leave the nursing home?”

  “Fine, fine,” he grumbled, and she handed him his card again. He pressed the Reset button on it and the card lit up, beeped, and then cleared the screen.

  “Next game is postage stamp,” Smith called over the microphone. “Everyone, please hit the Reset button on your electronic card.”

  A chorus of beeps filled the nursing home. Someone called out, “My card’s not responding.”

  Rob groaned softly.

  Marjorie tweaked his arm, grinning. “You hush. That’s why we’re testing things out here. You knew things wouldn’t be perfect the first time around. That’s why you test things out.”

  They were at the nursing home precisely because Marjorie had suggested it as a wonderful place to test out Rob’s bingo card prototypes. His newest obsession was a form of remote bingo in which the cards were synced up to a computerized caller. He had plans to launch a bingo network at some point, but, of course, the prototypes had to work first.

  There were still a few kinks to be worked out, Marjorie mused. And really, if buggy cards were their biggest problem, they
had it made.

  Life had been nothing short of wondrous the last few months. Rob’s apartment had been completely redecorated, and they’d picked out furniture together and made the penthouse their own. She’d moved in with him and had taken the oversized closet for her ever-growing pile of expensive shoes. Rob loved to buy her tall heels, and she was happy to wear them.

  Usually, a new pair of shoes ended up in bed before she got a chance to wear them out, though, she thought with a blush. Rob liked it when she wore heels—and nothing else—at bedtime.

  Work life was great, too. She and Brontë were closer than ever, the book club was a success. They’d even set up a central location as a meeting place for all kinds, and it was constantly busy with patrons and book clubs. They’d even opened it up for public meetings, and it seemed the place was hopping with one group or another at all times, which made both women pleased.

  The men were getting along, too. Oh, they still bickered, but now it was over football scores and the stock market. They weren’t friends, not quite. But Logan and Rob had gone to play poker together one night. They’d gone for drinks another. They weren’t doing business together . . . yet. But Logan was interested in Rob’s projects, and she suspected they might go in on one together in the future.

  “Oh dear,” Smith said over the microphone. “I think this ball is stuck in the hopper.” She prodded at the machine. “Sir?”

  Rob stared at his card intently. “Marjorie, sweetheart, can you help her? I want to see how the card reacts when she hits the reset.”

  “Of course.” Marjorie got out of her seat and headed to the front of the room, where Smith was manning the caller’s station. She leaned over and peered at Rob’s assistant and the spread before her. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “There’s something stuck in the hopper,” Smith said, and gestured at the machine.

  The bingo machine had all seventy-five white numbered balls bouncing around in the glass case under the electronic calling board. One by one, each ball would fly up the chute and pop out for the caller to take. But for some reason, there was something else stuck in the chute. Something blue.

  Marjorie leaned forward and frowned. “What did you stick . . . in . . . there.” She gasped.

  The object in the chute was a small velvet ring box, wedged in place of where a numbered ball would go.

  Eyes wide, Marjorie looked out at the audience, where Rob was seated. He was pointedly staring at his card, but grinning like a loon. She made an undignified noise that might have been a cross between a protest and a squeal, and snatched up the box. With trembling hands, she flipped it open.

  And stared.

  An enormous square cut diamond surrounded by a cluster of smaller diamonds stared out at her. It was an engagement ring.

  “Rob,” she said weakly. “How much did this cost?”

  “That is not an appropriate answer,” he called back, amused. “The appropriate answer is either ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You don’t get to ask how much your engagement ring costs.”

  “Yes!” she said happily. “Absolutely, yes!” She raced back to the table where Rob had stood up, and flung herself in his arms. “One hundred times yes!”

  He laughed, and then they were kissing each other wildly, and Marjorie’s heart felt so big she thought it might burst.

  “Are they going to call a damn number or not?” a cranky bingo player asked.

  Marjorie laughed and clung tightly to Rob’s neck, happiness radiating from her. “We’d better get out of here. There’s one absolute rule in nursing homes, and it’s that you don’t mess with the bingo.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Rob teased, holding her against him. It felt so good to be in his arms, so very right. “Good thing I happen to know a place we could meet and make out at.”

  “Your penthouse, sir?” she teased.

  “Meet you there in five minutes?”

  “I promise to wear nothing but my shoes,” she agreed.

  “And the ring.”

  “And the ring,” she amended. Then, they locked hands and sprinted out the door, heading back to their apartment.

  They made it home in record time, and as good as her promise, Marjorie quickly undressed and put her favorite high heels back on. She slipped the ring on her finger and stared at it in wonder. It fit her finger perfectly. “How on earth did you manage that?” Marjorie asked.

  “Hmm?” Rob shucked his pants off, and then shrugged. “I just asked for the biggest ring that they had—” He laughed as she lunged at him. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

  “You’re a cruel, cruel man,” she said, reaching for her shoes. “And I should take these off to punish you.”

  “Hell, no,” he told her. “I love my tall, gorgeous amazon. Seeing you looming over me makes my dick hard as a rock.”

  She reached for his cock and sure enough, he was just as hard as he said he was. “Hard as a diamond,” she agreed, then added, “hard as my diamond. Which was probably very expensive . . . ?”

  “I got it for a song,” he told her, grinning.

  She groaned as he dragged her into their massive bed. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t,” he said, his hand sliding to her breast to caress it. “I wouldn’t cheap out on the thing that matters the most to me. You know I’d spend any dollar amount for you.”

  Her smile grew soft with adoration. It was true. In the last year, he’d spent ridiculous amounts of money on anything and everything. If she said she liked a particular color, she’d come home to find three pairs of new shoes in that color. If she mentioned a particular car looked nice, he bought her one the next day. She currently had a red Corvette and a Bentley sitting in the parking garage downstairs, gathering dust. It didn’t matter to Rob. He just wanted to see her smile.

  And as she’d told him so often, all he needed to do to make her smile was just to look at her.

  “I love you,” she told him for the hundredth time that week. Possibly that day. They were dorky like that.

  “Love you, too,” he told her, sliding between her legs and hitching one high-heeled foot onto his hip. “Let me show you how much.”

  And he did.

  About the Author

  Jessica Clare is the New York Times bestselling author of the Bluebonnet series, as well as the Billionaire Boys Club novels. She also writes under the names Jill Myles and Jessica Sims, and has a day job in finance. Jessica lives in Texas with her husband and cats, spending her time writing, reading, writing, playing video games, and doing even more writing. Follow her on Twitter @_JessicaClare or join her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AuthorJessicaClare.