Текст книги "The Billionaire and the Virgin"

Автор книги: Jessica Clare

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

But now that he had money and success, he wanted credibility. And that was the one thing he couldn’t get on his own. Which was why he needed Logan Hawkings. People respected him. He’d been in Time, Forbes, Newsweek, and countless other magazines, as a businessman to watch.

The only rags that Rob made were tabloids. They loved to run stories about which down-on-her-luck boozy actress he was fucking (he wasn’t), which coke-fueled orgy someone had seen him exiting (he didn’t do drugs), and anything else they could come up with. Normally, he let that shit stand because even bad publicity was publicity.

But now that he wanted to bring investors in on a new project? It was working against him.

“I’m telling you,” Rob said, his tone easy. It didn’t give a hint of the frustration he felt at Logan’s stonewall. “I have a business proposition that can make both of us real money if you’d just talk to me.”

“And I’m telling you,” Logan said in that cold, cold voice. “That I don’t like you here this week. The paparazzi follow you like bitches in heat.”

Well, that they did. “Don’t worry. Your ass is too boring for them most of the time.”

The look Logan gave him could have shriveled dicks from a mile away. He moved closer to Rob, and his voice lowered to an angry hiss. “I am getting married this week, and the last thing I want is a bunch of paparazzi mucking up the works. My bride has worked very hard to ensure that everything in this wedding goes off exactly how she wants it to, and I’ll be damned if you show up and ruin this for her. Do you understand me?”

Married? Well, that explained the growly bear act. Rob put on his most charming smile. “Congrats, man. Can I buy you a drink?”

“You can leave the premises.”

“Now, that would be a shame. I’d have to tell all the paps why I’m leaving, and wouldn’t they like to know?” Rob’s smile remained easy despite the menace he was throwing down. “I’d hate to give them fuel to stick around.”

Logan’s glare got colder.

“Congratulations on the wedding, though. I’d love to be invited.”

“You’re not invited.”

“Too bad. I’ll settle for a business meeting with you. Just a half hour of your time. I promise it’s worthwhile.”

“I’m not here on business this week, and this isn’t the way to get my ear.” He leaned in. “And if you ruin my wedding, I will fucking ruin you.”

So defensive over a dog and pony show. The man must truly be in love. Rob smiled thinly. “See you around, then.”

Chapter Three

After reviewing several dismal ratings reports in the privacy of his suite, Rob was in a shit mood. His botched meeting with Logan hadn’t helped things, and by the time three in the morning rolled around, he was done with Seaturtle Cay, done with jackasses who didn’t want to give him the time of day, and done with a lot of things. Unable to sleep, he phoned up his assistants and told them to pack up and be down at the lobby within an hour. They were heading back to California.

After all, there was no point in hanging around in the Caribbean not getting any work done when he could be back in California not getting work done. And he sure as shit wasn’t going to the beach again. Not after the near-drowning. He’d be happy to never hit the fucking waves ever again.

At four am, two of his assistants were in the lobby with their luggage, yawning, and the third was nowhere to be found. Impatient, Rob checked his watch again and handed his bags to the valet, who scurried away.

Everyone just stood there like lumps, clearly waiting for instructions.

“Get a fucking cab here ASAP,” he said to one of his assistants. “I’m tired of this place.”

“Yes, sir,” the pimple-faced kid said. “Right away, sir.”

“Good.” He peered at the guy. He knew he was an assistant, but wasn’t sure of the name. “Which one are you?”

“Cresson, sir.”

“Okay, Cresson. You get to keep your job because you know how to follow orders.” At the guy’s relieved look, Rob rolled his eyes inwardly. So hard to find good help. He pulled out his phone and texted the missing assistant again. You have 3 minutes to get your ass down here or you’re fired.

As he was looking down at his phone, someone bumped into him, and the phone went flying out of his hand.

In a rage, he turned on the person that pushed him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It was a drunk woman with bright red hair, her arm around a brunette’s shoulders. Both of them were wearing what looked like Mardi Gras beads covered with penises.

“Oh,” slurred the redhead. “Oops. My bad. We didn’t see you there.” She peered at him.

Great, just what he needed. “Is this entire resort full of drunks?” He stalked away from the women and recovered his phone, checking the screen. No cracks. Thank god for that. “You’re lucky this isn’t broken or you’d be buying a new one.”

The brunette’s eyebrows drew together and she looked as if she’d protest, but the redhead stumbled forward and pointed a finger at his face. “Don’t be a dick, sir. We saw plenty of those tonight. We’re full up.”

The brunette convulsed into laughter.

“Get your finger out of my face,” he told the obnoxious redhead, and looked over at the front desk. “And where’s my damn cab already? This fucking island isn’t that big.”

“We just left one,” the redhead said, still wiggling her finger in his face. “But youuuu can’t have it—”

Like hell he couldn’t. Shouldering past the two drunks, he headed for the curb outside, just in time to see three other women emerging from the cab. A pretty blonde with a wild haystack of hair was drunk and hanging off of an extremely pregnant woman, and a lean woman had her back to him, her front half in to the passenger window, paying the driver. Good.

Rob pushed forward and tapped the taller blonde on the shoulder. “If you and your drunk friends are done making everyone miserable, I’d like your cab—”

As the woman turned, Rob realized two things.

One, that it was the woman who’d rescued him on the beach.

And two, that she was really, really damn tall.

Chapter Four

The woman’s eyes widened in surprised at the same time that his did.

“Oh, it’s you,” she breathed, and a smile lit up her face. “My swimmer. Hi again. Feeling better?”

Rob stared. He looked her up and down, his first time to really get a good look at her.

She was tall as fuck. There was no disguising that. He was six foot himself, and he was pretty sure she had at least an inch on him. She was also wearing high heels, which made her seem towering. She was delicate for her height, but still had an attractive pair of small, high breasts and an impressive curve to her hips, and legs that went on forever in the dowdy skirt she was wearing.

So she was tall. So fucking what? He didn’t care if she was seven foot. She was just as gorgeous as he remembered, in all the right ways.

Oh, she wasn’t the typical Hollywood girl that was considered beautiful right now. Those freckles still spattered her nose, and her hair was a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her lips weren’t plumped full of collagen and her jaw was probably too strong. But her eyes were beautiful, and her expression was full of genuineness, and he wanted to just grab her and pull her against him and soak in everything that she was.

Which was weird, but there it was.

So he thrust his hand out. “I don’t think we got to meet properly the other day. I’m Rob.”

She bit her lip—god, that was fucking cute—and put her hand into his and shook it, surprisingly firmly. “I’m Marjorie.”

“Oooo, look! Marj’s picking up men at the curb,” someone catcalled drunkenly. Probably that damn redhead.

Marjorie’s face flushed bright red and she glanced back at her friends. “Are they bothering you, mister? I’m sorry. We’re just getting back from a bachelorette party.” A lock of hair dragged across her cheek from the wind, and she tucked it behind an ear absently. “Actually, it’s a pre-bachelorette party. This one was bridesmaids only. The real one is in a few days. I think some of the girls got a little carried away with the fun.”

“It’s all right,” he told her easily, though it wasn’t all right thirty seconds ago, even. “And it’s Rob, not ‘mister.’”

“Rob,” she said shyly, hugging her arms against her chest.

“But if you’re just getting back from a party, where’s your beads?” He couldn’t help himself—he reached forward and flicked the pearl choker at her neck. Classy and dowdy all at once. It was like something his grandma would wear. Actually, everything she wore—from the floral, high necked blouse to the ugly hippie skirt—was like something his grandma would wear on vacation. Except for the tall nude fuck-me pumps.

He liked those. He liked those a lot.

She immediately put a hand to her necklace where he’d touched it, as if scandalized. Then, she shook her head and looked awkward and shy. “Beads? Nothing like that for me.”

“I don’t see why,” he said honestly. “You’re the most beautiful one of the group.”

She gave him a shocked look, and then turned an adorable bright red again. God, was his dick hard? It was. This girl was like catnip to his jaded senses.

“That’s kind of you to say,” she told him, clearly flustered. “But, um . . .”

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said, taking the lead. She looked ready to run away and he wasn’t ready for that. Rob stepped forward and placed his hand out, palm up.

She hesitated a moment, then put her hand back in his, as if fascinated.

He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles. Her breasts moved, and he realized she was breathing fast with excitement. Every expression was obvious across her face, and he fucking dug that. There were no games with this girl, he realized. She wouldn’t be able to play games and try to change herself to be whatever she thought might get his attention. She was genuine, from the tips of her messy hair to those tall, tall shoes.

And he loved that. He really, really did.

So Rob brushed his mouth over her knuckles again, and then glanced up at her. “I want to thank you for saving my life.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly flustered. Her hand moved in his, as if she needed to draw it away, but he held on to her. “It’s not necessary, really—”

“It is,” he said in a firm voice. “I must insist. Let me take you to dinner. My treat. It’s the very least I can do for your impeccable lifesaving skills.”

“My lifesaving skills . . .” she echoed, and then laughed. “You nut. That was CPR. Everyone knows CPR.”

“I don’t,” he said, grinning. He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “You want to show me? I can think of a few parts I’d like to practice.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth worked for a moment, and then she nodded. “Um, okay.” He didn’t miss that her gaze flicked to his lips.

He liked that it did. He wanted to know what she was thinking—

“Mr. Cannon,” his worthless assistant said, running forward with the worst fucking timing in the world. “I’ve called you a cab and Mr. Gortham has come downstairs—”

“Not now,” Rob said, his tone easy, his gaze locked on Marjorie’s flushed face. He wanted to memorize it. God, she was pretty. He’d never been so immediately in lust with a woman, but this one had his number, that was for sure. Normally they bored him because they were all the same. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d never get bored with Marjorie and her openness.

“But—” the assistant said, clearly confused. “You instructed us—”

Rob clenched his teeth and looked over. There stood the bellhop with the porter cart of his luggage, and his other two assistants sleepily yawning, their own luggage tucked under their arms. Assistant number three was hovering, clearly confused at the change in orders. Everyone was waiting on him.

He felt Marjorie’s attempt to pull her hand out of his again. “Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Nope,” he lied.

“But Mr. Cannon—” started the assistant again. He clearly wanted to get fired.

“I said no,” Rob repeated. “Didn’t they teach you that in school? No means no.” He kept his tone pleasant and looked back at the small crowd waiting. “Everyone can go back to their rooms. It was all a mistake.”

“I really should go,” Marjorie said, attempting to pull her hand from his again. “My friends are probably in the lobby waiting for me.”

“Not yet,” Rob said, squeezing her hand tighter in his. “Please.” He was probably going to fucking scare her if he didn’t let go of her hand, but he didn’t want her to retreat again. Not before he got her room number and her full name.

She hesitated, clearly torn, and glanced at his assistants. “I’m not keeping you?”

“Not at all.” He looked over at the others. “Go back to bed.”

Muttering, they slowly returned to the lobby. Not fast enough to suit Rob, but they were moving. A throat cleared behind him and he saw the cabdriver, waiting. Marjorie still stood at the curb, close to the cab. Right. He wanted to get rid of this man, too.

He wanted Marjorie all to himself.

So, reluctantly releasing her hand, Rob dug into his pockets and pulled out his wallet. Peeling a couple of hundreds out of his billfold, he handed them to the driver. “Here. Thanks for waiting, but you’re not needed.”

The driver took the money and pocketed it without a word. Now, Rob was free to devote his attention back to Marjorie, giving her his most charming smile. “As I was saying. Dinner?”

“I thought you said you wanted CPR lessons?” Her lips twitched with amusement. So fucking cute. He’d be masturbating to that sweet little smile of hers for weeks.

“Changed my mind. Dinner. Tomorrow night. You and me.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me for saving your life with dinner. Really.”

“I’m not.” Rob moved forward and put his hands on her shoulders, then hugged her before she could protest. A muffled squeak escaped her, but that was the only sound, and he pulled away just as quickly. “That was for saving my life. Dinner is because I want to have dinner with you.”

Marjorie blinked rapidly, still a bit stiff from recoiling from his hug. He guessed she wasn’t much of a hugger. She seemed too awkward for that sort of thing.

Didn’t matter. He’d ease her into his brash displays. She’d get used to him. “So . . . seven? Seafood okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Wear a dress.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He grinned, resisted the urge to give her another hug, and then turned to walk away. He paused, and turned back to her. “Give me your full name and your room number.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice just as blank. Tired? Surprised? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. He’d have all of dinner tomorrow night to figure Marjorie out, and then he’d have her in his bed. He’d fuck her a few times to get her out of his mind, and then he could go back to work and not think about women with incredibly long legs and freckled noses and too-earnest smiles.

She wasn’t saying anything else, so he prompted her. “Room number? Just in case I have to call you.”

“Three-oh-one,” she told him. “Ivarsson.”

He pulled out his phone and started typing. “You’re in the Ivarsson suite?”

“No, my last name is Ivarsson. Marjorie Ivarsson.”

He nodded. “Well, it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Marjorie Ivarsson. I look forward to seeing you for dinner tomorrow night at seven. Shall we meet at the bar?”

She nodded again and stuck her hand out to him to shake.

Amused, he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth to kiss the back of it one more time. “Until tomorrow.” Sure enough, she blushed again, then turned and left, her walk back inside the hotel stiff and a little rushed.

He watched her go, those impossibly long legs practically dancing as she went up the three stairs to the lobby itself. He couldn’t wait to have those wrapped around his waist. Hot damn. As she left, he realized she didn’t bother to ask for his last name. He deliberately hadn’t volunteered it, just to see if she’d inquire. Most women recognized the name once they saw his face, and he knew they’d start googling him the moment he left. But Marjorie had smiled politely, tried to shake his hand and walked away.

Marjorie was more naïve than he’d originally thought. Trusting. She wasn’t going to spend all night googling him online.

Well, that worked for him just fine. He could handle naïve. It never stopped him for long.

But even as he thought that, he frowned to himself. Marjorie was different. She was good, wholesome, pure, and sweet. He didn’t want to fuck up her purity of spirit. The other chicks he dated might be nail and bail, but he knew instinctively that Marjorie wasn’t like that, and it was shitty of him to think of her that way.

Maybe it was him putting her on a pedestal because she’d saved his life. He didn’t know and didn’t much care.

But as Rob strolled back to his room, whistling, he realized that he needed to find out more about Marjorie Ivarsson. Because he wanted her. And the best way to get what you wanted was to treat it like he did business—formulate an attack, go on the offensive, and swoop in for the takeover.

Chapter Five

First on the docket, though? An assessment of exactly who he was planning on seducing.

At seven in the morning, he called for one of his assistants. The three of them were on call at any hour of the day, since Rob tended to keep odd hours and was a workaholic insomniac at best. He knew they rotated the on-call phone between them so he could have someone available at all times. It rang once, and then a female voice picked up. “Who’s this?” Rob asked. He had a female assistant, but damn if he remembered her name. He tended to run through people too fast.

“This is Smith, sir.” She didn’t even sound sleepy. “What can I help you with?”

“I have a date tonight,” he told her, putting a hand behind his head while relaxing in bed. He stared up at the ceiling, mentally picturing Marjorie’s face. “Marjorie Ivarsson. She’s staying in room three-oh-one. I want to know everything you can tell me about her in the next two hours. I’m not talking five minutes on Google, either. I’m talking Grade-A, private-detective, get-me-the-color-of-her-panties shit. You understand?”

“I understand,” Smith’s voice was coolly efficient. “Is there a price cap on this knowledge, sir?”

“Nope. Just time. Two hours. Make it happen.” He hung up, padded to the shower, got in, jerked off to the thought of honey-blonde hair, endless legs, and a hint of freckles.

After he dressed, Rob worked on his laptop, losing himself in emails and endless spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations of ratings numbers until his phone rang, precisely two hours later. Another point in Smith’s favor—she was prompt. Better than that fucking Gortham. He was going to fire that kid when they got back, he really was.

He tucked his Bluetooth headset into his ear and hit Receive. “Talk to me.”

“Marjorie Ingrid Ivarsson,” Smith said. “Age twenty-four. Driver’s license lists her as height six foot one, weight estimated at one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Blood type O positive. Organ donor. Date of birth is July 10. Cancer star sign. Cancers are traditionally nurturing, loving, and very domestic. Parents were George and Rita Ivarsson. Both died in a car accident when she was aged two, and Marjorie was raised by her grandparents, John and Ingrid Ivarsson. Straight A student through high school. Attended one year of community college and then abandoned classes when John died and Ingrid suffered a stroke. Ingrid passed one year later. Marjorie was executor of the estate and settled family debts, then went to work at the Rise and Shine Diner, a sock-hop-themed, privately owned diner in Kansas City. It is currently owned by Hawkings Conglomerate, who purchased the diner earlier this year.”

“Stop,” Rob said. “Let me digest.”

Smith was silent on the other end of the line while Rob mulled over the information fed to him. His brain had stuttered at the Hawkings name. So his good ol’ buddy Logan owned the diner that Marjorie worked for? There had to be a connection there. Not to mention Marjorie had mentioned being a bridesmaid, and Logan was here for his own wedding, and, well . . .

Well shit. She was in the damn wedding. This would either work beautifully or be a fucking nightmare.

It didn’t matter; he still wanted Marjorie Ivarsson.

“Okay,” Rob said after a moment. “Continue.”

“Very well,” Smith said. “Last year, Ms. Ivarsson reported an income of twenty-eight thousand nine hundred ninety-two dollars on her Form W-2 from the Rise and Shine Diner. She currently has one bank account with two thousand and eight dollars in her checking. Her credit score is seven hundred and twenty and her debt-to-income ratio is—”

“I’m not looking to give her a damn credit card,” Rob told her, irritated. “I don’t give a shit about that. Give me personal stuff. Is she seeing someone at the moment? Recently out of a relationship?”

Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. “Nothing shows on any financial records in regards to cohabitation or joint paperwork filings, sir.”

“So basically all you’ve got for me is that she’s a waitress with good credit?” he bit out sarcastically. “That’s not useful.”

Smith took his shitty mood in stride. “I talked with a woman at the front desk and she let it slip that one of the other bridesmaids—an Angie Stewart—is coming in at one this afternoon. Angie is also a coworker with Marjorie. I can interview her and get additional personal information, sir.”

He was intrigued. “Interview her? How?”

“By lying, sir.” This time, Smith sounded mischievous. “A fake interview. If that’s all right with you.”

“It is. Report back. And good job.” He added the last gruffly, making a mental note to give her a bonus on her next check. Funny how he had three assistants and only one was worth a damn. He clicked the headset off and returned to work. He had meetings to attend and his email piled up faster than he could answer it, but work let him stay busy through the day, and at least the hotel room was comfortable. The weather was gorgeous, but he’d be damned if he’d work down at the beach again. Fucking beach and fucking riptides. He shuddered at the memory.

Lost in work, Rob was surprised to hear a knock at the door precisely at two in the afternoon. His stomach growled—he’d missed lunch, as usual—but he ignored his body and answered the door.

Smith stood there in her gray power suit, glasses perched on her nose and her hair pulled back into a nondescript bun. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, and held out a small electronic device to him.

“What’s this?” He took it and examined it. Looked like a recorder of some kind.

“I interviewed Ms. Stewart and thought you would want to hear the conversation for yourself. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Smart. He rubbed his jaw. “Tell those other chuckleheads that I need lunch. You can have the rest of the day off.”

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

He shut the door and pressed Play on the recorder. Two women’s voices arose in conversation. It was illegal to tape someone without their knowing, but he wondered if Smith knew or cared. Didn’t matter, really.

“So what’s this for again?” The woman speaking was clearly a smoker, and older. Her voice had a hint of rasp to it that he recognized well. He could practically smell the menthol on her.

Smith’s efficient voice cut through the recording. “A surprise slam book that was commissioned for the bride. We’re interviewing the wedding party and asking them to tell a little bit about each other.”

“I can’t tell you much about anyone except Brontë and Marjorie. I don’t know the others.”

“That’s fine,” Smith soothed. “Let’s start with them. Tell me about Marjorie.”

He tensed, listening.

The woman laughed, and Rob immediately got offended. Was she laughing at his Marjorie? That fucking bitch. But her next words eased his mind a little. “I love Marjorie. How can you not? Hating her would be like hating puppies or flowers or something. She’s a sweet kid.”

Rob relaxed and moved back to his chair, listening as the interview went on.

“Have you worked with Marjorie long?”

“A few years. She’s a favorite with a lot of the customers.” Another laugh. “Pretty much anyone over the age of eighty. They all adore her. I guess she’s the grandkid they never had or something. She has a lot of regulars and I’m pretty sure they’re all geriatric, but Marj remembers all their names and their birthdays and makes them feel special. You can tell when some people are bullshitting, and she’s not. She genuinely loves older people.”

Rob mentally noted that. All right, his Marjorie enjoyed the company of the elderly. Not a bad thing, really, but he couldn’t recall the last conversation he’d had with anyone over the age of sixty. Huh. Clearly he had a crowd different from hers.

It seemed that once Angie was started on the subject of Marjorie, she didn’t stop. “Yeah, that girl’s kind of an odd one. I mean, I don’t say that in a bad way. It’s just that . . . like, okay, she goes to knitting circles and antique shows. She quilts. I mean, who fucking quilts nowadays? Marjorie, that’s who. I don’t think she has hobbies like normal girls her age. She’s not into clubbing or sleeping around—she does crosswords and volunteers at a nursing home.”

“She’s an old lady trapped in a young lady’s body?” Smith supplied helpfully.

“That’s exactly it,” Angie said. “An old lady. I mean, like I said, you can’t help but love her. Sweet kid. Built like a stork, but sweet. And it’s easy to see that she’s lonely.”

“Lonely?” Smith asked in a mild voice.

“Yeah. I think she was raised by her grandparents, right? So she’s never exactly ‘blended’ with normal kids. Add in the height and I’m guessing it does a number on her self-confidence. Like I said, she doesn’t have any friends—other than the diner ladies—under the age of eighty. And she sure doesn’t date.”

“No?”

“Nope. If I bet money, she’d be a virgin for sure. I’d say the girl’s never seen a dick before, but what do I know?”

They both laughed, and Rob clenched the recorder in his hand. If he ever saw this Angie person, he was going to personally take her down a damn peg.

“Now let me tell you about Brontë,” Angie continued. “You want to know someone that’s lucky as hell? It’s her. She’s marrying a billionaire, you know.”

He fast-forwarded through the rest of the conversation, but it seemed to be about Brontë and not Marjorie. Disgusted, he tossed the recorder aside and drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.

All right, he knew a fair amount about his Marjorie. She was old fashioned, a good girl, and a virgin.

The last part flummoxed him a bit. Rob didn’t date virgins. They weren’t his type. The friend could always be wrong . . . but he wasn’t sure about that. Girls shared that kind of information with each other, didn’t they? And Marjorie had that air of innocent awkwardness that he found so intriguing . . . and different.

So yeah, she was likely a virgin. Well, fuck.

He didn’t know how to date a virgin. He didn’t even know how to begin. But he wanted Marjorie. With every ounce of his being, he wanted that girl. He craved her in inexplicable ways. Rob was a man who always went with his gut instinct, and right now it was telling him that Marjorie was the girl for him.

But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be her type. He drank. He cussed. He had one-night stands. He paid girls to show their tits on TV. He was crude and rude and a loudmouth. And all the reasons that Logan Hawkings wouldn’t give him the time of day would work against him with Marjorie Ivarsson, too.

Well, then. Rob rubbed his jaw. He’d just have to show her that he could be the kind of guy she needed. He could behave . . . if he wanted to.

And for Marjorie? He wanted to.