A Hollywood Deal (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience #1) Read online

  Not me, since I know how to spell asshole. Of course I can’t tell Simon that.

  The kettle whistles, and Jean pours water into a black mug that reads The Sexiest Man Alive. I rest my face on the counter, staring at the steam rising from the surface. Soon…soon…

  “Honey?” Mom prompts.

  “Mrs. Glenn shouldn’t believe everything she reads,” I say. “It’s Hollywood. Half the stuff they print is lies, and that’s being generous.”

  “But…” She hesitates. “We’re worried about you.”

  I pause. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  They were beside themselves when Bethany got engaged.

  “We aren’t concerned about you being engaged,” Simon says. “The issue is that the man is Ryder Reed. If what you say is true and most of what the media says about him is lies, then we don’t know anything about him.” Displeasure colors his voice. “Not to mention, he never asked me for my permission. I’ve never even met the man.”

  Oh crap. Simon can be so old-fashioned, and of course Oliver did ask. “We, uh, were trying to keep it quiet.”

  “What about that other man you’ve been dating? Shaun?” Mom asks.

  “We broke up a while back.”

  Finally, finally Jean takes the bag out and pushes the tea my way. I take a good, healthy swallow. Ahhh… It’s not as good as coffee, but it does the job.

  “How long has this been going on between the two of you?” Simon asks.

  I open my mouth to answer, then stop. Ryder and I never discussed what story we’re going to tell our respective parents. For all I know, he might be going through an inquisition of his own, and I don’t want to get caught because we couldn’t keep our stories straight.

  “I’d love to tell you everything, but I don’t have time right now. I have to get ready for work.”

  “You’re still working for him?” Simon’s incredulous.

  “Of course. Personal is personal, and professional is professional.” I’m going to go to hell and burn for my lies. “I love you both. I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  I hang up, then hurry to finish my tea before I get any more phone calls. I’m certain my stepsister’s going to be next.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ryder

  “Ryder…”

  Paige whispers into my mouth before claiming it, her lips aggressive. Her sharp teeth scrape against my tongue, but I don’t give a damn.

  She’s pliant, soft, molding herself against me. Her scent is lethal—sweet, hot and mouth-watering all at the same time.

  She moves over my body, pressing both of us against the mattress. Her thighs spread, and her wet pussy’s over my cock, which is sledgehammer hard.

  Her hand reaches down, grabs me. My eyes roll at the sensation. She has the most amazing grip, firm and sure.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this,” she says as I groan. She pumps me with her hand.

  I feel like the top of my head is going to explode. My thumb circles her clit and she moans, eyes half-closed. Jagged pleasure slices into my nerves until it’s almost painful. I pull myself back. I want her to come first. I want to hear her scream my name, drench my hand with her juices and beg me to fuck her hard and deep until she climaxes over and over again.

  Something vibrates. I scowl. There are no sex toys here, just me and Pai—

  I open my eyes. I’m in my room.

  Alone.

  With my hand around my swollen dick.

  Cursing, I flop my head back on the pillow. It’s as close to a wet dream as I’ve come since puberty ended—and damn it’s embarrassing.

  I glare at the offending phone. It won’t quit vibrating, so I pick it up. “What?”

  “Good to hear your voice too, Ryder. I wish you’d warned me.” Mira sounds cool and business-like. “I had more than twenty-five phone calls before my first coffee.”

  Her mildly annoyed tone snuffs the sizzle in my blood. I rub my eyes. “What about?”

  “What about. Har har. Your engagement, meathead.”

  “Oh. Well, you said this was what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, but you’re supposed to keep me in the loop. I can’t spin things for you if I don’t know what is going on.”

  I roll out of bed. I probably should’ve called Mira last night, but I was too distracted.

  “Do you have your stories straight?” she asks.

  “Ah…not yet.” Should’ve done that too, but the kiss threw me off.

  “Keep it simple, stick to the truth as much as you can. Want me to send you a script?”

  “No, it’s all right. Hey, gotta go,” I say as another call comes in. I don’t have to check to know it’s Elizabeth. “Do you know what time it is?” I say. “It’s not even seven.”

  “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to talk to you?” My sister’s voice is anything but patient.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault you live three times zones away. Move out here if you want to talk in the a.m.”

  “I just might.” Her tone’s serious. Ever since Dad bought that new house, she’s been his neighbor. I don’t know how she can stand it. I’d rather choke on vomit. “Anyway, I didn’t call to hear you complain. Is it true? You’re engaged to Paige? For real?”

  “Yup. Gave her a ring and everything. You’re going to cry when you see it. It’s a beauty.” Elizabeth likes the finer things in life, and has a real weakness for fast cars and jewelry.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Where’s your romanticism? Pure fairy tale, baby.”

  “But you said you were looking for a dumb woman.”

  “No, that’s Elliot. I’m aiming for…” I rack my brain for the most romantic story I can think of, the kind that always gets women sighing longingly. “More of a Hollywood Cinderella story.”

  “Uh huh. And I presume you cast yourself in the role of Prince Charming.”

  “Well I can’t exactly play the girl. For one thing, no one makes glass slippers in my si—”

  “Oh, shut up. You’re awful. How are you going to fake it for a year?”

  She has no idea that my entire life is just one role after another, everything scripted by me. Movie sets aren’t the only place I play make-believe.

  “Paige seems so rational, not prone to poor decisions.” Her tone turns speculative. “How much are you paying her?”

  “Excuse me? In case you aren’t aware, I am the World’s Sexiest Man. Countless women want to marry me. For free.” I’m not going to discuss Paige’s condition with Elizabeth. It’s none of her business.

  “Yeah, but not her. She knows how you really are. And she looks like someone who’d want something more lasting and genuine in her personal relationships.”

  Paige turning her head to avoid my kiss. My hand clenches around the phone. “Yeah? And how do you know her so well?”

  “She’s been with you, what, four years now? I’ve seen the two of you together at least a dozen times, Ryder. She’s not one of your groupies. She’s so professional it hurts. And now she suddenly decides to fall in love with you, right after Dad made his ultimatum? Come on.”

  “What do you know about love, oh mistress of the successful relationship?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel like a bottom-sucking asshole. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Elizabeth says, her tone brisk. “I just… Well.”

  If I could, I’d punch myself in the face right now. There’s a really awkward pause. Finally I say, “Hey, we’re having an engagement party this weekend. Why don’t you come? I’m inviting everyone.”

  “Define ‘everyone’.”

  “You know, all the Hollywood people.” I force a light tone to my voice. “You should come. You might find a schmuck to marry. If not, maybe another donor or two for your foundation.”

  “How can I resist such a charming invitation,” she says dryly. “Well, I suppose. Send me the details.”

  We chat briefly about her future p
lans for the foundation, and I promise to make hefty donations, partly because I support what she does and partly because I feel guilty about snapping at her.

  After I’m done with the call, I shower and throw on a button-down shirt, dark brown cotton shorts and make my way to the kitchen. I’m starving. Jean places a three-egg omelet with cheese and a couple of slices of whole-wheat toast on the counter. Mira told me I should go gluten-free so I can maintain my youth longer, but I love bread. Besides, I don’t suffer from any ill effects, so I don’t know why I should give it up.

  “Where’s Paige?” I ask.

  “She already ate and went up to the office.”

  I frown. That’s awfully diligent of her. I make a mental note to get a new assistant. Paige shouldn’t be so nose to the grindstone now that she’s my fiancée and soon-to-be wife.

  As I munch on my food, I wonder if she had a dream about me. I didn’t get to climax…but I wouldn’t mind if she did. Actually I’d like to see her come while dreaming about me inside her.

  And just like that, my cock’s hard again. I adjust the napkin on my lap.

  I take a careful swallow of hot latte and try to think of something really un-sexy. Like… My gaze roams until I see a crystal tumbler drying in the kitchen. The tumbler reminds me of Elliot and my conversation with him. Which then reminds me that Anthony Blackwood is in town.

  The last time we saw each other, he told me he’d make me pay, and he meant every word. I hate it that he’s back in L.A. The bastard now has the resources and means to fuck with me.

  On the other hand… Not everything is about me. He has business interests here in the city. And he’s probably moved on. He’s always been more practical than me. Had to be, since his asshole dad disinherited him.

  Pain slices me like a thousand paper cuts. My hand tightens around the mug handle, and I can almost hear the softly crooning voice, begging to be flown to the moon.

  Damn it.

  I hit the play button on my phone. Some kind of classical cello piece comes out of its tinny speaker.

  Forcing myself to shake off the old ghost, I finish the last of my coffee and go upstairs. Paige is at her desk, going through my mail.

  And she’s wearing glasses.

  I’ve never seen her in a pair, but she looks as hot as hell behind the horn-rimmed frames, her hair pulled back into a tidy bun. A white blouse and a gray pencil skirt that hug her curves just right complete the Sexy Librarian effect.

  A small frown pinches her face, and she runs her teeth across her plump lower lip. My body tightens. I’d rather feel them against my mouth as I suck on her tongue. Her lips are amazing, full and soft and naturally pink. The shape of them together reminds me of a budding rose. What would be it like to have them around my dick?

  My cock hardens instantly. If it could talk, it’d cry, “Let’s find out!”

  Stop it, idiot, and play the role. Paige made it clear last night that she wasn’t interested in me that way. And I always respect people’s boundaries. To her, marrying me is a transaction.

  The thought is as welcome as a cow pie at one of Elizabeth’s charity functions.

  Just then Paige looks up from the letter in her hand.

  “Morning, babe.” I plop down in the armchair across from her desk before she can notice my erection.

  “Morning.” She drinks from The Sexiest Man Alive mug, most of her face hidden behind it. I make a mental note to get her one that says Wife of the Sexiest Man Alive. It should be black with gold lettering to match the one in her hand.

  “Love your glasses. Sexy librarian,” I say when she’s done with her coffee.

  “I’m only wearing them because I don’t have any contact cleaning solution.”

  Her tart tone makes me want to find out how I can add a bit of honey to it. Contrary to people’s assumptions, I don’t like women who cling to me or agree with everything I say. I get enough of that from the people on my payroll. A little sass is better. “I thought the movers brought everything over.”

  “I needed to buy a bottle yesterday, but I forgot in the”—she rolls her wrist—“excitement.”

  “You should’ve asked Sue.” Sue Grotts is the chief housekeeper. “That’s what she’s for.”

  Paige clears her throat. “I’ll make a note of it.”

  “So…anything interesting?” I indicate all the new mail on her desk.

  “No. Most of these aren’t for you.”

  Huh. She hasn’t had time to start forwarding her mail. I get up and snatch a letter off the pile.

  You bitch! You ruined everything. How dare you. You aren’t even that hot, you fat cow!

  I stare at the neat typing. I don’t know the font name or anything like that, but I recognize the professional look. It’s the kind that people use for their résumés. Predictably, the perp didn’t sign her name.

  Paige reaches over and takes it from my hand. “I told you, they aren’t for you. I’m taking care of them.”

  “Jesus. What the hell is this? How many of these things did you get?”

  “A few. They were in boxes, left at the gates.”

  My chest feels tight and hot. I tug at the neckline of my shirt. “Want to find out who did it and sue the hell out of them?”

  “Why?”

  “To make an example.”

  “Forget it.” She waves my offer away. “It’ll die down soon enough. I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  She peers at me over her glasses. “Haven’t you heard of the Streisand Effect?”

  “Uh…vaguely.”

  “Publicizing something like this would only encourage people who’re thinking about doing it but haven’t done it yet. And some would do it just to copycat.” She shrugs. “I’ve been dealing with crazy mail on your behalf for years. I can handle it.”

  I don’t like this. Paige was going to become a target of the media; that was inevitable. I knew it, and I planned ways to mitigate their tactics. But this is something entirely new and unexpected. My fans sending hate mail to her?

  The original Brother Grimm’s version of Cinderella runs through my mind. I read it to prepare for the Cinderella retelling I starred in. The stepsisters cut off parts of their feet to fit into the slipper because that’s just how desperate they were.

  Of course they failed. Prince Charming wasn’t going to be fooled by that kind of trickery. Cinderella’s doves plucked out the sisters’ eyeballs at the wedding as punishment. Frankly, I prefer that ending to the saccharine one in the script…but the director disagreed.

  “Fucking stepsisters,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What?” Paige says.

  “Nothing. Just file them somewhere and let’s go. We have a meeting.”

  “We do?” She checks the schedule. “You have nothing for the day except an hour of kickboxing later.”

  “That was before. We need to see a lawyer about our prenup.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paige

  Our prenup.

  It seems to make the marriage even more real. I knew this was coming. A man like Ryder doesn’t marry without one, even if his intended is an heiress with billions in her bank account.

  And I have nothing. So it’s only prudent that he protect himself.

  My skin prickles during the elevator ride to the lawyer’s office. The heat in Ryder’s eyes earlier in the morning threw me off, and I felt desire unfurl inside me. I had to pretend to drink tea to buy some time to compose myself.

  But all that work gets undone as Ryder stands close, his scent alluring. I want to pretend this is nothing, that I feel nothing.

  I clench my thighs together.

  My phone buzzes again, and I take a look. It’s Shaun’s twentieth attempt at trying to talk to me. He’s sent me hundreds of texts, all basically saying the same thing—call me. I make a mental note to look up how to have his number blocked; I don’t need the aggravation of a persistent ex. Our relationship’s over, just like he wanted.

>   The elevator doors open with a soft ping, and we step out into the reception area. It’s discreet, but also warm and welcoming with soft green and earth-tone colors.

  I try to put a few feet of distance between us, but Ryder is having none of it. He comes over and slips an arm around my waist like a besotted fiancé. He feels amazing next to me, and it’s horrible—like torturing myself with a chocolate covered strawberry I can’t eat.

  A short brunette in her late thirties rises from the receptionist seat, her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Reed?”

  “You can call me Ryder,” he says with a wink. “Is Samantha ready?”

  “Of course.” Her gaze is glued to him, and I’m tempted to offer to wipe the drool on her chin. “This way.”

  Samantha Jones is a killer attorney who handles divorces for a lot of high-powered, high net-worth individuals. The conference room is large; an oak table dominates in the center, surrounded by comfy-looking wheeled chairs with armrests. Sets of law books fill the built-in shelves, and a few objets d’art liven up the recessed nooks.

  Samantha comes in, her manicured hand clutching an accordion folder. She’s almost six feet tall in her black heels. You wouldn’t know that she’s in her late forties unless you read her bio. Her dirty blond shoulder-length hair is artfully tossed into a trendy “just rolled out of the bed” look. She’s monochromatic in a white top and a black skinny skirt. Lean muscles in her tanned legs flex as she walks toward us to shake hands.

  Her wide-set brown eyes betray nothing as she smiles at us. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Ryder says with an easy grin.

  I give her a platitude through a dry throat.

  “Anything to drink?” she says.

  “I’m good with mineral water.” Ryder glances at me.

  “Fine.”

  “Great!” She pours water into our glasses and sits down, then pushes two copies of the prenup our way. “It’s pretty standard, nothing out of the ordinary. Each of you keep what you bring to the marriage when you separate, so we’ll have to make sure to disclose all our assets. Anything you acquire jointly after the marriage will be split fifty-fifty provided that the marriage lasts at least twelve full months. Any questions?” she asks, looking at me.