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

  It’s been seven days since the hotel. Seven glorious, incident-free days.

  I even got the whole weekend off because Ryder was away at the wedding, and he insisted that he didn’t want me coming with him. He promised he would attend and do all the right things.

  I’ve never seen him break a promise, so I stayed home. Read some books and relaxed. Pampered myself a little. I figured I deserved it after finding out that I’m pregnant, getting dumped by Shaun and being dunked in a hot tub full of skanks.

  And the days following the weekend pass in relative peace. Now why can’t we do this all the time?

  On Friday, I drive up the road that winds through what seems like miles of lush flower gardens. A giant pool appears to my left, the water sparkling like liquid jewels. I park my six year-old Altima and get out. Even after four years, I still can’t get over how grand Ryder’s Beverly Hills mansion is.

  The main house is three stories tall, with thick columns between the doors. I go inside without ringing. I am one of a very very few people who can do that at Ryder’s place.

  The interior matches the splendor outside. The floor is real marble; huge and glittering chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling. The walls have numerous paintings, but not a single photo of Ryder or poster from one of his movies.

  For such a handsome man, he doesn’t like to look at himself much.

  After grabbing a cup of ginger ale from the state of the art kitchen, I head toward my office on the second level, climbing the winding staircase. It’s exactly like the one from Tara in Gone with the Wind.

  I stop at the sight of the seven special, climate-controlled cases mounted on the wall. The big one in the center is empty, but the other six contain charcoal sketches of Ryder…a Ryder, however, who I’ve never seen in real life. The drawings span the time from when he was a newborn to his mid-teen years. My gaze lingers on one. It is of Ryder when he was just a toddler. Despite the rough lines, joy beams from his wide eyes as he gazes back at me.

  The housekeeper always dusts the cases daily—Ryder’s explicit instructions. I once asked him why the center case was empty. He said it was reserved for his grandfather’s painting. He was…reverent when he ran his hand over the glass, and there was a palpable longing in the way he gazed at the empty spot. Judging from the sketches, his grandfather’s painting must be something very special. I’ve never seen Ryder react like that to any other artwork—and he has a very large collection.

  My office is nice, with plenty of shelf space, cabinets and a great view of a sparkling blue pool and flower garden that cost five figures a month to maintain. The place feels like a slice of southern California heaven…so long as I don’t look too far beyond the pool and see the concrete gray walls with barbed wire and security cameras along the top.

  Ryder doesn’t have a mansion. He has a compound.

  A big box covered with red heart stickers waits for me on my antique Louis XIV desk. It has YOUR GREATEST FAN in all caps…like that would make Ryder notice. Despite the lack of return address, I immediately know who sent it. This one comes from a particular loony-tunes I’ve dubbed Loopy because of her overly rounded handwriting.

  I place my cup of ginger ale—it calms my nausea—on my desk and fish for the box cutter in the upper drawer. The furniture is ridiculously ostentatious for an assistant, but it’s part of Ryder’s home, so that’s that. Interior decoration isn’t my responsibility or prerogative, and if Ryder wants me to use a pricey antique desk, so be it. At least it comes paired with an incredibly comfortable ergonomic chair.

  I run the box cutter along the clear packing tape. Inside is a white card.

  “Loopy, Loopy, you really need to stop.”

  I pull out a card with fat, childish handwriting. The overzealous woman never signs her name. And she always sends food at least once a week. The card reads, The expressway to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

  Pure delusion.

  There’s no expressway to Ryder’s heart. There are roadblocks all over. Countless women are currently stuck, mired in the traffic jam. They’ll all die before they get anywhere near his stomach, much less his heart.

  On the other side of the card it says, Don’t forget I am your soul mate, the Cinderella you’ve been looking for all your life.

  I shake my head. She never used to say that until Ryder starred in a blockbuster retelling of Cinderella. He played Prince Charming—naturally—and rumor has it that the ushers were scooping melted women off the floor after each viewing.

  I look inside the package.

  A red, heart-shaped tin of homemade chocolate truffles sits in the center, just waiting to be devoured by the object of Loopy’s loopy desire. What a waste. Nobody touches food items delivered to Ryder. Everything is restuffed into the boxes for storage. Ever since a psycho fan tried to run him over in her Jeep—screaming, “If I can’t have you, nobody can!”—Ryder has everything from his fans tagged and shelved in storage as evidence.

  Just in case the police need them. It turned out that the psycho in the Jeep had sent him over two hundred letters in five months’ period.

  I dump the box on the floor behind my chair, making a mental note to put it away later. Then I see another piece of mail—a big manila envelope. Thankfully this one doesn’t come with heart stickers. Just the logo and address of one of the most expensive and exclusive hotels in the state.

  What is this about? It’s not the place I went to drag Ryder out of the hot tub, and hotels this exclusive do not send junk mail. No, they stick to the old way of doing things—like having humans hand-deliver messages that could’ve just been emailed instead.

  I work a letter opener under the flap. A letter and a three-page-long invoice along with colored photos spill out.

  I snatch the letter and start reading, toying with the apple-shaped silver pendant around my neck that I never take off. The general manager has addressed it to me directly. I would’ve been impressed if it were his first time. That one, he addressed to “To Whom It May Concern.”

  Dear Ms. Paige Johnson, the letter begins. That is the only nice part. The rest is a litany of complaints about the woman Ryder screwed and left behind in the hotel’s presidential suite. I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that the general manager used such polite yet pointed language.

  The H&D women can be forces of destruction, fueled by spite and a sense of betrayal. The former is completely understandable, but the latter? I don’t get it.

  Ryder never promises anyone anything. When he takes you into his suite, it’s for a night of good fucking. You can’t even call it sex, if what the media reports is even ten percent accurate.

  I toss the letter on the desk and pick up the invoice. Then wince. The bill lists over twenty thousand dollars’ worth of damage to the suite.

  Twenty thousand dollars? Did Ryder pick up a feral cat?

  I scan the enclosed photos.

  The minibar is cleaned out. Broken glass everywhere. Numerous green and brown stains of dubious origin cover the pale ivory carpet. The woman also left a message on one of the walls with what looks like bright red lipstick.

  F U! assole

  I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s either that or cry, and I’d rather not waste any tears on a person who can’t even spell “asshole.” I’ve already shed plenty over my worthless ex, Shaun.

  I take a few deep breaths. How did I get on Shaun? I’m better off without him. He only wanted me for my connection to Ryder. I’m not going to let him know about the baby either since he would only use it against me to get me to help his “career transition” into acting.

  Can’t you see how you helping me can benefit both of us? I’ll be a star, and you can be a star’s girlfriend. And you’ll have all the time in the world to diet and exercise. You’ll be smokin’ hot, like you always wanted.

  Like I always wanted. Right. Not a word about love, commitment or respect. Just his stardom, his career, and how I’d be so thrilled to be his arm candy.

&nb
sp; A man like that won’t stick around long anyway. I’m not trophy girlfriend material. My dress size is a double digit, I like food and I’ve come to accept that I’ll never be size zero. In addition, I’d be homicidally bored if all that was on my daily agenda was looking pretty for my successful boyfriend who’s out there doing something. I want to do something too, and mean something to someone. And I won’t lose weight to please anyone, especially not some shallow jerk like Shaun. If I ever decide to do it, it’ll be for me.

  My hand covers my belly. Five weeks. My doctor said I probably won’t show for the first few months since it’s my first pregnancy, despite all the internal changes. My hormones will fluctuate, nausea may come and I’ll start to have odd cravings.

  The baby is an accident, but I want it. I’ve always wanted a family of my own.

  At the same time, every time I think about motherhood, terror clenches around my heart. What do I know about being a parent? I have a little over two thousand dollars in savings and twenty-five thousand in college loans. I can’t afford to rent a place of my own, but how many roommates are okay with living with a newborn baby?

  And that assumes that I’ll be able to keep working. Most jobs require being sharp and presentable and on top of things. Most importantly, I have to show up. What if the baby’s sick and I miss one too many days? Or I show up bleary-eyed or my clothes have stains? Who’s going to take care of my child the next time I get a call from a hotel or club or wherever at one a.m.?

  Even if Ryder doesn’t fire me, his agent will. Mira demands nothing but perfection from everyone who works for him.

  Then there are my parents to consider. Mom will be crushed to hear that I’m gonna be a single mother, and my stepdad, Simon, will be disappointed as well. The idea weighs down on me like a giant boulder. Of all the people in the world, they’re the last ones I want to let down.

  Don’t be negative! Things will work out.

  Or not.

  I know the price children pay when their parents are financially strapped. Mom was like that—too poor to be choosy about anything, including the men we lived with. But it was that or homelessness, and she was determined to provide at least a roof over my head even as she juggled bills, often throwing them away when she thought I wasn’t looking so she could pretend that we weren’t in danger of having our utilities cut.

  There were whispers about us, none of them kind. It wasn’t until we moved to Sweet Hope that she met Simon. And that’s when we finally had some normalcy, the kind of thing that most people take for granted, but was unfamiliar to me. A year later they were married, and I had a family with two parents and a stepsister.

  It changed everything for me.

  “Good morning.”

  The cheery greeting pulls me away from my gloomy thoughts. In front of me stands Ryder.

  He’s in a deep blue shirt that brings out his eyes, framed by long lashes that look like he’s put on a coat of mascara—except he hasn’t—and a pair of denim shorts that hugs the narrow hips and tight, round ass that has women drooling all over the world.

  At the moment he’s grinning at me, a dimple popping on his cheek. It is one of numerous features that women swoon over. Some have even posted YouTube videos of them licking it—not the real dimple but off magazine covers.

  I run my index finger along the slightly convex surface of my pendant as honeyed warmth travels over my skin.

  “What you looking at, babe?”

  “The evidence of your latest H&D’s intellect,” I say.

  He leans closer to the picture I’m holding. “She send something?”

  “No. The hotel did.” I push it toward him, making sure we don’t touch. “You should’ve been pickier.”

  And he should be. He can get any woman he wants! Why settle for dumb and dumber?

  He glances at the photo, then starts laughing. “I’ve never met anyone who couldn’t spell asshole.”

  “Actually, you have.” My voice is dryer than a box of sandpaper. “In fact, you slept with someone who can’t spell asshole.”

  He tosses the stiff sheet on my desk and takes a seat in the plushy armchair across from me. One ankle rests on the opposite knee. “So what? It was just sex, not a spelling bee. I don’t even remember most of it.”

  The date on the invoice catches my attention. It has to be a mistake because it is the day of his cousin’s rehearsal dinner. A typo. Or…

  “You did go to the rehearsal dinner, right?”

  “You saw the pictures of me at the wedding.”

  An evasive answer. So easy to recognize, especially after four years. “Dinner. The dinner. There were no paparazzi at the dinner. Tell me you went.”

  “Yeah, sure. But I might have been a little late.” He shrugs.

  Riiiiiiiight. “How late?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t wearing my watch.”

  “Did you eat even one course there?”

  “Well, I would’ve…if it hadn’t ended early.”

  I sigh, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands. Ryder is a generous boss. He pays well and often gives big bonuses to his staff.

  But he is also impossible.

  I usually need to accompany him to places since he doesn’t always keep his appointments unless they’re work-related, and he doesn’t pick up his phone. He also does everything in his power to avoid his family, especially his parents. He often “humps and dumps” women, who leave incredible messes behind. Trashing hotel suites is the least of what they do. They also join the Facebook support group—yes, there’s actually a Facebook freakin’ support group—to complain and commiserate and post YouTube videos describing what they did with Ryder in graphic detail.

  One of them even uploaded a sex tape, which thankfully turned out to be of someone other than Ryder. But the incident required tons of extra work by not just me, but Mira and a team of publicists. Unlike me, she was mainly interested in capitalizing on the moment and twisting it into an opportunity to raise Ryder’s “hot factor”.

  “When a woman has sex, she’s a slut. When a man has sex, he’s a stud.” Mira didn’t even look perturbed when she told me that. “It’s unfair, but that’s life. I’m not going to let this shit mess up all the good we’ve done for Ryder.”

  It was so sexist, it still makes my teeth hurt.

  And Ryder always comes out of everything smelling like roses.

  Still, this job is what pays the bills, and I know he’s paying me a lot better than the going rate. Plus he covers all my medical and dental, and I’m going to need that more than ever.

  “Don’t pout, babe,” Ryder says. “What’s done is done.”

  “Is this why you asked me not to accompany you to the wedding?” I wouldn’t have attended the ceremony, but I would’ve gone to make sure every detail was taken care of to his satisfaction. Stuff like that is part of my job. “You said you’d be good.”

  “I was. I went to the wedding like I promised and danced with the bride. Told everyone how awesome it was, how much I enjoyed myself. I even made a toast. Call Mark. Ask him.”

  Mark is Ryder’s cousin and the groom.

  My teeth were still grinding. “You missed the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Hey, I apologized to Mark. And maybe to the bride, too.” He squints and snaps his fingers a couple of times. “Valerie? Mallory? Hilary! Anyway, I can’t remember, but she probably doesn’t care since she got to dance with me.” He waves a negligent hand at the bill on my desk. “That’s pocket change. Don’t worry about it. It’s all cool.”

  “Yes, except for your mother who’s undoubtedly upset. I told her you’d be there, including the rehearsal dinner.”

  “She seemed okay to me.”

  “So you did talk to her?” That would be something, at least.

  “Ah, I tried, but it was a big ceremony. Lots of guests. You know how those things can be.”

  A tiny, bean-sized knot in my forehead starts to throb.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “Sh
e’ll pout for a week and then get over it. We can send her something nice for her birthday. Or Christmas. Whichever you like.”

  His mother knows I pick out the gifts, not Ryder. She will be angry no matter what I send her. If it’s small and thoughtful, she’ll call it stingy. If it’s extravagant, she’ll accuse me of being presumptuous and wasteful, even though money is never an issue in Ryder’s family since everyone’s drowning in the stuff.

  My cellphone rings. I glance at the ID—Geraldine Pryce.

  Speak of the devil…

  Normally I would let it go to voicemail, but I’m peeved, so I answer it before Ryder realizes who’s calling.

  “Good morning, Ms. Pryce,” I say, my voice extra sweet and professional.

  Ryder’s face crumples like a wadded piece of paper.

  “Good morning, Paige.” Ryder’s mother’s voice is always cool with a hint of stickiness that isn’t easy to describe. Kind of like half-melted sugarless, fat-free ice cream.

  Divorced, Geraldine Pryce refuses to be referred to as “missus.” She doesn’t want me calling her by her first name, either. I’ve never met the woman in person, but I’ve heard stories. She has to be the long lost sister of Miss Manners. If that’s too far-fetched, maybe a cousin, but nothing less.

  “Is Ryder available in the next two weeks?”

  “The next two weeks?” I purr. “Let me check.” I pull up his calendar.

  Across from me, he is shaking his head and hands frantically. I pretend not to see him and keep scrolling through the schedule. He leans forward, mouths “no” and makes slashing motions right in front of my eyes.

  I take pity on him. After all, he did give me a chance when nobody else would. Back then I was just a girl fresh out of college with no experience or connections in Hollywood.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s unavailable,” I say. “Is this something urgent? If so, I can see what I can do.”

  “Urgent? I suppose that depends on one’s point of view. I simply thought the family should have dinner, seeing as how he missed the one at his cousin’s wedding.” Geraldine’s tone says she’s too well-bred to make accusations, but she knows where the fault lies—me.