A Hollywood Deal (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience #1) Page 8

  “Was he abusive? Beat you?” If he hurt Paige, I’m going to smack myself in the face for not noticing before and then beat the shit out of the moron. For once I wish I studied martial arts like my cousin Iain. Maybe he can give me some poin—

  “No, no. Nothing like that. But he isn’t the type of person who’s going to consider what’s best for the child. You understand? He’s more interested in himself.”

  “I know the type. Got a father just like that.” I’ll be damned if Paige’s child is going to get stuck with an asshole dad. “Okay. That isn’t a problem.”

  “Thank you. And—”

  “I’ll set up a trust for the kid.”

  Her mouth parts. “Ryder…”

  “If I’m going to claim it as mine, I might as well do the right thing. My uncle gave each of his children fifty million bucks when they turned eighteen. Or was it twenty-one?”

  “No!” Shock widens her eyes, and she looks outright horrified. “It’s too much. I won’t accept it.”

  I smile. Does she have any idea how refreshing this is? There isn’t even a bit of greed in her, and that makes me want to give her more than she asks for. “All right then. Let’s compromise at twenty-five.”

  “Ryder!” Then she narrows her eyes and leans back in her seat. “You’re messing with me.”

  “A little. But seriously, I do want to set up something for your child, Paige. You’re giving me an amazing gift, and I don’t want to repay it with nothing.”

  “It isn’t nothing.”

  I wave her objections away.

  She clasps her hands together. “Also, there’s, um, one more thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “I want to keep our relationship…you know, the marriage…professional.”

  That gives me pause. “Define ‘professional marriage.’”

  She flushes. “We both know we aren’t marrying for love or anything like that. So there’s no reason for us to do the things that couples who marry for real do.”

  “Like what?”

  “The ceremony. Honeymoon.” She pulls her lips in, pressing them tightly together. “Sex.”

  “A year without sex, hmmm…” I tap my lower lip. It’s fun to tease her and watch the flush deepen on her cheeks and neck, but it’s partly to hide my own reaction to the idea of sex with Paige. My dick is instantly stiff with the image of her lush body bare and quivering with need…even though I know intellectually that she really deserves the kind of guy who can give her a fairy tale ending, not me.

  “You don’t have to be celibate. Just discreet.” She looks away. “I won’t mind.”

  Just like that, my fantasy shatters, the fire in my veins snuffed out. Now a different kind of fire courses through me. “I’m not going to cheat on you, discreetly or otherwise. And there will be a grand ceremony, the kind that will make every other woman in the world weep with envy. And we will have a honeymoon.”

  “Ryder—”

  I raise a hand. My mouth runs on auto-pilot. “I get it. No sex. That’s fine. I’m not the kind of guy who has to force himself on an unwilling woman. But I’m also not the kind of guy who thinks it’s okay to humiliate his wife with other women.”

  “But it’s only for a year. It isn’t even real.”

  “That’s precisely why what you’re saying is insulting. You’re assuming I can’t keep my dick in my pants for a year around other women. Why not?”

  But even as I say it, I know why not. In addition to my own behavior, the history of the men in my family doesn’t exactly inspire matrimonial trust. My father simply cannot stay faithful, but he also can’t stay married to a woman he isn’t sleeping with anymore, so he keeps divorcing. My uncle’s reputation is just as bad. His seductions are the stuff of legend, but he never divorced his wife despite a prenup that protected him…although his wife finally got fed up and decided to get rid of him earlier this year.

  Paige says nothing. And that’s good, because I’m too pissed off. I hate it that she thinks so little of me even though I’ve earned the rep. I’m the player with a Facebook group full of women who want to talk about sleeping with me. I’m the guy who’s so bad that the media dubbed all the women he slept with “humped and dumped.”

  But it still infuriates me that I’m such a low-level douchebag in her eyes.

  “This marriage is going to look so fucking real, it’s going to come as a shock when we separate a year from now,” I say, standing up. I’m uncomfortable enough that this conversation is going to be over as soon as I say my piece. “I’m great at playing a role, and ‘besotted husband’ is going to be a piece of cake.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Paige

  After our disastrous conversation yesterday, Ryder disappears again, so I don’t get a chance to talk to him. It bothers me, but there isn’t much I can do about it.

  I wish I’d never said anything about sex or him being free to do what he wants. I didn’t say it to upset him. But I also don’t want him to feel like he’s giving something up, and being celibate for a year is pretty serious for a man as physical as Ryder Reed…even if having sex doesn’t really hold any emotional meaning for him.

  But it does for me. And I don’t want to end up having some uncontrollable attachment to him after our year is up.

  I stare out the office window at the pool. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of the whole thing than it really is. Being overly sensitive about what happened yesterday. I mean, other than the painting, when was the last time Ryder let anything bother him?

  In his mind, I probably don’t merit a second thought. The notion is oddly comforting, but at the same time sends a painful pang through my heart.

  Renni’s text interrupts my brooding. She wants to start planning Bethany’s baby shower. It’s way early, but she’s probably too excited to care.

  We should wait until she’s showing. Otherwise it might not feel as real, I respond, fighting a small smile. Besides I want to know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl before I go shopping.

  My phone pings again. I pick it up to see what Renni has to say, but my smile slips when I see the text. It’s from Ryder.

  A car’s coming to pick you up at four.

  I check the schedule. Ryder has a meeting with his financial advisor at four thirty.

  I text him back. Taking me to OWM?

  OWM stands for Omega Wealth Management. The founder, Gavin Lloyd, is a financial genius. It was Ryder’s investment with the firm that doubled and tripled his money.

  No. I canceled that meeting. Cleared everything for the whole week.

  My fingers fly on the smooth glassy screen. What? You can’t do that!

  Sure I can. My schedule, my time.

  Where are you?

  Shopping.

  I dial him.

  “Hello, babe,” he says, his voice cheerful.

  Obviously, I’m right about him not being bothered about the way our conversation ended yesterday. So I decide not to let it bother me. “Ryder! You can’t just skip meetings so you can go shopping!”

  “Don’t be a nanny.”

  “But you have a personal shopper for that.”

  “I don’t think Josephine can do this for me.”

  “For the kind of money you pay her, she totally can.” Josephine Martinez is not cheap. Her rates used to be somewhat reasonable, but then her business exploded a couple of years ago, and now she has a waiting list.

  Ryder laughs. “Why are you so upset? It’s no big deal. All work and no play makes Ryder a dull boy.”

  “That doesn’t mean that you can just skip—“

  “Look, the meetings are no big deal. Mira doesn’t mind rescheduling, and neither does my guy at OWM. What’s his name again?”

  “Pete Monroe,” I answer automatically.

  “Yeah. He was happy to accommodate. And so are other people.”

  My phone beeps with another call. I check the caller ID. “I have Josephine on the line.”

  “Excellent. Talk
to her.”

  “About what?”

  “Catch you later, doll. Bye.” He hangs up.

  I cringe. Josephine selects a few items each season and sends them to Ryder. Sometimes she comes up with an entire wardrobe. Every designer who wants Ryder to wear their stuff goes through her since he doesn’t bother with details like that. She rarely calls me, and when she does, it’s to discuss something that Ryder already gave me instructions about. This time, I have no idea.

  “Hello, Paige,” she says, her voice brisk but not cold. “I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch break.” Unlike some people who are perfunctory, she genuinely is considerate.

  “Not at all. I already ate.” Translation: I was starving and couldn’t wait until noon.

  “What’re your height, bust, waist and hip measurements?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “And shoe size.” She pauses for a moment. “And any allergies to metal?”

  “Uh, no, none. Why do you need my measurements?”

  She clucks her tongue. “Why would a personal shopper and fashion consultant need your measurements? What could it be, what could it be? Come on now, I don’t have all day.”

  Rattled, I give her the numbers she wants. She makes non-committal noises.

  “Any colors you prefer, or don’t prefer?”

  “Um. Not really.”

  “Great. I’ll just choose then. You haven’t tanned or changed your hair color since I saw you last month, have you?”

  “No. But wh—”

  “Good.” She hangs up.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope Ryder isn’t buying me a new wardrobe. I already have decent clothes, collected over the years from clearance racks and eBay. Nothing in my closet comes close to the stuff that people in his social circle wear, but there’s nothing unacceptable. Certainly nobody’s complained about what I wear lately…not even Mira, who did criticize my outfit on my first day of work because she deemed my white cotton button-down shirt and khaki-colored skirt cheap and unbecoming.

  At two thirty, four glossy black boxes with golden edges arrive in my office. They have no brand name or logo. A note written on a heavy ivory card is on the top of the pile, stuck to it with a diamond-tipped pin.

  Wear the one that looks best on you. If you can’t decide, call me and I’ll decide.

  –JM

  I open them and gape at the jewel-toned clothing inside. Any one of the pieces has more silk, chiffon, satin and lace than my entire closet. My gaze falls on a deep garnet-colored dress and a sapphire blue vision in silk. The first has a V-neck and cute string straps and a flirty mid-thigh skirt. Priceless European lace wraps around the fitted bodice, creating an interesting contrast and texture. The blue one’s simpler, just the silk, but I like the off-the-shoulder look and the asymmetrical design that somehow makes it über-sophisticated.

  They both come with matching shoes—classic strappy stiletto sandals with three-inch heels—and two sets of accessories complete with necklaces and chandelier earrings.

  I lay both of them over the back of the couch in my office and move back, resting my hip on the edge of my desk. Was this Mira’s doing? She mentioned turning the whole farce into some kind of Cinderella publicity coup. If so, she might’ve decided to cast herself as the Fairy Godmother.

  Pushing myself off the desk, I pick up the blue dress. The simplicity calls out to me, but beyond that the color is soothing. My nerves seem more frayed than usual, and I need a bit of calm.

  I change, touch up my makeup and brush my hair until it’s shiny and tumbles down one shoulder in smooth waves. Ryder’s clearly planning something, and I don’t want to do anything that might end up being embarrassing.

  I run clammy hands over the back of my chair. No need to worry. This is just us giving everyone a good show, to convince Julian that Ryder’s married for real, so he’ll have no choice but to hand over Thomas Reed’s painting.

  But looking at the “props”, I can’t help but think that I’m in way over my head.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ryder

  The way our conversation ended yesterday morning still chaps my ass. The idea that Paige thinks that I’m so shallow and fickle really bugs me. On the other hand, she does know all my habits…and vices. She was just making a logical assumption based on her observations, and I shouldn’t take it personally.

  After all, I do want people to think of me as a carefree playboy who can’t be satisfied with one woman. That way no woman is going to think she can reform me, or make me fall in love with her, or any of that happy horseshit. And I like it that way. The girls don’t get hurt, and it gives me my freedom because nobody can get close enough to draw blood.

  Once was enough.

  I time everything so that dinner will be ready just as the shiny stretch limo pulls in to my Malibu place. I could’ve chosen a restaurant, but I really wanted something more private than that…although not so private that the news of our engagement doesn’t leak.

  Two stories high, the structure has everything you could possibly want—all the modern amenities, including a massive climate-controlled wine cellar, an integrated audio system and a rooftop infinity pool—and most importantly the view. The walls fronting the ocean are all glass; they and the ridiculously large terrace have an unobstructed view of the Pacific, and the place is as private as it can be for the location.

  The limo driver texts me—Five minutes. I check everything in the kitchen once more then go out to wait for her. On the other side of the street is a once-respectable Honda with mud spattered plates. It’s been there ever since I arrived, and I can see shadows on the other side of the dark, tinted windows. I roll my eyes. The paparazzi shouldn’t have bothered.

  Within a minute the limo pulls up, and the driver steps out to open the door for Paige. When she emerges my chest tightens.

  She is seriously stunning in that blue number. I wanted Josephine to send me pictures of the clothes she selected, but she refused, saying I needed to wait to see what Paige chose.

  Well, the wait was worth it. Blue silk flows over her generous curves. One bare shoulder is practically begging to have a trail of hot kisses left along the collarbone. The breeze from the ocean teases her hair, blowing it around her head like a silken cloud. When she turns to thank the driver, I see the low back. There’s no way she’s wearing a bra underneath that dress, and the knowledge pulls all my blood downward.

  She climbs the steps to the top where I’m standing. Her eyes shine as she looks up at me. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself,” I say with a smile.

  “So. Malibu, huh? I thought this place was a myth.”

  “A myth?”

  I guide her across the front portico, putting a hand to the small of her back. She is unexpectedly soft under my palm, and her scent wraps around me. It has to be some kind of perfume because it’s too enticing to be natural. Not to mention it’s too complex, with layers and layers of different aromas. I could stand next to her and inhale all day long.

  Which is completely not the role this situation calls for.

  I unlock the door to the house and re-enter the security code.

  “I’ve heard people talking about it,” she explains. “I know you pay property taxes, but I’ve never seen you do anything here.”

  We go inside together.

  The ground level is completely open, no walls anywhere. Combined with a thirty foot-high ceiling, the place looks palatial. I don’t allow any paintings to be hung in there because of the direct sunlight. Instead, I have a few glass sculptures I commissioned, with one of the walls being a giant TV screen.

  Paige turns to me. “It’s gorgeous. When did you buy it?”

  “A few years back. It was a gift to myself to celebrate the first movie I starred in.”

  “I remember that one. Hit. The title totally fit the success of the film.”

  I shrug although my chest fills with an absurd pleasure. Millions of people follow my career. Given that she’
s my assistant, it’s only natural that Paige keeps track, even though Hit came out before she started working for me. Why does it matter that she instantly knew exactly which one?

  But somehow it does.

  “How come you never use this place?” Paige asks.

  “Eh. Too far out,” I lie.

  It’s too open, too vulnerable.

  I spotted several paparazzi out on the beach earlier. They’re keeping a low profile to ensure I don’t call the cops on them. It’s actually kind of funny; this is the one time I actually want them around.

  Paige sniffs. “Whatever you have cooking smells incredible.” She looks around. “Did you get a chef out here?”

  “Nope. Did it myself.”

  Her eyes widen. “No way. I’ve never seen you cook. And you have a chef at home.”

  “Usually just too busy.”

  I go to the kitchen and pull the pizza out of the special wood oven. It’s a pain in the butt compared to the gas variety, but the end result is worth it. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” she says, then flushes. “I keep craving more food.”

  “Makes sense. You’re pregnant.” I pour her a glass of ginger ale. I noticed she was sipping it all through our trip to and from Virginia.

  “Thank you.”

  “We can sit out on the patio, put our feet up and eat. Kind of nice to watch the waves.”

  The scene is already set: a pair of padded white chairs with separate ottomans. A single calla lily lies on the table between us, and I place the pizza there along with our drinks. In deference to her condition, I forego wine and have a Coke instead.

  I serve her first. She studies the toppings. “What are they?”

  “Grilled chicken and mushrooms cooked in dry white wine and truffles.”

  “Fancy for a pizza.”

  “Ah, but oh so tasty,” I say. “Try it.”

  She takes a small bite then moans softly. A hot streak of need spreads through me at the sound. But underneath is a simpler, baser satisfaction and warmth—it feels surprisingly right to provide for her.