A Hollywood Deal (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience #1) Page 9

  “Told you,” I say, not wanting to dwell on the squirmy emotion for too long. I start on a piece. All I had was a roast beef sandwich for lunch, and I’m starving.

  “Why aren’t you in the restaurant business like your cousin Mark?” she asks.

  “Because I’m not interested in it.” I grin at her surprised face. “Funny, isn’t it? Mark’s a successful restaurateur but can’t cook for shit, and I have zero interest in restaurants even though I’m freakin’ awesome.”

  She shakes her head. “I want to complain about your ego, but…not while I’m eating this.” She takes another bite and closes her eyes, savoring it. “This is seriously gourmet. I doubt this was your first time making it.” She peers at me. “Or was it?”

  “Nah, I’ve made it before. Do it from scratch each time.”

  “When do you have the time? You’re always so busy.”

  “At night, mostly, when I can’t fall asleep. I go to the kitchen and make pizza or pasta.”

  “You make pasta from scratch too?”

  I laugh. “I don’t make the noodles. And sometimes, you know, I just bake cookies if I’m feeling lazy. Then eat ‘em while I watch a movie.”

  “Cookies, huh?” She looks at me, her eyes soft. “Comfort food?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I crave them from time to time too, except I never make them myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re Mom’s cookies. If I made them, they wouldn’t be the same.” A faraway look enters her eyes for a moment, then clears. “I can’t see Geraldine baking. So I can see you making your own.”

  She’s right. Mom’s never cooked. I don’t think she knows how to boil water, really. If there’s ever an apocalypse, she’ll be the first one dead from sheer inability to take care of her most basic needs.

  I bite into my pizza and take a moment to collect myself. “Grandpa used to cook for us when we spent summers with him. So.” I shrug. Grandpa taught me because I hung out in the kitchen, wanting to spend every second with him. As I became better, he shared more of his recipes with me, and I loved that I had that part of him all to myself. I was like a puppy back then, starved for affection. “I like cooking,” I say. “It’s methodical and simple. I have to follow a recipe, but it’s not always set in stone. I can experiment a little, too.”

  She takes another big slice and looks out over the ocean. “I’m glad you brought me here.”

  “Where did you think the car was taking you?”

  “I don’t know. Éternité?”

  Éternité’s one of Mark’s restaurants, and it’s so saccharine romantic, it’s painful. He dedicated it to his fiancée Hilary. “Have you ever been there?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No…but I like this better. It’s relaxing. Just you and me. I know we’re putting on a show, but I feel like it isn’t like that when we’re out here.” Sudden flush heats her face. “Not, you know, that I’m forgetting the reason that we’re doing it or anything.”

  I smile. “Don’t worry.”

  I don’t speak much afterward. It gives me an odd ache in my heart to know I’m playing a role, and I don’t even know why. I play parts all the time. Why so morose about this one?

  It might be because I’m starting to realize I may want more from my life than just one role after another. It’s my damn cousins’ fault. I go out of the country for a while on a project, and when I come back every one of them—except Dane, who’s too cold for anybody to want to marry—is settling down. Even Vanessa’s married…and already pregnant! And the thing is, they look happy. Content. The whole lot of ‘em. Mark looked like he was about to explode with joy at the wedding. Who would’ve thought? He wasn’t as bad a player as I am, but he was pretty bad. Never dated anybody for more than three months and was plenty satisfied with that lifestyle.

  I shake my head. It isn’t a good idea to think about stuff like that. I’ll never find anybody to share my life with, and I’m not cut out to be the kind of man women deserved for their happy endings. Things work out in movies because the ending’s scripted. In real life, shit gets messy.

  By the time we’re done with our pizza, the apple pie’s ready. When I bring it out with extra cold vanilla ice cream, Paige shakes her head. “You bake, too?”

  I laugh. “No. I mean, I can handle pizza dough, but not pies. I had to bribe Jane.”

  “Jane?”

  “My cousin Iain’s fiancée. She’s a personal chef.” And generally busy. But she’s friendly, down to earth and as sweet and soft as her signature apple pie. I asked her prettily, and she made one for me, instructing me to bake it for exactly an hour before serving, so that it’d taste fresh when we eat.

  Paige pats her belly. “I’m stuffed.”

  “You have to try at least one bite,” I say, giving her a slice. “It’s the best apple pie I’ve ever had.”

  Licking her lips, she eyes the piping hot dessert on her plate. “It does look good. Okay, just one bite.”

  She forks the smallest portion she can manage and puts it in her mouth along with a bit of vanilla ice cream. Her eyes flutter close, and I can’t help but smile as I take a big bite. The hot gooey apple chunks and perfect crust and cold ice cream blend together. It’s pure food orgasm.

  “Oh my god,” Paige says. “I feel like a traitor for saying this, but it’s even better than my sister Bethany’s. And she had the reputation for making the meanest apple pie in Sweet Hope.”

  “Just one bite…?” I tease.

  She shakes her head. “I never understood why the Romans spat food out so they could keep eating, but maybe they had something like Jane’s apple pie back then.”

  I laugh. And we destroy the pie together.

  Afterwards, she smiles. “Thank you. This is lovely.”

  “Made even lovelier by a beautiful companion.”

  I reach over and hold her hand. Her pulse throbs under my thumb. And the skin-to-skin touch sends a zing down my spine. Then suddenly I realize: in the four years she’s been working for me, we’ve never let our bare skin touch on purpose.

  Without letting go of her, I get up. This is it. The pivotal moment, the one that the paparazzi have been waiting for.

  Even though I know it’s necessary, it somehow feels wrong to do this for show. I don’t know where the hesitation’s coming from. She already agreed to the farce. There’s nothing unethical about it.

  Putting on an earnest and besotted expression, I get on one knee, the pose elegant and romantic, making sure my best side is toward the hidden photogs on the beach. I reach into my pocket and pull out a velvet box. “Paige, will you marry me?” I ask, opening the lid with one hand.

  Her mouth parts. The ring inside glitters under the lantern lights around the patio. Impeccably cut diamonds sparkle, while the band shimmers like a promise of heavenly love.

  It’s a Miyoko Hamada one-of-a-kind design. There is a huge princess-cut rock in the center and two smaller ones on each side. That part isn’t that interesting—tons of rings have the same basic layout. But the band is beautifully entwined in pale pink gold and platinum in a complex, fluid design. The detailing is unique and exquisite. If you look at it on edge one way it shows a string of hearts. The other way, it’s two linked hands.

  I bought it years ago and almost ended up giving it to someone who was about as real as a magic trick. Seems fitting that it should go now to a woman who’s never lied to me.

  Paige swallows, her hand tight around mine. “Ryder, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Is that a no?” I joke.

  “Of course, it’s a yes. You knew I’d say yes.” She takes the box, puts it on the table then turns to me. “Get me a simple solitaire and save this for the woman you really want to marry. It’s too special to waste on something like this.”

  Paige isn’t being coy, but sincere. It’s unbelievable she doesn’t think she deserves something special. Whether I ever find a woman I want to spend the rest of my life or not, P
aige is due every consideration from me.

  “It’s not a ‘waste.’ My fiancée deserves the very best.” I pull her hand closer, take the ring and put it on her finger. “So-called fashion critics are going to dissect the hardware. I don’t want you humiliated over something like this. When people look at this, they’ll know you’re loved.”

  I lean closer until the tips of our noses are almost touching. Her sweet scent is all around me.

  She looks down at the ring. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  My throat is tight, and my voice thickens. “Then thank me with a kiss.”

  Before she can react, I press my lips against hers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Paige

  A barrier inside me cracks. A small tremor starts in my chest.

  When I was growing up, there was a confectionary shop owned by a Japanese couple on the way to school. Everyone in Sweet Hope knew about the shop because Asians were unusual in town, and it had the most gorgeously decorated cupcakes and miniature cakes.

  I often stared at the displays on the other side of the clear glass wall and admired them as my mouth watered, imagining all the ways they would taste and smell. But I never went inside to buy one. I never had the money to blow on such pricey treats, especially when I was saving for college. So looking was all I did for several years.

  Then Simon bought one for me on my seventeenth birthday. Purple, pink and yellow frosting swirled into a gorgeous night sky full of stars and the crescent moon. It must’ve taken the baker hours to create it.

  “For you,” he said, and he didn’t have to say it again. I gave him half the treat—insisted that he eat it or I wasn’t touching it either—then devoured the most moist, delicious half-cupcake I’d ever had in my life. And when it was gone, I sighed with longing, but I never had one again, just admired them from the other side of the glass.

  Ryder has been like one of those cupcakes ever since I started working for him. Look, admire, even pine…but don’t touch.

  And that’s how I’ve been able to keep our relationship so professional. Mira’s advice to focus on his flaws helped some, but that was never the main thing. Someone that gorgeous always comes with a very high price.

  But his lips on mine… They change everything.

  The emotional glass that kept me firmly on the other side is gone.

  And my brain short-circuits.

  I’m melting into the kiss like that ice cream on the apple pie, savoring the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met in my life.

  Ryder doesn’t ravage my mouth like he owns me. Instead his lips moves over mine with delicate finesse…and it’s so sweet that it makes me ache for him. I flick my tongue over his lips, taste something uniquely sweet and perfect. He’s surprisingly soft there, and I feel oddly safe.

  I dig my hand into his hair and open up to him, silently giving in to the kiss. His breath shudders, a soft moan vibrating against my mouth.

  He seduces me, his tongue and lips pulling me closer until I lose all my senses. One hand rests at the nape of my neck and the other on my waist, holding me close. He leads me deeper and deeper into him, our kiss becoming a dance, a long, drawn out appetizer to something even hotter and sweeter. He’s better than I ever imagined, and I’m going mad with a tight longing, liquid heat pulsing through my veins.

  My heart pounds until my chest hurts, but the only thing that matters is him, the wanton heat rushing through me, pooling between my legs.

  I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. I feel like I’m floating, but at the same time drowning in him. Searing desire sweeps me away in an irresistible current, but at the same time I’m anchored, pressed against him.

  My body tightens, and I ache for more. The need pulsing through me has already soaked my panties. He smells so good, tastes so perfect, I can swear off everything…for him, forever…

  And when the year’s up, he’s going to leave me, forever… I’ll pine for him, and the intensity of it will destroy me. Ryder’s far too addictive, far too real, and far too bigger-and-better-than-life.

  The thoughts crash through me, one after another, like a bucket of cold water. I freeze, then pull back. I glance away from Ryder, suddenly shy, and in the distance notice a man with an enormous telephoto lens standing behind a jut of rocks on the beach.

  The paparazzi. Ryder said we were putting on a show for a year with him as a besotted husband.

  This kiss is part of the act, nothing special. Or is it?

  Ryder keeps his hand at the nape of my neck and stares at me like he wants to devour me. And my more animal and simpler self wants to go back to what we’ve been doing.

  But I’ve seen that same expression countless times on the big screen. Seen it directed at women celebrated worldwide for their beauty, whom he promptly forgot as soon as the filming was over.

  “We should get going.” I mean to say it firmly, but instead it comes out as a shaky whisper.

  “Paige…”

  I manage a smile. “I think we gave everyone a good show.” I cast my gaze briefly toward the location where I spotted the paparazzi. “Mission accomplished.”

  Ryder pulls back, his expression unreadable. “All right.” He gets up and holds out a hand. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Ryder

  I forcibly relax my grip on the steering wheel. Desire still thickens my blood, and my dick is throbbing. Jesus. I even forgot about the paparazzi stalking us, and I’ve never done that before.

  I didn’t mean to kiss her like that.

  It was supposed to be the perfect ending to the evening. Every script I’ve ever seen had a kiss after a successful proposal.

  The issue was that the woman playing the role is Paige, and she didn’t kiss me back like this was make-believe.

  And my body reacted. Hell, I reacted.

  Paige sits next to me like she hasn’t a worry in the world. The ring sparkles on her finger, marking her as mine…except she isn’t.

  Still… Mission accomplished.

  I shouldn’t be upset. This is a marriage in name only. It’s only right that we broke off before things went too far. I want to give the world a good show, not a sex tape. She’s made it clear this is a professional arrangement, and I haven’t really objected. She’s never panted over my body, and I like it that we can talk to each other like normal people. The number of women who treat me like a person…well, it wouldn’t even take the fingers on one hand to list them up.

  The drive back home is silent. I don’t want to talk, and Paige apparently doesn’t either. Her phone pings, and then she’s busy texting. Which of her friends gets the news first?

  I look at the road. Why do I care?

  I tell myself at least a hundred times we did the right thing to end the kiss. It’s too bad it hasn’t penetrated yet. It isn’t every day I kiss a woman who makes me forget about everything except her.

  Even right now, need hums through my body. The interior is full of her presence…her body heat, her scent…I want to pull over and kiss her silly and let things progress to their natural conclusion.

  Except she doesn’t look at all receptive to that idea. Her face is tilted away, her gaze focused on something just beyond the other cars on the highway.

  Honestly speaking, the situation is starting to bug the crap out of me. Women don’t ignore me after I kiss them. They cling to me like an extra-sticky piece of duct tape.

  Figure it out later, man. I have a more pressing concern—namely, getting inside my home without reporters inundating the car. I have a plan, but they get smarter and sneakier all the time.

  The main gates are off limits, unless I want to be mobbed. By now, the so-called news hounds are swarming around them like ants over a drop of honey. They know we’re out. They’ll have seen the photos. They’re counting on cornering the Ferrari.

  I don’t think so.

  I drive to the service gates in the back.

  “Why are we going this way?” Paige asks.


  “Reporters.”

  “Already?”

  I frown. Didn’t she get at least a couple congratulatory texts from her friends? “I’m sure they’ve heard by now. Check the news.”

  She pulls out her phone. A soft gasp follows a few moments later. She lets me see the screen; sure enough, there’s a close-up of us canoodling on the terrace.

  “Okay,” I say. “Have security call the police and push the reporters back for trespassing.”

  “I don’t think any of them are brave and nimble enough to climb over the barbed wired walls.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. But in any case, my property stretches for a one-mile radius outside the wall. And I’m sure they’re all standing right by the main gates. The cops know what to do. They’re well aware of the property line at my house.”

  She nods and calls the head of security, while I make sure I don’t draw any attention to my Ferrari. Maybe I should’ve taken the Maserati. It’s new, and the vultures won’t be expecting it.

  Thankfully, reporters aren’t camped out at the back entrance. Idiots. I drive through the open gates. They lock immediately afterward.

  The garage door opens, the inside lighting up. I pull the Ferrari into the huge space. High-end sports cars I’ve been collecting over the years sparkle with a fresh coat of wax under the fluorescent light. I park my Ferrari in its spot. Just as I’m about to get out, Paige’s phone starts ringing.

  She glances at the screen. A small frown pinches her face. She presses the red button.

  “Reporters?” I ask.

  “No. They don’t know this number.”

  I laugh. “They don’t know it yet.” But she’s right. They’re probably calling my publicist for comments. Still, they’ll get Paige’s number before long. “If they call you, just hang up. They don’t get to talk to you without going through the publicist first.”

  She hits the headrest with the back of her head and sighs. “I didn’t realize the news would hit so fast or create this much of a circus.”