Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Author's Note
THE RAKE
Billionaire Seeking a Bride
Melanie Marchande
© 2018 Melanie Marchande
The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is intended for adult audiences only. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
Cassie
What a waste of a perfectly good demi-cup bra.
That's all I can think, as I speed along the English countryside on the Eurostar non-stop to Paris. It's downright immoral to be in a bad mood on a sunny spring day like this, but this train has no Wi-Fi (what decade is it?) and my carriage is completely devoid of any romantic prospects.
I know exactly what I'm looking for. Tall, dark, and handsome. Rich, of course, but that goes without saying. That's why I'm sitting in business class, where the tickets cost three times as much for an extra inch of leg room. Usually, traveling - especially international traveling - is the best way to find the kinds of interesting people I'm looking for. Who wants to marry the kind of person who never leaves the continent they were born on?
Nobody, that's who.
Everyone has different requirements, of course. Different must-haves and dealbreakers and can't-live-withouts. Common sense seems to dictate that most people would get less picky with age, but I've found that's not necessarily true. People's tastes certainly change, but if anything they get more exacting the more experience they have with dating. They know exactly what floats their boat, and conversely, the specific quirks they can't live with.
My client this time is a woman. Unusual, but not unheard-of. In some ways it makes my job easier, but in a lot of ways it makes it significantly harder. When I'm on the prowl, I dress well - and when I'm on a manhunt, I take extra pains. But there's no denying I'm not everyone's type. Even in shapewear, I can't hide who I really am.
Men are shallow. Scratch that - people are shallow. We like to think we aren't, but we are. Every single one of us is the product of a culture that values physical appearance over everything else. I might be out looking for a husband for a former Miss America - which has happened, by the way - but a lot of men will take one glance at me and write me off completely.
It's tempting to sneer at them, but we all have our preferences. Because of what I do, people are much more honest with me than they typically are with strangers. I've sat down with clients who were otherwise friendly, easygoing, and low-key, only to have them rattle off a list of specific desires for a partner that would make most matchmakers cringe.
But I'm the best at what I do for a reason.
This one is a rare misstep. I don't know what went wrong. Nothing irks me more than international trips that come up empty, because as much as I enjoy the tax write-off, I can't afford to waste money. Not when I'm gearing up for a long sabbatical. As much as I love and trust my baby sister, if I'm going to leave her in charge of this company, I need to make sure it's going to be solvent for at least the next six months.
I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. It's a bit terrifying not to have firm plans for the future, but it's exhilarating, too. Every part of my life has been planned out in advance, for as long as I can remember. My mother was a worrier, a planner, Type A, anal-retentive, whatever you want to call it - to the point where one unexpected museum closure would send our vacation spiraling into complete chaos. I make her look like Mister Rogers, but I still have my quirks.
Briefly, I flip on my roaming data to check my email. Even though I have an international plan, I’m always too paranoid to overuse it, so I keep my phone in airplane mode most of the time.
It takes a few minutes to pick up a signal, and then I see an email’s coming in. I can practically feel the megabytes draining right out of my bank account. This better be worth it.
From: Devon Wakefield
Subject: Matchmaking services
Oh my God, I’m going to kill him.
Ms. Kirkland,
How’s that waiting list coming along?
You can’t ignore me forever, you know. I would ask you if I’m really too much of a challenge, but I know you’re too self-assured to fall for a cheap trick like that.
I’ll say this for Devon Wakefield: he’s persistent.
It’s an attractive quality, most of the time. There’s nothing quite like a man who goes after what he wants. That stick-to-it-iveness, and the fact that he looks like he stepped right out of a Christian Dior ad, means there’s no logical reason why he needs me at all.
Of course, there’s a few little problems.
I research all of my clients before I call them back, but with him, I didn’t need to. The moment his first email came in, I knew who he was.
It’s a shame, honestly. He’s desperately sexy - the kind of handsome that makes your breath catch in your throat, even a stray candid shot on a gossip blog enough to inspire an involuntary little whimper.
Yes, he’s that hot.
Yes, he’s still single.
He’d be a dream client, if only he weren’t a degenerate manwhore.
***
Three Months Ago
Ding.
It’s three in the morning. This wouldn’t be the first time a client has obviously taken all day, and most of the night, to work up the courage to email me. They sit there with their glass of brandy or scotch, trying to talk themselves into letting me help them with the most intimate part of their personal lives.
When I see the name, I have to blink a few times to make sure my bleary eyes aren’t deceiving me.
This has to be a prank, right?
I should pack up and go home, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I open the message.
From: Devon Wakefield
Dear Ms. Kirkland,
I’m writing to inquire about the availability of your matchmaking services. I understand you must be very busy, but I’m sure I can make it worth your time.
Well, let’s deal with the elephant in the room first. Yes, I get around. I’m sort of famous for it. But I’m ready to move on from that now. I want security, I want a long term relationship with someone who takes me seriously. I know that’s your specialty, and I know you’re the best in the business. I don’t want to marry a model or an actress, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sharing my bed with strangers. Left to my own devices, I think that’s exactly wh
at will happen.
I just want a normal life. A place in the Upper East Side, a stable family life, something to come home to. I’m sure you’ve heard this story before. With my background, and with the women in my circle of acquaintances, no one takes me seriously. So I’ll admit it: I need your help.
Let me know when you’re available to meet, and I’ll rearrange my schedule as necessary. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Devon Wakefield
Well, well, well.
I smile to myself, skimming over his email a few more times. Of course I know his resume. Former photographer, publisher of a salacious men’s magazine, and current owner of a casual encounters dating website whose commercial was famously banned from the Super Bowl. Every other week, he shows up in the tabloids with his arm around the latest up-and-coming starlet. And if the paparazzi are very lucky, they might manage to snag a shot of her hand snaking up Wakefield’s thigh under the table of a trendy outdoor cafe.
Predictable. If you look up “notorious playboy” in the dictionary, it’s a picture of him with his hand on a Bachelor contestant’s ass.
So what does he need me for?
It’s simple. Stability. Unconditional love. A long-term commitment. Everybody wants these things, even if they won’t admit it. And for someone like him, it’s particularly hard to find.
By now, he’s already gotten my auto-response informing him that someone from the staff will be in touch soon, and warning him that there’s quite a long waiting list. Hopefully, that’ll be the end of it. Even I don’t know how I’d sell someone like Wakefield to a woman outside of the entertainment industry. The only other client I’ve downright rejected was a prolific porn star; I’m good, but I’m not that good. Wakefield’s not quite on that level, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.
To my surprise, while I’m still contemplating this development, another email dings its way in. From Wakefield, again. He’s actually responding to the auto-reply. Yeah, definitely been hitting the scotch a little too hard.
His email is just one line.
Is this a form letter?
There’s plenty of acceptable, perfectly professional ways I could respond to that. Not responding would be perfectly reasonable, really. But for some reason, I’m feeling cheeky today.
Against my better judgement, I fire off a similarly terse response.
What do you think?
To my surprise, his response comes in less than a minute.
I think it seems like you’re blowing me off, Ms. Kirkland.
I roll my eyes.
It is a form letter, but it’s not a blow-off. I don’t have time to personally respond to everyone who emails us. Rest assured, your spot on the waiting list has been secured. I’ll be in touch.
His response takes a little longer this time, but now, I’m expecting it. I take a slow sip of my drink and smile to myself.
Is this ‘waiting list’ something that can be rearranged? I was just giving you a minute to look me up on the Forbes list, in case that’ll influence your answer.
There’s something self-aware about his tone, and it makes me snicker. He’s a demanding sonofabitch, but he knows it.
No, spots on my waiting list cannot be bought, Mr. Wakefield. Patience is a virtue. And even if they could, I can’t promise when I’ll be free again. I’m working on a very time-consuming case at the moment.
He responds quickly this time.
Picky client? Kick them to the curb, Miss Kirkland. I’ll make it worth your while.
I can practically hear his smarmy smile. Ugh.
I can’t discuss my confidential business matters with you, Mr. Wakefield.
He’s actually getting on my nerves now, and I consider logging off to head home. But for some reason, I don’t. His response comes a few minutes later.
So sorry, I didn’t mean to violate your professional code of conduct. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Three times for “you’re an annoying douchebag, stop emailing me.”
I snicker, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction of playing his little game. I don’t answer for a few minutes.
All of my clients are very exacting. I’m sure you would be, too. Picking a spouse isn’t like picking a car. One has to trust the process. I can’t possibly put a timeline on it.
He wants to know:
So there’s no limit to how long you’ll work for someone?
I reply:
Of course, but it’s individualized for the situation. The only hard-and-fast rule is that you need to worry about is that I make the rules.
I chuckle to myself a little. I’d never talk this way to a normal client, but it’s kind of fun. Low-risk, too. I’m never actually going to work with him, I’ll more than likely never meet him, and he seems a lot more self-aware than I would have guessed. A little harmless banter isn’t going to kill me.
He says:
You must have a hell of a time working with people who are usually in charge of everything.
I reply:
Not as much as you’d think. I’m very good at my job. If they’re uncomfortable taking instruction from a woman who’s not holding a whip, nobody’s mentioned it yet.
I hit “Send” before I have a chance to second-guess whether it’s really appropriate to make a dominatrix joke. But hey. Low stakes, right?
It takes him so long to respond that I start to think I might’ve actually put him off. Oh well. No loss.
Wait, you don’t hold a whip? Never mind, I’ll find someone else.
Nibbling my lower lip, I consider my response. This would be a great time to veer back into professionalism, but…
Nah, might as well keep flirting with an egotistical pornographer.
Maybe that’s an unfair characterization, especially these days. There was a time when Devon Wakefield’s magazine, Fine, would’ve been considered scandalous. But that time is long past. At its most raw, it’s still incredibly softcore. The kind of thing where, if you found it under your teenage son’s bed, you’d immediately get suspicious that it was just a decoy for the real porn.
Even though they stopped producing new issues a year and a half ago, Fine is still Wakefield’s legacy. His newest venture is a “dating” site called, creatively enough, Fine People. Slogan: “Find your night to remember.”
So, yes. “Dating.” With quote marks.
It’s interesting, I have to admit. While most dating sites go with the cutesy “find your forever soulmate” marketing, Wakefield’s has edge. It’s shameless. When I pull up the site, my screen fills with an image of a shirtless guy with sculpted abs and a perfect tan. I don’t know how that’s supposed to appeal to the straight male clientele, but I guess they don’t need nearly as much persuading.
After a moment’s thought, I answer him.
If you’re into pain, I’m sure you can find someone on that site of yours to help you out.
He replies:
I’m not, but thanks for your concern. I give orders much better than I take them.
Well then.
What brought all of these wannabe dominant alphas out of the woodwork? Was it really just those romance novels that suddenly made it sexy again, or do they just feel more comfortable talking about it now?
Or maybe I’m just reading way, way too much into it. Maybe it’s just posturing. Maybe he’s referring to the boardroom, and not the bedroom.
Yeah right. Well, if he thinks he’s throwing me off-balance, he’s dead wrong.
Well, in that case, I’m not sure we can work together after all. You’ll have to leave your ego at the door. I have a feeling that’ll be tough for you.
It takes him a little while to answer.
I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t enjoy locking horns with you, but I know how to pick my battles. Once I’m paying you to solve my love life, your wish is my command. That’s a promise.
Cute. No wonder he does so well with the ladies.
But no, I can’t work for Devon Wakefield. Eve
n if I had the time, there’s no way I can make him appealing to the kind of woman he wants.
I’ll let him down gently in the morning. For right now, I need to get some sleep.
***
Present Day
Spoiler alert: we keep talking.
I don’t know why. I have no logical explanation for it. He still believes he’s on my waiting list, and I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. That I’m not going to work with him, not now, not ever.
The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride Page 1