An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle #1) (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience Book 3)

by Nadia Lee

  “Nah. Have you?”

  “No. I even tried calling his agent, but she won’t answer.”

  “There’s a rumor that he fired her before the vanishing act.”

  “Good god. Really?”

  I nod. “But since I haven’t heard it from the horse’s mouth…” I trail off when our server returns with the wine and an appetizer of various thinly sliced sashimi-grade fish drizzled with ginger- and wasabi-infused sauce. The wine tastes like liquid gold, smooth and fragrant with oak, berries and a hint of roses. I’ve never had anything but the best at Mark’s restaurant. The man can tell the exact year and vintage of any wine from a single taste, so he’s pretty exacting about what his restaurants serve.

  When we’re alone again, I resume our talk. “Regardless, Ryder’s fine. He’s always led a charmed life. Besides, he can smile his way out of anything.”

  Elizabeth nods once. “That’s true…I guess. Paige’s gone to see him, so I’m guessing he’s probably too busy to get into trouble.”

  I laugh. “Most likely.”

  “But…I don’t know. He sent out cards canceling the ceremony. I mean, what does that mean?”

  That gives me pause too. “No idea, but I hope he doesn’t screw things up with her. She’s actually good for him.”

  “No kidding.” Elizabeth puts a piece of salmon in her mouth. “So…are you really going to marry a stripper?”

  “Oh yeah. Bet on it. As a matter of fact, Ryder said he’s sending me the very best on my birthday.”

  Elizabeth turns serious, and concern darkens her eyes. “You can have anyone you want, Elliot. You don’t have to settle like this.”

  “It’s going to be for a year, not a day more. If I married an heiress or someone like that, she’d have, you know, expectations.” I shudder.

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Yes.” I take a long swallow of my wine. “I want zero expectations. Well…except for sex. Gotta have the sex.”

  As I expect, she makes a face and pulls away. “TMI.”

  I chuckle. “Besides, worry about yourself.”

  “Me?”

  “You have to marry soon too.”

  Fucking Dad. He got into a snit over us kids missing his Wedding Number Six. So he’s decided that we all have to marry within six months for at least a year or we can kiss our grandfather’s portraits of us goodbye. No way in hell am I gonna allow that to happen. The portraits are oil paintings, brilliantly executed by the only person in our family who gave a damn about us. Grandpa Thomas was a world-famous artist; he said the portraits represent us at our best, and that he wanted us to remember how worthy we are every time we look at them. Due to a clusterfuck situation with his will, they went to Dad instead. Damn it.

  I bet he’s enjoying making us dance to his tune. He can’t stand us, me and my twin brother Lucas in particular. Our mom not only left him in order to marry his half-brother, but Lucas and I made our first billion in our twenties, while he wasn’t able to amass that kind of fortune until he was well into his thirties, and even then it was with his first wife’s help.

  Jealous and petty. Dad in a nutshell.

  “I’ll think of something,” Elizabeth says.

  “Get some poor schmuck who will be grateful for a bit of your money, but won’t, you know, bother you for the other stuff.”

  A carefully waxed eyebrow arches. “What, no sex for me?”

  It’s my turn to make a face. “Ugh. No! You’re like Mother Teresa. You can’t do that kind of thing.”

  She chuffs out a laugh.

  Our server clears the table and brings out the soup. Mine is a lobster bisque, and hers is cream of crab. The bisque is damn good. If I owned a restaurant like this, I’d get fat. “Seriously. You’re a woman,” I say.

  “Am I now? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What I mean is, you’re going to have expectations, you’re going to get vulnerable. Women just do when they have sex. They think it means something more than it should. And you in particular. You’re a nice person; it’s gonna happen. Plus, you haven’t dated seriously for what, five years now? It’s been a long ti—”

  “Four,” she corrects, her voice suddenly brittle. “And I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big girl and can handle myself.”

  Four years, and still she reacts like that. I shake my head. “I wish duels were legal.”

  “I’m glad they aren’t. You would’ve been shot dead.”

  I laugh. “No. I’m an awesome marksman. I’d kill anybody who hurt you.”

  Her expression softens, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’re sweet, Elliot. But don’t worry about me. If duels were legal, I’d do the shooting myself.”

  “What? That’s a man’s job. You’re supposed to look distraught and twist a hanky around your fingers.”

  “Yes, baby brother,” she says, raising her eyes heavenward.

  I stick my tongue out. She always plays that card when she thinks I’m being overprotective.

  “So are you going out tonight?” she asks.

  I consider. I was thinking about doing exactly that to see the redhead, but the manager said she isn’t there anymore. It isn’t like me to want to see a woman for a second time, so for that reason I’m going to stay home even though I keep thinking about that curvy body and the temper in her eyes. She’s feisty, and feisty girls are insanely fun in bed. “Probably not. I need to wait for Ryder’s gift.”

  “Right.” A hint of censure comes into her voice. “A stripper, delivered to your doorstep.”

  “Exactly.” I grin. If what I heard from the people setting it up is correct, she’s more of a high-end prostitute than a stripper. But I’m not going to quibble over such a minor point. A gift horse deserves to be ridden, not endure a dental exam.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Want photos?” I ask.

  “Ugh. No.”

  “I may make a video and post it on YouTube.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut and raises a hand, palm out. “Please. I was traumatized enough from your previous tape.”

  “That was like three years ago.”

  “Amazing how it feels like yesterday. Intense trauma tends to last.”

  Propping an elbow on the table, I rest my chin in my hand. “So what are you getting me for my birthday?”

  “What, this sumptuous lunch isn’t enough?”

  “We all gotta eat.”

  She snorts. “I’m not sending you a stripper.”

  “Of course not. Can’t copy Ryder.” I fake perking up. “I know: a hooker baked in a pie!”

  Laughing, she throws a napkin at me. “You’re horrible,” she says, still chuckling. “Absolutely hopeless.”

  “But you love me anyway.”

  “That I do.” She wipes a tear from her eyes and sniffs. “Lord knows why, but I do.”

  My phone vibrates with a new text. I pull it out just in case it’s from Ryder, but it’s not. It’s…

  I scowl. What the hell?

  Can we meet, love? I’m going to be in town in a few weeks.

  Tension crawls up the back of my neck. If she thinks I’m wasting another second of my life on her, she’s crazy. If I could, I’d go back in time and change the day I met her.

  I block the number. Didn’t she get the hint the last time? I also made my feelings clear when I blacklisted her email address and refused every letter and postcard she sent me.

  “Who’s that?” Elizabeth asks.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and smile. “No one. Wrong number.”

  Chapter Five

  Annabelle

  The address Caroline gave me leads me to a small, warehouse-looking place about half an hour from our apartment. I park my Honda in back and buzz at the rear entrance like she told me to.

  My phone pings, and I check the text. It’s from Nonny, at a friend’s place for a sleepover.

  Got here fine. See you tomorrow, Anna! She only calls me Annabelle when she’s an
gry with me. When she was old enough to talk, she started to call me Nanni, which got morphed into Anna, and it stuck. She’s the only one who uses that nickname.

  Have fun. Love you, I type and hit send.

  A few minutes later, a guy opens the door. He’s somewhere around forty, with a narrow, fatless face and cleanly shaved head. He has the body of a distance runner, thin with ropey muscles, underneath a black T-shirt and jeans that hang off him. There’s a tattoo crawling halfway up his neck.

  “Yeah?” he says. The voice is deeper than I expect.

  “I’m here for the job.”

  “You ain’t the girl.”

  “Caroline got sick,” I lie. “I’m here so we don’t disappoint the customer.”

  He looks at me. “You’re kinda short.”

  “Easier to fit into the cake, right?”

  He thinks it over, then makes a circle motion with his finger. I obediently do a slow pirouette, all the while reminding myself about the money I’m going to get from this one night’s work—and how it’s going to put me that much closer to true independence.

  “All right. Come on.” He moves to the side, so I can walk past him. The door closes with a metallic clang.

  Inside is some kind of makeshift studio. A couple of people are putting the final touches on the cake I’m going to get into. It’s white with lots of hearts and bright red ribbons.

  “Change into this. You’re shorter, but it should still fit.”

  He tosses a corset and matching G-string my way. I catch them automatically. “Where’s the dressing room?”

  “‘Dressing room’? That’s funny.” He points with his chin. “Use the corner.”

  The area has no screen, no privacy. My face flames. “I can’t—”

  He regards me through drooping eyes. “Don’t want to disappoint the customer, right?” Then he turns away to supervise the cake.

  Biting my lower lip, I go to the corner and change as quickly as I can. The “corset” is really two pieces. The top part is so tight, it’s almost painful to put on, but the hooks and eyes make it easier. I’m sure they’re also to make it easier to rip it off during the show. My breasts are pushed together almost indecently, and it feel like the girls are going to pop if I breathe too deep. The bottom part hooks to the top, and together they look like they’re a single piece. The G-string is black, with rhinestones strategically placed to emphasize my private parts without actually showing anything.

  God, I feel so naked and trashy. Clear-heeled fuck-me shoes don’t help the situation. I put my own clothes back on over the slut-wear so I can feel less exposed.

  “Let’s go.” The man claps, and we all get into a waiting truck. The cake is surprisingly small, just big enough to hide a crouching woman.

  I don’t know how much time passes. My heart beats erratically, and I can’t seem to track anything. Sweat wets my hands, and I surreptitiously wipe them on my skirt.

  Now that the time has come, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m doing. I mean, the money’s great—and I need it—but do I really want to go this low to get it?

  Shut up. It’s just one night.

  But isn’t that what my dad thought too when he started his crazy scheme? My head hurts. Who knows what he was thinking when he decided to cheat everyone in Lincoln City so he could live big? He died before anybody could get any answers.

  My pulse is in my throat, and the canned tomato soup I had for dinner sloshes in my belly like a waterbed.

  “Hey, you gonna be sick?” one of the guys who worked on the cake asks.

  I shake my head.

  “We’re almost there.”

  I nod, breathing through my mouth.

  When the truck stops, its engine cuts off and my stomach no longer churns. I get out and fresh air settles my belly.

  “Get in. We gotta finish it up,” the driver says to me, gesturing at the cake.

  The white thing looks like a prison, and my legs stiffen.

  Think about the money. Think about what it means.

  Curling my hands into fists, I take off my shirt and skirt and climb inside the cake. It has small steps built in, so I can enter and exit without ruining it.

  The workers glue a couple of thin tissues around the top of the cake to cover up the opening.

  “Yo. You in the cake,” the man who opened the warehouse door says. “When it’s time, you just jump out. Just push on the top.”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  Despite the cooler night temperature, the inside of the cake feels stuffy. Low voices murmur around me, and I swallow.

  I hear a ding, and then feel the mild pressure of an elevator rising.

  “Don’t forget to wish him happy birthday and sing him the happy birthday song,” one of the guys says.

  I have to sing too? Caroline never said anything about that, but I don’t think it’s the time to argue. Besides if singing can delay the inevitable stripping, I’ll sing. “Okay.”

  “And don’t forget to give him whatever he wants. He paid for the works.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But his guests—”

  “They’re up to you.”

  Oh my god. What the hell? Caroline totally screwed me over by omitting that important fact! “I’m not a hooker!”

  “’Course not,” the man says, his voice bored. “You’re an escort.”

  “What?”

  “Honey, just make the birthday boy happy, and you can clear two grand.”

  I reel. For that much money, the “customer” must be expecting a helluva lay. But I’m just not that into sex. I can’t even fake it like those girls on Elliot’s sex tape.

  There’s some muttered discussion outside the cake. Then, “He won’t try anything except vanilla stuff. It’s in the contract.”

  Thanks for making me feel better. “Isn’t this illegal?”

  A pause. “Who the fuck you gonna tell? You trying to get yourself into trouble?” More muttering. “Now stop fucking around. Count to sixty and then come out.”

  I count slowly and steadily. I’m shaking all over, but it’s too late. He’s right about me telling people. Cops tend to pick and choose who they’re going to listen to. Didn’t I experience that firsthand?

  There’s no reason to panic. I can just do the happy birthday part, then if he asks for sex, I’ll just have to tell him singing’s what I was told to do for him. He can take it up with Caroline’s “Madame G.” if he wants, but I’m not having sex with some random guy no matter how much money’s at stake.

  When I finally reach sixty, I jump up. The tissue papers tear with ease, and I spread my arms wide, baring my teeth in what I hope is a sexy smile, and yell out, “Happy birthday!”

  I hide my wince at how shrill my voice sounds. At least my breasts stay put, although they do bounce quite a bit when I jump up, knocking aside the top of the cake. Maybe everyone’s too busy staring at my boobs to notice the way I shrieked the announcement.

  As my eyes adjust to the brightness in the room, I quickly look around to see how many people are in there. And I don’t see anyone, or anything, except…a door.

  Oh crap. I’m facing the wrong way.

  Slowly I turn, bracing myself. A man rich enough to throw so much at a stripper for his birthday party must be planning something crazy wild.

  But I only see a beautifully appointed contemporary penthouse—maybe a suite at a hotel?

  Then I spot the birthday boy…and my eyes almost bug out.

  Elliot Reed.

  An inky black button-down shirt and slacks of the same shade mold to his large, muscular frame. Right now he’s sprawled on a snow-white couch and the contrast is breathtaking. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a strong throat and a bit of hard chest. He’s even more stunning than I remember, every chiseled line of his face and body on stark display.

  My heart thuds, but I can hardly hear it over the deafening roaring in my head. A prickling sensatio
n spreads over me, my nerve endings vibrating with anticipation.

  He tilts his head and studies me. Long dark eyelashes frame his unreadable eyes.

  My throat’s so parched, I don’t think I can do much more than croak. But I’m supposed to sing, so I slowly climb out and croon in a low voice.

  A dark eyebrow rises for a fraction of a second before returning to its previous position. Nerves and tension leave me quivering, and my breasts shudder as I draw in a shallow shaky breath.

  The song fizzles like a wet firecracker.

  His eyes glide over me, face to toes, then lazily back up. I feel his gaze like a slow physical stroke. Fire seems to follow everywhere he looks, and he lingers at the apex of my thighs and my belly. He isn’t doing anything except looking, but something hot and slick floods me down there until I’m swollen and aching between my legs.

  He raises his head just a fraction. My nipples bead until they almost hurt, and I gasp at the sharp sensation. I swallow again. How many guests are here? I should check that out before I make my position clear on sex, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from his face. Finally he meets my eyes, and I feel like I’m sinking into something warm and decadent, like a pool of melting chocolate.

  “Have to admit…I didn’t think this was the direction you’d take when I said stripping wasn’t your calling.”

  His voice skims over me like the most luxurious silk. It takes me a while to process what he’s saying. Once I do, anger and humiliation explode in equal parts.

  “I hate to break this to you,” I shoot back, “but your input has nothing to do with my career choices.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m not even supposed to be here.”

  “Yet here you are.” Something shifts in his eyes. He juts his chin. “Get on your knees.”

  The command jolts me. It’s quietly spoken, but there is a steely expectation that I will obey. And the hell of it is, I want to. I want to get on my knees and slinky-crawl up to him so I can press my lips against his bared throat and feel his heart beat under my palm. I want to see if he’s really as unaffected as he looks.

  But instead I stiffen my legs. “I’m not here for sex.”

  “You think that pathetic song is going to earn you two grand?”