Matchmaking the Billionaire (Billionaires & Babies Book 2)

by Leslie North

  “And I need a wife,” he went on. “I needed a wife yesterday. I have no aversion to creating the sort of high jinks you need for ratings. I’m okay with nudity, even.” A titter went through the room. “And I clearly have zero problem being in front of an audience whose yea or nay could change the course of my future.” He held his hands out from his sides, lifting a brow. “So what do we say? Can we marry off this incredibly handsome gaming CEO for ratings or what?”

  Donovan stole a glance at his phone, which had just illuminated with a message. The clock showed he’d hit his ten-minute pitch timing perfectly. Now came the feedback.

  Seats creaked as some executives leaned back and adjusted their position. Donovan had come up with this idea a few weeks ago in response to the bet launched between him and his friend Nick, after their best buddy Brian got hitched. Whoever found a wife first would win a cool million dollars. Donovan didn’t need the money—not by a long shot—but he wanted to win.

  He and his buds had always seen competitiveness as akin to godliness. He who competes best—and hardest—wins. And what harder bet was there than marriage?

  Donovan didn’t care about the happily-ever-after. He just wanted the prestige. And almost as much, he wanted the face time for his company. Being the star on a reality TV show meant automatic publicity for his company, Fitz Gaming. They were positioning themselves to take on the big names in the first-person role-playing games, with a hugely secret and potentially game-changing project in the works. This reality show couldn’t have been more perfectly timed.

  But time was running out. It needed to get underway now if he was to have any hope of the timelines coordinating for both the bet and the launch of his company’s new project. Nick had sent one of his own developers to hone a matchmaking app, like setting a bloodhound on a fugitive.

  If Donovan wanted to win, he needed to put a ring on it first.

  He just needed one willing finger. Preferably with looks and brains to match.

  But even that was negotiable.

  “Your idea is very compelling,” one of the top-ranking producers purred, her black glasses sitting low on her nose. She’d been watching Donovan through slits, as though carefully ripping apart every word he said. “And this area of television is almost always highly watched.”

  “But it needs to be done well,” another producer butted in, holding up a finger. “If it’s not done well, it doesn’t matter how many muscles the guy has. We saw that with Rock of Love. Donovan doesn’t want to be another Kid Rock.”

  “There’s no way in hell he’d be another Kid Rock,” another producer countered. “But there’s no way in hell I’d take this project.”

  A lively discussion erupted, and Donovan tried to keep tabs on who said what. It was hard to follow over the hullabaloo. The producers didn’t agree—that much was certain. For every loud voice in favor, there was an equally loud voice with compelling reasons why not. Donovan didn’t let the smile or his straight back falter.

  Donovan’s eyes kept flitting to that honey blonde at the end corner of the table. She’d been mostly silent, conferring quietly with those immediately around her, her silky-looking tresses pulled into a loose topknot. She looked every inch the casual California producer, but there was something else about her. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  She was deep in conversation with a producer at her side. The honey blonde said heatedly, “No, but it’s worth it.”

  The producer at her side said, “But you’re junior.”

  All eyes turned to the two of them. Honey Blonde seemed startled that attention had turned their way.

  “Anything to add from down there?” the slit-eyed producer asked.

  “Ian and I were discussing the viability of this show in the current market,” the prettiest lady in the room said. A grin tugged at his lips as she spoke. “I think this is a gold mine. And an extremely strong project.”

  “But Melissa,” the slit-eyed producer at the front of the table said. “Ian is right. You’re junior. You’ve never headed a project like this before.”

  “I can do it,” Melissa said, pushing up her glasses. Big, brown eyes locked on Donovan, which made his stomach clench with anticipation. Please let this be the woman I get to work with.

  “I don’t have time on my schedule,” a producer across the table from her said, “but this project should get the green light. I’ll oversee Melissa’s work if that’s all it takes.”

  Another murmur erupted. The raven-haired production lead at the front of the table sat back, steepling her fingers. “I do think this project deserves the green light.”

  Donovan pumped his fist internally.

  “But I’m not convinced we have the staff for it.”

  Melissa leaned forward, commanding the attention of the table with an assurance greater than her status should imbue. “I can do this. And more than that, I want to do this. It’s exactly the type of entertainment I liked to be involved in.”

  “I want Melissa,” Donovan blurted, pointing at her. And maybe he did want her—in more than one way. A pleased smile crossed her face, and something warm passed between them. Something that promised a hell of a good time. “That’s the sort of enthusiasm I want for this show. Because yes, I know this is your company’s decision, but I also have certain objectives. Certain standards, let’s say. I want someone totally invested in this project.”

  “That is absolutely me,” Melissa said, nodding. “And if any of you are concerned about my experience, trust Frank’s.” She pointed at Frank across the table, who nodded his agreement. “He won’t need to supervise much, though. I’m more than confident I will bring this show from greenlight to Emmy.”

  “I’ve seen her in action plenty of times,” Frank said. “She basically saved our asses in Vegas during the filming of You Against the House. She’s got this.”

  Donovan couldn’t stop the pleased grin. This was as good a yes as he needed. As far as he was concerned, this project was happening.

  “So this sounds like a go then.”

  The slit-eyed producer at the front sighed, shrugging. “Let’s see it through.”

  “Great.” Donovan shut his folder of notes and zeroed in on Melissa. “Melissa, may we speak a moment?” The rest of the producers stood, milling around, and more chatter erupted.

  She nodded and stood, adjusting her loose-fitting blouse. He couldn’t rip his gaze from her as she came his way. Delicate peep-toe shoes, skintight jeans, a style that screamed cute without much effort. No thousand-dollar nails, no hair that she refused to allow out of place lest a camera swing her way. She tossed him a bright smile as she came up, hand extended.

  “So we can formally introduce ourselves,” she said, her small hand fitting easily inside his. “I’m Melissa Hampton. Junior producer at Perspective Studios.”

  “I’m Donovan Fitz. CEO of Fitz Gaming. And soon to be your newest plaything.”

  Melissa laughed, and a blush stained her fair neck. He’d made her blush within the first minute. Good work.

  “I want you to come over tonight,” Donovan said. “To my house, so you can get the lay of the land and we can start brainstorming what this show will truly look like. Does seven sound okay?”

  Melissa blinked, hooking her thumbs on her belt loops. “Okay.”

  “I’ll have dinner there, so you don’t need to eat beforehand. Any dietary restrictions?”

  She shook her head no, looking a little dazed. Donovan pulled out his phone, and they exchanged numbers.

  “I’ll text you my address later. Don’t be late.” He sent her a wink, though it was definitely not standard protocol for business meetings.

  Something about Melissa activated his flirt drive. Not that it took much to be activated. But he normally didn’t mix work and pleasure.

  This, however, would prove to be something different entirely. This was inherently a combination of work and pleasure. And if that was the case, he might as well throw the rulebook out and
just see where he ended up.

  If all went well, it would end in marriage.

  But in the meantime? He drank up Melissa’s figure from behind as she turned to collect her things.

  In the meantime, this could be a lot of fun.

  Grab your copy of Pregnant by the Billionaire

  April 11 2019

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  BLURB

  Sam Jameson always gets what he wants and what he wants is his ex-wife.

  Sam views the world in black and white—a strong attitude that’s earned him billions in the business world and an ex-wife in the real world. What Sam wants is to choose his own future, but to do this he must pass a test set out by his older brother, and CEO: onboard his wayward brother, Eddie. Sam accepts the challenge but isn’t sure what to think when he learns that the woman he’d love and left is part of the test too.

  Trinity Jameson is a fixer. It doesn’t matter if it’s ugly furniture or an ornery employee, Trinity has the touch and she’s spent most of her life helping others achieve their best potential. But when her ex-husband comes back to town to prove he’s got a heart, Trinity makes a decision: She’s not going to fix his problems for him—no matter what his smoldering blue eyes ask of her, she’s going to say “No.” She’s determined that he’ll fix his own mess this time.

  Before Sam landed in New York, his goal was to leave the city just as fast. But when Trinity saunters into the room looking better than ever, his desire begins to shift. He realizes that what he really wants is what he can no longer have: Trinity. Sam has no trouble stoking their physical fire, but hot sex isn’t going to be enough to heal the hurt he’d caused long ago. Sam isn’t going to be dissuaded by her new found emotional wall. He helped her build it, and now he’s going to knock it down.

  Grab your copy of The Billionaire’s Ex-Wife (Jameson Brothers Series Book One) from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  His favorite suit was wrinkled. It didn't matter if there was only one: the wrinkle was there, leering up at him like a lopsided, mocking smile.

  Sam Jameson shook out his sleeve, but the minor imperfection remained. Minor, he thought to himself in consolation. A wrinkle that wouldn't smooth was the least of his problems today; still, it lingered in the back of his mind as much as it lingered on the otherwise crisp fabric of his suit.

  Sam distracted himself by gazing about the familiar waiting room of the New York office. He missed the East Coast more than he could express, and he wasn't an expressive man by nature—but even he could appreciate the familiar, sanitized smell of the office, the classic wooden furnishings, and the precision of the New York City skyline just outside the high window. The L.A. office always smelled like someone was secretly giving manicures in the staff kitchen, and the West Coast skyline was…quirky. Slipshod. Obscured by a permanent haze and decidedly not up to code.

  L.A. was to blame for Sam's current predicament, of that he had no doubt. Who the hell lodged a complaint about "annoying perfectionism" and took their business elsewhere? Apparently L.A. clients did. Sam blamed the strange holistic culture that had seized the West Coast—the culture of "mistakes are successes that haven't happened yet," or whatever inane philosophy Californians liked to paste on the bumpers of their hybrid cars—but his older brother William didn't see things the way he did. That was partly why William was CEO, and Sam was COO, of Jameson Advertising Agency: it wasn't just a matter of age, but perspective…or so their father had once explained it.

  If only Sam could give William a momentary demotion and make him see things from his point of view. This move to onboard Eddie was a mistake. More than that, it was far below Sam's paygrade—but even he wasn't so callous as to say as much out loud. He had learned early on that when it came to family, talking in strictly business terms wasn't exactly smiled upon.

  But surely even William could see, from his lofty vantage as CEO, that bringing Eddie any closer in the family business was a mistake. Their father had certainly thought so. The youngest Jameson simply wasn't cut out for more than wining and dining clients.

  Inviting the family screw-up back into the fold didn't seem like a wise move to Sam—but who was he to protest it? He would get in, do the job to a more than acceptable degree, and get out, the same as he always did. William wouldn't be able to argue with the results, and then Sam could get the hell back to L.A. and move onto better things.

  The door opened and Sam rose, applying one last swipe to the wrinkle. He raised his gaze, expecting to find Eddie's lopsided grin and ridiculous eyebrows waggling a greeting.

  Instead, it was his own ex-wife he found staring back at him.

  "Trinity." He hated how out of practice he suddenly sounded saying her name out loud. Not a day had passed since their separation that it didn't enter his head on a repeating loop, always in threes: Trinity. Trinity. Trinity. "What are you doing here?"

  His ex-wife blinked her gorgeous doe eyes like he had her caught in a crosshairs. Obviously his presence in the room wasn't a surprise to her, but maybe seeing an estranged spouse in the flesh shook her as much as it shook him. His eyes dropped at once to take in the form-fitting pencil skirt and matching blazer. Only Trinity could make such an uninspired shade of gray look borderline sultry. Not a wrinkle in sight. He noticed she was parting her hair differently; the line combed into her scalp was off-center, and her honey-brown hair spilled in one thick wave down the left side of her face. The asymmetry should have bothered him more than it did, but all Sam could think in that moment was how strikingly well-suited she was to the style. The elegant curl hugged her cheekbone while exposing the other one, making them appear even more pronounced than usual.

  "Where's Eddie?" He hadn't expected himself to be the one to break the silence. Trinity blinked again, and shook her head to dispel whatever thought it was that had frozen her in the first place.

  "Hello, Samson. Your brother asked me to meet with you. Not Eddie," she qualified. "William."

  "I see."

  "He wants me to assist you in onboarding Eddie. William, that is. But I guess you knew which of your brothers I was referring to that time."

  Sam nodded. Trinity's sudden appearance had thrown him into turmoil on the inside, but he was used to masking pressure indicators in high-stress situations. There was a reason his coworkers all called him a machine. "Where is Eddie these days?" he asked her.

  "Barbados. Last I heard." Trinity swept her clipboard toward the conference hallway, and Sam rose at her invitation. He followed behind her, despite knowing the way, and watched her graceful balancing act. If she wore silk stockings with her heels, Sam couldn't perceive them at this distance. Only running a hand up one of those elegant calves would reveal the truth to him….

  "In here." Trinity waved him on into one of the rooms. Her face looked a little flushed, and Sam wondered how loudly he had been broadcasting his thoughts…then again, maybe they were simply on the same wavelength, as they had so often been when they were married.

  In those first years, anyway.

  He would never show it, but Sam was still reeling from the divorce. It had been almost a year since he signed the papers Trinity wordlessly pushed across his desk, and he still didn't know what the hell had happened between the two of them. Hadn't they always shared ambitions? Work ethic? Not to mention great, great sex? He knew from all the divorce studies he had read that he should have at least started entertaining the idea of dating other women by now, but he couldn't even bring himself to set up a simple online dating profile…and the Millennials at the L.A. office had certainly volunteered to help.

  Sam took a seat at the head of the table out of habit. He pulled out the chair beside him, and Trinity's mouth quirked a little in wry amusement. She bypassed Sam's offered chair to pull out her own. She sat down, and began to array her files as Sam studied her. Maybe having Trinity around to assist with the onboarding would be a good thing…professionally-speaking, of course. Surely he had no better al
ly in all this than his own ex-wife, who knew his preferred method of running things. Trinity was familiar with every nuance of his personality—hell, she was one of the few who would vouch for him even having one.

  Right?

  Trinity was the people-person. She understood the needs of others in a way Sam could never wrap his head around outside of the business boardroom. Corporations were straightforward, and most of them desired the same thing: damn good advertising. That he and his brothers could deliver. He had been raised to understand the cold, calculating terms of business minutiae; not the far less black-and-white terms of the people who stood behind the businesses.

  "I figured we'd just take a few minutes to go over everything," Trinity said. "Sort of a pre-meeting meeting. Nothing about our approach needs to be set in stone just yet. In fact, I think we should leave ourselves plenty of room to be flexible throughout this entire process. Eddie's a special case."

  "He certainly is," Sam allowed. He tried to ignore her use of the word "flexible". In business, he absolutely loathed the term—but when confronted with memories of his ex-wife's uncommon talents in the bedroom, it was even more distracting.

  "I mean that he's not nearly as underqualified as you or your brother like to think," Trinity said sharply. "He may have made mistakes in the past, but Eddie's a good kid."

  "He's only two years younger than you are," Sam pointed out, "so your use of the word 'kid' is revealing. Eddie's twenty-eight, Trinity —like it or not, he isn't a kid anymore. What he is is an immature adult who, when he isn't off partying on an island somewhere, likes to sleep around with high-powered clients' daughters."

  "One daughter. So far as I'm aware." Sam thought even Trinity looked unconvinced of this, but she pressed her lips together to stifle anything else she might say on the matter. "Anyway, I know Eddie and I would both appreciate it if the past didn't come up in tomorrow's meeting. I'd like to focus on the future—his future with the company—if it's all the same to you."