Accidentally Married To The Billionaire - Part 3 (The Billionaire's Touch)

by Sierra Rose

  “Who could possibly resist this man? I know I’ve been turning down guys in bars since college myself, and for the most part, they’re after one thing. But Brandon Cates—everything about him said that he didn’t belong at a casino dance club. If this face isn’t in an Armani ad—”

  “Hugo Boss,” he corrected good-naturedly, and she smiled at him.

  “Hugo Boss ad,” she amended, “then it belongs in a university library or a rare books shop. Far too intellectual to be rocking to Gaga late at night,” she said fondly, “but he hung around and bought me a drink, and we got to talking. We really hit it off.”

  “I felt like I’d known her forever. She’s so authentic and true to herself. There’s not a deceitful bone in her body. I can’t explain it without sounding completely corny, but I knew deep down that Marj was the one for me. She’s the real thing,” he said, gripping her hand and then scanning his phone screen as surreptitiously as possible. Marj forced a smile.

  “And there’s no one more dedicated than Brandon. Whether it’s his work or our relationship, he’s the most passionate, devoted man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Does he remind you of your father?”

  “Not precisely. My father is, of course, a fine man, but there’s never been anyone in my life quite like Brandon. He’s so strong and dependable, and I know I can count on him.”

  “Couldn’t you count on your father growing up?”

  “Sure, I have lots of great memories of my dad. But right now I hope you’re not offended—I’m most excited about my new husband. I’m sure dear old Dad will forgive me not making the interview about him,” she said lightly, wondering if it was appropriate to mention her father’s serial alcoholism and unemployment as endearing recollections.

  “I understand completely. So your wedding, as captured in some screenshots from later-deleted tweets and Instagrams, seems to have been unconventional…” she prompted.

  “Yes, because we’re an unconventional pair. Most people, in all fairness, don’t get married the same night they meet. So we made it up as we went along. There was no denying that we had chemistry and some sort of—I know, corny again—connection that we shared. So instead of trying to date and have some kind of truncated courtship, we fast forwarded through the boring parts and headed straight for the altar.”

  “Elvis,” Marj put in with a smile, “which was funny and surreal, but the thing is, Brandon made everything so personal and so special. It wasn’t like I wandered into a plastic chapel insta-wedding with a stranger. I knew deep down it was me he was marrying, that he wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with him…I mean, the cake alone…this story, it just explains everything you’d ever need to know about how I’d walk through hell to be with this man—“ Marj clung to his arm and smiled up at him. Brandon was on his phone again.

  “Just a minute. Sorry,” he mumbled, typing on the touch screen swiftly.

  “No, it’s fine. We’re just doing an interview about how happily married we are. Now put away the damn phone, Brandon,” she said, her smile never cracking. He dropped the phone and burst out laughing.

  “What? It’s a beautiful fucking story about the mocha cake and you just completely shit all over it with your stupid email,” she said, laughing until her eyes streamed and she swiped beneath them ineffectually with her fingers.

  “Ahem,” the reporter cleared her throat, “if we could continue…”

  “I assume you won’t strike that from your article,” Brandon said.

  “Never. But go ahead with the cake story.”

  “Right. Well, back at the suite, after the pillow butler was finished describing basically all the kinds of geese and waterfowl who had given their lives to make these pillows,” Marj said.

  “They don’t give their lives. It’s their feathers. Do you think they kill sheep to make wool?” Brandon teased.

  “No. But anyway, Brandon had ordered me a chocolate mocha wedding cake to be delivered. I love coffee, even more than I love chocolate and if there’s ever a cake worth dying for…I mean, seriously, if you’re ever in Vegas, you need to get this cake. I don’t care who you are. This cake is heaven. Brandon had gotten me the perfect one to celebrate our wedding, and all he wanted was to see me enjoy it,” she enthused.

  “She thought me completely chivalrous,” he said fondly.

  “So would you rather have cake or diamonds?” she asked.

  “Cake, most definitely.”

  “So if Brandon screws up, he can just send cake. And it’s a helluva lot cheaper.”

  They all laughed.

  The interview wrapped up with talk of charitable work and the art pieces they’d picked up during their travels—hastily acquired bright artifacts from Dubai specifically. After Dayna and her crew left, Marj collapsed against Brandon.

  “Do you think I blew it completely or did she think it was charming?”

  “There’s no telling, but if all that makeup’s coming off on my Hugo Boss suit—” he laughed as she raised her face from his lapel.

  “I think I’ll go wash all this off in the shower. Want to come?”

  “Sure, I just need to brush up on some of my design terms first. I’m not entirely sure what midcentury modern is…”

  “Something the stylist told me to say.”

  “So is the house actually done in that style?”

  “I have no idea. So do you want to research it or get naked?”

  “I’ll go with nudity every time,” he said, “which accounts for my abysmal knowledge of interior decorating.”

  Chapter 8

  That very evening, the publicist called to tell them the teaser for the story was live online and would be going to press in full within the week. The whole article was emailed to Brandon, and the two of them read it on his tablet in bed.

  The whirlwind romance of Manhattan corporate raider and disputed Power Regions scion Brandon Cates and his sudden bride, former employee Marjorie Reynolds, has been suspect from the beginning. From the neon lights of the Vegas strip, their union came as a shock to society denizens who long expected Cates to wed a suitable debutante to secure his inheritance. The bounty attached to his late father’s will came with strings—the necessity of a marriage by age thirty. At more than three-quarters past twenty-nine and with no fiancée in sight, sources believed that Cates wed a complete stranger merely to gain full rights to his father’s fortune.

  Lena Cates, his sometimes-estranged stepmother, has been reticent with the press, but sources close to her express her deep concern for her stepson. It is important to note that, should his marriage be proven a sham, the rights to controlling interest in Power Regions would revert to the dowager Mrs. Cates. While legal teams wrangle over the legitimacy of the marriage, all basic requirements in the state of Nevada—both parties of legal age and of sound enough mind to sign the marriage license—seem satisfied.

  While the marriage may seem quick by conventional standards, there seemed no outright cause for alarm until photos surfaced online of the newlywed pair fighting in first class on a commercial flight to Mexico and walking in stony, acrimonious silence at the airport. Further images of the young Mrs. Cates swimming solo and casting frequent glances at the doors as if waiting for her husband served only to fuel rumors that the two were on the outs. A lovers’ spat was one thing but with millions on the line, the appearance of impropriety or outright estrangement was too risky. A flurry of social media snuggling ensued with plenty of affectionate selfies in the surf and over cocktails at the resort—a seemingly desperate bid to bolster the supposed romanticism of their alliance.

  Whether they’re madly in love or frantic to cling to a fortune, the couple agreed to sit down with me and set the record straight.

  Poised and meticulously friendly in their Manhattan showplace of a home, the couple snuggled together on a green velvet midcentury modern sofa. Within seconds, it is obvious that the former Miss Reynolds hails from a working class background in New Jersey, far from the pr
ep schools and European tours that molded her all-American WASP groom. Every line of Cates’ spare form bespeaks control and ease, a level of confidence in his power. In sharp contrast is his bride’s fidgety changeableness—by turns abrasive and embracing, flippant yet desperate to be liked, Marjorie Cates is many things, but fake is not one of them. While I entered their home a skeptic, I left a convert. Not because of the chemistry between the pair—of which there’s plenty—nor their self-satisfied answers to my queries about their whirlwind courtship. Rather it was a single small moment that won me over.

  In the midst of his narrative, the charming multitasker Brandon Cates turned repeatedly to his phone screen, interrupting our conversation. His wife’s smiles grew less indulgent, more annoyed until she snapped and swore at him, insisting that he put away his phone instantly. The two dissolved into conspiratorial laughter like naughty children and I was left speechless. Had their entire marriage been a charade of convenience, surely his wife would have sat by making excuses about how dedicated he was to the stockholders and smoothed over any slight to the reporter. Instead, Marjorie Cates took her groom to task for his rudeness and managed to do so in a way both fierce and playful. The rapport between them was electric and this exchange was no different—full of fireworks and obvious affection. It was clear that this, at least, was unrehearsed and in its way showed their genuine love for each other.

  Despite the obvious disparity in their upbringings and education, the cultural background, which shaped them, it was clear from our brief time together that the Cates marriage is a true match of affection.

  “That’s the end of the article,” Marj said. “I can’t decide what I’m prouder of. The fact that she said we were obviously a real couple or that she noticed the midcentury modern couch.”

  “I understand you’re excited about the design choice but I’m a little jealous of that couch just now.”

  “It’s a great couch. It’s only rented, of course. If we like it, I understand they’ll give us a deal on it.”

  “If I buy the couch, can we have sex on it?”

  “Absolutely. That’s true of any furniture. Obviously, rental furniture we’d rather not think of what other people did on it before….ugh. Maybe we should spray some Lysol on it regardless.”

  “If you love the couch, we’re buying it. Then you can spray it with anything you like. I promise.”

  “Lysol is a disinfectant. It’s to kill other people’s sex germs.”

  “But they’re midcentury sex germs. They’re elegant, right?” he said.

  “No. This is only a reproduction. They’d be fresh germs from upscale renters who want their homes staged for sale or an article like this one.”

  “Well, let’s assume they didn’t risk it because they didn’t want to lose the deposit,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “Don’t worry. I’d buy us a spanking brand new one from whatever company sold them.”

  “I knew you would. But it was fun to toy with you.”

  “I’m just glad the interview’s over, and we got the outcome we needed. Do you think this will go a long way to reassure your stockholders?”

  “Who knows? They’re a crotchety lot, those stockholders, but as long as I’m married and meeting the terms of the will by all appearances, I don’t see how they can make much fuss. Lena, however, can always cause drama wherever she goes. And don’t think for a second that this is anything but a stay of execution. She and her team will keep coming after us again and again.”

  “Until what?”

  “Until she wins or until one of us drops dead, I guess.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a cheerful prospect. That being said, I hope it’s her.”

  “Me, too. I don’t actually wish her dead. I just wish she’d get a hobby.”

  “You mean a hobby besides trying to wrest your father’s legacy out of your grasp and getting Botox? Because those keep her pretty busy. Not much time leftover for golf or anything like that.”

  “A new man, perhaps. Someone wealthy who can take her on a Mediterranean cruise for a few years would be perfect.”

  “I can’t imagine she’d argue with that. Hey, should we hire her an escort or something? Hire a guy to romance her and take her great places and distract her!”

  “You mean bankroll a gigolo? I’m not in the business of human trafficking not even if it would get Lena off my ass. It would be fantastic if she found someone to wine and dine her, but I’m not willing to pay an actor or—worse, a sex worker—to distract my stepmother.”

  “You’re so all-American WASP, I swear. If I had that kind of money, I could pull everybody’s strings. I would rain down manipulations on them and target their wildest dreams to distract them, blackmail them, bring them all under my control!” Marj said with a theatrical villainous laugh. “Maybe I’d even get revenge on my ex.”

  “I’m startled by your...continued resentment against someone who isn’t even in your life now.”

  “It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I loved him with everything I had. And my life has not been a piece of cake.”

  “I know that. It’s just…well…do you still love him, Marj?” he said with a wry shake of his head, “I’m upset that the mention of this man can still distress you. It says something worrying about our relationship. What if you’re not over him?”

  “Do you seriously want to talk about the relationship? Because I wasn’t aware you were a woman,” she deadpanned.

  “Right, women want a sensitive man until he starts to talk about feelings,” he said.

  “Does it seriously bug you? Like that I’m pissed at Luke? And you should be mad at him too. He almost cost us everything!”

  “Luckily you raced up that tree and confronted that photographer.”

  They both burst out in laughter.

  Brandon smirked. “What would you have done if the press would’ve come out and seen you up there trying to smash some poor dude’s camera?”

  “Say he was being attacked by an angry squirrel and that I was just grabbing his camera to knock the ferocious beast off?”

  Brandon broke out in more laughter. “That would’ve never worked, darling.”

  “Lucky you came out. Or I would’ve been up shit creek without a paddle.”

  “When one of your caterers told me you left with a man out the back door, I had to check it out discreetly.”

  “And you found me on top of a very skinny man. That couldn’t have looked very good.”

  “I know the fiend,” he said. “He’s trailed me before. Total sleezeball. He’s scared of his own shadow. I would’ve loved to see his face when you charged up the tree like a roaring bear.”

  “He was petrified!”

  They laughed again.

  “I heard your ex didn’t get paid for his little appearance,” Brandon said. “Lena was furious with him and that photographer.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you hurt that Luke did that to you?” he asked.

  “When he told me he still had feelings, I felt nothing. Whatever we had died a long time ago. But I’m still mad that he’d use me like that.”

  “I just don’t want him getting in the way of us.”

  “It won’t. It’s in the past, and he has no part of my life now. I hope that reassures you.”

  “No. I don’t feel adequately reassured. We should have sex. And cuddle,” he said, and she whacked him in the head with a pillow.

  Soon they were laughing and pillow fighting all across the bed. Marj crouched over him and kissed his lips, tugging his bottom lip toward her with her teeth, sucking on his tongue, straddling his stomach until he was peeling off her tank top. He pushed back her hair, taking handfuls of it and holding it back so he could passionately kiss her neck. She rubbed and writhed against him, and he flipped her onto her back, pressing her down into the mattress and kissing her. Pinned beneath him, Marj wound her arms and legs around Brandon, giggling and kissing him back.

 
; If his phone hadn’t rung so insistently, if the chiming of email notifications hadn’t clanged to an overwhelming riot, they might have had some real fun. As it was, he climbed off of her and reached for his phone. Flipping through his notifications, Brandon groaned.

  “This isn’t something I can ignore,” he said to Marj who made a rude gesture at him and sat up.

  “I thought everyone was off our ass for the time being thanks to the article going live. What fresh hell is this?”

  “Lena’s team is turning up the heat, trying to make it look like we paid off the magazine to print an article favorable to our side. I need to call the publicist apparently. And about nine other people.”

  “Can’t we put them all on a Skype and tell them to fuck off? We showed up and did the interview, and it went really well despite everything and it didn’t even buy us one night of peace.”

  “I tried to tell you when you married me, and shortly afterward, that being married to a Cates wasn’t going to be as trouble free as you’d think. There’s a lot of scrutiny in any case from the media because I’m a public figure, but with the disputed inheritance, it’s off the charts.”

  “That’s a polite way of saying that it’s insane. Fine, go make your calls. I’m going to be pissed off and do some Pilates. Work off all that tension,” she said pointedly.

  Brandon went to his home office to return the calls and messages. Marj worked out, showered, and got online to plan a romantic evening for the two of them that week. They’d put in a lot of effort on the interview and regardless of how Lena’s camp decided to spin it, it had been a victory because their authenticity had been obvious. She felt vindicated, as if it were proof that their marriage was real. As if she needed any proof, which, of course, she didn’t.

  They deserved a celebration, a special night to share their love, be carefree and joyous that they had come so far from a one-off in a Vegas bar to actually admitting their feelings for each other. It had started out fake enough to fill Lena with glee had she known, but the way Marj and Brandon had come to care for each other and count on each other was unbelievably special and unexpected.