Billionaire Bachelor_Michael

by Eve Black

  Billionaire Bachelor: Michael

  Diamond Bridal Agency Book 2

  Eve Black

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  Billionaire Bachelor: Michael

  Copyright 2018 by Eve Black (a pseudonym)

  All rights reserved.

  This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. This book may not be replicated, re-sold, uploaded to the internet, tampered with, or given away without the express written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used for purposes of creating a story. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Sweet n’ Spicy Designs.

  This book is dedicated to my Muse. She’s is long-suffering and one hell of a chess player.

  1

  Dear Mr. Donovan

  After careful consideration of your needs, the Diamond Bridal Agency is pleased to inform you that we have found a bride that meets all of your requirements. Though your list of requirements was short, we endeavored to find a bride who would excel in the areas you specified. As our policy stipulates, all communications with your bride have been kept in the strictest confidence. To continue our reputation as an exclusive service, we require that you destroy this missive as soon as you have digested the contents.

  Your bride, Helene Collins, has been informed of the match, but we have kept your identity secret, as you requested. She has signed the contract and is willing to abide by your stringent non-consummation stipulations. Also, as you requested, we have provided Miss Collins with the address and entry code for your Los Angeles penthouse. The local court has been notified to expect you within the next two days.

  Please accept our congratulations on your upcoming wedding.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Alveda Creed, Diamond Bridal Agency

  Michael tossed the handwritten letter onto his desk and glared at the man he had admired his whole life…up until that moment.

  “Are you happy now, Dad? I did what you wanted,” he ground out, his voice as strangled as his choices.

  His father, Gilbert Donovan, President and CEO of Donovan Oil, stared at him with a hard gleam in his gray eyes.

  “No, I’m not happy. When I told you to find a wife, I didn’t expect you to use a goddamn bridal agency. Who in the hell contracts for a wife?”

  Michael shrugged, suddenly done with this conversation. “Men who don’t have the time or desire to do it themselves.”

  Gilbert cursed, running his long fingers through his thinning black hair.

  “Goddamn it, Michael! And not only did you hire a wife, you wrote in a non-consummation agreement? What fresh hell is that? You never expect to have sex with your own wife?”

  Now that got him riled up all over again. “You’re making me get married, and since I don’t have the time to be picky, I wanted to make sure that, whoever she is, she doesn’t expect me to find her attractive. With the non-consummation agreement in place, she knows ahead of time that sex isn’t part of the deal.” Michael stood up and turned away from his father to look out his office window, way up on the 90th floor of the Donovan Oil building in Oklahoma City. From up here, he could see all the way to Black Kettle National Grassland park. Sometimes, when he was feeling sucked dry by all the busyness, social responsibilities, and clingy women, he could look out over the city and feel…at peace. But, right now, with his father glaring daggers at his back, he only felt like a failure.

  Would he ever do right in his old man’s eyes?

  “What else do you want from me, Dad? I’m getting married in two days, just as you required.”

  Gilbert slammed his hand down on Michael’s desk. “That is not what I wanted, and you damn well know it! I wanted you to court some young lady, fall in love with her, and get married because it was what you both wanted. I didn’t want you to hire a wife, and I certainly didn’t want you to spend the rest of your life in a cold, sexless marriage.”

  Michael sneered, turning to look his dad in the eye.

  “Well, we can’t all get what we want. I wanted Donovan Innovations to be mine, but the chances of that are about as shitty as the chances of me finding a woman to love me and not the cha-ching that comes when she hears my last name.”

  Too many women had clung to him like stink on a pig just because his last name was Donovan, and he happened to be worth a billion dollars. That was one of the reasons why he stipulated that his bride not know who she was marrying. The last thing he needed was a woman who signed the paperwork just to get at his money. Sure, any woman contracting through Diamond Bridal Agency knew their prospects were wealthy, but not billionaire wealthy. He didn’t need another gold-digging society bitch to invade his most private life, too.

  Silence greeted his words, and Michael watched as his father’s expression fell.

  “Just so you know, I didn’t want to put those conditions on the loan. The board was concerned that, once you had the money for the start-up, that you would blow it on women and parties.”

  That accusation cut deeper than he thought it would. Most of his adult life, he'd heard nothing but what a loser he was, what a manwhore he was, how he would amount to nothing, even with all his daddy's money. It had taken an encounter with an unlikely woman to make him see that his life really had amounted to nothing. One spitfire in frumpy clothes, hanging fliers at a coffee shop was the only person in the whole world who dared tell him like it was. It had gutted him. That very next day, he'd sat down with one of his best friends and drafted the first pieces of what would eventually grow into Donovan Innovations; the world's leading petroleum products innovations company. Where some people saw only oil, Michael saw clean water for villages in Africa. Where some people saw only non-biodegradable plastic bottles, Michael saw wastewater filtration systems. When he'd finally knuckled down and done something, his own father had pulled out the rug from beneath his feet.

  “Well, it’s too late now. You have my company and I have a bride,” Michael mocked.

  Gilbert’s face turned a garish red. “Fine, you want it that way—If you can stay married to this—wife—for more than six months, I’ll give you Donovan Innovations back.”

  Michael couldn’t believe his ears…his father was giving him a chance?

  “You mean that,” Michael asked, taking a tentative step forward. “If I can stay married to my bride for more than six months, you’ll sign Donovan Innovations back to me? Clean? No conditions? The company will be mine free and clear?” He held his breath, unwilling to believe but unable to not hope…

  Gilbert nodded. “That’s right. I’ll have Garrison draw up the paperwork tonight. Show me, son, show me that you can do something with your life besides make money and make mistakes. Show me that I can put my trust in you again.”

  Before Michael could ask what the hell the old man meant about trusting him again, his father turned on his heel and left.

  Felling renewed, and a little more than hopeful, Michael grinned. Things were starting to look up. He was close to having the one thing he wanted—freedom. Now, all he had to do was convince his new bride that he was worth
keeping around. For six months, at least.

  Reaching over his desk, he hit the buzzer for Lorraine’s desk. It buzzed.

  “Mr. Donovan?” the cultured voice on the other side asked.

  “Lorraine, book the jet for my flight to LA.”

  “For when?” the voice of his fifty-five-year-old administrative assistant and sometimes life-saver drawled.

  “Immediately.”

  2

  Helene Collins keyed in the number for the private elevator in the ultra-exclusive condo building in the heart of downtown Los Angeles—Gallery Row—and prayed to God she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.

  “Get it together, Hel. This was your one shot to get married to someone who didn’t turn you away just because you don’t look like your mother—size zero.” No, she wasn’t a size zero, but if you added sixteen to that, you’d have the size of a real woman who couldn’t find a real man to appreciate real curves. Her size had been her companion since she’d grown boobs, and it didn’t help that her mother was one of the most timelessly beautiful actresses to ever grace the silver screen. Every time any man heard she was Babette LaRoque’s daughter, they immediately assumed she looked as poised, put together, and thin as her mother. Also, where her mother had bright blue eyes, Helene had brown. Where her mother had long, luxurious blonde hair, Helene had long, tightly curled red hair. And where her mother could fit through the eye of a needle, Helene barely fit the minimum requirements to not need a seatbelt extender on the airplane. She had round hips that curved up to meet her flat yet soft belly, that was capped off by breasts with a mind of their own. She had to buy her bras from plus-sized boutiques because none of the stick-women lingerie stores carried anything over a C. She was a DD and proud of it… So why was she struggling with this so much? Why was she letting her fears keep her from feeling the relief she’d felt when Mrs. Creed contacted her to tell her she’d been selected?

  Helene sighed. Would she forever be compared to her flawless mother? Wasn't that one of the reasons she'd taken this huge risk in the first place? She didn't want the man she married to know anything about her family because she didn't want them to have astronomical expectations only to be catastrophically disappointed when she walked down the aisle. This way, keeping things anonymous, her potential husband was just as trapped in their arrangement as she was. If he signed the contract and didn’t follow through, he’d have to pay out the nose for breaking the contract, and she’d be settled with a large sum for her trouble.

  Not that she needed the money. She had millions in the bank, but, like the song said: Money can’t buy me love… And so, she gave some of her money away. She lived in a small studio apartment in Sun Valley, wore clothes she bought at Marshalls, volunteered her time at a battered women’s shelter, and would use her evenings to go around hanging donations fliers around the swankier sections of downtown LA. Those people had money to burn, they might as well give it to a good cause.

  Unlike that one asshole who smiled at me while his girlfriend ripped up a hundred-dollar bill in my face. Lord, but she wanted to claw that woman's eyes out and pluck the too gorgeous smile from that asshat's face. Instead, she'd lit into both of them about what a waste they were to society, and how they were better off comatose in a hospice than ruining perfectly good brain cells and tearing up perfectly good money.

  God, that had been one of the most humiliating moments in her life, and even now, three years later, it still stung. But, she was glad she’d never had to deal with that again. With her husband’s wealth, she could set up a charitable foundation and actually work with people who wanted to make a difference.

  But first, she had to convince her husband to keep her around, even after he realized what he was getting himself into. No, she wasn’t classically beautiful, but the requirements he’d included in the ad didn’t say anything about looks. He’d just stated that he’d wanted an intelligent woman, who knew the ins and outs of high society, and was willing to agree to a non-consummation clause.

  That last bit meant one of two things; the man was old and ugly, or, he was gay and wanted to get married to keep up appearances. She could live with either one. She didn’t care what the guy looked like—especially since she wasn’t expected to sleep with him—as long as he gave her the same courtesy. And, if the guy preferred guys, she’d wish him happy. She didn’t mind covering for someone who wanted to find love on his own terms.

  The bell to the private elevator dinged and the double doors slid open, and Helene stepped onto it, towing her one duffel bag behind her. The agency didn’t tell her what to pack, so, she threw her better clothes into her duffel, along with her hair smoothing spray and toiletries, and called for a taxi. Mrs. Creed said that, usually, the prospective husband would provide money and a detailed list of what they wanted their prospective brides to purchase and wear. She didn’t get such a list. Apparently, her future husband didn’t care if she wore a flour sack or something from Sachs.

  When she’d given the cabbie the address for the penthouse, he gave her side eye, which wasn’t a surprise. He was picking her up in Sun Valley and depositing her in Gallery Row. Anyone could assume there was some skeevy going on.

  The interior of the elevator was all shined copper, framed by ornate mahogany wood. Like an old duke’s sitting room. She pushed the button for the penthouse and was then prompted to key in the entry code again. She did so, and then the elevator began to ascend. Her stomach descended as each floor number blinked passed.

  “What am I doing?” she asked no one…because she had no one but herself to rely on.

  Before she could hit the emergency stop button and give herself a moment to breathe through the growing panic, the elevator dinged again, indicating that she’d reached her final destination.

  Ah, come on…you are being too dramatic. This is just the beginning. Think of it as a chance to start a life where you are more than just Babette’s disappointing daughter.

  When the doors slid open, she blinked, staring into a wide-open room, luxuriously furnished, with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over downtown LA. Even from inside the elevator she could see clear to the Santa Monica Mountains!

  “Holy shit,” she muttered.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she left the elevator and walked onto the shiniest floor she’d ever seen. Hardwoods in gray. Everything in the room gleamed! Straight lines, monochromatic colors, and chrome. As she walked, the echoing of her heels on the hardwood turned silent as she treaded over high pile rugs that looked to be made of white fur. She looked down, then up, and up and up. The ceiling was so high they could park their jet in it.

  Helene shook her head, trying to dislodge her practicality, and turned back to retrieve her bag from the elevator. She stopped, distracted by the full-length mirror just inside the apartment. She couldn’t help but look at herself in contrast to the room behind her. She was wearing worn jeans that hugged her hips, a soft pink knit sweater that cupped her breasts, sliding off one shoulder in a peek-a-boo fashion to reveal the cherry red strap of her bra, and bright red heels. When she’d woken up that morning, she knew she had to wear something that would make a good first impression, but she refused to rush out and buy something new, not when she had perfectly good clothes in her closet. Now…she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

  Her gaze traveled over her jeans, her sweater, and finally took in her face. She didn't like wearing heavy makeup, which worked fine because she'd been blessed with a fair, nearly perfect complexion—thank you, Mother. She wore pink lip gloss instead of lipstick, and her naturally flushed cheeks were in striking contrast to the burnished red of her hair, which she’d piled into a mass of curls atop her head. Her brown eyes had once been compared to a cup of mocha, and she had to agree. Deep, rich brown.

  Taking one last look at herself, she shrugged. If he didn’t like her, it didn’t matter. She knew her own worth, and she didn’t care if her ugly, old husband didn’t see it.

  Determined to begin a
s she meant to go on, Helene grabbed her bag and decided to make herself at home.

  3

  He couldn’t believe it had taken six months to get back to LA. He’d missed the sun, the sea, and the best coffee at the best little coffee shop, just two blocks from his penthouse. One of the reasons he loved living in Gallery Row was how elegant yet comfortable everything was. So what if he was a billionaire? He could walk down the street, enjoying the weather without feeling out of place. Besides, his wallet didn’t dictate his lifestyle—not really. His father said he was a fool for not hiring private security, but Michael only saw that as suffocating. He was a grown ass man, why should he have to ask permission to walk down to the local coffee shop and buy a cup of coffee?

  Michael handed the barista, Livia, a fifty and told her to keep it, even though his tall, black coffee only cost him five. He could afford to be generous, especially since he was about to get his own company back. He smiled at Livia and turned to leave the coffee shop, but something made him stop in his tracks.

  His glance landed on the community bulletin board in the back of the shop. That was where he met the woman who'd completely changed the way he looked at himself. She'd been hanging fliers about some women's shelter in need of donations, and Amanda had pointed and laughed at the woman. Amanda, his girlfriend, and greatest mistake, had sneered and turned up her $20,000 nose at the woman because she was wearing black yoga pants, an overlarge sweatshirt with a large pair of red lips on it, and flip-flops.

  Michael could have cared less what the woman was wearing. To him, she looked comfortable. And…well, she was pretty enough, despite her lack of makeup or style. Her red hair had been sloppily braided, her face was bare of make-up, and her brown eyes were flashing with defiance at Amanda. He didn't know why, but he'd smiled at her. He liked her fire. It called to him, made him take notice.