Billionaire Bachelor_Michael

by Eve Black

  Michael laughed, his deep chuckles rumbling through her, making her nipples hard and her already sopping wet pussy ache for him all over again. Then, he’d told her about how he always wanted to be Han Solo—the rest of the night, they’d discussed Rogue One and The Last Jedi, in between steamy romps, gasping, hot sex, and even more laughter.

  And now…she was cradled against her husband’s chest, wondering when—what exact moment—she’d fallen in love with him; Michael Donovan, billionaire, sexy as hell wet fantasy…her husband.

  Sensations, hot, deep, thrilling, and terrifying bombarded her, and she couldn’t drag in a full breath.

  I need to cook!

  When Michael groaned in his sleep, his arm tightening around her back, she held her breath. She needed to get out of there, put some space between her and the man who had completely turned her life upside down.

  But isn’t that what you wanted? What she wanted was a comfortable life with a man who appreciated her, not because of who her mother was but for her. Helene Collins, smart, funny, amazing wife. Not Helene Collins, daughter of Babette, complete and utter disappointment in societal circles.

  As the sun rose over the LA sky, making the smog glow a vibrant orange, she waited for Michael to wake up or move, so she could move. While she adored laying in his strong, warm arms, she was itching to find a way to think through all she was feeling.

  I’ll make a frittata. From her baking frenzy the afternoon before, she knew there was eggs, fresh sausage, and veggies in the fridge. She could make a frittata and sautéed potatoes. The more she thought about it, the more excited she got. She could make her husband breakfast, for the first time in their marriage. And after the night they’d just shared, the man needed his protein.

  She stifled a gleeful giggle and waited for Michael to turn over onto his stomach. Helene held her breath, slowly slipping from the bed. Then, she stood, staring at her husband’s delicious, hard, beautiful ass.

  Oh. My. God! His ass was like the Greek masters formed the rock-hard globes out of pristine marble. She moaned, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle the sound before it woke him up.

  Running to her room to grab a fresh t-shirt, something sickly sweet and astringent hit her nose. She stopped, looking at the steel door a little further down the hall from her bedroom. What the hell was that smell? She shrugged; it was probably some fancy cleaning product. With her t-shirt on, she headed toward the kitchen, eager as hell to make her man some breakfast.

  Helene pulled her laptop from her satchel and searched for a frittata recipe she’d seen on Pinterest. She found it, then, she opened her Facebook account to check in on her small list of friends and family. One of the bridal agency’s requirements was that no one could know she’d used them, which meant no one could know how she and Michael ended up together.

  She grinned…Jamie would get a kick out of her story—if she could tell him, that is.

  Scanning her newsfeed, she noticed that her brother had uploaded a bunch of new pictures, tagging her in a few. She looked through them and groaned. The pictures were from her mom's last party, one of the many her mom threw at her Malibu beach house. Against her better judgment, Helene had attended. She spent the night listening to Hollywood types marvel at how she didn't look a thing like her mother—some even asking if she planned to visit a cosmetic surgeon to get a full "remodeling".

  Sighing, she clicked the tab for the recipe, determined to forget about all the crap in the past, and focus on the new…a future with a man who didn’t care if she wasn’t her mother’s daughter.

  The ding of the elevator brought her up short. She wasn’t exactly wearing what one would call guest-appropriate clothing. Hell, she hadn’t even put her panties back on—she’d been hoping for some after-breakfast sex, right on the kitchen counter.

  The smile on her face died an immediate and bloody death when the last person she’d ever expected to see slunk off the elevator.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” the bitch shrieked, her plastic face snapping into a hideous image of spite and venom. Her pencil thin eyebrows dropped into a V and her lips curled up, revealing a line of pearly white teeth.

  Startled by the woman’s appearance, Helene blurted, “What are you doing here,” like a damn idiot parrot.

  The woman planted her hands on her narrow hips. “I’m here to meet my fiancé for breakfast,” the woman hissed, emphasizing the word fiancé, and Helene felt the world topple.

  Acidic bile rose into her throat, choking her, and she couldn’t breathe through the anguish that crushed her chest.

  Michael was…engaged. Which made her marriage to him the joke she’d feared it was from the moment she met him.

  Forgetting about cooking, she fisted her hands at her sides and met the woman’s glimmering gaze. “Me? Oh, don’t worry about me. I was just about to make myself some breakfast.”

  “I know who you are,” the woman exclaimed, as a cloud of pungent perfume wafted toward Helene.

  “Oh, do you?” Helene asked, disbelief in her tone.

  “You’re that slob from the café…three years ago. What the hell are you doing in Michael’s penthouse? Never mind, I know what you’re doing. Somehow you heard that his father is making him get married to keep his company, and now you’re trying to worm your way into his wallet. That’s it, isn’t it?” the woman asked, eyeing Helene’s t-shirt and where it landed, mid-thigh.

  Shocked by what the woman just revealed, Helene couldn’t stop the blood from leaving her face. That’s why he hired the bridal agency? But why didn’t he just marry his fiancé? Why did he have to settle for a chubby ginger when he could have had the tight blonde?

  “He let me crash here,” she finally forced out, her tongue like sandpaper. “You know, because I am so poor.”

  The woman arched an eyebrow and crossed her hands over her chest. “Uh huh. I suspect Michael was being generous in offering you a place to stay…along with some pity sex. He’s like that. But it’s over now. Just because Michael and I took a break for a few months, doesn’t mean it’ll happen again. I mean to keep what is mine.”

  Stunned by the ugliness of the woman’s words, Helene didn’t notice Michael entering the kitchen.

  “Amanda? It isn’t Saturday,” Michael’s sleep thickened voice sounded from behind her. Helene stiffened. So…he wasn’t surprised to see the woman there. He’d been expecting Amanda.

  Forcing her stomach to stop churning, Helene avoided looking at Michael and his fiancée and turned to hurry down the hallway. She could hear Michael’s voice, he was speaking to Amanda in urgent tones. But Helene didn’t want to hear.

  Get dressed, get gone.

  In less than ten minutes, Helene was packed and was punching in the code to the back door. It was then that she realized what that cloying scent was that she'd smelled earlier; Amanda had been there. More than likely last night…while Helene had been out, trudging through the rain, trying to get home to a husband who was obviously having a grand old time with his fiancée. The woman he'd wanted to marry in the first place.

  They can have each other.

  And as she descended the steel staircase all the way to the bottom floor, she let the tears fall.

  16

  “What the hell are you doing here, Amanda? You can’t just barge in here whenever you want!” Michael said, frustration feeding the tension in his muscles. Helene and Amanda… Damn! He had to get to Helene, explain that he hadn’t invited Amanda to the penthouse, that Amanda meant nothing to him. That she was all he wanted. She was his wife, dammit! No other woman would ever make him feel as she did. Make him want as she did. Make him burn and laugh and care as she did.

  Amanda pouted, slinking over to him to put her hands on his naked arms. In his hurry to get out of bed and nuzzle Helene—perhaps seducing her into a hot, wet bout of morning sex—he’d only thrown on his jeans, not even bothering to button them.

  “You know why I’m here, Michael…” she purred, running a bright o
range talon down his bicep. He stepped back, unable to stomach the woman touching him. “I just couldn’t wait for Saturday. I needed to see you today. I thought…” she said, her pout deepening, “that we’d get reacquainted…maybe talk about the good times. You remember the good times, don’t you? The sex on the beach in Bali? The sex on the elevator at the Astoria? The sex—”

  “Enough,” Michael barked, “I don’t want to talk about this.” Growing more frustrated by the minute, Michael reached up and combed both hands through his hair—his wedding ring catching on a thick strand. He’d forgotten he’d put it on last night, after he and Helene had made love the third time. She’d fallen asleep and he’d snuck from bed to retrieve it from his office wall safe. When he bought it, he was unsure about when or even if he would ever put it on; their marriage wasn’t exactly normal, and he didn’t know if he’d ever truly feel married to a woman he didn’t know. But last night…everything had changed.

  He pulled his hands from his hair and flipped his hand over, staring at the diamond encrusted band around his ring finger. It was a brand, a vow that symbolized his union with the woman who’d stormed away, and was probably even now sulking in her bedroom.

  When he looked up he noticed Amanda had noticed the ring, too.

  She pointed at it, mouth agape, eyes wide. “What the hell is that?”

  “My wedding ring,” he answered simply.

  Her gaze flew up to his, disbelief, shock, and anger written into her expression.

  “You can’t be serious?” she blurted. “Don’t tell me you married that cow.”

  Anger, white-hot and heavy, unfurled within him. "Don't talk about my wife like that. As a matter of fact, get the hell out of our apartment. You aren't welcome here, Amanda."

  She stiffened, tipping up her chin defiantly. “You can’t mean that. We were good together, Michael. What can that poor bitch offer you that I can’t?”

  His answer was immediate. “Everything I never thought I needed.”

  Speechless, Amanda stared at him, her hands clutched at her sides, her claws digging into her palms. Good. He wanted her to think on that, he wanted her to realize that she would never measure up to Helene. That Helene was a thousand times better than her.

  “Go, now, Amanda,” Michael commanded, pointing toward the elevator.

  As if pulling her head out of her pert ass, Amanda pulled back her shoulders, glared at Michael, and stomped from the penthouse. Once the elevator doors were closed, Michael breathed a sigh of relief—but the relief was short-lived.

  He had a lot of explaining to do to his wife.

  Turning toward the hallway he stopped.

  It might be a good idea to think about what you’re going to say before you say it. There is a ton of information to unpack before you unload it on her. And, she might need a moment to calm down. His logical self had a point. Heading back into the kitchen, Michael noticed Helene’s laptop. It was open and a recipe for sausage and spinach frittatas was on the screen. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. The second tab was her Facebook page.

  Overwhelmed by a flood of curiosity, Michael sat on the island stool and clicked the tab.

  It wasn’t just her Facebook page, it was her picture albums. Page after page of pictures she’d been tagged in. Parties, vacations, charity events, and in nearly every one she looked…sad. While others were grinning, she was only offering a half smile. Her beautiful eyes were dull fabrications of the eyes he’d seen last night, eyes filled with passion and desire and excitement. It was Helene’s face, Helene’s body…but it wasn’t Helene.

  He continued scrolling through the pictures, stopping when an image caught his attention.

  He clicked on it. The image was of a very familiar celebrity, and she was standing next to a sadly smiling Helene. Michael read the caption: Me and Mom at the Malibu house.

  Mom? Realization slammed into him. Helene Collins was the daughter of Hollywood powerhouse, Babette LaRoque. It was no wonder Helene didn’t care about his money, she was probably wealthy in her own right.

  Shit!

  Suddenly desperate to see his wife, touch his wife, tell her that he knew, that he was sorry for being such an ass, Michael sprinted down the hallway toward her room.

  Her empty room.

  Stunned, Michael stood staring at the drawers pulled out of the dresser, the open closet doors, and the utterly empty, lonely bedroom.

  She’s gone.

  Gutted, his heart pounding, his chest tightening, Michael leaned against the door, willing his mind to slow so he could think.

  She must have left during his confrontation with Amanda, which meant she couldn’t have gotten that far. But…where would she go? He knew about the shelter, but he also knew she must’ve had an apartment in LA before moving into the penthouse. And what about Helene’s mother? Would Helene go to her mom? Fear pierced him at the thought. With her mother’s help, Helene could disappear for months. His father’s addendum required him to remain married for six months, which meant together for six months.

  Fuck that. He didn’t give a shit about that right now. What was his company without the woman who’d inspired him to build it? What was all the money in the world without the woman who’d brought him true riches?

  “No!” he roared. “I won’t let this happen.”

  Helene was his wife. His. And wasn't going to let her go that easily. But how could he get her back? It was obvious she cared for him, their explosive lovemaking was a sign of that, but that wouldn't be enough to bring a woman like Helene back into his life. She came from money, so money wouldn't do it—and honestly, he didn't want her back if it was the money that drew her. He remembered the outburst on the day they met; she'd talked about how she was tired of people never seeing her, wanting to know her, seeing her worth. A woman like Helene, a beautiful, amazing woman who'd lived in her mother's shadow for too long, needed someone to show her that she was wonderful, incredible, the most important thing to them. And he was that person.

  Storming to his bedroom, Michael dressed quickly. He had some plans to make.

  17

  One month later…

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Helene grumbled, staring across the green room at her mother who was primping in the vanity mirror. “I am going to be humiliated.”

  Her mother stopped in the midst of applying another layer of lipstick and turned to eye her daughter.

  “This is for a good cause, Helene. And why would you be humiliated? You look lovely—I told you Jorge would turn you into a bombshell.”

  Sighing, Helene turned to take her in own reflection in the mirror behind her. Okay…so her mom was right. Jorge was a miracle worker. He’d tamed her copper curls into a coronet of sleek, smooth fire. Her brown eyes were shown off to perfection with the understated gold and silver eyeshadow. Her usually round eyes looked like cat’s eyes, with the thick black eyeliner Jorge had to expertly applied. And her lips…she’d drawn the line at her lips. She didn’t like how greasy lipsticks made her feel, so she’d opted to wear her own simple soft pink lip gloss.

  Now…the rest of her was wrapped up in a tight, form-fitting sea green, off-the-shoulder gown. The bustier she'd bought did a wonderful job of supporting her girls and even showed them off in a way that would make Christina Hendricks jealous. The gown's hem hit her mid-calf, which made her legs look long and marvelous. Ok, so Jorge knew what the hell he was talking about when he forced her into that dress.

  She looked amazing, and for the first time in 30 days, 10 hours, and 17 minutes, she didn’t feel like utter shit.

  Stop! Don’t think about Michael or his lies or his fiancé or his goddamn perfect ass!

  She needed to focus on something that wasn’t going to make her ruin her make-up. Swallowing down the burn of tears in her throat, she turned away from the mirror.

  “Who’s throwing this party again?” she asked. Her mother had called her two weeks ago, adamant about her attending some fundraiser in Mi
ami. And, to be honest, it hadn’t taken much convincing. She’d already worked her way through the ice cream stash at her mother’s house, and since her own apartment had already been rented out to someone else, she’d been neck deep—and frustrated—in apartment listings. She was more than ready to get out of Malibu. Except, now she wondered what the hell she’d been thinking.

  “Some rich guy from Oklahoma. He called me personally and asked me to host,” her mother replied.

  "Yeah, but did have to be an auction? And why do I have to be in it? I'm not a bachelorette," she whined, knowing full well how petulant she sounded. She missed Michael. She missed him like a bird missed flying after their wing broke. She missed his smile, his smell, his laugh. She missed how it felt to be in his arms, how it felt to have him inside her, filling her—with himself and with the hope that she was finally loved.

  “I know, darling, but you said yourself, that’s over. That means you’re available. That means you’re on the auction block with five other eligible heiresses.” Her mother smiled, and Helene didn’t bother to return it. She’d told her mother she’d fallen for a guy, had gotten married on the fly, but the marriage hadn’t lasted. Not surprisingly, her mother didn’t judge—she’d had her own fair share of disastrous marriages.

  Sighing, her mother came to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Tell you what…you endure this evening and go through with the auction, and whatever price you get, I’ll double it and donate that amount to your precious women’s shelter.”

  Shocked, Helene stared at her mother. “You mean it?” she asked, her heart beating quickly. If she could get even $5,000, the shelter would get $10,000, and they could do a lot with that kind of money.