The Billionaire and the Virgin

by Jessica Clare

  They paused as the waiter returned, and Rob ordered for both of them—a surf and turf special so she wouldn’t protest the price. She looked mildly unhappy at the thought of spending so much money, but said nothing. When the waiter left, she leaned in again. “So, Mr. Cannon—”

  “Rob,” he said warningly.

  “Rob,” she amended. “Are you here for the wedding or vacationing?”

  It was clear she had no idea who he was. He liked that. To think that he might get to know a girl like Marjorie without the inevitable turning up of her nose once she found out what he did for a living. One thing was for sure, she was damn sheltered if she didn’t, though. He—

  They paused as the waiter gave them a spiel as he brought out the wine and showed the bottle to them. Rob barely paid attention, watching Marjorie’s rapt face as the waiter told her about the vintage and the flavor and poured her a glass, swirling it as he handed it to her.

  To his surprise, Marjorie downed the entire inch in the glass. She coughed and put a hand to her mouth, then pressed her napkin to her lips.

  “Are you all right?” Rob asked.

  She continued to cough and waved a hand. “Wrong pipe.”

  He sipped his wine, and gave the waiter a nod. “Thank you. We’ll take it from here.”

  The man gave him a concerned look but nodded and walked away, no doubt to laugh about Rob’s date swilling her taster. Rob poured her another inch into her wine glass. “Do you enjoy wine, Marjorie?”

  “Oh sure, I drink it all the time,” she told him.

  “A connoisseur? What kind is your favorite?”

  She blinked and then pointed at her glass, eyes watering. “This one.”

  Right. Somehow he doubted that.

  She gave him a big smile and picked up her glass again, taking another big gulp as if to prove her point, and choking only a little this time. It was a little ridiculous, but also a little adorable, so Rob didn’t comment on it.

  The waiter returned a minute later, put down their salads, then disappeared again. When he was gone, Rob picked up his flatware and tried to turn the conversation back to the original topic. “Wedding?” He feigned ignorance.

  She nodded. “Brontë and Logan? I guess if I have to tell you, that means no, right?” Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile and she reached for the wine, taking another sip.

  “I’m not here for the wedding,” he admitted truthfully. “Are you?”

  “You are looking at bridesmaid number four out of five.”

  Just as he’d suspected. Rob wanted to groan in frustration. If Logan knew that Rob was out on a date with one of the bridesmaids in the wedding? After their little talk? He’d think Rob was up to no good.

  And he couldn’t blame him for that. Not after hinting of blackmail to the man. He’d definitely have to keep his relationship with Marjorie on the down-low.

  Because he definitely intended on having a relationship.

  “Bridesmaiding, huh? Sounds like fun,” he lied.

  “It’s pretty awful,” she admitted, which made him laugh again. “I’m not a fan of attention as it is, and Brontë’s marrying a guy that seems to be a pretty big deal. I’m told this will be in the society papers and everything.” She shuddered. “Add that with a bridesmaid dress that seems to accentuate my height, and I’m in my own sort of quiet hell.”

  “So why not tell the bride to fu—uh . . . tell her that you’re not interested?”

  She gave him a vaguely reproachful look. “Because she’s my friend and she asked. I couldn’t refuse. The wedding isn’t about me, anyhow. It’s about her. And it’s not such a big sacrifice, really. I got a few weeks off of work and an all-expenses-paid vacation, so it’s not so bad. And Brontë is wonderful. Truly one of the best people I’ve ever met.” Her expression grew soft with affection. “I adore her.”

  He grunted, spearing his lettuce. Hearing her go on rhapsodically about Logan’s sainted bride made him think that if Logan found Rob still at the resort, he was going to get booted out on his ass.

  And wouldn’t the paparazzi love that. He could see the headline now. Tits or GTFO? The Man Channel’s billionaire owner must not have listened!

  Yeah, fuck that noise. “Listen, Marjorie, I—” He paused, staring at her.

  She was gazing at something just to his left, her fork halfway lifted to her pretty pink lips, which were currently parted. She kept blinking, the look on her face incredulous.

  So he couldn’t help it. He looked over.

  At the next table over, two women sat, gazing over in his direction. It was clear they recognized him, based on the lascivious looks they were shooting in his direction. As he looked over, the brunette grabbed her blonde friend and they began to kiss and make out in a very obvious display. Lipstick smeared on their mouths as they tongued each other, both of them looking at him, and one played with the spaghetti strap of the other, hinting that she’d take the top off if he’d only ask.

  It happened to him all the time. Tits or GTFO was their biggest show and a bit of a legend. It was a game show in that they’d show up someplace public and offer a hot girl money to go topless. She either had to show her “Tits or GTFO.” And there were plenty of girls who were willing to take his money. Enough that they’d never have to show a single fucking rerun. Wherever he went, women tried to get his attention, and most flirty women knew that the best way to get a man’s attention was to coyly make out with the woman next to her.

  Every dick in a room stopped for two chicks making out, after all.

  Rob rolled his eyes at their antics and glanced over at his date. Judging from Marjorie’s shock, she had no idea what had prompted this action. He leaned in, trying to distract her. “Island girls are pretty forward, huh?”

  She looked over at him and her mouth closed. She nodded and put her fork down. “I’ll say. My goodness gracious.” Twin spots of color flagged her cheeks and she grabbed the glass of wine and chugged it again.

  He was about to tease Marjorie that her exclamation sounded like something his grandmother would say when someone walked up to the table. Oh hell. Rob looked up in vague annoyance to see the forward brunette standing at his side. Her red lipstick was smeared on her wet mouth, and up close, her lips looked over-plumped and injected with too much silicone.

  “Just wanted to drop this off,” she said in a breathy voice, sliding a slip of paper with her phone number (or room number, depending on how forward she really was) toward his hand. She winked at him. “See you later . . . hopefully.” And she sauntered off, her hips swaying.

  God damn it. Couldn’t a man eat his meal without being interrupted? He chewed angrily on a mouthful of lettuce, ignoring Marjorie’s shocked stare.

  “Did you know her?” she asked. Her words were slightly slurred. Surely she couldn’t be drunk off of one glass of wine, could she?

  “Nope. I can honestly say I’ve never met that girl.” Hundreds like her, yes. That one in particular? No.

  “Is that her phone number?” she asked in a low, hurt voice. As he watched, she took another gulp of wine. A droplet or two ran off the corners of her mouth and landed on her cleavage.

  He stared at those beads of glistening liquid, then shook himself. Fuck. This date was turning into a hot mess. He had to save this. He didn’t want the girl that had just left—chicks like her were a dime a dozen. He wanted the one across from him, the one that couldn’t hide what she was thinking if her life depended on it. The one that was currently getting drunk off of expensive wine because she was so nervous. So he grabbed his napkin and pried the lid off of the lantern at the table, revealing the small candle and flame within. He took the girl’s number without unfolding the paper and fed it to the candle.

  Marjorie gave him a hesitant, confused smile. “Boy, they really are forward, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed.”

  ***

  By the time they got to dessert, Rob’s date was plastered. Marjorie had downed half of the bottle of wine and was curr
ently staring at him with a dopey, glassy-eyed expression, her chin resting on her fists. The angle of her arms made her small tits sit right on the tabletop, and the deep cleavage of her dress made them practically spill out.

  And still, Rob didn’t look. Christ, it was hard being a gentleman. He even glared at their waiter when he hovered over Marjorie for too long, daring the man to take one look in that direction and he’d get no tip whatsoever.

  “So what are you thinking, Marjorie?”

  That silly smile on her face grew wider. “That you’re so pretty.”

  He gave her a faint smile. “That so?”

  “Yeah,” she said dreamily, gazing at him. “I never dated anyone quite so pretty as you.”

  He was going to retort that men weren’t really pretty, but the conversation was heading in a much more interesting direction. “And do you date a lot?” he asked.

  “All the time,” she said, and then shook her head, contradicting her words.

  He frowned. He understood a girl getting a little drunk on a date, especially if she was as nervous as Marjorie. But she was past tipsy and well into plastered. “You want to eat some bread or something?”

  “Nope, I’m good.” She reached for her wine again.

  He reached over and switched her glass to water.

  ***

  The rest of dinner was a mess, in Rob’s opinion. They chatted and laughed about simple, easy topics, like the weather, the resort, and the size of the portions of the overpriced but tasty food. Sometimes, Marjorie was cute as a button. She’d laugh at all his jokes, throw in a few corny ones of her own . . . and then would ruin it by chugging more wine. It was baffling. It was frustrating, too, because there were glimmers of greatness in their date, only to be ruined by drunken giggling or a dopey, glazed look from his date.

  And Rob dealt with enough drunks in his day to day work. He sure didn’t want his date acting like one. So he rushed them through dinner, hoping it’d stop her from drinking so much wine, and practically snatched the bill up when it came time to pay.

  She reached for it, too. “We should go halvsies.”

  “I’m not a cheap fuck.”

  She gave him a prim look, and then giggled into her wine. “I can pay my own.”

  Yeah right. He knew how much she made a year. “Again, I’m not a cheap fuck.”

  “All right,” she said, smiling happily over her glass of wine. “Just do me a favor and tip him well. He did a good job and they’re short-handed.”

  That observation surprised him. “How can you tell?”

  She nodded as the waiter sailed past them, carrying a pitcher of water. “He’s got two sections, and the other one’s clear across the restaurant. He’s having to hustle tonight, so I’m guessing that he’s covering for someone.” She gave him a little smile. “I told you I was a waitress, right?”

  “Nope. You didn’t.” His assistant had told him that, though.

  “Yeah. Nothing fancy here.” She shrugged. “Been meaning to go back to college, but I took a semester off and just never went back.”

  Rob glanced down at the thirty-dollar tip he’d left and added a 2 in front of it on the receipt, then showed it to Marjorie. “That okay?”

  He expected her to protest, being so incredibly stingy when it came to the food, but her eyes lit up and she positively beamed at him, regarding him like he was a fucking hero. “That’s so wonderful, Rob. You’ll make his night worth it.”

  “If that’s the look I get, I’ll add another digit in front of it,” he said, taking the receipt back.

  Laughing, she smacked his hand. “Don’t!”

  He nodded at the nearby dance floor. “Now that we’ve eaten, want to dance a little?”

  To his surprise, the open expression on her face cooled and she shook her head.

  “Why not?” She’d been giving the dance floor little covert glances all throughout dinner, and he figured most women loved to dance. “I’m not totally fu—uh, terrible. Just mostly terrible.”

  She smiled. “It’s not you. It’s me.” She pushed a leg up one side of the table. “I’ll tower over you. People’ll stare.”

  That was all it was? “Let them stare.” But when she shook her head again and crossed her arms over her chest, he wondered about her ugly shoes. The night she’d gotten out of the cab with her friends, she’d been wearing a pair of classy high heels. Tonight, with him, she was wearing ugly black flats. “Is this why you’re wearing those shoes? So you aren’t quite so tall?”

  She licked her lips and said nothing.

  “So you’re tall! So fucking what?”

  Her eyes widened.

  He mentally cursed himself for slipping a four-letter word in there. “What I meant to say was that it’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m taller than most men.”

  “I’m smarter than most men. You think that’s bringing me down?”

  She just gave him a look.

  “You’re an amazon,” he agreed. “There’s no hiding that.”

  The look on her face grew hurt, and he had a vague feeling like he’d kicked a puppy.

  “Let me tell you something,” he said, leaning in. “If they have a problem with you being taller than your date, that’s their issue, not yours. Your legs are gorgeous and they look amazing in heels, and I’m a selfish enough guy to insist that you wear something that makes you look great. And if you’re taller than me, so what? I’m secure enough in my masculinity to not give a . . . a . . .” Hell, he couldn’t think of something that wasn’t vulgar. Give a fuck? Give a shit? Give a rat’s ass?

  “Darn?” she supplied.

  “Yes. Darn. I don’t give a darn.” His mouth curved. “Now will you please come dance?” It wasn’t like he was fucking dying to dance. Hell, he was a dude. He hated dancing. But the opportunity to press Marjorie against him and see those long legs moving in that short skirt? He was totally on board for that.

  “Well, all righty then,” she said happily. “Lessdance.” She got to her feet and nearly knocked the table over as she stood, and Rob reached out to help her.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” she enthused, her face flushed.

  He wasn’t so sure about that, but they headed to the dance floor, Rob’s arm anchoring around Marjorie’s waist. In flats, she was pretty much the same height as him, and he liked that. The music changed to a slow, sultry song, and Marjorie’s arms went around his neck, her loose breasts pressing against his chest. And Rob forgot all about not staring, because her tits were small and sweet and pushed up against him and how could he not look down?

  “Are you having fun?” he murmured as they began to sway to the music.

  “A lot of fun,” she said in that slurred, breathless voice. Her gaze fixed on his mouth and she leaned in. “Can we kiss?”

  As much as he wanted to, he shook his head. “You’re pretty drunk, Marjorie.”

  She shook her head violently. “Am not!” And her knees sagged. “Whoa, I think the floor moved.”

  He groaned and hauled her against him. “Stand up, Marjorie. You’re drunk.”

  She giggled and clung to him, staggering. “It’s breezy in here!”

  People were staring at them, and Rob checked her dress. Covered up top, but the bottom had slid up. Fucking perfect. He tugged it back down for her and then looked for the closest chair to deposit her in, since she was no longer even trying to stand up straight. The bar was only a few feet away, so he hauled her there and planted her on a stool. “Stay here,” he told her. “I’ll go get your purse.”

  Marjorie giggled and made a big show of pointing at the bar. “Right here.” It made her top slide down one arm, her breast nearly falling out.

  He adjusted her clothing, trying not to feel exasperated. This night was turning into a fucking disaster. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll be two minutes.” He hustled back across the restaurant, looking for their table. To his dismay, it had already been cleared and Marjorie’s purse was nowhere
to be seen. He looked for the waiter, instead.

  Naturally, he was nowhere to be found. Rob waited a few minutes, impatient, and then when he still didn’t show up, he flagged down another waiter. “I need my date’s things,” he told the man. “Where’s my goddamn server?”

  The man looked startled. “What section are you in?” When Rob showed him, he nodded. “He’s on break right now.”

  “Then go fucking find him,” Rob gritted. “Right goddamn now.”

  “Of course.” The waiter disappeared, and eventually Rob’s waiter was located, the purse retrieved. He headed back toward the bar, hoping that Marjorie hadn’t fallen asleep waiting for him.

  She hadn’t. She was leaning close to a guy at the bar who was looking down the front of her dress, and giggling as she tossed back a shot.

  Furious, Rob stormed over. “Marjorie, what are you doing?”

  She turned around on the barstool and beamed at him, all cleavage and drunken smiles. “I’m doing shots with this lovely gentleman!” She patted the man on the arm. “He’s so nice, and he bought them for me.”

  “You shouldn’t be doing shots,” Rob told her. “Not after all that wine.”

  “Lay off, man,” the guy said and slid her another shot. “She’s just having a little fun.”

  “Jimmy,” she said, “This is my date, Rob. Isn’t he pretty?”

  Jimmy looked him up and down. “Nope. You’re more my type, darlin’.”

  “Not your darlin’,” she said merrily before swigging the next shot. She coughed as soon as it went down. “Ugh, that one was rough. What was it?”

  “Tequila,” Jimmy answered.

  “Marjorie, come on,” Rob said. Hell and fuck. Why was he the one being all responsible and shit? But the way “Jimmy” was eyeing Marjorie made him want to punch the fucker’s lights out, and Marjorie was too tipsy to realize it was a bad idea to take drinks from strangers. “You really shouldn’t be doing shots.”

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “Liquor after beer, never fear.”

  “It’s liquor before beer,” Rob corrected, putting a possessive hand on Marjorie’s back. “And you can’t handle your alcohol either way. We should return.”