The Bad Boy Billionaire's Wicked Arrangement (3 page)

“Why can’t I just find a nice guy with a steady job and benefits?”

“Oh, the romance. Oh, be still my beating heart,” Roxanna said dryly. “I have an idea.”

Roxanna grinned wickedly and started doing something on my phone. I reached for it, and she lunged away. “Hey, Jane, watch the drinks.”

“Roxanna, what are you doing?”

“This.”

She held out the phone.

Heartbeat: stopped.

Breathing: stopped.

My life: Over.

Duke Austen was tagged in Jane Sparks’ life event

Jane Sparks and Duke Austen got engaged

Everyone would see it. My mom, my dad, my sister. Everyone from Milford, my co-workers at the library, everyone I had ever known that had an Internet connection. Sam. He would see it.

And then all those people would see that it had been a joke, a prank or the desperate and wishful thinking of a lonely girl. Haven’t I had enough mortification?

I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t answer all those people saying sweetly (or not so sweetly) “I thought you were with so-and-so. What happened?” It hurt too much to always say
I don’t know
when things kept going wrong.

Instead, I shrieked and lunged for the phone knocking over my class of chardonnay. It shattered, spilling all over the bar and dripped down into my nude patent pumps. My life was in shambles. And there was wine in my shoe.

“What have you done?” I gasped.

“I just got you a hot date for your high school reunion. You’re welcome.”

“No, you just got me a fiancé!”

“Even better, right? I hope he gets you a giant diamond ring,” Roxanna said dreamily. “Although, he’s probably only a billionaire on paper—or he will be once Project-TK has their IPO. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’s got a few actual millions tucked away.”

“How do I undo this?” I frantically jabbed at the screen. It was so unsatisfying.

“I have no idea,” she said with a shrug. “Facebook settings are impossible to figure out.”

“Roxanna!”

My phone dinged with an incoming text message from a number I didn’t recognize.

917-123-4567:
Meet me at Soho House in ten minutes for celebratory drinks.

Jane Sparks:
Who is this?

917-123-4567:
Your fiancé

Chapter Three

Soho House, the roof—twenty minutes later

if (pretendFiancé === “Jane” || fauxmance === true){

console.log (“There is hope for me yet.”);}

else {

console.log (“I’m screwed. Again.”);}

“H
ELLO,
S
WEATER
S
ET.
” The infamous Duke Austen leaned against the bar and murmured the words with one of those devastating smiles that were most often found in the pages of romance novels.

This smile, however, was real. In spite of my best intentions, it made my heart skip a beat.

“My name is Jane,” I corrected, as befitting someone who was in fact wearing a dove grey sweater set. They were comfortable, classy and part of my work wardrobe. I looked totally overdressed next to him, in his broken in jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt that said “Friendster.”

Duke didn’t reply—he was checking his iPhone and ordering himself a bottle of Becks and a chardonnay for me. I sat there thinking it was ridiculous we were even meeting. This could have been dealt with over email. Or the phone. Or Facebook, if I could figure out how to delicately and kindly break up with someone over that technological marvel.

But I couldn’t, and it seemed that breaking up with one’s faux fiancé ought to be done face-to-face. I hadn’t consulted Emily Post, but I was sure she would agree. And I had to ask him what the hell he meant by celebratory drinks.

Also, he asked me to meet him at Soho House, which had a fabulous rooftop bar and was members only. This was likely my one chance to go.

“So,” he said, leaning against. “How’ve you been?”

“Since last night? Worse and worse. You?”

“Better and better. Especially now that you’re here.”

“You sound like you plan to continue this engagement. You know that it was a stupid prank by my friend? I didn’t actually mean it. We are not actually engaged. We hardly even know each other.”

“We’ll get to know each other, Sweater Set,” he said in one of those low, shiver-down-the-spine kinds of voices, and I knew exactly how he’d earned his bad reputation. The murmurs. The gaze. The devastating smile. It was appalling.

I couldn’t make this stuff up.

“I was hoping we could break off this ‘engagement,’” I said. “If we changed the settings now and I posted a status update to the effect of ‘Haha, drunk friends!’ I could play this off as a prank and everything will be fine, though I already have
eight
missed calls from my mother. I thought maybe you could help me with the damned Facebook settings. I’ve heard you are knowledgeable about this sort of thing.”

If he was some brilliant tech guy, I figured he could help a girl update her Facebook privacy settings and undo the most disastrous status update ever.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because—” Then I stopped, flummoxed. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Duke leaned in real close. That grin again. The one that made me think of clichés about butterflies and racing pulses . . . and rakes and rogues and a slow, torturous seduction. In my defense, I’ll say that really, you had to see this man
lean
. You had to see his smile and the dimple in his left cheek and the flexing muscles of his forearms.

I hadn’t noticed these things last night in the dark. But oh, did I ever notice them now.

My mouth went dry. I took a sip of wine and thought about how I hadn’t had any physical affection since Sam and I had broken up months ago. Well, other than last night. And to think, I’d never expected to see this guy again. He was supposed to be my one time wild fling. And he was here, murmuring my name.

“Janet.”

“Jane,” I said with an exasperated sigh.

“I didn’t have to accept it,” he said. “I didn’t have to share it, either.”

“You did what?” I gasped. He ignored me.

“I didn’t have to ask you to meet me here. Do you want to know why I did?”

“Because you have a warped and twisted idea of fun?”

“True, but no. Your prank—”

“My friend’s prank.”

“—has possibly solved a major problem for me.”

“I’m so glad,” I said dryly.

“Hear me out. One drink. Out of the kindness of your heart. You seem like the kind of girl who does things out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Fine,” I sighed. Because I was. Because it was a gorgeous early summer night on the roof of Soho House and maybe I’d see a celebrity.

“Project-TK is growing fast but to get big enough to IPO we need to raise another round of funding first. If we can go public, a lot of people stand to make a shit ton of money, myself included. But investors are nervous about me and it’s negatively affecting our ability to raise funds at the valuation I want. I seem to have earned a reputation for—”

“For drinking, possible drug use, excessive partying, and orgies with models. And for generally being unreliable. A ‘brilliant disaster’ my friend said.”

“You’re informed,” he said dryly.

“My friend works for Jezebel.com.”

“That explains so much,” he said.

“So no one wants to give you money because you have demonstrated that you’re completely unreliable . . .” I prompted. If nothing else, I could glean some good gossip, break the engagement and sell the whole story to Roxanna for a month’s rent.

“This is big, like Google or Facebook. Or it could be. I’ve got two major fails behind me and I can’t let it happen a third time. Do you know why they really call me the bad boy billionaire? Because I made and
lost
a billion bucks. Project-TK is a chance to redeem myself. I have to raise the money and make sure the investors don’t get ideas about forcing me to step down. Isn’t there something or someone you would do anything for?”

“Maybe.” Yes, but he didn’t want me to. Damn you, Sam.

“I would do anything,” Duke said softly, and he was earnest as hell now. His eyes darkened as he looked at me. “And what says mature and responsible like marriage? Especially to a goody-two-shoes like you.”

“What makes you think I’m such a good girl?”

“To start, you were shushing people at a party.”

“That was just one little thing.”

“You’re right. What about what happened
after
you shushed me?”

“A one-time lapse in judgment,” I said stiffly. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Well, for me it was just another Tuesday.”

I gasped.

“Exactly. I need you, Janine,” he said with pleading expression. “Just for one weekend.”

The words that should have come out of my mouth: “No” or “You belong in a mental institution” or “Go to hell” or “MY NAME IS JANE GET IT RIGHT.” Instead, I opened my mouth and what came out but a question.

“One weekend?”

“A bunch of us are flying out to the valley to meet with potential investors and bankers about the deal. It had been made clear to me that if I’m not on my best behavior, I’m out. As I said, I’ve got two major busts behind me and I’ll be damned if it happens again.”

I wanted to ask what happened. But it seemed bad. Like, doesn’t talk about it bad. Like, I was better off Googling it later.

“If you’re such a brilliant, billionaire tech entrepreneur, what do you need investors for?” I asked. I wasn’t an expert in math, but something wasn’t adding up.

“I cashed out of my first startup before it went bust and I’m set for life, but I don’t have enough to take Project-TK to the next level. But I will be a billionaire if I can pull this off.” He paused for a moment. Then he added, in a low voice, “It’s not about the money. It means that much to me. I can’t be the guy that always chokes.”

His passion was clear and for a moment, it left me speechless. His eyes had darkened and he spoke intensely. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be wanted with the intensity that Duke wanted success.

“Third time’s a charm, right?” I murmured. It was all I could think of to say.

“C’mon Janine. It’ll be an all-expenses paid weekend in San Francisco for you,” he said, a faint grin and playful touch of my hip.

“One weekend in which I pretend to be your plus one.”

“Just for a few dinners, cocktail hours, that sort of thing. I’ll be in meetings with a bunch of stuffy, boring bankers and lawyers, bored to death and playing games on my iPhone while pretending to answer emails. You can shop, schedule spa appointments, work on your novel or whatever. As long as you behave, and even more importantly, make sure I do.”

“My novel? How did you know about that?”

“I’m assuming you have aspirations to write one, given your Facebook status updates about moving to the city to write a novel. Or maybe you can spend the weekend brushing up on the security features of your phone.”

“I thought I could trust my friend. Apparently not over drinks,” I muttered.

“Drunk girls are the worst,” he said with a grin. “In the best way.”

“If I had a ring, I would hand it back after a comment like that,” I replied. “Honestly, whatever happened to acting like a gentleman?”

“This is going to work perfectly. You’re so prim and proper.”

“I haven’t agreed yet.”

Duke just smiled and my temperature started to rise. It was just a
nice
smile. There was temptation and promises and mischief and I caught myself holding my breath for what came next. That smile, it was a prelude and lord help me, I wanted to know what this man had in mind.

That is, until it happened.

Duke dropped to one knee. He clasped my hands in his. A hush fell over the rooftop. All the fabulous people suddenly were interested in me. Us. This farce.

“Jane, will you marry me?”

I looked around—everyone was watching this scene unfold. A few even had their camera phones held aloft in spite of the waiters telling them no cameras were allowed. This video would be on YouTube within minutes. If I said no . . .

It’d be one more awkward thing to explain to everyone. His investors or whatever would think he was crazy. I’d surely never see him again. I’d return to my regularly scheduled life of shelving books instead of hot and heavy hook-ups against the bookshelves.

If I said yes . . .

It’d be an adventure. I wouldn’t be
Jane who didn’t
or
jilted Jane
or
just Jane.
I’d be Jane who moved to Manhattan and snared the bad boy billionaire. People did not give
her
the pity eyes.

But then again, the whole thing was a total lie and eventually the charade would end with another break-up. Then I would definitely get the pity-eyes from everyone.
Poor girl pretended to date a guy. How lame!
I couldn’t do it.

Duke squeezed my hand.

My lips parted but no sound came out.

He stood, beaming, and kissed me full on the mouth.

“She said yes!” he declared, even though I had done no such thing! The bar erupted in applause. The manager brought over bottle of Veuve Cliquot on ice.

“What the hell was that?” I hissed.

“Smile, darling,” he said, handing me a glass of champagne. “They’re still watching.”

I smiled. Oh, did I smile. But inside I was in an advanced state of shock. Did he really just do that?! What the hell just happened?! Stop giving me that smile and stupid smoldering glance!

“You owe me,” I said. “You owe me big time. You owe me so much I doubt even you can afford it.”

“Name your price, Sweater Set,” he said, clinking our champagne flutes together.

“Besides remembering my name?”

“You can ask for more than that,” he said softly.

He couldn’t give me the one thing I wanted: Sam. I still held out hope that he was just going through a phase and would eventually realize what we had—and could have. Then we could get back together and buy that house and live happily ever after.