Enticing You (How to Marry a Billionaire #1)
Episode 1
EPISODE 1
A LITTLE MERMAID IN A BIG POND
Ariel
My heart thumps so hard I can see it against the teal satin of my strapless dress.
I don’t belong here.
This dress isn’t me.
These slinky silver sandals with spiky heels aren’t me.
This whole place… So not me.
Yet here I am, about to meet four billionaires who are on this island to find wives.
The other women are way more beautiful and worldly than I am. Evangeline found me at an old-fashioned drive-in diner serving food on roller skates in my small hometown in Alabama. I delivered a loaded burger, curly fries, and diet soda—cue eye roll—to her car, and when she saw me, she removed her designer sunglasses and burned me with her dark eyes.
“You married?” she asked.
“Hell, no. If I had a husband, I wouldn’t be working this shitty job.”
“Oh?”
“Of course not. Any boy I marry has to be rich.”
She cocked her head, raked her gaze down my body, and then back up again. “You’re perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
“You want to marry a rich boy? How about a rich man ? How about a billionaire?”
I nearly dropped the tray before I got it latched to her car.
“I asked if you want to marry a billionaire,” she said. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
I narrowed my eyes at the classy woman who clearly wasn’t from around here. “Yeah. You can use the app on your phone to pay, or we take credit, debit, or cash.”
“I guess you’re not serious about wanting to marry that rich boy.” She let out a laugh that sounded just like she looked—judgy and rich.
“Oh, I’m serious about marrying money. I just wasn’t born yesterday.”
I skated away, but Evangeline—I didn’t know her name yet—got out of her car, followed me into the diner, and made me an offer I’d have been an idiot to refuse.
Two days later, I arrived here—on Billionaire Island, as we call it.
That was two weeks ago. Since then, I’ve learned all about Evangeline and the whirlwind adventure that sounded way too good to be true when I had skates on my feet and red Alabama dust in my hair. This isn’t a reality show. No cameras, no videos. Billionaire Island is a life-changing opportunity for the right women. Too bad I won’t be one of the “right” ones. But that didn’t stop me from accepting the all-expenses paid trip, the free wardrobe, and the high-class makeover.
Now I’m wearing clothes that aren’t mine, my hair is a color that looks way more natural on me than what I got from Mama, and I’m lined up with a dozen other girls like a wannabe in the Miss Alabama pageant. Today’s the day. The billionaires have arrived.
Evangeline briefed us on the men we’re here to meet.
River Barrett, a rancher.
Brett Dawson, an entrepreneur.
Sebastian Tate, a rock star.
Alex Maxwell, a bestselling author.
Sebastian Tate is the only one I’d heard of before coming here. I don’t run in billionaire circles, obviously, and though I’m more of a country music fan, everyone knows who he is. I don’t know anything about ranching or business, and I can’t recall the last time I’ve read anything other than Cosmopolitan . We’ve been briefed on all of them, though—their hobbies, their likes, their dislikes, what they’re looking for in a woman, pretty much everything except their freaking dick sizes, which frankly would be nice to know.
They’re all rich and gorgeous, so why do they want to meet women this way? Of course, I got a free vacation and an amazing designer wardrobe out of it, so I’m not complaining.
No way will I snag one of them, though. Not with Juniper Loring and Emily Kensington standing on either side of me. June is a lingerie model from Manhattan, and Emily is a fashion designer from London. We’ve also got an attorney, a hair stylist, an heiress—why she needs to marry a billionaire is beyond me—a dermatologist, and a physicist.
Yes, a physicist. Seriously.
It’s a virtual who’s who of smart and gorgeous women with impressive resumés.
Until you get to me, that is.
Ariel Tanner, a roller waitress who left school at sixteen and whose mother named her after a cartoon character.
Evangeline added auburn highlights to my light-brown hair, and this skin-tight mini-dress is a rich, exotic teal—just like the waters outside the palatial mansion where we’ve been staying. Add a sequined tail, and I’ll be true to my name.
The eight of us—yes, there are eight women for only four men—stand in a row outside the back of the mansion, facing the large courtyard.
“Ladies”—Evangeline raises her hands—“the gentlemen will be here shortly! Let’s prepare to give them a welcome!”
I strike the pose I’ve been practicing thanks to Evangeline’s constant corrections—shoulders back, hips forward, right foot out, seductive smile. For some of the girls, smiling means showing a little bit of teeth. For me it means lips only, curved slightly upward.
“Your lips are so hot even I want to kiss you,” Evangeline told me. “Use them to your advantage.”
All eight of us are on display—a smorgasbord of tits and ass. At least I can compete with the others in that department.
But what billionaire is going to want just tits and ass when he can have tits, ass, beauty, and brains?
“For the love of God,” Emily says under her breath. “Let’s get on with it already.”
I stifle a chuckle. Of all the women here, Emily is the one I like the most. She’s always got something to say. We have that in common.
I don’t dare reply, though I’m thinking the same thing. When Evangeline told us to get into position, I figured the men would be here in a minute or two. My nerves are doing a line dance under my skin.
Evangeline, who looks naturally goth with her dark hair and eyes, creamy fair skin, and lithe frame, walks toward us, looking us over. We’re arranged by height, the shortest of us on each end, and the tallest in the middle.
“Emily, try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere but here,” Evangeline chides, “and Ariel, you’re slouching.”
I breathe in and pull my shoulders back.
“Better. Remember, you’re meeting a potential husband, not waiting for a hayride.” She steps away from me. “June, perfect as always.”
Perfect as always. Of course she’s perfect. She’s a professional model. A professional lingerie model, with honey-blond hair, blue eyes, and perfect proportions. She’s not the most beautiful, though. That title goes to Dr. Ginger Swanson, the dermatologist, whose oval face, strawberries-and-cream blush, long dark hair, green eyes, and gorgeous curves scream 1940s pinup girl.
Me? I’m Ariel, the hayseed mermaid.
“Misty”—Evangeline pulls a tissue out of her black leather and chrome-studded evening bag—“you’ve got lipstick on your teeth.”
Misty Holmes—she’s the heiress; her father is Barker Holmes of the Holmes hotel empire—bares her teeth while Evangeline wipes away the red smudges and then continues down our line, pointing out deficiencies, until she reaches for her phone.
“They’re coming!” She smiles. “You know what to do.”
Yes.
Shoulders back.
Hips forward.
Right foot slightly in front of left.
Seductive smile, no teeth.
Soft music from a real string quartet playing on the large terrace wafts through the air. The light tropical breeze brings with it the aroma of roast pork, the centerpiece of the spread already laid out for us to nosh on later as we mingle with the men.
I focus my gaze on the vibrant greenery, bright exotic flowers, and tall palm trees swaying in the warm, gentle breeze, and in the distance, the private white-sand beach and sparkling blue ocean.
Still, my breath catches and excitement races through me. I’ve come to paradise to meet four billionaires. Not one of them will give me a glance, of course, but at least I’ve made some awesome memories, eaten some delicious food, even made a friend—sort of—in Emily. Not bad for a roller waitress from Alabama.
The French doors behind us click open.
Shoulders back.
Hips forward.
Right leg extended slightly.
Damn. Why can’t I open my mouth? I need to suck in a breath.
Because though I’ve seen photos and videos, these men are even more spectacular in person.
River Barrett, the rancher, holds a black cowboy hat in muscular hands. His hair is dark and wavy, his eyes intense and brown, and the way his dark-blue jeans hug his thighs draws my gaze, making me want to squirm, until I have to force myself to look at the next man.
Brett Dawson is an entrepreneur who devised some software something or other that I guess revolutionized remote business. Whatever. What I care about is his sun-bleached blond hair that reminds me of a California surfer boy. His navy suit brings out his blue eyes that are the color of the clearest summer day back home. He’s the only one who wears a tie, and he loosens it as he gazes at us one by one.
Alex Maxwell doesn’t look like a bestselling author, although I guess I’ve never met a real author before. He’s got brown hair, hazel eyes, and he’s wearing a black blazer, black pants, and a white shirt, but it’s the no tie that gets me. I love a man in a suit with his shirt open and no tie. A flutter ripples through my belly.
Sebastian Tate, the rock star, wears faded jeans and a black shirt. His long brown hair is tied back in a low ponytail, and his amber eyes are long-lashed and smoldering. My heart pounds. This guy is famous. Really freaking famous, and he’s here—he and his three equally gorgeous friends.
I close my eyes without meaning to and inhale a deep breath. I need to get a grip. Evangeline provided our bios to the men, so there won’t be any formal introductions. Still, my nerves are skittering. I’m sure all four of them will flock to Juniper or Ginger, but intense heat rakes along my body.
Maybe.
Just maybe one of them will talk to me… Give me more than just a toe-curling look…
I prepare to open my eyes when a deep voice sings into my soul.
“Would you like to join me for a drink, Ariel?