Enticing You (How to Marry a Billionaire #1)

Episode 11

EPISODE 11

CAN'T BUY ME LOVE

Sebastian

Emily Kensington is the hottest thing walking, but my God, does she ever shut up? If we weren’t out here in front of everyone, I’d kiss her. That would do it.

If I kiss her, though, we’re going to finish what we started earlier tonight.

She’s yammering at me about tearing her dress—which looks just fine, by the way. She’s a dress designer, for God’s sake. Surely she had no trouble fixing a small rip.

I do my best to tune out her chattering—which hasn’t turned me off in the least, according to my aching groin—and scan the action across the room. Sienna Costello is dancing, along with Alex, Heather, and Ginger.

Emily grips my shoulder. “Are you even listening to me, Sebastian?”

I do my best not to sigh at her insistence. “Yeah. I’ve told you I’m sorry about the dress, and I’m sorry about your blue balls, though I still maintain you have to possess balls for them to actually be blue.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Emily,” I say, “if we hadn’t been interrupted, I would have gone through with fucking you. I think you know that. The question is, would you have let me?”

She sets her hands on her hips. “Are you accusing me of being a cock tease now?”

“No.” I rub my forehead. I wanted to meet her because I love a challenge, but Emily gives new meaning to the word. “I’m asking a simple question.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you haven’t answered my first question.” She sets one hand on her hip. “The one about why the four of you wanted to meet women this way.”

“Brett answered it when we announced tomorrow's fun."

"Yes. You've been too busy making billions to find love." She shakes her head. "I'm not buying."

"If you want to go back inside the mansion with me, I’ll give you what you want.”

“A real answer?”

“If that’s what you want. But once we’re alone, I’ll bet you’ll want something else.”

“For the love of God.” She turns and prances away.

I stare at her perfect ass and slender legs as she goes. My own legs itch to follow her, but her question looms in my mind. Why are we really here? Why did we choose to meet women who may become our brides this way?

I can’t give her the whole answer. None of us can.

Six Months Earlier…

The old farmhouse bears the marks of weather and age. Its once-vibrant white paint is now peeling, the gray wood peeking through. The shingles on the roof are crooked and weatherworn, but the stone chimney still stands tall.

The floorboards of the old porch creak as I walk across them toward the door.

The swing is still there, hanging on sturdy chains from the porch overhang—if I squint, I can see Old Man Larson’s silhouette sitting on that swing, shotgun across his lap, watching for trespassers.

The house has been abandoned for years. I push open the wooden door and walk inside. I inhale the scent of aged wood, cigar smoke, and history I’d rather forget—the aroma of promises, pacts, regrets.

Twenty years since I’ve set foot in the place.

I turn at the sound of a car driving up. I walk outside as Alex and River exit a black town car.

Alex waves as the driver pulls away, leaving a cloud of gray dust in the vehicle’s wake, and then glances toward my rented Jaguar parked in the dirt driveway. “You drove yourself?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you two?”

River shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Of the four of us, only River still lives here in Montana. He took over his father’s small ranching operation, acquired much of the adjacent land, invested in improved infrastructure, diversified his livestock, and created a regenerative farming enterprise that took off like crazy about ten years ago.

Brett and I live in LA, and Alex hangs his hat in New Orleans—says it’s a wealth of creative inspiration for his suspense novels.

“Where’s Brett?” Alex asks.

I check my phone. “He should be here in— Speak of the devil.”

A Jeep rolls forward in the distance, and a moment later, Brett exits, wearing a dark suit and light-blue tie, his blond hair perfect as always.

“You serious?” River shakes his head. “You’re wearing work clothes?”

The rest of us are dressed in jeans and old boots. Even I put on a pair of cowboy boots for the occasion. I never wear them anymore. They’re not really rock and roll.

The land stretches out in all directions, and a few wildflowers dance in the light wind while tall grasses and weeds sway.

This fucking place…

The place where my friends and I were forced to grow up at fifteen because of a caper gone wrong.

It’s inspired many a song lyric in my head over the years. None of those songs ever got written.

“It looks so different,” Brett says, ignoring River’s comment about his clothes.

“No one’s been here since we bought the place ten years ago,” River says. “I have my men keep an eye on it.”

“You haven’t been here?” Alex asks.

River rubs his black-stubbled jawline. “Are you kidding me? It was hard enough coming here today. You think I’d come here alone?”

I nod. I get it. This place is a reminder of the past we wish we could forget. We purchased the place because we could. Twenty years ago, the four of us pledged to become financially independent. We never wanted to be tempted by money that wasn’t ours again.

And we did it. We all became rich beyond our wildest expectations, but there were two things our billions couldn’t buy.

First, no amount of money can erase what happened to lead us down this path.

Second, the money can’t buy love. Not the real kind, that is.

We’ve all worked our asses off for the last twenty years building our fortunes, and though we’ve had women over the years, none of us had the time to devote to finding that perfect mate.

We’re thirty-five now, and that’s what’s missing for all of us.

A partner. A life mate. A family. Children.

“I found us someone,” Brett says. “Her name is Evangeline Livingston, and she works for a global elite matchmaking service based in New York. She recently got demoted for screwing up a match for a huge client?—”

“And you want to hire her to find us wives?” I shake my head.

“Yeah. She’s qualified, she’s got the time, and she’s hungry for redemption. If she can match the four of us, she’ll be able to write her own ticket.”

“And if she can’t?” River asks.

“Then she’ll have enough money to retire. Look, this is pennies to us, and she has a great record…except for the last screwup.”

Alex sighs. “I’m good with whatever you guys decide. But why did we have to come here to have this discussion? Being here gives me the creeps.”

“Me too.” I nod. “It’s like walking into the past. I almost felt Old Man Larson’s ghost in there.”

Alex drops his jaw. “You went inside ?”

“Yeah. I think we all should. I mean, we own the damned place.”

“We own it for a reason,” Brett says, his voice tight.

He’s right. The house itself isn’t worth the rotting lumber it’s built with. The land has some value, but there are things here that shouldn’t be disturbed…and they won’t be, as long as we’re the owners.

River walks ahead of me. “I agree with Seb. Let’s go in. We owe it to Jake.”

Present Day…

I jolt out of my memory when Heather Hill walks off the dance floor, her forehead shiny with perspiration.

“Hey,” she says with a smile. “You want to dance?”

“Not my thing,” I tell her, “but I’ll be glad to join you for a drink.”

“Not your thing? You’re a rocker.”

“I sing. I play guitar. I don’t dance.”

“A drink then?” Heather pushes a strand of blue-tipped black hair off her forehead. “But I’m having water. I think I’ll pour it over my head.”

I glance down at the royal-blue dress clinging to her, two tight nipples already protruding. “That I wouldn’t mind seeing. Come on.” I grab her hand and lead her to the bar.

“Yes, sir?” Zion, the bartender, asks.

“A large glass of water for the lady, and bourbon for me.”

“Any particular brand?”

“Whatever Alex is drinking. He knows bourbon better than any of us.”

“Good enough. Mr. Maxwell drinks Angel’s Envy and Pappy Van Winkle’s. Your choice.”

“Angel’s Envy is fine.” Pappy’s is the best, but I like a good bourbon. Great is lost on me.

After Zion prepares our drinks, I take them and lead Heather to a vacant table. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Emily talking to Ariel.

“So how was it?” Heather asks.

I return my gaze to her as I swirl the bourbon in my glass. “How was what?”

“Your threesome. We were all waiting for the big announcement and saw you come out of the house. Then those two—Ariel and Emily—followed you.”

I chuckle. “There was no threesome, Heather.”

“Then what were you?—”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “I don’t kiss and tell. We’re all just getting to know each other. Nothing happened. No threesome.”

“Have you had a threesome before?” she asks.

“I have,” I admit. Why lie?

Her eyes light up. “With who?”

“Didn’t I just say I don’t kiss and tell?”

She giggles and takes a drink of her water. Then she takes her cocktail napkin and wipes the perspiration from her forehead. “You did say that. But it may interest you to know that I’m not opposed to threesomes.”

I smile, sip my bourbon, swallow. She’s a hair stylist, so I reach around, pull the band out of my ponytail, and let my long hair fall around my shoulders.

Her eyes widen. Most women—especially hair stylists—can’t resist my long, thick locks. Her nipples respond next, hardening further through her blue dress.

Mission accomplished. I smile. “Heather, that interests me very much.”