An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle #1) (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience Book 3) (3 page)

“Great. A stripper with philosophy.” Chuck snorts. “You even know who you’re dealing with?”

“Should I?”

“Yeah, you should. This guy, even if I don’t tell him, he wants to find out, he’s gonna find out.”

“How? I was only there for a day, and the other girls don’t know me. If you’re looking for a way to sell me out, forget it. I really mean it about suing you and your club.”

“He’s Elliot Reed.”

Chuck says the name like I should know it. “And…?”

“He’s a billionaire. Some kind of computer genius or something. And he’s Ryder Reed’s half-brother.”

My mouth forms a small O. Ryder Reed is maybe the hottest actor in Hollywood. But this Elliot guy doesn’t really look like him. “Genius or not, he still won’t find out who I am unless you tell him.”

“You got a lot to learn. People in this city, they’ll sell their own mother for an introduction to Ryder Reed. Elliot’s got leverage.”

“Well, that still doesn’t—”

“He’s gonna find you, and when he does, it won’t be me who told him. So don’t fucking sue the club, all right? I got enough problems.” He hangs up.

I glare at the phone. Maybe Chuck’s right, maybe he’s not, but I’m not going to make it easy for Elliot Reed.

Besides, there has to be something seriously wrong with him.
A billionaire genius who wants to meet a stripper?
I go to my room to pretty myself up for the birthday job, but my thoughts keep drifting to the man. I pick up my phone and google him.

Chuck didn’t exaggerate. Elliot Reed really is a prodigy. He and his twin brother created some kind of algorithm that takes “aggregate user behavior data” and predicts their purchasing patterns. It’s pretty fancy sounding, nothing I can even imagine. They sold the program for a little over a billion dollars on their twenty-first birthday. Since then Elliot invested his money in various ventures and almost doubled it. He also speaks at events and consults on the side.

But the search engine reveals far more than his accomplishments. He’s also a horrible womanizer. There doesn’t seem to be a single L.A. party he hasn’t attended, and he’s got a different woman on his arm each time. All his female companions are stunning, with the kind of face that should be in fashion magazines. I actually recognize a couple of them. An unfamiliar hot, ugly emotion fists in my belly, and I swallow through a tight throat. Who cares if Elliot wants to bang every woman he’s ever met? I don’t even know the guy.

And there is a sex tape.
His poor parents
. I shake my head. They must’ve been so humiliated. And his siblings, too.

Ryder Reed has a reputation for being wild, but Elliot is even wilder. They’re together in tons of photos, looking chummy. Something tells me Elliot is the enabler.

The sex tape article links to a video. I really shouldn’t, but…morbidly perverse curiosity wins the battle. I click on it.

The place looks like a living room. I don’t see a bed. A blonde—completely nude—lies on the floor, legs spread wide. She arches her back and moans as a second girl—a brunette—buries her face in her lady parts. The blonde makes keening noises, and she grips her breasts and toys with her nipples, while the brunette focuses on the flesh between her thighs.

I snicker. I’ve had oral sex before, and trust me, it isn’t
that
good. The blonde must be overacting for the camera.

Then Elliot moves into the frame. His body is magnificent, sleek and strong. On his right butt cheek is a tattoo—FU in some elaborate script. He positions himself behind the brunette. The angle’s wrong, so I can’t quite see what he’s doing to her with his hands, but she’s arching her body, pressing closer to him. Her moans are muffled, and the blonde screams louder.

The unmistakable sound of flesh slapping against flesh comes over my phone speaker. Elliot’s hips and ass flex as he drives in and out of the brunette. It’s obviously an amateur production since the camera doesn’t focus on the actual penetration, but it’s obvious what the three are doing.

My mouth dries, and I shift my weight as heat pulses through me. I wonder how much of what the brunette is doing on the screen is fake and how much is real. If she’s having half as good a time as she seems to be having, I wouldn’t mind trying it with Elliot, just once, just to see.

The realization slaps me hard, and I gasp, turning my phone off.
Good god
.
What’s wrong with me?
Fantasizing about a stranger—and a
rude
stranger, at that?

Besides, Elliot is the polar opposite of what I’m looking for in a man to have a relationship with. I want somebody stable, honest and ethical. What Mr. Grayson wants is immaterial. I’m not marrying a guy who’s only interested in partying and screwing around.

If he’s so hot to get married, why doesn’t Elliot grab one of the women he went to those parties with? Or one of the ones in the sex tape? I don’t get it. There’s no reason for him to find a fiancée at a strip club. By society’s standards, he’s a great catch. A lot of women would love to be his missus.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if he has some kind of deviant personality that requires intervention. Aren’t geniuses supposed to be a little bit crazy? Who knows what the guy is really like in private?

And what does that make me, watching him screw on tape and getting all hot and bothered? That’s so not me.

Maybe his problem is that he makes people around him feel abnormal needs. No matter how much I may think I want it, I know it’s going to be far less satisfying than my lowest expectations. I have yet to have sex with a guy who was better than a vibrator.

Forget Elliot
.

Go do the cake job and get paid
.

Elliot

The lunch venue Elizabeth picks out is Éternité. I went there once when it first opened. It’s owned by Mark Pryce, Elizabeth’s cousin, and he chose the name to symbolize his undying love for his new wife.

Kind of sappy, but the décor and food are great. Contemporary sensibilities merge with the old world, the interior is airy and open with stunning silk hangings that ripple like waves in the breeze created by the ceiling fans. And the food critics rave about the menu, the praise well deserved because the food tastes even better than its mouthwatering smell.

Elizabeth is my half-sister from our dad’s first marriage. I’m the product of his second. Unlike my mother, hers is from old money and an impeccable pedigree. Mom often said you could cut Geraldine Pryce and she’d bleed blue. As a condition of the divorce, Geraldine made sure her children’s last name was changed to Pryce-Reed, since Pryce is the better and more socially significant name. She blew a gasket when Ryder decided to make his stage name Ryder Reed. I doubt she’s watched a single film of his, just out of spite.

I’m just a Reed—no hyphen—since my mother didn’t feel the need to leave her mark when she divorced to marry Dad’s half-brother. I also have a half-sister slash cousin from that marriage, but I don’t know her that well. She’s a shy little thing, and was always too busy with her figure skating career to hang out with the rest of us.

Most people can’t believe how fucked up my family tree is. They think I’m making shit up.

I wish I was.

Elizabeth’s golden hair is perfectly curled and shiny. Light makeup brings out her bright brown eyes and prominent cheekbones. People think that only the men in her family have the Pryce profile—that clean, patrician look. But Elizabeth has it too, just expressed through a feminine filter.

The dark magenta dress looks good on her, and she’s wearing a pair of fuck-me heels, which I somewhat disapprove of. She’s high profile, gorgeous and rich, thanks to the trust fund from her maternal grandmother. Exactly the type a fortune hunter will target. If I had it my way, I’d put her in a nun’s habit…although that can have its own attraction for some guys.

Some days you just can’t win.

I sit down across from her, smoothing down my shirt as I do so. “Thanks for the lunch, sis.”

“Well, it is your birthday, after all.” She smiles. “And we’re in the same town.”

I smile back. “So we are.”

We order. Since I’m in a decent mood, I settle for a glass of white, leaving the choice up to the sommelier. Elizabeth does the same.

When our server’s gone, she leans in conspiratorially and says, “Heard anything from Ryder?”

“Nah. Have you?”

“No. I even tried calling his agent, but she won’t answer.”

“There’s a rumor that he fired her before the vanishing act.”

“Good god. Really?”

I nod. “But since I haven’t heard it from the horse’s mouth…” I trail off when our server returns with the wine and an appetizer of various thinly sliced sashimi-grade fish drizzled with ginger- and wasabi-infused sauce. The wine tastes like liquid gold, smooth and fragrant with oak, berries and a hint of roses. I’ve never had anything but the best at Mark’s restaurant. The man can tell the exact year and vintage of any wine from a single taste, so he’s pretty exacting about what his restaurants serve.

When we’re alone again, I resume our talk. “Regardless, Ryder’s fine. He’s always led a charmed life. Besides, he can smile his way out of anything.”

Elizabeth nods once. “That’s true…I guess. Paige’s gone to see him, so I’m guessing he’s probably too busy to get into trouble.”

I laugh. “Most likely.”

“But…I don’t know. He sent out cards canceling the ceremony. I mean, what does that mean?”

That gives me pause too. “No idea, but I hope he doesn’t screw things up with her. She’s actually good for him.”

“No kidding.” Elizabeth puts a piece of salmon in her mouth. “So…are you really going to marry a stripper?”

“Oh yeah. Bet on it. As a matter of fact, Ryder said he’s sending me the very best on my birthday.”

Elizabeth turns serious, and concern darkens her eyes. “You can have anyone you want, Elliot. You don’t have to settle like this.”

“It’s going to be for a year, not a day more. If I married an heiress or someone like that, she’d have, you know, expectations.” I shudder.

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” I take a long swallow of my wine. “I want zero expectations. Well…except for sex. Gotta have the sex.”

As I expect, she makes a face and pulls away. “TMI.”

I chuckle. “Besides, worry about yourself.”

“Me?”

“You have to marry soon too.”

Fucking Dad. He got into a snit over us kids missing his Wedding Number Six. So he’s decided that we all have to marry within six months for at least a year or we can kiss our grandfather’s portraits of us goodbye. No way in hell am I gonna allow that to happen. The portraits are oil paintings, brilliantly executed by the only person in our family who gave a damn about us. Grandpa Thomas was a world-famous artist; he said the portraits represent us at our best, and that he wanted us to remember how worthy we are every time we look at them. Due to a clusterfuck situation with his will, they went to Dad instead. Damn it.

I bet he’s enjoying making us dance to his tune. He can’t stand us, me and my twin brother Lucas in particular. Our mom not only left him in order to marry his half-brother, but Lucas and I made our first billion in our twenties, while he wasn’t able to amass that kind of fortune until he was well into his thirties, and even then it was with his first wife’s help.

Jealous and petty. Dad in a nutshell.

“I’ll think of something,” Elizabeth says.

“Get some poor schmuck who will be grateful for a bit of your money, but won’t, you know, bother you for the other stuff.”

A carefully waxed eyebrow arches. “What, no sex for me?”

It’s my turn to make a face. “Ugh. No! You’re like Mother Teresa. You can’t do that kind of thing.”

She chuffs out a laugh.

Our server clears the table and brings out the soup. Mine is a lobster bisque, and hers is cream of crab. The bisque is damn good. If I owned a restaurant like this, I’d get fat. “Seriously. You’re a woman,” I say.

“Am I now? I hadn’t noticed.”

“What I mean is, you’re going to have expectations, you’re going to get vulnerable. Women just do when they have sex. They think it means something more than it should. And you in particular. You’re a nice person; it’s gonna happen. Plus, you haven’t dated seriously for what, five years now? It’s been a long ti—”

“Four,” she corrects, her voice suddenly brittle. “And I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big girl and can handle myself.”

Four years, and still she reacts like that. I shake my head. “I wish duels were legal.”

“I’m glad they aren’t. You would’ve been shot dead.”

I laugh. “No. I’m an awesome marksman. I’d kill anybody who hurt you.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’re sweet, Elliot. But don’t worry about me. If duels were legal, I’d do the shooting myself.”

“What? That’s a man’s job. You’re supposed to look distraught and twist a hanky around your fingers.”

“Yes,
baby
brother,” she says, raising her eyes heavenward.

I stick my tongue out. She always plays that card when she thinks I’m being overprotective.

“So are you going out tonight?” she asks.

I consider. I was thinking about doing exactly that to see the redhead, but the manager said she isn’t there anymore. It isn’t like me to want to see a woman for a second time, so for that reason I’m going to stay home even though I keep thinking about that curvy body and the temper in her eyes. She’s feisty, and feisty girls are insanely fun in bed. “Probably not. I need to wait for Ryder’s gift.”

“Right.” A hint of censure comes into her voice. “A stripper, delivered to your doorstep.”

“Exactly.” I grin. If what I heard from the people setting it up is correct, she’s more of a high-end prostitute than a stripper. But I’m not going to quibble over such a minor point. A gift horse deserves to be ridden, not endure a dental exam.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Want photos?” I ask.

“Ugh. No.”

“I may make a video and post it on YouTube.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and raises a hand, palm out. “Please. I was traumatized enough from your previous tape.”