At the Billionaire’s Wedding (46 page)

“Pride and Prejudice.”

“Good book.” He nuzzled beneath her ear. “The guy got the girl he wanted in the end. That’s my kind of story.”

“She fell in love with him,” she said. “She got rid of her prejudices.”

“Seemed to me like she changed her mind after she saw that big-ass house of his.”

She laughed. “I’ve never seen your house.”

“I live in an apartment.”

“P and P Enterprises?”

He smiled. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t by any chance stand for Piers Prescott?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You didn’t just name your new company this week, after I gave you that book, did you?”

He shook his head.

Cali’s throat was thick. “I don’t know what to say.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “The moment you gave me that speech in the rain, I knew I had to be the man you want.”

“At the gazebo? When I thrashed your family for elitism?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m crazy about you, California. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this work.”

“Quitting Greed Incorporated is a good start.”

“I’ve wanted to quit since my first day on the job. But I wouldn’t have done it without your inspiration. Your contempt gave me the push I needed. Your honesty sealed the deal.”

“I wasn’t honest with how I felt about you. I was afraid of it.”

“Not now?”

“Not now.” Never again. “But there is something I need to tell you.” A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Before England, back when I didn’t know you were you, I had a crush on the guy on the bench.”

He laughed. “Not on Piers Prescott, though?”

“No. I thought he was a jerk.”

“So it would’ve been better if I’d just come over one day and asked you out?”

“Yup.”

“Damn. The time we lost. And all that money I could have saved on sending you to Jane and Duke’s wedding.”

He was teasing her. She loved him for laughing about it—at her, at himself, and at them together. Instead of pain and blame, all she felt was happiness.

“You could afford it, millionaire,” she said.

He glanced up at the skywriting. “Minus what’s currently floating away in smoke. I’d no idea how expensive hiring one of those is.” He looked back down at her. “But it’s no joke. I haven’t lived on a fixed income in years.”

“I have. A lot smaller than anything you’ll ever have to worry about. You can hire me as your financial manager.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ll look forward to that.”

Her cheeks ached from smiling. “Why the skywriting?”

“I know how you feel about the written word. And I didn’t want you to doubt my intentions.” His arms tightened around her. “When do I get an answer?”

“Hm…” She fiddled with the top button of his shirt. “Given that you didn’t tell me who you were for three months, should I make you wait?”

His face got very sober. “You can make me wait as long as you need, California, as long as in the meantime you let me in.”

“You’re already in,” she whispered.

He bent his head. “Come again? I didn’t quite hear that,” he said with a smile of thorough confidence. But his heartbeat beneath her palm was hard and very fast.

“I love you.” Her eyes were misty. “Do you want me to write it in the sky now?”

“It’s already written in the only place I need it.” He touched the low neckline of her T-shirt. Right over her heart.

That night in his apartment, Piers undressed her and showed her again where and how he needed her love. He showed her with kisses and caresses and words, and Cali thought that maybe—just maybe—there was something better than books after all.

The building in which Prescott Global occupies the top several floors doesn’t exist, nor does Green Park. I loosely based the building on the tallest building in Philadelphia at the time of writing this novella, the fifty-eight-floor Comcast Center. The library at which Cali works is also fictional. With fifty-four branches, Philadelphia’s actual public library, the Free Library of Philadelphia, is a wonderfully accessible institution with programs that serve the city’s population in many ways, including a Homebound Service for patrons who can’t leave their houses and a Tech Mobile unit that offers digital literacy training off-site.

For you sticklers, Christopher, patron saint of travelers, has been retired from the official calendar of saints venerated in the Catholic Church. But many people (Catholic and not) still look to him for comfort during difficult journeys.

I offer heartfelt thanks for assistance with this story to Georgie C. Brophy, Noah Redstone Brophy, Mariana Eyster, Jennifer Lohmann, Mary Brophy Marcus, Bob Steeger, Martha Trachtenberg, and my coauthors of this anthology, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, and Maya Rodale. Any mistakes in this novella are all me.

Stay tuned! Sexy ex-Marine J.T. Prescott’s story is coming soon. For news of upcoming books, a free short story, and other fun stuff, sign up for my e-newsletter at
http://www.katharineashe.com
.

Katharine Ashe is the award-winning author of romances that reviewers call “intensely lush” and “sensationally intelligent,” including
How to Be a Proper Lady
, an Amazon Editors’ Choice for the 10 Best Books of the Year in Romance, and
How to Marry a Highlander
, finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award of the Romance Writers of America. Her books are recommended by
Publishers Weekly
,
Women’s World Magazine
,
Booklist
,
Library Journal
, Barnes & Noble, and many others, and translated into languages across the world.

Katharine lives in the wonderfully warm Southeast with her beloved husband, son, dog, and a garden she likes to call romantic rather than unkempt. A professor of European History, she writes fiction because she thinks modern readers deserve grand adventures and breathtaking sensuality too. For more about Katharine’s books, please visit
www.KatharineAshe.com
or write to her at PO Box 51702, Durham, NC 27717.

Brampton House, England

Oh, he did not just ask her
that
.

Roxanna Lane dropped her heavy suitcase with a thud on the gravel drive outside of the fancy old ancestral house. Mansion or castle could be fitting descriptions. Towering and imposing hunk of stone would work too.

She stared up a grand stone staircase to the grand stone castle. Jane would certainly be getting married in style.

They had only just arrived after a day of hellish, albeit first-class, travel. They hadn’t even crossed the flipping threshold when the oh-so-dashing Damien Knightly, her sort-of date for the wedding, ruined everything.
Everything
.

“I hope you brought your laptop,” he had murmured in his devastatingly sexy British accent.

“Never leave home without it,” she replied “Why?”

“Just think of the stories you’ll get for Jezebel from the events this week,” he said with a sidelong glance and a spark in his eye. Bastard.

Roxanna wrote for Jezebel.com, a snarky website that combined feminist news with celebrity gossip and videos of cute baby animals. Damien Knightly, a roguish British aristocrat, owned the website, along with dozens of others, and some ancient newspapers, a TV station, and God only knew what else.

Their relationship ought to have been strictly professional. It was anything but.

Roxanna glanced at her Gentleman Friend. Manfriend. Boyfriend was too boyish a word for Knightly. Lover was too serious, though she sometimes thought he was too serious. Whatever he was or they were, the man made her tremble, feel girly, feel something like butterflies when no one else ever had. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

At the moment, however, he was annoying her.

“I wasn’t planning on writing any stories about the wedding,” Roxanna told him.

He turned to face her, all of his noble, chiseled, gorgeous features assembled into an inscrutable expression. Then he merely lifted one brow. With just that, the question was conveyed perfectly:
I beg your pardon
?

Or, to translate into her own vernacular:
What the fuck
?

Roxanna could have been sly and lifted one brow back herself—it was a talent of hers that she employed to great effect. But she was tired. And hungry. And in no mood to talk business.

They had just flown from New York City to London for a few meetings, after which they had traveled for hours along windy, backcountry roads in his Aston Martin to get to Brampton House, scene of the epic wedding between her best friend and her billionaire tech entrepreneur fiancé.

On the way, they had stopped to help an old woman whose car had run out of “petrol.” There hadn’t been cell service, so Damien drove to the nearest town for help, leaving Roxanna to make small talk with the strange old woman for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Damien had returned, saved the day, etc., etc. She had never admired him more than in that moment. But now she was more than ready to relax.

She turned to face him, eyes blazing.

“Do you honestly think I’m going to do gossipy, snarky stories on my best friend’s wedding?”

“Have you known me to be the sort to jest?”

Roxanna might have cracked a smile had she been in a better mood. Her whatever-he-was was so aloof and broody. She
delighted
in acting outrageously to get a reaction out of him. But right now, she really wanted to get into their room, shower and change, then relax with a cocktail.

Where was the concierge? Or bellhop? A footman? Anyone?

“I have not known you to jest,” she said, mimicking his accent. “I can’t imagine you would ask me to sell out my best friend and her fiancé. Honestly. I just couldn’t fathom what kind of heartless bastard would do such a thing.”

“Who else will have access to the bachelorette party stories and photographs?” Damien asked, missing the point entirely.

“You are so uninvited to that,” she mumbled. “If you were ever invited to that.”

Where was a staff member?

Finally, Roxanna picked up her suitcase, stomped up the stairs, and pushed open the front door. The foyer was vast and rocking a ton of marble and gold leaf. It was also empty. There was no one to show them to their room. Maybe they could just bunk up in the first one they came across?

Roxanna started toward the grand staircase.

Damien caught up with her and took her suitcase like a gentleman.

“It’s just a story,” Damien said. For some reason he was still talking about this.

Before she could answer, another voice cut in.

“Can I help you?” Roxanna turned and saw an Armani model strolling across the foyer.
Yes you can
she thought, with a wicked upturn of her lips. “I’m Mark, the manager of Brampton.”

“We’re here for the wedding,” Damien said and he smoothly handled all the check-in details and small talk.