At the Billionaire’s Wedding (51 page)

The kind of couple she had no interest in being ever again after Josh.

But here and now and worlds away, Roxanna lounged on the bed, wearing her favorite underthings from La Perla, debating whether she wanted to keep this slinky dress on or change into something else and watching him tie his tie. As grown-up, fabulous, and chic as it all was, she still managed to feel like an angsty teenager again. There were all these questions she wanted to ask him. About the bet, and
them
. Us. Whatever.

They were not the sort of people that made a big thing about relationships. They liked their freedom, being beholden to no one. Having only the beautiful, sexy parts of being together with none of the day-to-day drudgery. They were not people who had “the talk.”

But here they were, a couple at a wedding—was there a more “couple” activity? Perhaps this … watching him button his shirt instead of unbutton it. Learning that he pulled on his trousers one leg at a time, like any other man. Having Damien instead of Jane zip up the back of the little black dress she had decided to wear.

“So about
The London Weekly
…” she began as he oh-so-slowly pulled the zipper up when she wanted him to yank it
down
.

He stepped away and started fastening his cuff links.

“It is my family’s pride and joy. The newspaper that made the Knightly family fortune and which launched our media empire. All the way back in 1816.”

"
Media empire
.” She couldn’t resist whispering the words under her breath, mimicking his accent.

“My family has a business, too,” she said.

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s a contracting business back home in Jersey. My dad does all the heavy lifting and my mom manages the business.”

“Makes one wonder how you ended up a journalist in New York City.”

“I was always nosy and meddling and bored to tears back home. I got out as soon as I could,” Roxanna said. “But we’ve saved your paper, right?”

“As long as it doesn’t come out that those pictures are fake, yes. But if it’s discovered that we knowingly posted staged photographs, I’ll have not only lost the paper, but jeopardized the reputation of my websites.”

“Oh fantastic. And my byline is on that. There goes my career.”

He gazed at her. “I promise you won’t be fired.”

“You bet I won’t be,” she retorted. He could not fire her after this. She would sue the pants right off of him before he even considered it. “So why did you make the bet?”

“Because I was sure that I would win.”

“You were counting on me to sell out my friend for you,” Roxanna stated, slightly shocked, slightly bitter. “That speaks volumes, doesn’t it? You think that I am that infatuated with you. Or that I don’t care that much about my friend. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase
hos before bros
?”

It was the sort of crass American saying that made him wince, which is why she
had
to say it. She was gratified by the expected reaction.

“Honestly—I wasn’t thinking about your friendship with Jane. Or our relationship. Only that we would have unrestricted access to the event that the whole world is dying to know more about.”

After taking a moment to consider all the information—and decide on a pair of strappy black satin Sarah James stilettos—Roxanna asked: “Well, what did you stand to win?”

“It doesn’t signify.”

“Way to make me way more interested,” she replied, sitting on the bed, slipping on the shoes, and watching his gaze darken.

“What a way with speech you have, Roxanna.”

“Oh, shut up, you stuffy old aristocrat,” she said, tossing a pillow his way.

“I am not old. Or stuffy,” he said, sounding awfully stiff.

“Whatever you say,
your lordship
." But he wasn’t old. Or stuffy. He was young and hot and reserved, which she found incredibly alluring, all the more so in a world where most guys shared way too much online. But he did need to be teased, for he was far too serious.

“So, do you want to talk about…” He paused, delicately. Her heart pounded. Then, in his insanely sexy accent he said the one word that set off the butterflies in her stomach: “Us.”

Oh, God. The talk. She had brought it up, but now she wished she hadn’t. Things could just go on, all sexy and casual forever, right? Of course. There was no reason for her heart to be beating so hard.

“Us?”

“You mentioned it twice today.”

“Did I?” She feigned ignorance.

“You did.”

“Do
you
want to talk about us?”

“I’d rather show you,” he said.

She had been sitting on the edge of the bed. He stood before her, then eased her back until she was flat on the mattress and he was lowering himself onto her. He pushed up her very little black dress, his open palm possessively skimming her thigh.

Roxanna gazed into his eyes. Dark. Mysterious. Mischievous. Then she closed her eyes and surrendered to just feeling … his mouth, possessively claiming her from her lips to her neck to lower down to her breasts. That dress she had just put on moments ago was already being pushed out of the way. She felt the hot, hard length of him against her. God, did she want him now.

They had to go to dinner.

To hell with dinner.

His mouth crashed down on hers. Then she was lost in the taste of him, the feeling of him. His weight upon her, pinning her to the mattress, not that she wanted to be anywhere else in the world. His hands, skimming all of her as if he couldn’t get enough of her long legs, or her breasts, or her belly or any inch of skin that was
hers
. The way he so plainly wanted
her
turned her on so much. Almost as much as how she just plainly, desperately wanted
him
. All of him.

She started to undo all those buttons he’d just done because she needed to feel him, too, feel his hot skin under her palm. The beat of his heart was faint, but she could feel it.

“Take off this dress,” he whispered urgently.

“Yes, boss,” she whispered. Then she stood and pulled it off.

He playfully swatted her bottom. “Don’t you forget it,” he murmured.

She just smiled—and rolled her eyes. Because in the bedroom—and, well, everywhere—she acted however she damn well pleased and they both liked it.

“Keep the shoes on,” Damien ordered.

“Obviously.”

Her stilettos were crisscrossed across his back, gently digging into his bare skin. A growl at the back of his throat; a purr from her.

“These trousers have to go.”

“Your wish is my command.”

And like that, they were gone and he was hard, straining against her.

They were going to be late for dinner.

The rest was… The rest was rough, urgent, kisses. Deep breaths, quick breaths, can’t-get-enough-air-this-pleasure-is-going-to-my-head breaths. She felt them steal across her skin. Soft sounds of pleasure.

The rest was … feelings. Her fingers wove through his soft hair or her nails down along his back. His weight upon her. His cock hard and full inside of her, in and out, in and out, until she thought she’d scream. Every inch of her skin tingling with desire.

The rest was … the taste of salt on his skin, the intense pressure building within until she couldn’t help but cry out. His mouth on hers, his fingers sinking into her hair, and his own sounds of climax.

The rest was… For Damien, there was no more. This was it. She was it. The only one. The only woman for him.

His heart was still pounding from their lovemaking and it didn’t slow down at the realization that this was it. She was it. He was done.

When they descended the stairs to dinner—with her in a slightly wrinkled dress and he with his tie askew—he clasped her hand in his. When they entered the saloon for cocktails, he didn’t let go.

Roxanna watched Jane and Duke, so utterly, radiantly happy, while she and Damien drank champagne, chatted with other guests, and held hands all the while. She started to wonder… What if they never let go?

What if—gulp—she and Damien weren’t just two lovers or
whatever
. What if they weren’t just something but
Something
. Or even, the one thing.

Roxanna Lane was not the kind of girl to freak out or panic or indulge in debates of
what does this mean
, either with others or in her own head. Except, she was now panicking. Because, heart thudding, she suspected she knew what this meant.

The stag party

Thanks to Roxanna and Jane’s scheme,
The London Weekly
—and his birthright—were secure. That is, as long as word didn’t get out that the pictures were staged. That is, as long as no one else got
real
photographs of the wedding. Relieved as he was—and appreciative—it occurred to Damien that these staged photographs didn’t quite solve his problem. Once the issue of
People
magazine hit the newsstands, everyone would know that his were fakes. He couldn’t quite bring himself to mention it to Roxanna and he wasn’t certain what he would do.

In the meantime, everybody assumed they were real and unfortunately, Damien had to keep up the charade—even while joining the stag party for a day of shooting with the armed and angry groom and all of his friends.

Duke’s stag party was made up of a bizarre group, including a bunch of geeky developers, an assortment of billionaires and millionaires, and, oddly, an English lord or two.

Duke had stubbornly worn his uniform of jeans and a free T-shirt, though he conceded to fashion and tradition by adding a hunting jacket. Some of his friends dressed like him, but others—the hipsters, Damien thought with a cringe—took this opportunity to layer themselves in tweed trousers and flat caps, Barbour hunting jackets, and Hunter boots.

Someone—perhaps the best man, his assistant, or the wedding planner—ensured that everyone was gifted with a flask engraved with their initials and brimming with whiskey.

The drinking began immediately.

It was eight o’clock in the morning.

Damien had been born and raised an English country gentleman. He’d been hunting and shooting since the age of four. He wanted very badly to comment on how adorable it was to see them all dressed up and pretending to know what they were doing.

But the loaded guns.

And the whiskey.

And the pictures that were not supposed to be public.

Damien was more than capable of defending himself against them. But as a gentleman “in the wrong” he was obliged to let them take their shots—in a manner of speaking. That didn’t mean it was agreeable to him.

He took a swig from his flask and thought of Roxanna. If she were here, she would probably best them all. For some reason, he was sure she was a terrific shot. If she were here, he would have the perfect person to whisper snarky comments to. She would diffuse any tension with a sarcastic remark, or twenty. She was, in short, the kind of woman a man wanted by his side. Badly. Always.

He took another swig of his whiskey.

Us. We. The talk.

They had almost had that conversation yesterday, but he sensed that she was just as skittish as he. Things were perfect; why ruin it with labels?

Damien lounged against a tree, shotgun at his side, taking occasional swigs of whiskey and brooding over a woman. What a start to the day. This stag party couldn’t start fast enough.

After a basic shooting demonstration for the novices, presented by Jacobs, the gamekeeper, they all set out for a day of adventure, but most likely danger in spite of taking all the necessary precautions.

“I don’t know about you, but giving these guys loaded shotguns and whiskey seems like a terrible combination,” Piers said, after strolling over to Damien.

“Someone is going to shoot their eye out,” Damien cracked. “At least they are not angry with you for ruining the wedding.”

The two of them were clearly the grown-ups in this group—as well as the only ones who had grown up shooting.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Kyle said, coming up to Damien and Piers.

He had been introduced earlier as one of Duke’s developers, and Damien would have guessed as such. Kyle was in his mid-twenties and wore a hunting vest over his plaid shirt, and a pair of heavy boots. “I thought you’d be out at the hen party.”

Damien stared at him coldly. Kyle hastily added, “To take pictures. For the Internet.”

“Or are you here to take pictures of us to leak online?” some other guy, Dave, with thick, black-rimmed glasses, asked. He was decked out in tweed breeks, a vest, and a flat cap.

“He’s here so we can keep an eye on him,” Duke said, glaring mightily at him. Damien stifled a sigh. “Also, he was invited.”

“Is he the reason we had to leave our phones behind?” asked Rupert, another one of Duke’s developers. “I feel bereft.”

Everyone adopted tragic expressions. Damien bit back laughter.

“Yeah, and he’s the reason I had to spend an hour consoling my fiancée and her mother. They were both upset about the photos being leaked and it fucks up our deal with
People
magazine. They wanted exclusive pictures in exchange for a donation to Little Paws Rescue. Archer might be able to save it. But if not…” Duke turned away from his group of friends to level an accusatory stare at Damien. “You have deprived the puppies and kittens.”