Accidentally Married To The Billionaire - Part 3 (The Billionaire's Touch) Read online

  Brandon poured her a glass of wine that was waiting on the cherry wood table for them.

  “What kind is it?” Marj asked.

  “2005 “Amour de Deutz” Blanc de Blancs. It’s made with grand cru Chardonnay and layered in textures that boast flavors of ripe cherry, grapefruit, citrus, and hints of grilled cashew. It’s definitely a romantic wine.”

  She took a sip. “It’s delightful. Definitely sexy. We should’ve saved it for tonight. It would’ve definitely made tonight sparkle with pleasure and passion.”

  “Have you ever had this kind of wine?” he asked.

  “No. I always like the lusty Ménage à Trois 2012 Zinfandel. It’s about fourteen bucks a bottle and has a very rich, smooth finish. It’s vanilla scented and has all these jam flavors, and hints of black pepper.”

  “I’m a big fan of Zinfandel.”

  And if I’m wanting a sweeter wine, I go for Wilson Creek Almond Champagne. About fifteen bucks.”

  “Now that’s the perfect wine to pair with desserts,” he said.

  “Cuddling in front of a toasty fire or sipping in a hot tub works well, too.”

  Brandon set his glass of wine down and started to unpack a few things.

  She stepped out onto the balcony with its sweeping ocean view, “Let’s go swimming,” she called inside.

  “Okay, give me a minute,” he said, opening his laptop. Marj shrugged and wriggled into her new black bikini. She preened for him, and he glanced up to give her an approving smile before he returned to typing. She fished sunglasses out of her handbag and popped them on.

  “I’m going to head down to the pool. See you in a few?”

  “Definitely,” he said, “just have to look over these contracts.”

  “Don’t be too long. Or I’ll have to get a handsome stranger to put suntan lotion on my back. And we wouldn’t want that on tomorrow’s front page, would we?”

  “Save me a lounge chair,” he said.

  ***

  Marj lounged by the pool, sipped a mango margarita and waited for him. Eventually, she got too hot in the sun and took a dip in the pool to keep from turning into a flushed, sweaty mess. She wanted to look alluring, a beach goddess to make him forget his electronic devices. She swam a few lazy laps, casting envious sidelong glances at the couple full-on making out down at one end of the pool.

  Seriously, his hipster straw fedora fell off and floated away in the pool and he never looked up. She didn’t think that even at her best she could make Brandon go completely oblivious that way. She hung onto the side and did some kicking exercises. After all, it took work to keep her thighs from looking jingly. Maybe she’d check out the resort gym later.

  Eventually, she gave up, got out of the pool and went back upstairs. He was on the phone. He had stripped down and donned a pair of board shorts, showing off his gorgeous, muscular body. She laid a hand on his muscular bicep, and he looked at her apologetically as he barked instructions into the phone. When he finally got off the call, he swept her into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m turning it off right now. See?” he grabbed the phone and powered it down.

  “I know you’re busy. I’d just like you to be with me while we’re here. Because this is what you do all the time back home. And I was hoping not to compete with you your phone or your tablet or your laptop.”

  “I know. And I will. It kills me that I missed our swim. How can I make it up to you?”

  “Hmmm…foot massage? Dessert in bed? Maybe that dessert wine?”

  “That sounds like a good start. You order up anything you want. I’ll get ready.”

  “What do you have to do? Stretching exercises?” she teased.

  “You’ll see. You want romance and I’m going to deliver.”

  Within minutes, he had sprinkled flower petals on the bed, “Where’d you get those?”

  “Don’t look too close at the orchids in the bathroom,” he said, as he brought in a teakwood tray with glass apothecary bottles of oils arranged on a small white towel, “Now lie down,” he instructed. Marj obeyed, stretching out across the massive bed, facedown in her bikini.

  “Vanilla or the other one?”

  “What’s the other one?”

  “I don’t’ know. Not vanilla. I’m a guy, Marj. It smells flowery.”

  “Okay, then I’ll take flowery,” she said, sighing as she sank into the fragrant softness and his hands were warm upon her back. He had only promised a foot massage but she wasn’t about to complain.

  Several minutes into the most sensuous and relaxing massage ever, room service knocked on the door, and he went to answer it. She rolled over on her side and watched him go, admiring him. He returned with a dish of mocha chocolate mousse, and she propped up on her elbows as he fed her a spoonful.

  “Mmm…heavenly,” she said, “almost as good as that wedding cake you got me.”

  “I’m not a fan of chocolate in general. I spent so much of my life avoiding sweets that I find I don’t have that craving.”

  “I’ll bypass the fact that not liking chocolate makes you unpatriotic or something. Let’s focus on the fact that you have other cravings. Ones I can satisfy.”

  “Without being two inches from a public toilet?”

  “Yes, I can promise a better location tonight,” she said.

  He fed her a few more bites of the mocha mousse and then untied her bikini top and smeared some on her breasts.

  “I thought you didn’t like chocolate?” she challenged.

  “I heard you say it was heavenly and I thought to give it a fair shot. I can’t think of a better way to serve it,” he said, licking his lips.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning they woke to the sound of Marj’s cell phone. She glared at it and looked at the number, puzzled and half asleep. She passed the phone to Brandon.

  “It’s nobody I know,” she said, “is it anybody you know?”

  “Shit. It’s the lawyers,” he said, “they must not have been able to reach me because I turned off my phone.”

  “Just answer it,” she said, staggering toward the bathroom for a shower. When he came in a few minutes later, it wasn’t to join her for some wet and wild fun.

  “There’s a feature on us in the media, all over the internet apparently. Seems our marriage is on the rocks already. And/or it was a sham from the start. This means trouble.”

  She leaned out of the shower to look at his phone screen as he showed her the headlines and the photos of them on the plane, arguing, making angry facial expressions and gestures. Then there were pics of her gesturing to him at the airport, but it looked like she was fighting with him.

  She frowned. “Now we know why she arranged for that blonde-secretary-look-alike on the flight. She wanted us to fight so she could capture it and flaunt it to everyone. I’m wondering why she didn’t get pics of us in the afterglow of sex. If we were being watched, surely somebody saw us go to the airplane bathroom together.”

  “Because that wouldn’t help her case. She’s only going to focus on the dirty, ugly, and negative. And the pics were manipulated to suit her purpose.”

  “Look, everyone has off days in their relationship. We weren’t even fighting for that long. It’s funny how they didn’t put the nice pictures of us up when we were holding hands or kissing. It can’t be that big of a deal. We’re on vacation, the flight was crowded, whatever. Let the lawyers put out the PR fire and let’s enjoy Mexico.”

  “Speaking of Mexico, there’s more. Pictures of you in a bikini, by yourself, drinking and checking the time on your watch, and repeatedly looking back at the resort to see if I was coming. The headline suggests that I kept you waiting over an hour.”

  “You did. Does it mention that I went to find you, and we had lots of mind-blowing sex?”

  “No, they don’t have cameras in here yet, thankfully. This has to be Lena. Some kind of detective tracking us or there’s a spy on my staff. Our destination wasn’t disclosed to anyone. Pictures on the plane,
in the airport, by the pool. It’s too much. They had to be looking for a story to find that.”

  “Do you think she hired someone to stay glued to our every move?”

  “I can practically guarantee it, Marj. This isn’t a coincidence. We’re recognizable on the Manhattan society pages, not internationally. So anyone here taking photos wouldn’t likely have any reason to take a picture of us arguing or you waiting on me because we were so famous. This had to be linked up to a news outlet or a gossip site and my money’s on Lena. It’s a case of stalking us and looking for trouble. Which is exactly what they’re going to find.”

  “Wait, what if we just counterprogram it with adorable, affectionate public appearances? We can canoodle in the bar and kiss by the pool and take walks on the beach. That would show we’ve made up.”

  “Anyone being paid to show us in a bad light wouldn’t bother taking a picture of us doing any of those things. He—or she—gets paid to take incriminating photos. Not flattering ones.”

  “Wouldn’t a gossip outlet be just as happy with any candid photo of us, especially one that looked really romantic? Like, what if we were kissing? Passionately?” she suggested.

  “If it were strictly for website clicks, sure. If it were a site manipulated or answerable to my stepmother, then, no. Negative press only for the marriage she wants to discredit,” he sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

  “But I love you, and it isn’t a fake marriage, Brandon!”

  “But it was—it was fake to start with, and I’m not sure how to convince anyone, much less all of our stockholders, that it wasn’t a blatant manipulation to meet the terms of the will.”

  “Of course it was a manipulation, but now it’s real!”

  “Who would ever believe it? Once you’ve admitted you’re a liar, it’s rather hard to win back the public trust.”

  “While I see your point, companies have got away with it for years. We’re talking widescale damage from product use, which isn’t even a consideration but corporations have come back from that. There’s still Bridgestone Firestone tires. Nestle still sells baby formula. Scandals come and go and the bottom line survives.”

  “Unless the brand reverts to the Wicked Queen.”

  “That won’t happen. I have faith in us and in our ability to convince people that we’re for real. They’ll be able to see that we care for each other, and we have chemistry—hot chemistry!”

  “You think people can tell? People are so gullible, Marj. You’re in marketing, you know that! They believe what the facts are engineered to make them believe. It’s all in packaging.”

  “Then we sell them the fairy tale. We make the package palatable.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “An exclusive interview. One of those glamorous magazines—Bazaar or the architectural ones, something smart and upper crust to show off your killer house and our hot marriage. Get someone to book us a photo shoot. We’ll be adorable.”

  “You would do an interview?”

  “Absolutely. I mean, let’s have a little perspective here. If I’d marry a complete stranger to thwart Lena Cates, why wouldn’t I let someone come take my picture for a few hours and ask me questions? I mean, I stood before Elvis for you!” she said with perfect seriousness.

  “You are an absolute genius. I think an interview would be the perfect response.”

  “First, let’s enjoy Mexico. We can blast the haters when we get back home,” she said, “first things first.”

  “I understand that you’d prefer pleasure before business and I would rather focus on that myself. But the damage will already be done by the time we return. The fact remains that our stockholders and board of directors, not to mention the Wicked Queen herself, will be devouring every lurid detail from all the media outlets. We have to counter it. There’s no choice in the matter, no delay.”

  “So call now, book an interview. Issue a press release about our romantic getaway and our desire for privacy.”

  “Asking for privacy is like what celebrities do when they want to breakup without photographers, right?”

  “No, a request for privacy, while not often respected by the press, is simply a leave us alone statement.”

  “If, as you say, it’s rarely effective, why bother?”

  “Because it’s a response to the outcry. It shows we’re listening, and we take umbrage at the allegations laid at our feet.”

  “Umbrage? Did my Las Vegas bride just say umbrage?”

  “Indeed, I did. Just because I drank a little more than I should and slurred my vows in front of an Elvis impersonator gives you no license to criticize my vocabulary.”

  “I’m impressed. You take me by surprise yet again, Marjorie Cates. Umbrage, then, if you will. I’ll email the publicist demanding both a privacy/umbrage press release and a forthcoming interview in the haughtiest magazine possible.”

  “And that our interview fee is both astronomical and to be donated directly to a charity,” she said smoothly.

  “Adds a nice altruistic flair,” he said approvingly as he dictated the email to his phone and sent it.

  “I do like you signing off with Emphatically, Mr. and Mrs. Cates. Sounds so official…so decisive.”

  “Turns you on a little?”

  “Maybe,” she said mischievously.

  “I suspect you’re right, that the publicity team can get this under control. Shall we stroll on the beach and be photogenic and adorable? Maybe share a few snaps on social media?”

  “Sounds like a plan, husband,” she said, digging in her suitcase for a sundress.

  As they walked on the beach, snapping selfies and kicking up their bare feet in the waves, Brandon fielded more phone calls. He dispatched Chester, his trusted valet, to interview all of the household staff and drivers and look into their recent bank records and credit card statements to determine who was on the take and who could possibly retain credibility. The publicity team, then the lawyer again. Marj seized his free hand and dragged him further out into the water, up to their knees, so the soaked fabric of their clothing clung to their legs. She kissed him, adamant that he would eventually give up on the phone call if she used her lips and tongue to best advantage. At last, he conceded, tucking the phone into his pocket and framing her face with his hands to kiss her more deeply. Her toes curled in the wet sand under the onslaught of his clever tongue.

  The rest of the day, they lounged around the resort drinking fruity cocktails, swimming and making love in the afternoon heat. “Siesta is a brilliant concept,” she said.

  “I never appreciated the idea until now. I thought it was lazy.”

  “Maybe you were just a workaholic with nothing better to do…” she said, lazily kissing his collarbone.

  In just a few days, they found themselves back on a commercial flight, headed for the city and the damage control they’d arranged. Nothing less than a national lifestyle and fashion magazine would do, and they had mere days to prep for the make or break interview, the public display that would determine, to a great extent, the perception of their union. If they wanted it to seem as real as it had become, they were going to need a team of experts.

  Chapter 5

  Brandon Cates thought he was going to lose his mind. He had managed to run a successful multinational conglomerate for the last five years. He had weathered the ongoing legal battle with his acquisitive stepmother, and her ever more aggressive team of lawyers bent on seizing control of his father’s corporation from him. But this was the first time he’d ever reached his breaking point so quickly. Because of a spray tan.

  Sure, he was the kind of guy who spent money for a good haircut every four weeks, just the right amount of tousle with a nice, clean-cut trim. He was not, however, the sort of man who stood around getting airbrushed with a tan gun that looked like a legitimate weapon of mass destruction. He stood in the (thankfully private) tanning room of an upscale salon in his boxers while two aestheticians in smocks and facemasks,
like dental hygienists wear, aimed and fired those blast guns of body makeup at him. The chilly mist fell sharp across his skin and it felt disgusting. It was slightly drippy. It was annoying. He didn’t feel that he needed to be bronzed to look healthier, more at ease, more happily married.

  His publicist and the team of stylists disagreed. Gone was his natural hair color, now streaked delicately with caramel highlights to brighten his complexion and make him look ‘well-rested’. Of course, there was no reason to brighten his complexion since it was being bronzed at the moment. His standard Brooks Brothers attire was being upgraded for Hugo Boss with a sexier, more European cut to his suit. The bespoke shirt in the whitest fabric money could buy would fit him like skin. If he ate a single grape or, heaven forbid, chip more than usual, it probably wouldn’t button at all. He was lean and fit, but he felt restricted by this interview and by the damned suit he had to wear that was made to measure in the strictest way possible. There would be no extra fabric to tuck in, nothing that created a bulge or twist or wrinkle. Only the very smoothest, most flawlessly fitted garments would appear in the photos. And he would try to appear at ease and natural under the spray tan and highlights, beneath the seven thousand dollar suit.

  His cell phone rang, and he answered it. It was Paul, one of his lawyers. One of the few who actually knew the truth. They chatted a bit, and Paul gave him a few pointers for the interview, even though PR had already prepped him.

  “I saw the picture of Marj in the paper,” he said. “That woman is beyond gorgeous.”

  “I can honestly say she takes my breath away.”

  “Did you see her in that bikini? My goodness! Why weren’t you down there showing her off?”