THE NAUGHTY BILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN FIANCEE
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THE NAUGHTY BILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN FIANCEE
The best laid plans…
Branson Welles doesn’t want a fiancée, but he better get one fast before his controlling grandfather yanks his trust fund out from under him. How convenient that recent college grad Jen needs money to pay her school loan just when Bran needs to hire a girl to play the role of his new lady love. It’s the perfect plan, until the sexual attraction makes it impossible for them to keep it strictly business.
One night together leads to another and before he knows it, Bran doesn’t want to fake it any longer. Could the naughty billionaire playboy really be ready to settle down, and with a virgin?
“You going to tell me what the old man did this time, or are we just going to drink our way through this one without discussing it?” Jon cocked a brow.
Bran let out a short, humorless laugh. He needed a nice stiff drink, which he’d have shortly. He needed a good fuck too, but that wasn’t on the immediate horizon, so he might as well vent as long as Jon had asked.
Glancing up, he saw the cocktail waitress on her way toward them. “Hang on until she’s gone, and then I’ll tell you.”
“Gentlemen.” The brunette bent at the waist and Bran got a nice view of the globes of her breasts showing above the buttons of the white shirt.
She lifted the first glass of amber liquid off the tray and handed it to him. She pivoted toward Jon, giving Bran a close-up view of the curves of her ass beneath the clingy black pants of her uniform.
He raised the glass to his lips and watched, amused, as Jon’s gaze dropped to her cleavage as she bent to serve him.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” Jon asked.
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head in a nod.
“Well, it’s nice to have you aboard.” Jon shot her the smile that Bran had seen charm the panties off more than a few females, sometimes two at a time.
“Thank you.” She smiled in return, but it had a professional feel to it. That of a person who wanted to keep her new job.
A woman immune to Jon… Interesting.
Bran guessed she was young, not long out of college, but she was no girl. She had all the curves of a woman. She adhered to the club’s employee dress code, but with an extra button left undone, a heel to lift her ass a bit higher, and trousers that fit like a second skin, she managed to ensure the male patrons had something to look at, as well as guarantee herself a nice tip at the end of the day.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” Her blue eyes, so intense in color they appeared almost a violet-blue in this light, moved from one man to the other.
Oh, Bran needed something all right. To sweat out this foul mood of his. Since racquetball hadn’t done it, perhaps bending her over the arm of the chair and spanking that sweet ass before he fucked her would, but Granddaddy would most definitely frown upon that behavior. Besides, this girl didn’t look the type.
He nodded, dismissing her. As she turned and made her way back to the bar, Jon shook his head. “She did that on purpose.”
Bran lifted a brow. “Did what?”
“Bent over so I’d get an eyeful of tit.”
“Of course, she did. She works for tips.” Bran didn’t blame her one bit. She did what she had to do to survive, just as he did.
Truth be told, her way was a hell of a lot more palatable to him than what he’d been forced to endure from his family, all in the name of keeping his trust fund—the carrot his grandfather had dangled and then threatened to yank away for most of Bran’s life.
He swallowed another long swig of whisky. It scorched its way down his throat. Bran savored the burn. It was sure as hell preferable to being numb and feeling nothing, like his father. The man had become nothing more than a puppet to Bran’s grandfather. That’s what a life under this family’s thumb did. Bran wasn’t about to let that happen to him.
“Bran.” Jon saying his name brought Bran’s head up from where he’d been transfixed watching the liquid swirl in the glass.
A frown creased his friend’s forehead. “There’s no one in here but us, so talk.”
A houseboy moved passed them and added another log to the fire, but Bran knew what Jon meant. It was early in the day. The bar was empty of members, save for them. There was no one here who would overhear and report back to his grandfather.
Letting out a sigh, Bran said, “Granddaddy has decided I need to grow up.”
The furrows in Jon’s brow deepened. “You work full time administering the foundation. You sit on how many boards? Hell, you even bought yourself a damn sedan to drive instead of that hot new British two-seater I tried to talk you into. How much more grown up does he want you to be?”
“He wants me married and popping out new pawns for him to control.”
“Married?” The shocked expression on Jon’s face was enough to make Bran snort out a laugh. “You’re not even thirty yet.”
“Yes, I know. But Grandfather was married by thirty, so apparently I have to be, as well.”
“Have to be.” Jon’s eyes opened wider. “Shit, is that written into the terms of your trust fund?”
“No, he’s more subtle, and manipulative, than that. My trust is fully revocable at any time by his whim alone, up until my thirtieth birthday. What he did say was he strongly suggested I find a woman to settle down with because he, and I quote, ‘would hate to have to reevaluate the future of the family’s holdings’.”
“That’s crazy. I couldn’t live like that. What are you going to do?”
“Finish this drink and order another. Where’s the waitress?” Bran leaned forward in the chair and craned his neck to search for her. She wasn’t in the room. He fell back with a huff.
“Hey, that’s an idea…”
“What’s an idea? Remain so drunk I don’t notice I’m destitute when he yanks it all away from me?”
“No, my idea is a bit more fun than that, and you get to keep your money.”
“We’re rich. It’s about time we started acting like it.”
“I’m rich for now, until Granddaddy says otherwise. And what do you mean act like we’re rich?” Bran pointedly eyed the immediate surroundings. The oak paneled room. The polished sterling silver trophies on the mantle that surrounded a fireplace large enough a grown man could almost stand upright inside. The life-size John Singer Sergeant portrait of the exclusive club’s founder hanging above.
“I meant you can buy a drink, so why can’t you buy a fiancée?”
“Oh? Is there a new store in town I missed? Fiancées-R-Us?”
“No, smart ass, but I have an idea where you might be able to get one. Here she comes. Be quiet and let me do the talking.” Jon pulled his feet off the ottoman and planted them square on the floor.
“She who?” Bran frowned at his friend.
“Shh.” Jon leaned forward and raised one hand to signal the server.