The billionaires tempora.., p.1
The Billionaire's Temporary Marriage, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Books by Tamie Dearen
THE BILLIONAIRE’S TEMPORARY MARRIAGE
BOOK THREE OF THE LIMITLESS SWEET BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE SERIES
TAMIE DEAREN
Copyright © 2019 by Tamie Dearen
Baden House Books
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover designed by Tamie Dearen Arts.
To all the parents of children with special needs,
who tirelessly pour out their hearts on a daily basis
CHAPTER 1
Two vertical pink lines.
Brooklyn squeezed her eyes closed tight, hoping one of the lines might disappear. She looked again, but it was unmistakable. The second line remained. The line that spelled the end of her dreams.
I’m pregnant!
With a bitter laugh at the irony, she considered texting a picture of the positive test to Nathan. She’d deleted his contact information from her cell phone when the final divorce papers arrived in the mail yesterday. But she still knew his number by heart… though he’d torn that heart to shreds.
The moment replayed in her mind, as it had every day since the morning he handed her the divorce petition while she was still lying in bed.
“Just because my periods only come every three months doesn’t mean I can’t get pregnant.” In shock, Brooke had attempted to make sense of the stack of papers in her trembling hands. “What about the fertility specialist?”
“I’m not giving a sample of my sperm to some laboratory just to prove what I already know. You’re the problem. There’s nothing wrong with me.” He’d lifted his chin in pride as he destroyed her with his next words. “Otherwise, Wendy wouldn’t be pregnant with my kid right now.”
She flipped through the pages of the divorce petition, her eyes refusing to focus on the words. The room spun as her voice came out in a wobbly tone, bile rising in her throat. “You had this last night. Why didn’t you give it to me then? Why did you sleep with me?”
“Just something for you to remember me by, baby.”
As it had that morning, his laughter still rang in her ears.
Brooke flung the pregnancy test into the metal trashcan with a satisfying clang. Anger rising, she grabbed the two matching ones from the counter and gave them the same treatment.
“I guess the last laugh is on you, Nathan,” she muttered under her breath, though she wasn’t laughing. At least she wasn’t crying. Not yet. But when reality sank in, she probably would be.
How could she possibly keep her job now? She’d already been worried the board would let her go when they discovered she was divorced. But this sealed her fate. There was no way the strict, religious-based facility would want an unwed, pregnant woman counseling their troubled teenaged girls. She might’ve been able to hide the divorce for the next five months until she’d accumulated the therapy hours she needed to get her counseling license. But she wasn’t going to be able to hide her growing stomach for long.
Her hands slid down to rest on her belly, noting the roundness she’d attributed to water-weight.
A baby!
She could only hope the baby was okay, since she certainly hadn’t been eating well. At least she didn’t drink alcohol, having never acquired a taste for it. She’d written off her fatigue and upset stomach as stress, only this past week noting that the time between her menses was even longer than the usual three months. But this morning, when she’d lost her breakfast of dry cereal, she’d decided to use one of the pregnancy tests in her medicine cabinet, left over from the twelve-month period she and Nathan had purposefully attempted to have a baby.
She couldn’t think about it, now. She had to get up and go to work. No one at Hayward Home had to know about the divorce, and she would hide the pregnancy as long as possible. But eventually, someone would discover the truth and she’d be out of a job.
Maybe, by some miracle, she would find another paying job that allowed her to get the counseling hours required for her license. Even if she did, what were the chances the benefits would include health insurance, like her present employment?
She hurried to her closet and flung the door open, groaning when she spied the only clean work polo, hanging there in all its offensive pink glory, laughing at her.
“I hate pink!”
She snatched the shirt, knocking the hanger to the floor in her haste. Just her luck! All the preferable polo shirts were in the bottom of the hamper. How could she have forgotten to do laundry, again? She’d have to be more organized if she was going to survive life with a baby.
I’m not ready to be a mother… especially not a single mom.
Sixty-six days… the sixty-day waiting period required in Texas, plus one day for her impatient ex-husband to schedule the final perfunctory hearing and five days for the papers to arrive in the mail. There could be no doubt how far along she was in her pregnancy. Maybe she would be more emotionally prepared by the time the baby was born.
Tucking her purse strap over her shoulder, she grabbed a breakfast bar on the way out the door. With any luck, her stomach would settle and she could keep some food in it.
As she climbed into her aging two-door sedan, she tried to imagine maneuvering a baby seat into the back.
“Sorry, Andretti,” she stroked her hand across the cracked vinyl seat beside her. “It’s not that you haven’t been a good car, but I really need four doors.”
Yet she knew she didn’t have the money to buy a vehicle, even if she traded for another used one. And how would she afford her medical co-payments, not to mention her fifteen-hundred-dollar deductible?
Coffee! Coffee would make everything better.
Even though it has to be decaf.
Cole steadied the disposable cup in his prosthetic hand, a task made more difficult by the lack of feeling. It was a delicate balance. Too loose and the coffee would slip from his grip. Too tight and the cup would crumple. He’d worn his favorite prosthesis, a lime-green mechanical arm that offered superior dexterity. Still, the lack of sensory feedback added major limitations. Soon he would have a state-of-the-art prosthesis that could actually feel, though this technology was still in the developmental stage.
He got the usual stares from the coffee shop patrons. Some were probably curious about his neon hand. But a few might’ve recognized him, despite his low-tucked cowboy hat.
Satisfied his coffee cup was secure, he used his “real” right hand to tuck a napkin in his pocket and retrieve his cell phone. He scanned his latest messages as he turned from the condiment counter and started toward an empty table next to the door.
Intent on his phone screen, he didn’t notice the person entering the shop until he collided with her. While the coffee lid should’ve prevented any spills, it was no match for the reflex tightening of his mechanical hand. The cup collapsed, popping the lid off to send coffee splashing to the floor, splattering everything in its path.
Embarrassed, he put his phone away and surveyed the damage, an apology spilling from his mouth before he even got a good look at his victim. “So sorry about that. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He wondered how much money it would cost him to make up for his moment of carelessness. What was happening to him? He was losing his edge. His painstaking attention to detail had always been his trademark, but lately he’d made a number of serious and costly mistakes… enough to keep his attorney agitated.
“Could this day get any worse?”
His gaze jerked to the source of the feminine voice, a sight that set his emotions whirling. Glossy brunette hair fell in soft waves, framing a pair of deep-brown eyes and a pert nose. His pulse quickened with instant attraction. She held her arm forward at an awkward angle, her sleeve dripping with coffee that had drenched most of a once-white cardigan, parted to expose a garishly-bright pink shirt. Mouth gaping in a surprised O, she stared at him with her bottomless eyes, which appeared to grow larger by the second.
From this close proximity, she must’ve recognized him. He waited, with dread, for the fawning to begin. She was pretty—that much was for sure. Any other day, he’d have taken advantage of the situation, flirting and asking her out. She would know in advance it would be a single date, part
“I’m very sorry, ma’am.” He tipped his Stetson and handed her a business card, hoping to settle the matter before they drew any more attention. “I’ll be glad to pay for your cleaning bill. Just call me at this number.”
Her brows drew down, chin jutting forward, and the card was left dangling from his fingers.
“Is this your way of making a move on me? Because it’s not going to work.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“Do I have a sign around my neck that says, ‘Easy target?’”
A genuine smile slid onto his face for the first time that morning. “I’m looking at your sign right now, and it clearly states, ‘Don’t mess with me until I’ve had my coffee.’”
Her cheeks flushed, a grin playing on her lips. He was pleased to have put it there.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you of anything, but you won’t believe what just happened.” Her arms flailed with emotion, flinging coffee from her dripping sleeve. “Some guy in the parking lot just propositioned me. At eight o’clock in the morning! Can you believe that? All I did was say a polite hello. I guess I need a sign that says, ‘Not interested!’”
She’s feisty! I like it!
“If it’s any consolation, the coffee stains ought to ward the creeps off for the rest of the day.”
Her mouth tugged up at the corners. “That’s a good point.”
She seemed so genuine—a rarity in his experience, outside his close circle of friends. And more importantly, it seemed she didn’t recognize him. He had to find out.
“I’m sorry about spilling on you. You see, I was holding my coffee in the wrong hand.” He thrust his artificial arm forward, still holding the crumpled paper cup, confident she couldn’t fake a lack of recognition when he pointed out the bright green prosthesis he was famous for.
“No, it was my fault. I was looking up at the menu when I came in.” Her gaze skimmed past his arm without pausing, settling on her own soggy one.
It was hard to believe, but she seemed oblivious to his identity. He warmed inside, feeling a bit more inclined to flirt. “Perhaps, it was destiny.”
“Probably so.” She groaned, looking down at her clothes. “I need to go home and change. But I can’t, because I have a meeting at work in thirty minutes.”
His hopes fell. She recognized me, and now she’s fishing for money.
With a resigned sigh, he retrieved his wallet and pulled out some folded hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s five hundred. Go buy some new clothes. There’s bound to be a dress shop close by.” His tone came out coarser than he meant.
“I’m not taking that.” She backed away, staring at the money like it was a poisonous snake. “For goodness’ sake, this sweater is ancient. And this is my least favorite work shirt. I’ll be happy to throw it away.”
She doesn’t want money? Is it possible she really doesn’t know who I am?
As the most well known of the four kingpins at Phantom Enterprises, Cole rarely went anywhere without being recognized. Generally, he flaunted his fame and fortune, an attempt to compensate for all those times his classmates had ridiculed him about his deformed left arm, which ended before it reached his elbow. Truth be told, his preference for the neon-green robot-like hand was in part to prove he was no longer ashamed of his defect. His efforts had made him as famous for his “fake” arm as for his wealth and success. And his recent appearance on the Millionaire Matchup finale, as the bachelor in the coming season preview, had gained him even more notoriety. Cole seldom met someone who hadn’t heard of him, so he couldn’t help being intrigued with this woman.
“You have to let me give you something for ruining your clothes.” He drew the napkin from his pocket and dabbed futilely at her sodden sweater sleeve as a male employee arrived with a bucket and mop.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller. We’ll get this cleaned up right away.”
“Mr. Miller, huh?” Brows drawn downward, her eyes darted from Cole to the employee and back. “You must come here a lot. Funny I’ve never seen you before.”
“My first time to come in the morning,” he said truthfully, as he stepped to the side, motioning for her to follow. “We should move out of the way.”
“Mr. Miller!” A fiftyish man arrived and shoved a replacement coffee into his hand. “Here you go, Mr. Miller. Sorry about that cup. We should have had stronger ones. I brought you a souvenir mug, so you don’t have to worry about that happening again. I’m Jack Winston, the manager.”
Cole’s victim cocked her head as she peeled off the sweater. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” the twenty-something worker hissed, pointing with his mop handle. “He’s Cole Miller! You know… Phantom Enterprises! The guy with the…” He made an awkward face, as people often did when the subject of Cole’s prosthesis arose.
“Oh, no,” she groaned, her cheeks glowing as pink as her shirt. “Can I just melt into the mop bucket? I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”
“Not a big deal,” said Cole. “Actually, it’s kind of nice.”
“Par for the course, after the morning I had. I get the chance to meet somebody famous, and I look like this.” She gestured to her coffee-spotted shirt. At least her pants were dark, matching the coffee.
“Actually, your sweater took the brunt of it. Your shirt only has a few little coffee splashes on it.”
“I’m not talking about the coffee.” She gave him an exasperated eye-roll. “I’m talking about this stupid pink polo shirt. I promise, I don’t usually wear hot pink.”
“You don’t?” Cole suppressed a grin.
“I don’t usually wear any shade of pink. I hate pink. But this was the only clean work shirt I had. That’s why I was wearing this ratty sweater on top when it’s going to be in the high eighties today.” She moved to the condiment counter and grabbed a handful of napkins while she continued in a nervous chatter. “I’ll just blot it a little, but I don’t care if it’s ruined forever. Actually, it looks better with brown spots on it. Tones down the pink.”
As she dabbed the napkin or her shirt, Cole spied the logo on her pocket, the distinctive double-H he’d come to know so well in the last few months.
Hayward Home!
His breath left him. Stunned, he stood like a statue while his mind raced.
She had to be an employee at Hayward. The answer to his prayers. Surely, she had access to the information he needed. At the very least, she knew someone with access. After months of dead-end trails and closed doors, she was the “in” he’d been looking for. Maybe he could buy her a coffee and casually get to know her. He painted on his most ingratiating smile and turned to speak to her. But she was gone.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller.”
The voice came from behind him. He whipped around to see her, head tucked down, as she slipped out the door.
He couldn’t let her escape. Not when he was so close to finding the answers.
“Wait!”
Heart racing, he handed his coffee back to the confused manager and hurried after her. When he got outside, she was running across the parking lot, the soiled sweater hanging from her arm.
“Hey! Stop! I don’t even know your name!”
She reached her car—a small, dated sedan—and jumped inside. Cole ran toward the parking lot entrance, intending to block her way, but she pulled out of her parking place and exited behind the building, her tires spinning as she drove through a patch of gravel.
What just happened?
