The Billionaire and the Virgin

By: Jessica Clare

The cold man in the business suit eyed Rob’s Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, and the drink in his hand. “Security alerted me to the fact that you were here.”

“Gotta love security.” He raised his glass in a mock toast.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you’ve chosen to lurk at my resort this week?” He sounded pissy as fuck to Rob’s ears.

Lurking, eh? Fuck you too, buddy. “Little birdie in New York told me you’d be here, and I thought I’d come say hello, since you won’t return my calls.”

“I imagine there’s a reason for that.” His hands remained in his pockets, his expression unfriendly.

This didn’t deter Rob. He was used to people icing him out because of who he was and what he produced, but damn it, there was a market there and he’d be an idiot to let opportunity go by. So his “Man Channel” was full of ridiculous game shows and lots of tits? That was what men liked, and the ratings proved it. Before The Man Channel had even been on the air for five years, he had three additional spin-off channels, a few On-Demand channels, and a robust business online with interrelated sites. Business was booming. He’d made billions off of peddling the right product to the right people.

But now that he had money and success, he wanted credibility. And that was the one thing he couldn’t get on his own. Which was why he needed Logan Hawkings. People respected him. He’d been in Time, Forbes, Newsweek, and countless other magazines, as a businessman to watch.

The only rags that Rob made were tabloids. They loved to run stories about which down-on-her-luck boozy actress he was fucking (he wasn’t), which coke-fueled orgy someone had seen him exiting (he didn’t do drugs), and anything else they could come up with. Normally, he let that shit stand because even bad publicity was publicity.

But now that he wanted to bring investors in on a new project? It was working against him.

“I’m telling you,” Rob said, his tone easy. It didn’t give a hint of the frustration he felt at Logan’s stonewall. “I have a business proposition that can make both of us real money if you’d just talk to me.”

“And I’m telling you,” Logan said in that cold, cold voice. “That I don’t like you here this week. The paparazzi follow you like bitches in heat.”

Well, that they did. “Don’t worry. Your ass is too boring for them most of the time.”

The look Logan gave him could have shriveled dicks from a mile away. He moved closer to Rob, and his voice lowered to an angry hiss. “I am getting married this week, and the last thing I want is a bunch of paparazzi mucking up the works. My bride has worked very hard to ensure that everything in this wedding goes off exactly how she wants it to, and I’ll be damned if you show up and ruin this for her. Do you understand me?”

Married? Well, that explained the growly bear act. Rob put on his most charming smile. “Congrats, man. Can I buy you a drink?”

“You can leave the premises.”

“Now, that would be a shame. I’d have to tell all the paps why I’m leaving, and wouldn’t they like to know?” Rob’s smile remained easy despite the menace he was throwing down. “I’d hate to give them fuel to stick around.”

Logan’s glare got colder.

“Congratulations on the wedding, though. I’d love to be invited.”

“You’re not invited.”

“Too bad. I’ll settle for a business meeting with you. Just a half hour of your time. I promise it’s worthwhile.”

“I’m not here on business this week, and this isn’t the way to get my ear.” He leaned in. “And if you ruin my wedding, I will fucking ruin you.”

So defensive over a dog and pony show. The man must truly be in love. Rob smiled thinly. “See you around, then.”

Chapter Three

After reviewing several dismal ratings reports in the privacy of his suite, Rob was in a shit mood. His botched meeting with Logan hadn’t helped things, and by the time three in the morning rolled around, he was done with Seaturtle Cay, done with jackasses who didn’t want to give him the time of day, and done with a lot of things. Unable to sleep, he phoned up his assistants and told them to pack up and be down at the lobby within an hour. They were heading back to California.

After all, there was no point in hanging around in the Caribbean not getting any work done when he could be back in California not getting work done. And he sure as shit wasn’t going to the beach again. Not after the near-drowning. He’d be happy to never hit the fucking waves ever again.

At four am, two of his assistants were in the lobby with their luggage, yawning, and the third was nowhere to be found. Impatient, Rob checked his watch again and handed his bags to the valet, who scurried away.

Everyone just stood there like lumps, clearly waiting for instructions.

“Get a fucking cab here ASAP,” he said to one of his assistants. “I’m tired of this place.”

“Yes, sir,” the pimple-faced kid said. “Right away, sir.”

“Good.” He peered at the guy. He knew he was an assistant, but wasn’t sure of the name. “Which one are you?”

“Cresson, sir.”

“Okay, Cresson. You get to keep your job because you know how to follow orders.” At the guy’s relieved look, Rob rolled his eyes inwardly. So hard to find good help. He pulled out his phone and texted the missing assistant again. You have 3 minutes to get your ass down here or you’re fired.

As he was looking down at his phone, someone bumped into him, and the phone went flying out of his hand.

In a rage, he turned on the person that pushed him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It was a drunk woman with bright red hair, her arm around a brunette’s shoulders. Both of them were wearing what looked like Mardi Gras beads covered with penises.

“Oh,” slurred the redhead. “Oops. My bad. We didn’t see you there.” She peered at him.

Great, just what he needed. “Is this entire resort full of drunks?” He stalked away from the women and recovered his phone, checking the screen. No cracks. Thank god for that. “You’re lucky this isn’t broken or you’d be buying a new one.”

The brunette’s eyebrows drew together and she looked as if she’d protest, but the redhead stumbled forward and pointed a finger at his face. “Don’t be a dick, sir. We saw plenty of those tonight. We’re full up.”

The brunette convulsed into laughter.

“Get your finger out of my face,” he told the obnoxious redhead, and looked over at the front desk. “And where’s my damn cab already? This fucking island isn’t that big.”

“We just left one,” the redhead said, still wiggling her finger in his face. “But youuuu can’t have it—”

Like hell he couldn’t. Shouldering past the two drunks, he headed for the curb outside, just in time to see three other women emerging from the cab. A pretty blonde with a wild haystack of hair was drunk and hanging off of an extremely pregnant woman, and a lean woman had her back to him, her front half in to the passenger window, paying the driver. Good.

Rob pushed forward and tapped the taller blonde on the shoulder. “If you and your drunk friends are done making everyone miserable, I’d like your cab—”

As the woman turned, Rob realized two things.

One, that it was the woman who’d rescued him on the beach.

And two, that she was really, really damn tall.

Chapter Four

The woman’s eyes widened in surprised at the same time that his did.

“Oh, it’s you,” she breathed, and a smile lit up her face. “My swimmer. Hi again. Feeling better?”

Rob stared. He looked her up and down, his first time to really get a good look at her.

She was tall as fuck. There was no disguising that. He was six foot himself, and he was pretty sure she had at least an inch on him. She was also wearing high heels, which made her seem towering. She was delicate for her height, but still had an attractive pair of small, high breasts and an impressive curve to her hips, and legs that went on forever in the dowdy skirt she was wearing.

So she was tall. So fucking what? He didn’t care if she was seven foot. She was just as gorgeous as he remembered, in all the right ways.

Oh, she wasn’t the typical Hollywood girl that was considered beautiful right now. Those freckles still spattered her nose, and her hair was a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her lips weren’t plumped full of collagen and her jaw was probably too strong. But her eyes were beautiful, and her expression was full of genuineness, and he wanted to just grab her and pull her against him and soak in everything that she was.

Which was weird, but there it was.

So he thrust his hand out. “I don’t think we got to meet properly the other day. I’m Rob.”

She bit her lip—god, that was fucking cute—and put her hand into his and shook it, surprisingly firmly. “I’m Marjorie.”

“Oooo, look! Marj’s picking up men at the curb,” someone catcalled drunkenly. Probably that damn redhead.

Marjorie’s face flushed bright red and she glanced back at her friends. “Are they bothering you, mister? I’m sorry. We’re just getting back from a bachelorette party.” A lock of hair dragged across her cheek from the wind, and she tucked it behind an ear absently. “Actually, it’s a pre-bachelorette party. This one was bridesmaids only. The real one is in a few days. I think some of the girls got a little carried away with the fun.”

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