The Billionaire Bargain

Corporate Takeover

​"Everything on Marie and her sleazy little deals. She’s quite a busy bee," Matthew said, dropping the file. "You’ll find it to be riveting reading. Took me a while, as you can see—but I did give you my word to have it ready by tonight."

​Henri skimmed through the pages, not surprised that the file was as thick as the woman was scheming. Marie Poitier. A shaft of anger sliced through him. That she had the audacity to hope for a reconciliation before discussing numbers was insulting.

​Of course she did. She was smart enough to realize the son was worth more than the father she’d left him for—not thousands or millions, but billions. She knew the company, which should have rightfully been his, was prime for takeover. It wouldn't have taken much more than a few savvy connections to learn it had been Henri buying up the outstanding stock.

​Unfortunately, simply insulting Marie wouldn't accomplish his goals. But a beautiful, smiling lover by his side? That would surely dismantle Marie’s dreams of reconciliation and force her to get down to the real business at hand.

​"Mind telling me how you’re going to convince that woman to sell?" Matthew queried, breaking into his thoughts. "Without succumbing to her request for 'personal attention' before you talk numbers?"

​Henri lunged to his feet, waving the evidence. "With this. It’s my game now, my rules." He met his friend’s sharp, blue-eyed stare, his lip flattening into a grim line. "Gagnon Autos is in a vulnerable position. Sooner or later, she’ll have to sell."

​"Not necessarily to you."

​Henri shrugged disinterestedly. "She knows she’s targets for a hostile takeover. And she knows I’m the shark circling her. She wouldn't have called if she didn't want to get on my good side."

​And I’ve got my pretty, hazel-eyed "lover," Henri thought.

​"Will she?" Matthew asked.

​"What?"

​"Get on your good side?"

​"When you start wearing a tutu, Matthew. Of course not."

​Distaste filled him as he recalled her phone call, dangling Gagnon Autos like bait and proposing they discuss the merger in her bed. She’d played him when he was a naive, noble seventeen-year-old boy, but it would be an ice age in hell before she played the man he had become.

​"She called because she wants you back," Matthew pointed out.

​"Fortunately, I have an escort," Henri said, heading to the window. "Since I will be conveniently 'taken,' we’ll forgo the personal and get straight to the numbers."

​"I see now. So the lovely Elizabeth is the key."

​Henri didn't answer, but his mind flashed to her eyes. Those big, bright, hazel eyes were so expressive he felt as though she’d pummeled his gut whenever she looked at him adoringly. She made him feel noble. Decent. Desperate to save her ten times over just to earn another worshipful gaze.

​"Marie will get what’s coming to her," Henri muttered. And Elizabeth...

​Matthew swept up his briefcase with flair. "The devil on a falcon jet. Right." He saluted from the threshold and flashed a grin. "I’ll let you pack, my friend."

​"My gratitude, Smith. Send the bill to Mrs. Warren this week; she’ll take care of it."

​When Matthew disappeared with an easy "will do," Henri swallowed the last of his whiskey. His eyebrows furrowed as he thought of the necklace Elizabeth usually wore. Too plain, he thought. My woman should wear diamonds and emeralds. With a swell of possessiveness, he recalled her lean, toned body. He had watched her across his office desk countless times, using sheer determination to force his scrutiny back to his work. A size six, he predicted. He pulled his contact list from the top drawer and flipped through the pages. If she was playing his lover, Elizabeth Stone would look the part.

​In the quiet interior of the private terminal, Henri stood with his hands in his pockets. He brimmed with anticipation, gazing out the window at the spacious sitting area while his Dassault Falcon 8X—a sleek, white dove of a jet—was fueled.

​He wanted to blame his simmering impatience on the deal, but the truth was, his assistant was late, and he was desperate to see her. A door of opportunity had opened. This was a chance to interact outside the hectic pace of the office—an opportunity to step out of their roles and, if they chose, into new ones.

​She’s going to pretend to be my lover.

​The fact that she had accepted made him feel heady. How long would they be able to only pretend? Three days? Three minutes?

​At the back of the room, the glass doors rolled open. The sound of city traffic drifted in before Henri swung around to see Elizabeth stroll inside. A bloom of protectiveness blossomed in his chest.

​The only thing untidy about her today was her hair—wild, windblown, and uncontrollable. The auburn curls framed her lovely oval face. Hauling a small black suitcase, she paused to store a bag of peanuts in the outside compartment. Her mint-green V-neck sweater dipped just low enough to show the barest hint of cleavage.

​His mouth went dry.

​She straightened her agile body and swiped a curl behind her shoulder. The scent of citrus—lemons and oranges—wafted through the air as she approached.

​"Elizabeth," he said, his voice lower than intended.

​Her head swiveled toward him. "Henri."

​He smiled. The sight of her face, warm in the sunlight, made his lungs constrict. She wore no makeup except for a swipe of lip gloss, and with her curls completely free, she was the most enchanting thing he’d ever seen.