A Deal With The Billionaire

Chapter Two

Brielle

My parents’ sitting room looked like something out of an Architectural magazine. Tufted settees posed at right angles to etched wood tables; tea sets jostled for space next to each other. Even the air was scented cold and detached, like a generically expensive freshener. Some people had homes; my parents had a showpiece. “Your skin looks dull.” My mother analyzed me with a critical eye. “Have you been keeping up with your monthly facials?” She sat across from me, her own skin glowing with polychromatic luminosity. “Yes, Mother.” My cheeks ached from the unwilling politeness of my smile. I’d stepped foot in my childhood residence ten minutes ago, and I’d already been chastised for my hair being too sloppy, my nails being too long, and now, my complexion. Just another night at the Cole villa. “Good. Remember, you can’t let yourself go,” my mother said. “You’re not married yet.” I held back a sigh. Here we go again. Despite my thriving career in Vernon, where the event planning market was more cutthroat than a designer selection sale, my parents were fixated on my absence of a man and, therefore, lack of marriage proposals. They endured my work because it was no longer stylish for heiresses to do nothing, but they were drooling for a son-in-law, one who could expand their ground in the circles of the old money elite. We were rich, but we would never be old money. Not in this generation. “I’m still young,” I said calmly. “I have plenty of time to meet someone.” I was only twenty-five, but my parents acted like I would wither into the earth the second midnight struck on my thirtieth birthday. “You’re almost thirty,” my mother disagreed. “You’re not getting any younger, and you have to start considering marriage and kids. The longer you wait, the tinier the dating pool gets.” “I am thinking about it.” Thinking about the year of independence and freedom I have left before I’m obligated to marry a banker with a numeral after his last name. “As for getting younger, that’s what Botox and plastic surgery are for.” If my sister were here, she would’ve burst into laughter. Since she wasn’t, my joke fell flatter than a badly baked dough. My mother’s lips thinned. Next to her, my father’s thick, gray brows formed a V shape showing his annoyance. Sixty years old, and fit, Marcus Cole looked every inch the self-acclaimed CEO. He’d expanded Cole Construction Company from a small, family-run business to a multinational company over three decades, and a quiet stare from him was enough to make me shrink back against the couchpillows. “Every time we mention marriage, you make a joke.” His tone exuded displeasure. “Marriage is not a joke, Brielle. It’s a crucial matter for our family. Look at your sister. Thanks to her, we’re now related to the royal family of Hayes.” I bit my tongue so hard the taste of copper crammed my mouth. My sister had married a Viscount who was a second cousin twice removed from the queen. Our“relationship” to the small European kingdom’s royal family was a span, but in my father’s eyes, a noble title was a noble title. “I know it’s not a joke,” I said, reaching for my tea. I had to do something with my hands. “But it’s also not something I need to think about right now. I’m dating. Analyzing my options. There are plenty of single men in New York. I just have to find the right one.” I left out the caveat: there were plenty of single men in New York, but the pool of unmarried, straight, non-douchey, non-flaky, non-disturbingly anomalous men was much smaller. My last date tried to rope me into a seance to reach his dead mother so she could “meet me and give her consent.” Needless to say, I never saw him again. But my parents didn’t need to know that. As far as they were concerned, I was dating gorgeous trust fund men left and right. “We’ve given you plenty of time to find a proper match these past two years.” My father voiced, unimpressed by my words. “You haven’t had a single serious boyfriend since your last…relationship. It’s clear you don’t feel the same haste we do, which is why I took matters into my own hands.” My tea froze halfway to my lips. “Meaning?” I thought the vital news he’d hinted at had to do with my sister or the company. But what if… My blood iced. No. It can’t be. “Meaning I’ve closed off a suitable match for you.” My father dropped the bombshell with little to no warning or perceptible emotion. “It took quite a bit of work on my end, but the agreement has been concluded." I’ve secured an eligible match for you. The elements from his declaration blew up through my chest and nearly cleaved my composure in half. My teacup rattled back onto its plate, earning me a scowl from my mother. For once, I was too busy processing to worry about her disapproval. Arranged marriages were a typical practice in our world of big business and power plays, where marriages weren’t love matches; they were alliances. My parents married my sister off for a title, and I knew my turn was coming. I just hadn’t predicted it to come so…so soon. A bitter cocktail of surprise, dread, and horror went down my throat. I was expected to enter a lifetime contract after “quite a bit of work” on my father’s end. Just what every lady wants to hear. “We’ve let you drag your feet too long, and this match will be remarkably profitable for us,” my father continued. “I’m sure you’ll agree once you meet him at dinner.” The cocktail turned into poison and ate away at my insides. “Dinner? As in, tonight’s dinner?” My voice sounded foreign and strange, as if I were hearing it in a bad dream. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Being ambushed with news of an arranged marriage match was bad enough. Meeting my future fiancé with no preparation was a hundred times worse. No wonder my mother was being even more critical than normal. She was anticipating her future son-in-law as a guest. My stomach wobbled, and the chance of expelling its contents all over my mother’s prized Egyptian rug inched closer to reality. Everything was occurring too fast. The dinner summons, the news of my engagement, the upcoming meeting—my mind whirled from trying to keep up. “He didn’t corroborate until today due to…scheduling complications.” My father rubbed a hand over his shirt. “You’ll have to meet him eventually. It doesn’t matter whether it’s tonight, a week, or a month from now.” Actually, it does matter. There’s a difference between being mentally prepared to meet my fiancé and having him thrown in my face with no warning. My reaction simmered on low, destined never to reach a full boil. Talking back was strictly prohibited in the Cole household. I was accountable to its rules even as an adult, and noncompliance was always met with swift punishment and sharp words. “We want to move things along as quickly as possible,” my mother jumped in. “It takes time to plan a proper wedding, and your fiancé is, er, particular about the details.” Funny how she was already calling him my fiancé when I hadn’t met the man yet. “Spears’ named him one of the world’s most eligible bachelors under forty last year.Wealthy, handsome, powerful.Actually, your father outdid himself.” My mother patted my father’s arm, her face glowing. I hadn’t seen her this enlivened since she scored a seat on the Society Wine Auction’s planning committee last year. “That’s…great.” My smile wavered from the effort of keeping itself intact. At least my match probably had all his teeth. I wouldn’t have put it past my parents to marry me off to some decrepit billionaire on his deathbed. Money and status came first; everything else came as an outlying second. I took a deep breath and willed my mind not to spiral down that particular path. Get it together, Brie. As troubled as I was at my parents for bouncing this on me, I could freak out later, after I got through the evening. It wasn’t like I could say no to the match. If I did, my parents would disown me. Plus, my future husband—my stomach wobbled again—would be here any minute, and I couldn’t make a scene. I wiped a palm against my thigh. My head felt muddled, but I clung to the mask I always wore at home. Cool. Calm. Respectable. “So.” I swallowed my bitterness and forced a light tone. “Does Mr. Perfect have a name, or is he known only by his net worth?” I didn’t remember everyone who’d been on Spears’ list, but the people I did remember didn’t inspire much confidence. If he— “Net worth by strangers. Name by select friends and family.” My spine hardened at the deep, shocking voice behind me. It was so close I could feel the boom of words against my back. They slid over me like sun-warmed honey—rich and sensual, with a faint American accent that made every nerve ending tingle with pleasure. Heat slipped beneath my skin. “Ah, there you are.” My father rose, a strangely triumphant twinkle in his eyes. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.” “How could I pass up the chance to meet your lovely daughter?” A hint of irony tainted the word lovely and instantly washed away any budding attraction I had to a voice, of all things. Ice drenched the heat in my veins. So much for Mr. Perfect. I’d learned to trust my gut when it came to people, and my gut told me the owner of the voice was as fascinated about the dinner as I was. “Brielle, say hello to our guest.” If my mother grinned any harder, her face would split in half. I half-expected her to hold up her cheek on her hand and sigh dreamily like a schoolgirl with a crush.

I pushed the problematic image out of my mind before I lifted my chin. Stood. Turned. And all the air whooshed out of my lungs. Thick brown hair. Olive skin. A slightly curved nose that improved rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine charm. My future husband was destruction poured into a suit. Not handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and captivating his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole depleting a newborn star. There were generically good-looking men, and there was him. And, unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognizable. My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock. Unbelievable. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé. This had to be a joke. “Brielle.” My mother concealed her rebuke in my name. Right. Dinner. Fiancée. Meeting. I shook myself out of my confusion and mustered a strained but polite smile. “Brielle Cole. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I held out my hand. A moment passed before he took it. Warm strength consumed my palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm. “So I gathered from the multiple times your mother said your name.” The indolence of his drawl played off the remark as a joke; the hardness of his eyes told me it was anything but. “Tristan Carter. The pleasure is all mine.” There was the irony again, slight but cutting. Tristan Carter. CEO of the Carter Group, and the man who’d created such a buzz at the Odyssey Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. He wasn’t just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor. The evasive billionaire every woman wanted and no one could get. He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, indicated no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle. Why, then, would Tristan Carter of all people agree to an arranged marriage? “I would introduce myself by my net worth,” he said. “But it would be disrespectful to classify you as a stranger given the purpose of tonight’s dinner.” His smile didn’t encompass an ounce of warmth. My cheeks heated at the reminder he’d eavesdropped on my joke. It hadn’t been hostile, but discussing other people’s money was considered rude even though everyone secretly did it. “That’s very considerate of you.” My cool reply camouflaged my embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Mr. Carter. If I wanted to know your net worth, I could Google it. I’m sure the information is as readily available as the tales of your mythical charm.” A glint flared in his eyes, but he didn’t take my bait. Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my body. My hand tingled with warmth, but everywhere else, chilliness touched my skin like the apathy of a god faced with a mortal. I stiffened again beneath Tristan’s scrutiny, unexpectedly hyperaware of my Cecelia Cole -approved tweed skirt suit, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps. I’d even swapped out my favorite red lipstick in favor of the neutral color she preferred. This was my definitive uniform for visiting my parents, and judging by the way Tristan’s lips thinned, he was less than impressed. A mix of anxiety and irritation curled my stomach when those dark, unforgiving eyes found mine again. We’d exchanged only a handful of words, yet I already knew two things with gut certainty. One, Tristan was going to be my fiancé. Two, we might kill ourselves before we ever made it to the altar.