The Billionaire and the Virgin

  The Billionaire and the Virgin

  Jessica Clare

  Contents

  Title Page

  By Jessica Clare

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Jessica Clare

  By Jessica Clare

  Billionaire Boys Club Series

  Stranded With A Billionaire

  Beauty And The Billionaire

  The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed

  Once Upon A Billionaire

  Romancing The Billionaire

  One Night With A Billionaire

  Billionaires And Bridesmaids Series

  The Billionaire And the Virgin

  About the Book

  Marjorie Ivarsson is the picture of naiveté. A hardworking waitress raised by her grandmother, an evening playing bingo is her sort of socialising. But when she’s invited to be a bridesmaid at her friend Bronte’s wedding, she enters a whole new world.

  Whisked away to the billionaire groom’s private island, Marjorie is awe-struck by the glitz and glamour. But what dazzles her most is notorious playboy and hot-shot TV producer Robert Cannon.

  After Marjorie saves Robert from drowning in the island’s turquoise lagoon, she can’t help but feel drawn to him. But she’s not the only woman intrigued, and with his wild and womanising ways, they couldn’t be more wrong for each other. With the blistering attraction between them becoming hard to ignore, and the idyllic, irresistibly romantic island as their playground – will opposites attract?

  Chapter One

  Marjorie Ivarsson adjusted the bow on her behind and craned her neck, trying to look in the mirror at the back of her dress. “How is this?”

  “Fucking awful,” said the redhead next to her in a similar dress. “We look more like cupcakes than bridesmaids.”

  “Do you guys really hate the dresses?” Brontë asked, wringing her hands as the women lined up and studied their reflections in the mirrors.

  “Not at all,” said Audrey, who Marjorie knew was the extremely pregnant, nice one. Audrey elbowed the not-as-nice redhead next to her, who was her sister. “I think they’re lovely dresses. And you do too.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  Again, she elbowed her sister and turned to Marjorie. “What do you think of the dress, Marj?” Her eyes were and trying to convey a hint that the other woman was just not getting.

  “I love it,” Marjorie lied, casting a brilliant smile at Brontë. Truth was, all that red and white made her look a bit like a barber pole with a bow, but Brontë had worked long and hard to pick out dresses and had paid for everything, so how on earth could Marjorie possibly complain? She’d seen the price tag for this thing. Apparently they’d been custom-made by a fashion designer, and the price of just one dress cost more than Marjorie would make in months. Brontë was spending a lot on her wedding, and Marjorie didn’t want to be the one to kick up a fuss.

  So she adjusted the bow on her behind again and nodded. “It’s beautiful. I feel like a princess.”

  Brontë smiled, relieved.

  “Oh, you’re so full of shit,” Gretchen began, only to be elbowed by the pregnant one again.

  “I think I need this let out a bit more on the sides,” Audrey said, waving over the dressmaker. “My hips keep spreading.”

  A woman ran over with pins in her mouth, kneeling at Audrey’s side as Marjorie gazed at the lineup of Brontë’s bridesmaids. There was herself, a six-foot-one Nordic blonde. There was Gretchen, a shorter, curvier woman with screamingly red hair that almost clashed with her dress, except for the fact that she was the maid of honor, so her mermaid-cut gown was more white than red. There was Gretchen’s sister Audrey, who was a pale, freckled redhead and heavily pregnant. And sitting in a corner, beaming at them as if it were her own wedding, was a frizzy-headed blonde named Maylee who was currently being stitched into her bridesmaid’s dress. Apparently she was a last-minute addition to the wedding party, and so her dress had to be fitted on the fly.

  Gretchen fussed with the swishing tulle gathered tightly at the knees by decorative red lace. “My wedding is going to be in black and white, I swear to god, because this shit is ridicu—”

  “So what made you decide to have a destination wedding, Bron?” Marjorie interrupted, trying to be the peacemaker. She was a little disturbed at Gretchen’s rather vocal opinions about the dresses, and sought to change the subject.

  Brontë beamed at Marj, looking a little like her old self. “This is where I met Logan, remember? We got stuck here when I won that trip from the radio and the hurricane hit.” She grabbed Maylee’s hands and helped the other woman to her feet as another tailor fussed over the hems. “Logan bought the island and decided to renovate the hotel. He pushed for them to have it done this week so we could get married here. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Sweet,” Marjorie echoed, adjusting the deep vee of her neckline. Truth be told, her brain had stopped processing once Brontë had said “bought the island.” Marj was still weirded out by the fact that Brontë—quirky, philosophy-quoting Brontë—had dated a billionaire and now they were getting married. In her eyes, she always saw Brontë as a waitress, just like herself. They’d worked together at a 50s sock-hop diner in Kansas City for the last year or two . . . at least until Brontë had moved to New York City to be with Logan. It was something out of a fairy tale—or a movie, depending on which was your drug of choice. Either way, it didn’t seem like something that happened to normal people. “You’re so lucky, Brontë. I hope I can meet a guy as wonderful as Logan someday.”

  “‘Hope is a waking dream,’” Brontë said with a soft smile. “Aristotle.”

  Gretchen snorted, only to be thwapped by her sister again.

  “Bless your heart, Brontë, for paying for everything so we could all be here with you,” Maylee gushed, striding forward to line up with the other bridesmaids. “Look at us. We’re all so lovely, aren’t we?” She put a friendly arm around Marjorie’s waist and beamed up at her. “Like a bunch of roses getting ready for the parade.”

  “I believe they are floats in a parade, Maylee,” Gretchen said dryly. “Which, now that you mention it—”

  Marjorie giggled, unable to stifle the sound behind her hand.

  “So who are we missing?” Audrey asked, counting heads. “I know Jonathan and Cade are also groomsmen, right? That’s five groomsmen and I only count four bridesmaids here. What about Jonathan’s ladylove? What’s her name?”

  “Violet,” Brontë added. “And I offered for her to be in the wedding, but she declined since we’re not familiar with each other, truly. Logan wanted me to add her to the bridesmaid lineup to make Jonathan happy, but Violet insisted on simply attending.” She strode forward and adjusted the lace band under Marjorie’s bust. “Does this look crooked to you? Anyhow. Angie’s flying in but her kid was having dental surgery today, so she’s not coming in
until tomorrow.”

  Marjorie smiled at Brontë meekly. She’d feel a lot better when Angie was here. She, Brontë, and Angie had all waited tables together (along with Sharon, but no one liked Sharon) at the diner. Angie was in her forties, motherly, and wonderful to be around. They often went to bingo together.

  Gretchen nudged Marjorie. “So do you have a date for the wedding? Bringing yourself a man in the hopes he’ll catch the garter?”

  “I do have a date,” Marjorie said. “His name’s Dewey. I met him playing shuffleboard.”

  “Dewey? He sounds ancient.”

  “I believe he’s in his eighties,” Marjorie said with a grin. “Very sweet man.”

  “Ah. I getcha.” Gretchen gave Marjorie an exaggerated wink. “Sugar daddy, right?”

  “What? No! Dewey’s just nice. He’s on vacation because his wife recently died and he needs a distraction. He seemed so lonely that I invited him to be my date at the wedding. Nothing more than that. He’s a sweet man.”

  “Leave her alone, Gretchen,” Brontë said, butting in. “Marjorie always finds herself a sweet old guy to dote on.” Brontë gave her a speculative look. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out with anyone under the age of seventy.”

  Brontë knew her well. Marjorie smiled at that. “I guess I’m pretty obvious. I just . . . you know. Have a lot more in common with guys like Dewey than most people.”

  It was true. She didn’t really date older men. She just spent her time playing bingo with friends, and shuffleboard, and going to knitting circles and volunteering at the nursing home when she could. Her parents had died long before Marjorie could remember their faces, and so she’d been raised by Grandma and Grandpa. Marjorie had grown up quilting, canning, watching The Price is Right, and basically surrounded by people four times her age. It was something she never grew out of, either. Even at the age of twenty-four, she felt more comfortable with people in their eighties than people in their twenties. People her age never sat and relaxed on a Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and a crossword. They never just sat around and talked. They took selfies and got rip-roaring drunk and partied all night long.

  And that just wasn’t Marjorie. She was old fashioned. Body of a (really lanky) twenty-four-year-old, soul of a geriatric.

  That was another thing that the elderly never made her feel weird about—Marjorie was tall. At six-foot-one, she was taller than every woman and most men. No one wanted to date someone that tall, and most women looked at her like she was some sort of freak of nature. Not her Grandma and Grandpa. They’d always made her feel beautiful despite her height.

  So, yeah. With the exception of Brontë, all of Marjorie’s friends were living in retirement homes.

  “Well, I think we’re good on the fitting for now,” Brontë said as the tailors finished their measurements. “Everyone out of their gowns. Go enjoy the day, and I’ll see you ladies tonight for the pre-bachelorette party!”

  Maylee giggled and Gretchen high-fived everyone. Audrey only patted her rounded belly. “Guess I’m the designated driver.”

  They shimmied carefully out of the fitted gowns and changed back into their clothing. Marjorie had brought her beachwear with her just in case, and changed into her red and white polka-dotted one-piece swimsuit, then wrapped a sarong around her hips, stuffing her clothing into a bag.

  It was a lovely day for a walk on the beach, and she had a few hours before afternoon shuffleboard started up, anyhow.

  Chapter Two

  “Look! Look! Tits or GTFO! Right?” The woman frolicking in the water near Robert Cannon’s float pulled off her top and shook her extremely fake cans in his direction.

  He raised his drink to her, inwardly wishing she’d go away and take her friend with her. He touched his Bluetooth earpiece to indicate to her that he was on a conference call, despite floating on a raft at the beach, mixed drink in hand. He was several feet out from shore, and when people paddled closer, he stuck a hand in the water and steered his raft further out, so he could concentrate on his call. “What do you mean, ratings are down?”

  “Just that,” said his assistant, voice tinny over the headset. “Reports are in and despite the new shows, ratings are down for The Man Channel by two percentage points.”

  Rob swore and took another swig of his drink. Near his raft, one of the beach bunnies grabbed another tanned girl. Looking over at him, they began to make out in an attempt to get his attention.

  He ignored them and paddled a bit further out. Fucking typical.

  “What about the new show?” Rob asked. Hell, if he was down two points despite the new show, he’d need a much stiffer drink. This one wasn’t doing much to sustain his buzz.

  “Naked Frat Party? Well, despite heavy marketing, it looks like we’re not hitting that target eighteen-to-forty demographic. I’m not sure what the deal is.”

  Robert swore again. “And advertisers?”

  “Already making unhappy noises.”

  Great. That was just what he fucking needed. He swigged his drink, emptying the glass and waved it at one of the beach bunnies. On cue, one of the women took it and headed to the shore to get him a refill, her tits bouncing in her tiny bikini. “I’ll make some calls when I get back, all right? Just hold down the fort for this week while I take care of things down here.”

  “Any luck with Hawkings?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hoping to make some progress.” Rob told him absently, watching the antics of the two women. They kissed again—and then looked over at him to see if he was paying attention. One of them waded back out to his raft, his drink in hand. Rob shook his head. Ridiculous creatures. He’d become jaded on people long ago, and these two weren’t changing his mind, that was for damn sure. He shifted in his raft and adjusted the headset. “I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I want a full write-up of all the overnight ratings and a comparison of ad revenue. Have it to me by the morning.”

  “Will do.”

  “And find out at what point those ratings dropped. Which show tanked? Call me back.”

  “Will do.”

  He clicked off the call and tilted his head back, letting the sun beat down through his Bugatti sunglasses. Fucking hell. With ratings down, he was going to have a hell of a time convincing Logan Hawkings that starting up a new cable channel aimed at white-collar businessmen and executives was going to be worth his while.

  Not that Rob couldn’t bankroll it himself. The billions in his bank account said differently. But he wanted Hawkings’s stamp on it, because Hawkings knew everyone in New York City and had a lot of cachet that Rob didn’t. People respected him and his business.

  They didn’t respect Rob’s, no matter how much money it made him.

  Most of the time he didn’t give a shit. Notoriety had made him as much money as anything else. And if he’d made his fortune capitalizing on cable channels and radio networks designed for the average joe, so much the better. So some of his shows weren’t exactly aboveboard. So what. Tits or GTFO was still popular. As long as there were girls with low self-esteem wanting to get on camera, they’d make money.

  And he wouldn’t feel bad about it.

  It wrecked his social life, but he’d just cry into his piles of money. Every woman that was even halfway interested in him wanted his wallet, or to be on one of his shows. The only girls he seemed to attract anymore were vapid idiots like the two currently making out and cavorting in the water in front of him just to get his attention. Didn’t care, really.

  Rob took the drink that Blonde Number One offered him and tasted it. Strong, just the way he liked it. “Thanks, sugar.”

  “So,” she said, giving her body a little wiggle to get his attention. “Think I’ve got what it takes to be on one of your shows?”

  “Maybe,” he said absently, taking a bigger swig of his drink. Christ, that was really strong. He took another swig, because why not? He needed to get good and drunk. Two fucking ratings points. Jesus.

  The other girl swam up ne
xt to him. “I heard you did lines off of Tiffany West’s stomach in Cannes,” she said with a sultry smile.

  “Did you? How nice,” he said flatly. He didn’t even know who Tiffany West was, and he sure as shit didn’t do drugs. Alcohol was easy. Drugs just made you end up as someone’s prison bitch. He gulped the drink again, pleased that an alcoholic buzz was kicking in. He’d had three of these babies already, and number four was going to get him good and toasted. Which was a good thing, if ratings were down.

  The busty blondes weren’t leaving. One swam up to the side of his raft, nudging it further out into the water. She smiled up at him. “Wanna do lines off of my stomach?”

  “I’m busy.” Another call was due to come in any minute now.

  “I can save the good stuff for later, if you want to party.”

  Fuck that. Party of one in his raft, right here. He tossed down the rest of his drink, enjoying the burn it left in his mouth, and handed it off to one of the girls who watched him expectantly. When they didn’t go away, he looked back over at them. “How about you and you,” he said, pointing at both of them, “go do lines together and leave me the fuck alone?”

  One of the blondes gave him a furious look and stormed away. The other wasn’t quite so nice. She huffed up, her fake breasts rising, and then gave his raft a vicious shove.

  Rob flipped over and landed in the water, head going under.

  Fucking perfect. His head spun and he resurfaced long enough to glare at the women who left. One of those two was going to buy him a new Bluetooth headset, so help him—

  One of his legs cramped up, shooting pain through his muscles. Rob bobbed back under the water, thrashing. It was like his leg had locked up. Combine that with his spinning head, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings. He dragged his hands at the water, but only succeeded in getting a mouthful of brine and even more turned around. The current ripped at him, stronger than he’d ever thought. He pushed against it, but he still couldn’t find the surface, and now the water was dragging him farther away from the shore. Huh. Riptide. He thought you had to be farther out for those sorts of things. His lungs were aching, and he tried to push his head back above the water, but it seemed farther and farther out of reach.