Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Julia Kent

  Acknowledgements

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife

  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

  Other Books by Julia Kent

  About the Author

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife

  (Shopping for a Billionaire Book 8)

  by Julia Kent

  Who needs a SWAT team to escape from their own wedding? Me.

  My Momzilla turned us into hostages at our own ceremony, so Declan and I are getting married the good old-fashioned way, just like everybody else.

  By calling in his private security team, stealing away before the ceremony by helicopter, connecting to his corporate jet and heading for Las Vegas.

  The Boston wedding of the year is about to become a trashy Elvis drive-thru ceremony.

  Until the best man spills the beans and Mom, Dad, my sisters, his brothers, my maid of honor, my friend Josh, and even my cat, Chuckles, all come along for the ride.

  I can’t win, can I?

  Oh. Yeah. I already did.

  Love conquers all.

  Even my crazy family.

  * * *

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife is the 8th book in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Shopping for a Billionaire series. After Declan convinces Shannon to escape from their own wedding minutes before the ceremony begins, the madcap adventures are just getting started. When the mother of the bride pries their location out of the tortured best man, the whole crazy crew follows the bride and groom to Las Vegas in this romantic comedy from Julia Kent.

  Copyright © 2016 by Julia Kent

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  * * *

  Sign up for my New Releases and Sales newsletter at http://www.jkentauthor.com

  Praise for Julia Kent

  From Authors

  “This one has it all: hilarious laughs, a sexy (almost) billionaire and a hint of tears. The best of the series!”

  —Celia Kyle, New York Times bestselling romantic comedy author

  “Julia Kent’s romantic comedies are so funny you’ll snort soda out your nose, so emotionally honest you’ll get misty eyed, and so charming you’ll be back for more. Loved the whole series!”

  —Cheri Allan, author of the Betting on Romance series

  Reader Reviews

  “You can see that he really loves Shannon to the very core of his soul, and it’s beyond interesting to watch how that love can bring a strong, confident, alpha male like Declan to his knees.”

  “Wonderful laugh out loud story of a family that reminds me of my own. I’m a sucker for good ‘how they met’ stories, and this is is by far the most creative. I wholeheartedly recommend you read the series.”

  “Every chapter made my heart beat faster in anticipation. Julia Kent once again pulls at our emotions and allows us to fall in love with the characters all over again.… Very well worth my heart palpitations.”

  “If I could describe this book in a word, it would be, ‘EVERYTHING’.

  It has everything you want in a romance.

  It has those witty and sometimes downright hysterical situations that you can’t help but laugh at.

  It has those hot, sexy moments that make a romance book a, well, hot and sexy romance book.

  It has all those quirky, fun characters we’ve all come to enjoy through this series.

  But better than all that, it has what I loved best about this book: those sweet, tender expressions of love that are written so beautifully and artistically.”

  “As an avid reader I have to say there is nothing better than an author that can combine romance and humor. Julia never disappoints, and is one of the best at creating stories that suck you in and keep you laughing.”

  Reader Emails

  “I just can’t imagine how you come up with this stuff, but am so glad you do!”

  “I finally had to write to you and tell you that you are simply one of the most amazing authors. Your humor is perfect. I really do bust out laughing out loud. My family thinks that I am crazy when I do it but I can count on a good read from you especially when it has been a rough day. There hasn’t been a single thing that you have written that I haven’t fallen in love with the characters. They become real and some of your lines have become a part of our family language. Thank you for sharing your amazing gift.”

  “Having another fantastic evening as I just finished your latest book and now the fam can go to sleep since the laughing/screaming out loud has stopped... Stomach muscles are sore. Better than sit-ups! :-)”

  Acknowledgements

  To my reader group, Laugh Your Way to Love, I thank you for your encouragement, your wackiness, and your support. You folks are fabulous, and a joy to interact with on a daily basis.

  To my amazing husband, thank you for sending me off to Vegas with threats if I didn’t indulge myself ;) .

  To Daisy, who recommended the tapas bar at the resort next to mine, thus inspiring one of the scenes in this book.

  To Sean, who helped with accuracy in my baccarat scenes.

  To my kids. I always say “after this book I’ll slow down” and you always understand. Guess what, guys? This time, it’s for real. <3

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife

  Chapter One

  “They look like ants,” I shout to Declan as the helicopter lifts me away from the crazy chaos of my mother’s insane wedding. I do not speak in error. That wedding? That’s not my wedding. It’s not Declan’s wedding.

  It’s my mom’s wedding, and the relief mixed with terror that pumps through my bloodstream right now confirms that I’m doing the right thing.

  My inertia, combined with my future father-in-law’s huge error in giving her a bottomless wallet to spend on the wedding, turned my mother into a Momzilla.

  A tiny speck of a screaming, frothing Momzilla.

  Is it my fault the grin that spreads across my face makes me feel like Dr. Evil? No.

  It’s her fault.

  Declan’s arm is around my shoulders. He’s bent forward, our seat belts firmly on but our bodies leaning so we can look out the window. We can’t hear a thing, but my mother is jumping in the air like a trained poodle leaping for a snack.

  Except poodles don’t look that murderous.

  The crowd moves like one entity, the edges coalescing and flowing forward, toward Mom, as people realize something’s gone wrong.

  We’ve gone wrong. Me and Declan. The bride and groom have escaped from their own wedding.

  Oh, God.

  Did I make the right choice? Doubt pours over me like hot fudge on salted caramel ice cream. You know. Like it’s a requirement.


  The little purse around Declan’s waist, called a sporran, buzzes and jolts like it’s filled with Mexican jumping beans, leaping and slapping against his crotch.

  “You answering that?” I ask. Clearly, this is Declan’s phone going nuts with texts and calls.

  “No.” He shakes his head and settles back into his seat, closing his eyes and letting out a long, extended sigh that stretches back in time about, oh, a year. Back to his proposal.

  I’ve heard that sigh before.

  It’s the sound of exorcising my Momzilla.

  Bzzzz.

  “Your sporran looks like it’s having more sex with you than I’ve had this week,” I note. I have no idea what I was thinking when I imposed a three day pre-wedding abstinence rule on my poor fiancé. When you’re apart as much as we are because of his crazy travel schedule, the times we are together involve making up for lost time. Lots of making up.

  Like, two or three times a day of making up.

  Three days without, when we’re in the same city, is like twenty years. I would imagine having anything vibrate that close to balls so blue I might as well start calling him Papa Smurf would—

  Declan’s mouth is on mine before I can continue that thought. The warm press of giddiness tinged with authority makes me melt into him, body twisted to take in his heat. We’re ascending amid chaos and noise, the helicopter pilot trusted with our welfare, his job clear:

  Get us away from that jumping poodle on the lawn.

  Er, my mother.

  Declan’s tongue pulls me to him, his hands cupping my jaw, his strength guiding me closer and closer to him, until our kiss is all raw energy and desperate need. We’ve just thrust a giant middle finger at all the people who helped put the gala of the decade together, and even though my fiancé—he’s still just my fiancé—is doing his damnedest to get me to think more about Papa Smurf than about Momzilla, I can’t.

  I break the kiss, breathing hard. Am I panting from panic, desire, or...both?

  “We abandoned everyone!” I shout. Panic wins. “Is Amanda okay? She nearly drowned! I’m leaving my bestie in crisis! And my dad—oh, Daddy, I feel so bad.”

  “Jason’s down there absorbing the wrath of Marie, I’m sure,” Declan says in a soothing voice. Well, as soothing as you can be when you’re shouting above the pftt-pftt-pftt of helicopter blades cutting through the air a few feet above us. “And he’ll understand. Jason’s fine. They all will. And Amanda and Andrew seemed fine, too. It’ll all be fine,” he soothes.

  I scowl. There were a few too many “fines” in there. I’m suspicious. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think or feel.” He gives me a thumbs-up and a big grin.

  My turn for that long, exorcising sigh.

  “You, on the other hand,” he shouts, one hand sliding up my calf and going for the garter, “you, I would like to feel very much.”

  I slap his hand away. He snatches it back like I used a taser on him, his eyes wide and just a little feral. I give him a good, thorough look. God, he’s gorgeous. The cut of his dark jacket, short at the waist to show off the kilt that rests like a woman’s fingers against his mid-thigh, makes me pause. That McCormick tartan picks up a color that matches those eyes, which are currently looking at me with a mixture of I want to be in you and—

  Actually, and nothing. There is nothing else those eyes are saying right now.

  “Seriously, Dec? We just fled a thousand-person wedding in our honor and all you can think about is getting above the garter?”

  His confusion just increases. “Yes,” he answers honestly.

  I throw my hands in the air, whacking some sort of strap that stretches behind my shoulder. It begins to flap in the wind as we race toward whatever landing strip we’ll use to disembark. As it fut-fut-futs against my veil, I realize the wind isn’t whipping the long, white lace behind me. When we crawled into the helicopter and Declan put on my harness, he tucked my veil in.

  I love him so much.

  Yet someone has to be the target for my guilt. My confusion. My regret. My joy. My...all of it.

  And while we aren’t husband and wife just yet, he’s got a big red emotional bull’s-eye on him right now.

  “How can you think about sex at a time like this?” I chirp. We’re in a half-open helicopter with a guy who looks like Mad Max piloting this black bird of doom.

  “It’s my wedding day and I have a case of blue balls so bad that these puppies could be weather balloons right now.”

  Add in this unmarked helicopter and we’re pretty much turning into an episode of The X-Files.

  “And besides,” he adds, “when do I not think about sex?”

  “When you’re sleeping.”

  He points at me, winks, and then uses the pointer finger to run a slow, sensual line along my neckline. I inhale sharply through my nose and fight the tingle that spreads across my skin.

  I don’t fight hard, mind you, but I do fight.

  A little. I try. I try about as hard as Kim Davis trying to issue a gay marriage license.

  I fail.

  “Even then,” he says in a low voice, so quiet I shouldn’t be able to hear him above the fracas of the machinery, and yet I can. “Even in my slumber, I dream of you.”

  As I pull Declan in for a kiss and let my hands say a few vows for me, substituting for the words I was supposed to say right about, oh, now, a buzzing begins in a place between us that feels a little too good.

  “I didn’t know you could make that vibrate,” I marvel as I snuggle in even closer.

  “That’s my phone,” he says bitterly, pulling the sporran out from between us.

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed.” He shuts it off completely, then taps the pilot on the shoulder. The two exchange words, and as the sentences fly back and forth I realize I can’t understand them. Not because of the noise, but because they’re speaking in Russian.

  We have a Russian pilot? In an unmarked black helicopter?

  I look nervously at Declan and realize how little I really do know about him.

  Declan frowns at his screen.

  “That bad?”

  His eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “You think it’s anything but bad? Shannon, we just ditched our own wedding. There were seven camera crews from various news and entertainment programs covering the damn event. Andrew is being waterboarded by Marie right now to get our destination out of him.”

  “How tough is he? Will he crack?”

  Declan affixes me with a dark look. “You’re fluffy and klutzy on the outside, but underneath you’re hard core.”

  My turn to give him a thumbs-up and a grin.

  Suddenly, my mouth is occupied by other actions. He tastes so good. Like freedom and promise, like peppermint and wind, like the absence of the desperate clawing sensation that tickled my chest for the past year as this wedding turned into something that separated us, rather than bringing us together.

  This escape isn’t an act of immaturity. Quite the opposite. It is the only reasonable option in a sea of unreasonableness called Mom.

  Yet my conscience just won’t stop.

  The tears run down my cheeks as the kiss slows, his lips warm and tender against mine, his palm moving across my face with the gentle motion of a man who realizes I’m crying.

  And I can’t stop.

  “It’s okay,” he says, pulling me in for an awkward embrace. The seatbelt harnesses make any act of intimacy nearly impossible, but Declan’s determined. “Go ahead,” he murmurs against my face, pulling one earphone off. “Feel what you feel.”

  And I do, in his arms, racing away from the cacophony of a thousand people who fade as we do exactly what we’re supposed to do as husband and wife.

  Turn two into one.

  As Declan holds me, he grabs his phone and looks at the flood of messages. Is this as bad as it seems?

  “Four hundred messages?” he shouts. “I normally have
hundreds of text messages a day. I have four hundred from the past thirty minutes.”

  It’s that bad.

  “Um, I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems,” I shout, trying to reassure him, even though panic is spreading through me faster than Mark Zuckerberg’s fortune giveaway rumors on Facebook.

  “An hour ago all I could think about was making sure I said my vows without making a fool of myself. Now I’m wondering if Marie is assembling tactical drones to take us out. And charging the bill to my dad!” Declan says in a firm, clipped voice.

  I wince and say nothing, keeping my eyes closed, burrowing into him as he thumbs, and thumbs, and thumbs his way through all those messages, making deep grunts of discontent that alternate between sounding like a Star Wars Wookiee and a Highlander with a chest cold.

  Then he lets go of me and types rapidly, pauses, types, pauses—a cycle that becomes maddening as his biceps keep boxing my ear.

  I finally pluck the phone from him and read the messages myself. Most of them are back-and-forth missives between Declan and Grace, his longtime admin. But then:

  Answer your damn phone, Andrew’s text says.

  Can’t, Declan has texted back.

  You ass, he replies. Andrew isn’t the most delicate person when it comes to making a point.

  K, Declan answered.

  K? K? What are you, 13? Andrew replied. You owe me big. So big.

  I know. How about I make you CEO? Oh. Wait, Declan typed back.

  Andrew replied with an emoticon that is too vulgar to describe.

  I give up. We escaped. The sight of all one-thousand wedding guests assembled below us like a refugee airlift, only with Champagne and really good cake, lingers in my mind as I begin to softly cry against the leather strap of Declan’s sporran. He shifts. I feel his erection, and he clears his throat meaningfully. The sound is so subtle, but I detect it even above the helicopter rotor’s auditory domination.