Billionaire Seeking Bride #2 (BBW Alpha Billionaire Romance) Read online

  Billionaire Seeking Bride #2

  BBW Alpha Billionaire Romance

  Mac Flynn

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Continue the adventure

  Other Series By Mac Flynn

  Copyright © 2017 by Mac Flynn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Want to get an email when a new book is released? Sign up here to join the Wolf Den, the online newsletter with a bite!

  Wanting to find the rest of the series and check out some of my other books? Hop over to my website for a peek!

  1

  My lover wrapped his strong arms around me. I could smell the sweet scent of sweat as our naked bodies rubbed together. My feminine core erupted in heat and I had to fight back the urge to moan. His hands teased my full breasts, and I could feel his thick desire against my rear. He lusted for me as much as I lusted for him. My body ached for him inside me. I turned around to look into his sensual, heated eyes.

  “What are you doing?”

  I started from my daydreaming and found myself looking into my friend Aimee Stevens’ face. My lips were puckered in a kiss and my cheeks were warm. I choked on my spit and tried to gather my wits about me. “Um, nothing. Just-um, just trying to drink this coffee.” The pair of us sat in a Starbucks, and around us the world chugged on thanks to the black miracle juice they dispensed like a drug dealer who dealt in stimulants. I picked up the cup in front of me and took a sip. It was cold. I’m not talking about just-a-minute-too-late cold, but the it’s-been-sitting-there-untouched-for-a-half-hour cold. I choked on the black sludge and shuddered.

  “You were looking into space for a good half hour,” Aimee informed me.

  “That would have been nice to know before I tried to drink tar,” I scolded her.

  She put down her paper and shrugged. “You’re the one wasting your money on something you’re not drinking. Besides, I was busy looking for a job for a certain unemployed apartment-mate who shall remain nameless.”

  “Why nameless? I happen to like the name I have,” I quipped.

  Aimee rolled her eyes. “I suppose that’s why you go by ‘Dee’?”

  I shrugged. “It’s shorter than saying Miss Deidra Johnson,” I countered.

  “That is a mouthful. What were your parents thinking?” my friend wondered.

  I snorted. “Let’s not go there.” I nodded at the paper spread out in front of her. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  A sly grin slipped onto my friend’s face. “Maybe.”

  I frowned. “No.”

  Her face drooped. “Ah, come on! I haven’t even told you what it is!”

  “The answer is still know,” I insisted.

  “But you could make a thousand dollars a night!”

  My frown deepened. “Uh-huh, and what’s the catch?”

  “The catch is that you have to supply your own costume and it’s a night job.”

  “Aimee, spill it. What kind of job is it?” I demanded.

  She sheepishly grinned and pointed at the ad in the paper I leaned over and read the upside down notice aloud. “Stripper wanted. Stripper? Seriously, Aimee?”

  She shrugged. “You’re not that bad looking.”

  I slid back in my seat and gestured down at myself. My frame was what was politely termed ‘husky’ which was a nice way of saying I had a few fat rolls on my stomach and my thighs were broader than some bridges. “You really think somebody would want me as a stripper?”

  “Well, yeah. Maybe.”

  “I’d break the pole,” I pointed out.

  “What if they gave you a reinforced pole?” she teased.

  I dropped my arms and rolled my eyes. “Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.”

  She frowned and leaned over the table. “I think what would make you feel a lot better is not taking your body so seriously. There’s plenty of guys out there who like big women,” she argued.

  “Uh-huh, name one we know,” I countered.

  She furrowed her brow. “There’s-um, there’s-uh, Fred?”

  I shook my head. “Going out with a skinny red-head.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Thin brunette.”

  “Mitch?”

  “Blond model for that lingerie advertising company.”

  Aimee threw up her arms. “Are all our guy friends taken?” she asked me.

  “Pretty much,” I told her.

  She raised the paper and browsed the Help Wanted pages. “Fine, no stripper, but there were a few other jobs in here that looked interesting.”

  I looked down at myself and snorted. “I need more than a job, I need liposuction.”

  Aimee looked at me over the top of her paper and raised an eyebrow at me. “I think what you’re problem is is that you’re too self-conscious about your body. You just need to let things go.”

  I frowned. “I’m not that bad-”

  “Remember the last job you had? The one at the coffee shop?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “They fired you because you scared an old man half to death,” she reminded me.

  “He was looking at my butt,” I protested.

  “He was looking at a bagel in the case, Dee,” my friend countered. She sighed and shook her head. “No, what you need is a good, old-fashioned simple job, and fast. I know the rent’s eating you out of your savings.”

  “I can last a while,” I argued. She stared unblinkingly at me. I sighed and shrugged. “All right, so I can last only a little while, but I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re unemployed, and we’re going to fix that tomorrow when we drop off your resume at this address,” she insisted. She set the paper on the table and jabbed her finger on one of the ads.

  I leaned over and titled my head to get a good reading of the title. “Maid wanted. No experience necessary. Apply at address provided.” My eyes flickered up to my friend. “Seriously? A maid? Can you really imagine me in one of those outfits?”

  “They don’t use those things anymore, and you said you weren’t happy with your body. What better way to lose the pounds than to work it off at your job?” she pointed out.

  “I can think of a million other ways,” I argued.

  “Name one.”

  “Well, now that you’ve asked I can’t think of one, but I’ll think of them later,” I insisted.

  “Uh-huh, and in the meantime we’ll just get your resume down there. It’s either that or you apply for another job at a coffee shop and hope they don’t learn about the bagel incident,” she commented.

  I sighed and slumped forward over the table. “Being an adult sucks.”

  “Hey, it’s not completely bad,” Aimee argued.

  “Name one thing good about it,” I challenged her.

  “Sex.”

  I snorted and sat up. “Fine, I’ll give you that one. Now when do I need to turn in my resume for this job?”

  “The due-date is tomorrow by five. I’ve got the morning off from my glamorous job of bagging groceries, so I’ll take you down there and try my luck at it,” she told me.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You think trading in your life as a bagger for a maid is an improvement?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe not with the work, but the pay can’t be any worse.” She tapped her finger on the ad. “
The address is in one of the posh neighborhoods. You know, big old mansions owned by people with lots of money. They might pay pretty well.”

  “Emphasis on the ‘might,’” I retorted.

  “It’s worth a shot. Says here we have to give our resume to a Mr. John.” She wrinkled her nose. “Strange last name, but I’m not complaining.”

  I sighed and ran a hand through my long brown hair. “All right, we’ll go, but I bet you all my savings they’ll take one look at me and stamp the word ‘Denied’ on my resume.”

  2

  The next day we took my old clunker of a car out of our dingy neighborhood filled with its stacks of apartments and into the posh part of the city. Large swathes of grass surrounded tall mansion made of stone and aged wood. Tall stone walls kept out uninvited guests, and security cameras watched the yards like a student watched the clock the five minutes before summer vacation.

  Our destination was one of the larger and poshest of the mansions. The style was of a large squire manor in the English countryside, but with the added touch of the surveillance system. A wrought-iron gate broke the rhythm of the ten-foot high stone wall. I was glad to see the gate was open, and we drove up the gravel driveway, through a small forest of old willow trees, and to the large front wooden front door of the manor. There was a circle in front of the doors and a few other shabby cars like mine were parked in front of us.

  We stepped out and surveyed the car competition. “Looks like you’re not the only one in need of money,” Aimee quipped.

  I shut my door and cringed when the hinges creaked for lack of oil and maintenance. “The rust will hold my car together for a little while longer.”

  I walked around my car and Aimee and I met at the door. There was a small buzzer on the side and Aimee gave it a good, long push. From inside we heard the sweet jingle of a bell followed closely by the tap of shoes on hardwood floors. The door was opened a foot and an older gentleman of about sixty peeked through the opening. He wore a dark gray butler suit complete with tails and a white buttoned shirt. His eyes surveyed us with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve come to apply for the maid position,” Aimee told him.

  The butler opened the door and stepped to the side. “If you would follow me.”

  We stepped inside the entrance and saw it was a large hall complete with a vaulted ceiling and a central staircase that led upstairs. On either side of us were archways that led into the wings. The right-hand wing led into the dining room, and on the left was the living room. Antiques filled the hall and the two rooms. An old grandfather clock stood against the wall and ticked the hours away, elegant, hand-carved tables were positioned behind us for hats and gloves, and the upper parts of the walls were filled with a mix of paintings and the heads of dead animals.

  “This way,” the butler instructed us.

  He guided us into the left-hand wing. On the right wall stood a pair of closed wooden doors, and the servant led us over to them. He rapped on one of the doors with his knuckles. “Mr. Barnett, more applicants,” he called.

  “Show them in,” replied a man’s voice.

  The butler opened both doors and revealed a large study. The walls were made of oak panels and most were covered by like bookcases. The wooden floors were covered by large oriental rugs, and a huge globe stood off to one side. At the far back of the room, in front of wide, tall windows, sat an oak desk, and in front of the desk were two plush office chairs. We stepped inside and the butler closed the doors behind us with an ominous clack.

  Seated behind the desk was a handsome man of about thirty with short black hair and a friendly smile on his face. He wore a dark blue business suit without the tie and black shoes that were so well shined I could see my reflection in them. The man looked up from a piece of paper in front of him, and beside his elbow was a stack of more papers. His brown eyes flickered between us, but I noticed they lingered a little longer on me.

  He stood and held out his hand to us. “Good morning. My name’s Mr. Barnett, and I’m the secretary to the owner of this home. And you are?”

  Aimee strode forward and gave his hand a good, strong shake. “Aimee Stevens, and this-” she jerked her head at me as I followed her up to the desk, “-is my friend, Deidra Johnson. You can call her Dee.”

  He bowed his head to both of us. “A pleasure.” He extracted his hand from Aimee and held it out to me. I grasped his hand and noticed he studied my arms and face. His smile widened. “Quite a pleasure.”

  “Um, ditto,” I replied. I let go of his hand and noticed he did the same, but with some reluctance. Aimee glanced between the man and myself, and I noticed a flicker of something passed through her eyes. I recognized that look. That spelled trouble for me.

  Mr. Barnett gestured to the two chairs that stood behind us. “If I could just ask for a short interview with both of you, and then you can leave your resumes with me. Would you like the interviews separately or together?”

  My color drained at the thought of an interview. I thought this was supposed to be just a resume drop-off. Those were easy, but not interviews. I hated being one-on-one with a prospective supervisor who would judge me less on my flimsy resume and more on my appearance.

  “Together,” I replied.

  “Separately,” Aimee argued. I whipped my head to her and glared at my friend. She grinned and shrugged.

  “Very well. Miss Stevens, why don’t we begin with you?” he suggested.

  “Sure, no problem,” she agreed.

  Mr. Barnett turned to me. “If you wouldn’t mind sitting in the room outside this one. This won’t take long,” he promised.

  “All right,” I agreed. I cast one last glare at my friend before I turned and exited the room.

  The living room was brightly lit, and close to the doors was a plush leather couch. I plopped my wide load onto one of the cushions and my fingers fiddled with my paper resume as I dreaded the coming interview. To distract myself I allowed my eyes to wander over my lavish surroundings. There was an ornate coffee table in front of me and matching chairs on either side that fit with the couch. The walls had paintings with ornate borders, and the windows looked out on the lush yard and trees. Everything spoke of opulence without gaudiness. I wondered who was the owner of such wealth.

  The wait felt like forever but was closer to ten minutes. The door to the study opened and out popped Aimee. There was a sly smile on her face as she strode over to the back of the couch and leaned over it towards me. “Your turn!”

  I cringed and looked past her at the ajar study door. “Can’t I just leave my resume?” I pleaded.

  She shook her head. “Nope.” She walked around the couch, pulled me to my feet and pushed me towards the door. “Now get in there and show him what you’re made of!” she insisted.

  “That would be fat. . .” I muttered as I stumbled into the study.

  Mr. Barnett sat in his chair and smiled at my entrance. I steadied myself and glared back at my friend. Aimee winked at me from the doors and shut them behind me.

  “If you would have a seat, Miss Johnson,” Mr. Barnett offered me. I returned my attention to him, plastered a smile on my face and strode over to take a seat in front of him. The wide expanse of the desk was a little intimidating. The interviewer leaned his arms over the desk and scrutinized my appearance. I squirmed beneath his intense gaze. It was different from others. I couldn’t get over hoe handsome he was, and he looked at me like maybe he thought the same of me.

  “I’ll admit this upfront, Miss Johnson. My employer has a very particular person in mind to fit this position,” he warned me.

  I cringed. “Skinny?”

  He chuckled. “No, quite the contrary, but his standards have more to do with the personality of his employees.” He stood and walked around the desk to seat himself on the corner closest to me. The distance between us was less than a foot. I could have reached out and touched his knees if I dared. His beautiful brown eyes bore into mi
ne like he was reading my soul. I now missed the intimidating distance of the desk. “The person he’s looking for is someone who can please him in conversation as well as in cleaning. Someone with whom he can converse whenever they meet in the halls or rooms.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Are you sure he isn’t looking for a shrink?” I regretted the quip as soon as it left my mouth, but the damage was done. Barnett blinked at me in shock and I squirmed in my seat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” My apology was interrupted by the man’s chuckle.

  He held up his hand and shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Your friend warned me you’d be blunt, and I’m glad she wasn’t lying. That attitude is exactly what my employer is looking for.”

  It was my turn to blink at him. “You mean I have the job?”

  Barnett leaned towards me and a sly smile slid onto his delicious lips. His eyes swept over me and I blushed under such a thorough gaze from such a handsome man. He lowered his voice to a soft, heated whisper. “Not quite. There are a few other ‘tests’ you’ll need to pass.”

  I looked at the rug beneath my feet and my hands crumpled my resume into a wad of paper. “‘T-tests?’” I repeated.

  He reached forward and wrapped one of his hands over mine. His fingers smoothly slid the wrecked resume from my grasp. I followed the paper as he set it on the table. He slid off the desk and walked around behind me. My heart thumped in my chest as he circled me like a predator around its prey. He stopped just behind me. I was so stiff I barely dared breathe.

  “You seem tense,” he whispered. I jumped when his hands grasped my shoulders. He flexed his fingers and massaged my stiff muscles. “Relax. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

  At that moment I would have believed him even if he told me pigs could fly. His hands worked miracles on my tense muscles and I closed my eyes and oozed into his touch. Memories surfaced of my daydreaming yesterday, and in place of my imaginary hero was now this strange and seductive Mr. Barnett. He leaned down and pressed his hots lips against my ear.