The Billionaire and the Virgin Read online

  She inclined her head ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

  He shut the door and pressed Play on the recorder. Two women’s voices arose in conversation. It was illegal to tape someone without their knowing, but he wondered if Smith knew or cared. Didn’t matter, really.

  “So what’s this for again?” The woman speaking was clearly a smoker, and older. Her voice had a hint of rasp to it that he recognized well. He could practically smell the menthol on her.

  Smith’s efficient voice cut through the recording. “A surprise slam book that was commissioned for the bride. We’re interviewing the wedding party and asking them to tell a little bit about each other.”

  “I can’t tell you much about anyone except Brontë and Marjorie. I don’t know the others.”

  “That’s fine,” Smith soothed. “Let’s start with them. Tell me about Marjorie.”

  He tensed, listening.

  The woman laughed, and Rob immediately got offended. Was she laughing at his Marjorie? That fucking bitch. But her next words eased his mind a little. “I love Marjorie. How can you not? Hating her would be like hating puppies or flowers or something. She’s a sweet kid.”

  Rob relaxed and moved back to his chair, listening as the interview went on.

  “Have you worked with Marjorie long?”

  “A few years. She’s a favorite with a lot of the customers.” Another laugh. “Pretty much anyone over the age of eighty. They all adore her. I guess she’s the grandkid they never had or something. She has a lot of regulars and I’m pretty sure they’re all geriatric, but Marj remembers all their names and their birthdays and makes them feel special. You can tell when some people are bullshitting, and she’s not. She genuinely loves older people.”

  Rob mentally noted that. All right, his Marjorie enjoyed the company of the elderly. Not a bad thing, really, but he couldn’t recall the last conversation he’d had with anyone over the age of sixty. Huh. Clearly he had a crowd different from hers.

  It seemed that once Angie was started on the subject of Marjorie, she didn’t stop. “Yeah, that girl’s kind of an odd one. I mean, I don’t say that in a bad way. It’s just that . . . like, okay, she goes to knitting circles and antique shows. She quilts. I mean, who fucking quilts nowadays? Marjorie, that’s who. I don’t think she has hobbies like normal girls her age. She’s not into clubbing or sleeping around—she does crosswords and volunteers at a nursing home.”

  “She’s an old lady trapped in a young lady’s body?” Smith supplied helpfully.

  “That’s exactly it,” Angie said. “An old lady. I mean, like I said, you can’t help but love her. Sweet kid. Built like a stork, but sweet. And it’s easy to see that she’s lonely.”

  “Lonely?” Smith asked in a mild voice.

  “Yeah. I think she was raised by her grandparents, right? So she’s never exactly ‘blended’ with normal kids. Add in the height and I’m guessing it does a number on her self-confidence. Like I said, she doesn’t have any friends—other than the diner ladies—under the age of eighty. And she sure doesn’t date.”

  “No?”

  “Nope. If I bet money, she’d be a virgin for sure. I’d say the girl’s never seen a dick before, but what do I know?”

  They both laughed, and Rob clenched the recorder in his hand. If he ever saw this Angie person, he was going to personally take her down a damn peg.

  “Now let me tell you about Brontë,” Angie continued. “You want to know someone that’s lucky as hell? It’s her. She’s marrying a billionaire, you know.”

  He fast-forwarded through the rest of the conversation, but it seemed to be about Brontë and not Marjorie. Disgusted, he tossed the recorder aside and drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.

  All right, he knew a fair amount about his Marjorie. She was old fashioned, a good girl, and a virgin.

  The last part flummoxed him a bit. Rob didn’t date virgins. They weren’t his type. The friend could always be wrong . . . but he wasn’t sure about that. Girls shared that kind of information with each other, didn’t they? And Marjorie had that air of innocent awkwardness that he found so intriguing . . . and different.

  So yeah, she was likely a virgin. Well, fuck.

  He didn’t know how to date a virgin. He didn’t even know how to begin. But he wanted Marjorie. With every ounce of his being, he wanted that girl. He craved her in inexplicable ways. Rob was a man who always went with his gut instinct, and right now it was telling him that Marjorie was the girl for him.

  But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be her type. He drank. He cussed. He had one-night stands. He paid girls to show their tits on TV. He was crude and rude and a loudmouth. And all the reasons that Logan Hawkings wouldn’t give him the time of day would work against him with Marjorie Ivarsson, too.

  Well, then. Rob rubbed his jaw. He’d just have to show her that he could be the kind of guy she needed. He could behave . . . if he wanted to.

  And for Marjorie? He wanted to.

  Chapter Six

  For the tenth time that day, Marjorie wished she’d packed more clothing. She studied her dress in the mirror and frowned. “You don’t think this is too . . . I don’t know. Floral?”

  Seated on the bed, her friend Angie flipped through Marjorie’s magazine and didn’t even look up. “Did he say formal dress or just to wear a dress?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. My head was spinning a little,” Marjorie confessed. Okay, it had been spinning more than a little. It had been whirling like a carnival ride. She’d been sleepy from the late hour as they’d returned from the pre-bachelorette party, and even though she hadn’t been drinking, she was exhausted from watching the antics of Brontë, Gretchen, Maylee, and the newcomer, Violet. They’d taken a ferry a few islands over, and it had made poor pregnant Audrey seasick, and she remained sick all night. So Marjorie, being responsible down to her bones, had taken charge of the evening. She’d shuttled the drunks (and the one sick pregnant lady) from dinner to the nightclub then on to the strip bar, where they’d lost all the money they’d brought and Audrey proceeded to get sick at the table, and then Marjorie spent the rest of the evening holding a damp cloth to poor Audrey’s forehead while the others partied.

  Still, Brontë had enjoyed herself, and that was all that mattered. Marjorie did her best to ensure that the bride had a truly wonderful time at her pre-bachelorette party, since Gretchen (as the maid of honor) was determined to drink and have just as much fun instead of running things. That was fine with Marjorie—she liked to see the others enjoying themselves.

  But she’d been more than a little exhausted when the cab had pulled up to the hotel, and it had stunned her to turn around and see the man she’d been daydreaming about right at her elbow.

  He was just as good-looking as she’d remembered, too. Handsome, with that dark hair, chiseled jaw, and those gorgeous eyes she could stare into for hours.

  He was also shorter than she remembered. That had been disappointing, and she’d worn heels that night since it was just girls, and standing on the curb, she’d towered over him. Just standing next to her in heels made most men retreat. No one wanted to date a string bean, as she’d been told a million times before. But her dream guy hadn’t commented on her height at all. In fact, he’d kissed her hand, charmed her figurative socks off, and invited her to dinner.

  And now, here she was with less than four hours of sleep, after running around with Brontë and Gretchen and the girls for additional fittings and a last-minute change of shoes because Audrey’s feet were swelling and wouldn’t fit in the Louboutins that Brontë had elected for all the women, she was now getting ready for her date.

  Her date.

  Just the thought of having a date made Marjorie’s breathing speed up. She’d dated all of twice while in high school, and in college, she’d flirted with a guy at a party who hadn’t seemed to mind how tall she was . . . until the next day, when he’d sobered up. He’d then gone to his friends, laughing about how he’d been so drun
k that he’d made out with “the flagpole.”

  So yeah. Other than that, she really didn’t date. Any guy she was vaguely interested in, she was too terrified to ask out, and no one ever asked her out. Other than that one night at the frat party, she’d never even made out with a guy. Second base was as far as she’d ever gotten.

  It was downright embarrassing. And it made her feel like an idiot.

  So having a date tonight? Despite the height difference of herself and the man in question? To say she was nervous was an understatement. And she didn’t know what to wear. Normally she’d have gone to Brontë, who was sweet and friendly and wouldn’t steer her wrong. But Brontë was wrapped up in wedding preparations and Marjorie didn’t want to bother her.

  So she’d gone to Angie. Angie had worked with Brontë and Marjorie at the diner for the last couple of years, and she was a nice enough lady. She was a mom, divorced three times, and a dainty Southern belle with a tiny figure and big hair. Angie was utterly friendly, but around her, Marjorie always felt a bit more ungainly. More like a misfit.

  Still, she knew Angie dated a lot, and she knew Angie better than the other women, who were only casual acquaintances. If they teased her about her lack of dating history, she wasn’t sure she could handle it, whereas Angie was just being Angie. She might say something hurtful, but Marjorie knew she didn’t mean it.

  So, Angie it was.

  Marjorie had called her over to her room and then proceeded to go through her clothing, looking for something date-worthy. Since she’d pictured spending the next two weeks on the island playing shuffleboard and attending wedding functions, she’d gone for comfort more than style. Her closet was full of knit shorts, floral tank tops, and flimsy sundresses in bright patterns.

  In short: nothing date-appropriate.

  There was no point in stressing over it, though. They were on an island resort, so he’d expect her to look, well, island-y, right? She pulled a new dress out of her closet and held it against her frame. “What about this one?”

  “That’s terrible,” Angie proclaimed. “I hate to say it, sugar, but it makes your shoulders look bony. You’re already all angles, girl. You want to look soft for him. Vulnerable.”

  Marjorie swallowed hard, feeling vaguely ashamed of her shoulders. “What if I wear a shrug over it?”

  “Then you’ll look like a flamingo in a sweater,” Angie proclaimed, putting the magazine down. “You’re tall like a model. Wear something like what models wear. They always look perfect. I don’t know why you can’t do the same.”

  Marjorie returned to her closet, digging through the few hangers desperately. “But models are taught how to dress or someone picks out their clothes for them.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Angie said. “We’ll make do with what we have.” She looked Marjorie up and down. “Even if what we have is quite a lot of girl.”

  She resisted the urge to hunch her shoulders down to make her body seem smaller.

  “I’d offer to loan you something of mine, but I don’t think anything could stretch that much,” she said, eying Marjorie’s hips critically. “Not enough fabric, you know.”

  “I know. I’m sure we can find something sufficient in my closet, right? Let’s just work with what we have.”

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  A dreamy smile touched Marjorie’s mouth as she held a dress. “Handsome. Really handsome. And friendly.”

  Angie waved a hand. “No, no. I mean, what’s he like? Is he the kind of boy you bring home to Mama after a day of church or is he the kind you make out with in the back of the club?”

  “Oh.” Marjorie blinked, thinking. “I guess he’s the latter.”

  “Then that’s not going to do, sugar,” Angie said, pulling the dress out of Marjorie’s hands. “Do you want to just have a nice friendly date with this guy or do you want him to look at you as a romantic prospect?”

  Her cheeks heated. “Romantic prospect, of course.” Oh, gosh, if he didn’t look at her romantically, she’d just be crushed. So crushed. Her hopes were up so high.

  “Then do you really think wearing something that looks like a Sunday school dress is going to get his attention?”

  Chagrined, Marjorie looked down at the dress they’d decided on. It was subdued, a red-and-orange, patterned sundress with a long skirt, a scoop neck, and cap sleeves. “I guess not. What should I wear then?”

  “Something with boobage, sweetie. You’ve got nice, tiny little boobies. Show them off.”

  She did? Marjorie consulted her wardrobe again.

  “What about this romper?” Angie nabbed a bright red swath of silky fabric. “It’s kind of cute. And it’ll show your legs off.”

  “All right,” Marjorie said. “Let me find the tunic that goes under it and the leggings.”

  “Wait, tunic? Leggings? What? Just wear this.” Angie pushed it at her. “Show some skin if you want to win your man.”

  “He’s not my man,” Marjorie said, blushing.

  “And he never will be with that kind of wardrobe,” Angie said in a practical voice. “Now, do you want to wear something that screams virgin, or do you want to wear something that screams confident woman?”

  Well, when she put it that way, it was a no-brainer, wasn’t it? Marjorie grabbed the tunic top and went into the bathroom to change, and came out a moment later, chagrined and plucking at the silky material. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Why? Come show me. What’s wrong?” Angie gestured at the full length mirror on the far wall. “Come stand here.”

  Marjorie did, miserable. The light, silky fabric of the tunic was loose at the collar and clearly made to be worn with a tank underneath. The collar dipped deep between her breasts, exposing her plain white bra. To make matters worse, the tunic itself was designed to be flowing and worn with leggings, so edges of the “skirt” only went to tall Marjorie’s upper thighs. She tugged at the back, sure that her ass was hanging out. “It needs layers.”

  Angie thwapped her on the arm. “It doesn’t need layers, you prude!”

  “You can see my bra!”

  “You’re right.” She waved her hand. “Take the bra off and let’s look at it.”

  “What? No!”

  “Fine, fine,” Angie said, throwing her hands up. “You can wear this nice muumuu and tell me all about how he didn’t want to date you again.”

  Marjorie swallowed hard and stared at her reflection. Rob was cocky, worldly. It was clear he wasn’t her type. Heck, she was so sheltered that she wasn’t even sure she had a type . . . which was kind of depressing. Would it really be so bad to wear a short dress out on a date? No one would see her except the guy she was trying to impress. She looked back at the dress that Angie was holding up—it was rather dowdy. With a sigh, Marj reached into the neckline of the dress and began to slip out of her bra. She tossed it on the ground a moment later and then they both looked at her critically in the mirror again.

  Without the bra, her cleavage seemed to go on for miles . . . right on down to her belly button. She made an unhappy moan, but Angie clapped her hands. “Perfect!”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. Now show me your flats.”

  Picking shoes was a special kind of hell. Since Marjorie figured nothing could hide her towering stature, she didn’t care about the height of her heels, and she loved a pretty pair of shoes. They were her favorite weakness like Angie’s was costume jewelry, but they didn’t see eye to eye when it came to picking footwear to go with her dress.

  She still had the nude Louboutins that the bridesmaids were no longer going to wear in the wedding and that Brontë had suggested the women keep anyhow. Marj adored them, but Angie had taken one look at the stiletto heel and made unhappy noises, so she’d reluctantly put them aside for tamer wear. “What about these?” Marjorie held up a pair of strappy sandals with a wooden heel. “They match.”

  “Goodness gracious, no,” Angie said, horrified. “Is that four inches? Girl, you’r
e going to tower over him as it is. No need emphasizing the flaws.” She picked up the only pair of flats Marj had brought. “You need to wear these. Trust me. No one wants to date Goliath, especially not a sexy man.”

  Great. Now she was Goliath. And full of flaws. She felt rather homely at the moment, despite all the help to make her attractive for her date. “Flats it is. Thank you, Angie.”

  “Of course, sugar.” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Marjorie’s cheek. “Now I promised my son that I’d spend some time at the pool and relax. Can you handle your makeup and hair without me?”

  Marjorie eyed Angie’s thick eyeliner and big, bouffant hair. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out. You go have fun.”

  Angie beamed at her and waved. “Good luck on your date. Give me all the deets when you return.”

  “I will.”

  Her friend beamed, then left the room.

  Marjorie sighed at her reflection in the mirror. Pale skin met her gaze everywhere she looked. Her boobs jiggled when she moved, and if she bent over even slightly, her butt was going to hang out of the back of the tunic. Worried, she looked over at her other dress choices, but Angie was right—they were frumpy and old-looking. She needed to be sexy if she was going to impress someone like Rob. Still, it was hard to be sexy in plain black flats when she was used to wearing heels. The flats made her feel ungainly, and she began to pull her hair up into a sleek knot, then shook her head and let it down again. Nope. A knot would just add another inch of height. That would be bad. She combed her hair into a loose, curling ponytail that lay at the nape of her neck and put on her makeup.

  Her stomach was doing nervous flips in her belly. It had been late last night, and dark. Maybe . . . maybe Rob didn’t see how tall she was? Not that one could miss it, but you never knew. What if he took one look at her and regretted his offer for dinner?

  She stared at her form in the mirror. Experimentally, she hunched down a few inches. Nope, too obvious. Nothing she could do about that. With a sigh, Marjorie straightened her shoulders and grabbed her handbag.