His Billionaire Bride

By Madeline Ash

She's got it all... on paper

Business investor Carrie Morgan is guarded for a long list of good reasons. She’s battled her way to the top of her industry, dealt with enough bad sex to put her off men, and if her painful past has taught her anything, it’s that commitment always ends in heartbreak.

When Carrie’s sister asks her to sit for a portrait—as a bride—she uneasily agrees. Anything for Emmie. Even if it means intimate nightly sessions with her secret fantasy: artist Edwin Prince.

Rejected by his family and treated as temporary by past lovers, Edwin will settle for nothing less than commitment — and wants that and more from the beguiling Carrie Morgan. Startling them both, she allows him to unwind her emotional bindings one intense interaction at a time, until their chemistry builds so high, she’s blinded to the fall.

And the only way out is to break both their hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950510832

Madeline Ash

Madeline has always lived in Melbourne. She is emotionally allergic to spontaneity, and yet doesn’t mind the weather that drags her into rain when she’s planned for sunshine. She likes to call this her wild side. She’s a Virgo, vegetarian, and once had a romantic suspense-style dream in which the hero was a shredded lettuce sandwich and the villain was a cherry tomato. The tomato got away. She took the dream as a sign that she’d better stick to writing contemporary romance. Her stories have spunky heroines, strong heroes, and as much dialogue as she can cram in. As for why she writes romance, she’s in a long-term relationship with the genre and writing such stories makes it happy.

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Author

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Jacky Winter Gardens for selecting me to be artist-in-residence while I worked on this story. Edwin bloomed in that quiet cabin in the hills, and Carrie gradually allowed her vulnerability to emerge. It was a very special week indeed.

Huge hugs and eternal gratitude to Tess for reading and offering your insights. You’re one incredible cuz!

And thank you, as always, to my readers.

Chapter One

Carrie Morgan was unprepared for him.

He didn’t belong here—not now.

She halted on the street corner, disarmed at the sight of his back. He stood in the side street not ten strides away. On any other Monday, she found San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter peaceful in the early morning. A pause before her working week unleashed its howl—a final respite from pressure, hustle, and men puffing their chests at her like territorial pigeons. A pause to help her cope with upcoming interviews, an industry panel, and her fast-approaching startup conference. It was going to be a hell of a fortnight.

And this man, out of context, interrupted her moment of peace. Tightened her skin. Clasped her stomach.

Stunned her with his hair in daylight.

It was the brightest copper of a red fox. Short at the sides, with top curls that always spilled over his forehead. Ridiculous, obviously, but also vibrant and buoyant and breathtaking. It shone, even in the long morning shadows where he stood, gazing up at two stories of brick wall. Two stories of Carrie’s brick wall, more specifically, attached to the building she’d acquired years back for her sister’s live-music venue.

He’d crossed his arms, head tilted to one side. Unaware of the way her pulse rushed in reaction to his presence.

Until now, this redheaded stranger had existed purely within the realm of Emmie’s venue. Carrie tried not to think of him outside of that dim, underground bubble. She had a life to live and little time for daydreaming. But when she was there—when he was there—she’d sit in the low light, concealed by the crowd, and just…watch.

He was usually dancing, committing every scrap of energy to the cause. Body lean and spare, uncatchable like the glint of light on a sword, undeniable like the snap of powerful fingers. She heeded the inherent warning.

Look, don’t disrupt.

On those nights, she’d arrive braced for the sight of him to blow lust into the flattened remains of her sexuality. Seeing him was always a full-bodied gasp—a shimmering discomfort as she adjusted to the over-inflation of feeling. In her thirty years, she’d never reacted to someone the way she did to him.

Alarm pounded in her rib cage. He was too volatile to leave that bubble—she couldn’t predict him—yet, he’d slipped out, a fox in the wild, his body stiffening, head lowering and angling sideways, as if he sensed her on the street corner behind him.

She held her breath as he turned—saw her.

Morning, he called, raising a hand.

She should look away. Should put cold-shouldered strides between them. She should get up to Emmie’s apartment with the bag of toasted sandwiches that were growing colder by the second.

She should—

Thanks for agreeing to this, he said, making his way toward her, shoulders loose, features bright.

Confused, she lifted her chin.

He halted near her, two steps away at most, his unprecedented closeness seeming to tug her stomach right out of her middle. Taller than she’d expected, she had to tip her face up to hold his stare as his scent lapped over her. Faint, torturous.

Emmie didn’t think you would. He glanced toward the building again, and the weight of his hair toppled to one side. He slid a hand in his pocket, and her attention caught on the elbow that jutted outward. She wanted to…hold it. Drag it closer, and him along with it.

Her grip on the breakfast bag tightened.

More accurately, he continued, "she said, there’s no chance in hell Carrie will ever say yes."

He’d talked to Emmie about her? She marveled at that as he studied her again, amusement shining on his pale, well-cut face.

But it’s going to be compelling, he said, nodding. The longest of his curls brushed against his lashes. I’ve got some ideas.

She gave a curt half-nod in return. He had green eyes. Like sage leaves or frosted grass, made bolder by a similar shade in his striped shirt. He carried a brown leather satchel that matched his loosely laced brown boots, and with those black jeans, his aesthetic was a cultivated kind of casual. Reverent of his youth. Unabashedly hipster.

She died a little inside at how hot it made her.

She hadn’t spoken yet—she died a little more at that, though she’d be damned if she knew what he was talking about.

His gaze turned curious. You look confused.

Hauling herself together, she said levelly, Then my face is working properly.

There was a pause.

Oh, man, he said with a grin. I wasn’t even close.

She frowned even as his grin devastated her. What?

Your first words to me, he said. I was way off.

That registered with a thud. You’ve thought about my first words to you?

Those sparkling eyes held hers. The woman who watches me like a wolf across the dance floor? He paused, quirking a brow. Yeah. I’ve thought about it.

Exposed, the so-called wolf in her hunched. Twice, she deflected coolly.

Twice, he’d caught her watching.

Please, he said, a smile slanting across his mouth. Color tinged his cheeks, but her attention snagged on lips far more sensuous than they had any right to be. He was too young—mid-twenties at most—to have sensuality like that in his arsenal.

Please, what? she asked, irritated at her own susceptibility.

You watch me all the time.

Hardly. Her alarm grew. This was—she didn’t like this. It’s like a muted television. My eyes are drawn to you because you’re moving, not because you’re interesting.

He gave a single laugh. Wow, thanks.

And your hair, she said.

His brows bunched. He waited, as if she might elaborate.

She didn’t.

I get the TV comparison, he said, looking down to where he toyed with a buckle on his satchel. Except you look like you’d rip the throat out of anyone who touched me. So it doesn’t feel quite the same.

She scoffed, nudged off-balance by his observations. "I wouldn’t rip—"

You wouldn’t have to, he interrupted, gaze still downcast.

You’re flattering yourself. She took in his features while he wasn’t paying attention. He had freckles. Across his cheeks and forehead. She melted inside. You’re not my type.

His brows flicked up, though his gaze remained on his satchel. You have a type?

Doesn’t everyone?

My type is whoever I’m attracted to, he said. So, yes on a technicality.

That distracted her instantly.

Did that include her?

It didn’t matter she’d never act on such attraction. That it would amount to nothing. She needed to be his type. She studied him closely, circling the uncertainty of his attraction. His cheeks were flushed, his gaze still downcast. Lips parted, breath…a little uneven.

Why are you always looking at me like this? His gaze lifted to the knot of her tie. Daffodil yellow, just like her heels, to contrast her tailored black suit, the soft black shirt underneath. Awareness tightened in her throat as his attention dragged up to her chin. And why haven’t you ever spoken to me?

She shifted. Why would I speak to you?

I don’t know, he said quietly, eyes lifting to her mouth. Because it’s considered polite to introduce yourself before stripping someone bare?

You’re— She cut off, suddenly realizing he had control of this conversation in a vice grip.

Wrong? His gaze slid to the strap of his bag. Tell me what you want to do to me right now, and we’ll find out.

Her pulse heaved in her chest. She’d never spoken to someone like this. Raw with honesty, two minutes in. She didn’t do raw honesty two years in. She didn’t do it at all.

I want to make you stop talking, she said through her teeth.

His lips twitched upward. In which case, you’re going to have to stop looking at me. The request was a little breathless. It’s distracting.

She jerked her head around, staring off down the street. Her pulse was going to pieces. She’d come here to share breakfast with her sister. Not have this man unravel her secret desire in several conversational twirls.

Thanks, he said from behind her. You’re more intense close up.

She’d been told that before. Another reason she copped resentment at work. As a prominent business investor, she provided capital for cutting-edge startup businesses—and the male-dominated private investment industry didn’t exactly save women seats at the head of the table. Or anywhere at the table. Hence the barrage of pigeon chests.

New topic, he said. I’m getting the vibe Emmie hasn’t spoken to you yet.

She continued to glare away from him. Not in relation to you. An oversight she was going to raise with her sister very shortly.

She asked me to get here at seven.

Carrie snapped her face toward him. We always have breakfast at seven.

And with that, she hoped he’d realize he’d got the time wrong and leave Carrie and Emmie to their weekly routine.

Instead, he nodded and said, Yeah, she told me. Let’s go up.

Together, because if he wasn’t going to leave, why would he give her a minute to regain control?

Fine. Carrie gestured for him to lead the way, resolutely avoiding his gaze as they crossed the street.

As suspected—he was way too volatile to be roaming free.

She unlocked the door to the building and then held it open for him to enter the foyer. Carpe Vesperum, Emmie’s live-music venue, was down at basement level, while double doors to the right of the foyer led to the ground floor’s café. Neither were open at this hour, though café staff would be arriving soon to prepare for a midmorning open. She unlocked the café and led him—the man whose name she realized she didn’t know, despite indeed wanting to tear those clothes from his fine hipster body—to the rear, where a staircase led to the private residence on the first floor.

Emmie, she said loudly, letting herself into her sister’s apartment. The open kitchen and living space were unoccupied. Carrie halted beside the kitchen counter, staring at the closed bedroom door. You’re needed.

It was a few seconds before the door opened. A young man poked his head out, his black hair rumpled, and his bare shoulder blanketed in a fishnet tattoo. Emmie’s husband, who appeared both amused and exasperated. She’s in the shower. She said you can start eating.

Bran, Carrie said. Who is the man behind me?

Bran’s gaze shifted to the redhead. Hey, he greeted, grimacing apologetically. Then he looked back to Carrie. A regular downstairs, I think. Why? I didn’t think you noticed other people.

She narrowed her eyes.

Bran raised a brow, pushing his hair off his face.

With a huffed noise of dismissal, she moved into the kitchen to reheat the toasted sandwiches.

Emmie told me you made the list again this year, Bran said. Congratulations.

Go back to bed, she said without sparing him a glance.

This is her being humble. Apparently for the redhead’s benefit. Make enough coffee for me. That was for hers.

The door closed.

The sound of running water in the bathroom stopped, suggesting Emmie would only be a few minutes, so Carrie put the grill on to reheat breakfast and the kettle on to make morning brews. She pulled plates and mugs from the cupboard, coffee and tea from the pantry, and then noticed the clean dishes in the dishwasher. Drawing out the top slide, she started putting them away.

Softly, the true source of her attention cleared his throat from the opposite side of the kitchen counter. Are you…ignoring me?

No. She stacked several plates, eyes down.

Sure?

It’s a companionable silence.

Really? Because your silence feels equipped with a laser alarm system I feel I should be careful about triggering.

She paused, hand on the cupboard handle. I don’t know you.

Yet, you know that guy and this apartment. And I don’t.

Meaning it’s my social role to make you feel welcome? She shot him a glance. He stared back, one palm resting on the counter, satchel still over his shoulder. Out of place. A thread of guilt wove through her, but it was thin and easy to ignore.

His mouth hitched drily. Don’t do social roles?

Not if I don’t want to.

That hitch turned into a puzzled smile. You’re perfect.

She scowled. Stop that.

Stop what? he asked, pushing off the counter and making his way over to the window bay beside Emmie’s dining table.

Carrie closed the cupboard. Hard. You jump around conversation too fast.

He eyed her as sunlight channeled onto him. So, catch me.

Stop that, too, she said. That…that—

Flirting? His brows arched. Playfully. He was playing with her. This brazen cub.

Yes, she snapped. I don’t do that.

Amused incredulity enriched his voice. You don’t flirt?

No.

Oh, I think you do. Ducking his head to one side, he lifted the satchel strap off his shoulder. He set the bag at his feet. Then he ran a hand through his hair, and her attention pounced on the movement. The curls moved beneath his raking fingers, exposing a gradient of color, copper roots curling into golden tips, like saffron leeching into water.

Or a phoenix caught mid-combustion as this man was reborn into her every fantasy.

You like it? His eyes glowed.

What? It came out as a snap.

My hair.

Is that what it is? she said. I’m seeing spots.

He grinned. "See, you do flirt, he said. But instead of putting yourself out there, you test whether your mark will put themselves out there for you."

He wasn’t her mark. And… I am not testing you.

More than you realize, he said smoothly. But okay. You can keep ignoring me.

Jaw clenching, she returned to the dishwasher. I wasn’t ignoring you.

Yet, I am putting myself out there for you, he said. In case you think I’m this forward with everyone.

She didn’t answer, didn’t so much as look at him as satisfaction bloomed in her. A misplaced reaction, unfair to them both, but she couldn’t seem to help it. He stood in silence, a fiery glow in her periphery, as she checked under the grill and poured boiling water into the coffee plunger and a mug with Emmie’s teabag. Eventually, the bathroom door opened, and Emmie emerged with a towel wrapped around her hair. Her attention immediately darted to the flaming beacon across the room, eyes widening, before she relaxed with a familiar smile.

Prince, hey, she said. You made it.

Carrie’s gaze sped between them. Registering no obvious joke, she turned on him. What did she just call you?

A laugh burst from him. Prince.

She raised a finger. No.

Yes, he said, but mischief lit his eyes.

I reject that as your real name.

He grinned. "Ah, but a prince doesn’t tell just anyone his real name."

Pretty sure that’s a dragon.

His eyes widened. Then it must be my name.

Carrie rounded on her sister. She couldn’t handle much more of this. Help me.

It’s his last name, Emmie said, rolling her eyes.

Carrie glared at him accusingly. Supply a different proper noun or I’ll choose one for you.

You don’t want her to do that. Emmie wandered toward the kitchen.

Those sensual lips curved upward. Edwin.

His every glint and glamour rushed to fill that name, embodying it, owning it. A stranger no more. Carrie switched off the grill and plated up breakfast, sacrificing her second sandwich to good manners by holding out the plate to—Edwin.

Surprise darted across his light-filled features, but he didn’t hesitate to swoop in and relieve her of the plate. Thank you.

She tugged her hand away before they could make contact. Then she cocked her head at her sister. Explain why he has lots of ideas about something I’m never going to agree to.

Emmie and Edwin exchanged a glance. Carrie interpreted it as camaraderie in the face of assured destruction.

Okay, it’s just an idea and you can say no…like I’m absolutely sure you will. Emmie sat on a stool on the other side of the counter. Edwin did the same as he inhaled the sandwich. Suspicious, Carrie cast her attention from one to the other. Emmie picked up her peppermint tea, cupping it in front of her. It’s to do with my obsession.

Carrie’s stance softened. Her sister had lived through so much. She’d struggled and endured. Her peculiar wedding obsession was tied up in past pain. Although Carrie couldn’t relate to her sister’s weakness for weddings, Carrie would never, ever criticize it.

You know it hasn’t gone away since Bran and I got married. The tea steamed over Emmie’s chin. And even though I can wear my dress, look through photos and videos, and go to open days, I really want something…visible. Something I can look at every day and feel satisfied, just in that moment.

Carrie’s gaze slipped to the white lacy symbol of purity displayed on a seamstress’s mannequin in the corner of the living room.

More visible, Emmie said.

Carrie frowned as she sipped her coffee.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while, Emmie continued. And I’ve decided I want a mural on the outside of the building. A big one. Taking up the entire side wall. She paused, waving a hand in the air while her eyes glazed over. A bride.

Is that all? Relief discarded the breath Carrie had been holding. Em, do whatever you want. This building is as good as yours. I’ve told you that.

Emmie focused on her. Great, thanks, she said, far too lightly.

There was more.

Actually. Emmie glanced at Edwin, who raised his brows with a nervous smile. I knew you’d say that, so I’ve already asked Edwin to paint it.

Carrie allowed her attention to return to him. Those green eyes were waiting—clear, warm—and reaction sucked sharply at her chest.

Of course he was an artist. He embodied