Trusting the Billionaire: The Reluctant Bride, #3

By Cynthia Savage

A jaded divorcee and a lovelorn billionaire get a second chance at romance.

Audrey Wilson is convinced love is a pipedream, and she has the divorce decree to prove it. Not to mention a failing non-profit facility full of battered and abused women. When her best friend gets her heart broken by a guy who claims a dating coach taught him how to play women, Audrey is ready to confront this coach and make him pay.

And she has a hunch he's none other than brainy billionaire Asher Weston.

Asher has a bad case of unrequited love that goes all the way back to his high school days. When one of his clients blackmails him, forcing him to find a wife on a deadline, he's ready to give up on living happily ever after with the woman of his dreams.

Until she unexpectedly waltzes into his office.

A marriage of convenience gets him the wife he needs—and the woman he's always loved. For Audrey, this platonic arrangement affords her non-profit some financial security while she secretly sets out to prove Asher is the mastermind behind her bestie's heartache.

Can Asher and Audrey overcome a jealous secretary, a dangerous ex, and their own insecurities to build a future together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Anaya
• Release date: May 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215120651

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Audrey

Bachelor billionaire Asher Weston recently donated monies to several animal shelters in the bay area, further proving his abundant generosity and interest when it comes to a good cause.

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I’d appreciate it if Asher Weston sent some abundant monetary interest my way," I say.

I lean across my desk and grab my mug of hot cocoa, never taking my eyes off the small TV hanging from the wall of my cramped office as I sip the delectable confection that is sugar, milk, and cocoa powder.

I always start my day off with hot cocoa.

Coffee is for the birds.

I watch with morbid fascination as an overly bleached blond newswoman does her best to catch Weston just as he exits the doors of a nice looking establishment called Buddy’s Boarding House.

Mr. Weston, is it true you’ve recently donated a hundred thousand dollars to this shelter after finding a sickly dog on the street and bringing it to the facility?

I nearly choke on my cocoa when I consider what that kind of money could do for my facility. The Safe Center for battered women is not a cheap place to run.

Brief annoyance flashes across Weston’s chiseled features. His cobalt eyes warily flick to the camera before returning to the pushy lady. I take a treasured moment for all women everywhere and admire the fine lines of his square jaw, high cheekbones, and slightly crooked nose. His jet black hair rests just below his chin, giving off a delicious greek-god vibe. Despite the business suit covering his muscles, there’s no doubt those muscles are chiseled and here to stay.

Milk’s been doing his body some good.

I let out a resigned sigh, acknowledging to myself that he’s probably a grade-A jerk just like every other annoyingly attractive male on the planet. I don’t care how much money he donates to save our local pooches. It’s most likely all for show anyway.

Yeah. I have lots of experience with that. My ex-husband was the king of insincere thoughtfulness. And it just so happens he’s returned to town. I’m really not happy about it.

I tune back in to the velvety tones of Weston’s voice.

The amount doesn’t really make a difference, does it? He gives the newswoman a terse nod and moves to leave, but the bold thing latches onto his arm like a slithering python and jerks him back.

Wow. Someone put on her Wonder Woman panties today, I say. I chuckle at the astonished look on Weston’s face as the lady practically glues herself to his front and sticks the mic just under his lips.

Which is unfortunate, since it now draws attention to said lips, and boy do they look tasty. I fantasize what it would be like to slather them with chocolate flavored lip gloss and lay a big old wet one on him.

My spine straightens in astonishment, shocked at the treacherous path my thoughts meandered.

What in the world is wrong with me?

My body’s reaction to anything male has been decidedly dormant since my divorce over six years ago, and yet the idea of Asher Weston’s lips actually tasting like chocolate is now lodged deep in my think tank.

Don’t go there, Audrey.

Love, like coffee, is also for the birds.

My attention drifts back to this scintillating news coverage when Weston says, I’m not really interested in giving a detailed account of my charitable donations with KTY Evening News.

Oh, snap. You got told, Python Lady, I say with smug satisfaction.

A light breeze gently displaces Weston’s hair just enough for me to see the strong lines of his neck where…is that a tiny tattoo just behind his ear? I get a brief glimpse of a blue infinity ring with an arrow sticking out from the top of the right loop when his hair slips back into place.

Silky hair.

The type of hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it and then go in for a sniff.

Bad Audrey, no cookie!

Speaking of…I swear I have a few chocolate chip cookies in my top drawer. I keep my eyes glued to the TV and admire—completely against my will—Mr. Weston’s broad shoulders while my hands open my top drawer and go fishing for cookies.

I’m an accomplished multitasker.

It’s a gift.

My hands close around some crumbly goodness.

Jackpot.

I snatch one up and shove it in my mouth as Weston gives the camera and the aggressive newswoman a warning glance. That look of his hits a strange chord of familiarity within me. I suddenly have a flashback to my old high school days when a sweet boy in my biology class gave me his answers to a pop quiz. That kid’s last name was Weston, too.

Lawrence Weston.

Huh! I blink and consider Asher Weston’s features, wondering if that guy from my class and this billionaire are related somehow. Cousins, maybe. Before I can decide whether there’s a family resemblance or not, he turns his back to the camera and hurriedly strides to his silver Audi, gets in, and drives away.

The dude is an enigma. A wealthy man—married man, I remind myself—who rarely surfaces in public unless he absolutely has to. He made his billions about five years ago with a patent for a supplement that promised all women everywhere the metabolism of a fifteen-year-old teen athlete, and the dang thing really works.

A supplement that actually does what it claims.

With no side effects.

Genius.

It’s why I’m capable of inhaling so many cookies a day without my curves crossing the line into dangerously obese territory.

Double genius.

Too bad I’ll be a diabetic by the time I get my cravings under control.

Other than how he made his millions, I don’t know much more about the elusive guy. The dude is private. He recently married, but no one has ever seen a pic of his wife.

Can’t say I blame him for guarding his privacy. There are some serious whack jobs out there. I can think of one in particular I used to be married to.

I shudder and blink the bad memories away before focusing on a case file on my desk, one that’s put me in a bit of a mood. The young woman’s scenario is all too common, and all too preventable.

Not that I have room to judge.

I stare at the picture of a thirty-two-year-old woman recently admitted to the shelter. She has no kids—thank heavens for small miracles—but her recent history doesn’t look promising. The cycle of abuse is called a cycle for a reason. She’s been in and out of shelters for several years now but always goes back to the husband who just recently tried to kill her.

He’s in jail for attempted murder and her mother brought her here hoping our facility could do more than just shelter her.

I sincerely hope that’s possible since we offer a ton of services targeted specifically for battered women, but each person is different, and change is a choice.

I set her folder down and tear open a bill. My stomach drops.

I started this shelter two years ago in the hopes that my non-profit group and the ideas I wanted to implement could bridge that gap between women who remain in the cycle of abuse and women who break it.

Unfortunately, the lease on the building, the facilities, the staff, and the counseling programs are not cheap, and funding is difficult to find. We would have been okay for another year if one of our benefactors hadn’t recently passed away and given all his money to a charity for dogs.

Seriously?

I love animals just like the next gal, but why is everyone suddenly donating their money to animal shelters when I have over eighty women here needing to be fed physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually?

If I don’t find a new benefactor within a week I won’t be able to pay the next round of bills…or my staff.

I pinch the bridge of my nose to ward off another tension headache before resorting to stress eating.

Ah, well. Cookies it is. I pop another one in my mouth and close my eyes, letting my taste buds glory in the sweet paradise only chocolate chip cookies can deliver.

My attempt at some much needed Zen is cut short when my best friend, Valerie, bursts through the door with tears streaming down her face. Her eyes hold a look of hurt and pain so devastating, I’m on my feet and barreling around the desk ready to do battle on her behalf.

What happened? Who died?

She grabs my hands in her shaking ones before she sinks down into a chair.

It’s Ben, she says.

I suck in a sharp breath. Ben died?

This is terrible. Just terrible. Not that I’m too upset about his untimely demise since he rarely got my humor and thought LeBron James was a better baller than Michael Jordan.

Come on, folks. Not nearly good enough for my bestie. A bit of a geek, now that I think about it, but geeky in an endearing way. Still, Valerie hasn’t been this happy with a dude in years, and as her best friend it’s my job to support her in her happiness no matter Ben’s ignorance when it comes to basketball stats and how much the game has changed since the nineties.

No, no. He’s not dead, she says.

Pity.

I’m kind of wishing he’d never been born, though. She rubs her puffy eyes and gives me an agonized look.

I stand back and study her for a moment, feeling completely puzzled by her bizarre response before it dawns on me. This level of pain, the haunted look in her eyes, and the way she’s gripping her arms around her entire body as if to protect it from unwanted damage.

Oh, no. My mind goes to a dark place I haven’t thought about in years.

He raped you!

What? She looks at me like I’m deranged. No. Nothing like that. I mean, it was consensual. It…

My eyes widen in astonishment.

You broke your rule?

She nods and folds her arms on my desk, burying her head in them. Her shoulders shake as she silently cries.

I try to process this information as I take a seat behind my desk, but I’m still shaking from the mere thought of my bestie being used and abused like that.

Val, you told me you were going to wait for marriage. Not that I’m at all judging you here, but for twenty-eight years you’ve been guarding your virgin status with the tenacity of a pro-hockey goalie at the Stanley Cup Final. What in the world happened?

She raises her head. Her swollen, bloodshot eyes shoot pangs of sadness right to my heart. I’ve known Valerie for over a decade, and she’s not one to let anything in this life get her down, but this wounded look, the grief she’s carrying, is really throwing me off.

I’m used to being the screwed up one in this friendship. Valerie is the rock. I’m the waif-like sand clinging to her steady hold on life.

Ben…he…asked me to marry him.

Wow.

And crap. Marriage is so final. Like a life sentence. You’ve only been dating for a month.

She leans back in her chair as tears tumble down her cheeks. You know I’m not stupid, Audrey. You know I’m very careful when it comes to dating. I’m not the type of person to be impulsive, to blindly rush into a relationship that could become toxic.

Right. That’s more my MO.

She gives me a strained smile, trying to acknowledge my sucky attempt at humor, but we both know whatever happened between her and Ben isn’t something she’s going to recover from anytime soon.

Did you say yes? I ask.

I said yes. I just knew he was the one, you know? She gives me a watery smile, but her lips can’t hold it for long.

My ability to judge a man’s character is a little skewed, Val, but if you say that you knew, then I believe you did. I believe Ben gave you every reason to trust in him and love him.

Even though love is a pipe dream.

She bobs her head in a frantic nod. He did. He did everything right, and even the things he did wrong were so right in their imperfections. I didn’t have a single doubt. Not one.

I believe her. I really do, but that doesn’t explain why she’s here in my office crying like her whole world has come to a screeching halt.

He convinced you to sleep with him before the wedding? I ask.

Yes. After all this time, I thought I’d found the one…and…and I thought…what does it matter if we show each other how much we love each other now or after the wedding? It’s me and Ben. Forever.

I bite my bottom lip, knowing what’s coming.

And after you slept with him?

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out something from her purse. Her fist wraps around it so tight her knuckles turn white and her hand shakes.

When he…finished…and I brought up the wedding, he started to laugh at me. Told me he wasn’t interested in getting married anymore. He told me… she swallows down some strong emotion—or bile. If it were me it would be bile—before continuing. Well, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks from there.

Yeah. I sure can, and I can’t say that I’m surprised. Love is pain. Not even Val can escape that factoid.

She stands up and chucks a crumpled business card on the table.

Apparently, there’s a dating guru going around teaching guys how they can hit it and quit it. Ben threw the business card at me and said he couldn’t wait to tell his mentor how easy it had been to get me in the sack.

I swallow back some profanity at this low blow.

Val, I’m so sorry. I’m truly so sorry about this.

She just shrugs her shoulders and walks to the door.

What can I do? I ask just as she grabs the knob.

She pauses before turning around. Nothing. My virginity is already gone, and I have no one to blame but myself.

The dead look in her eyes propels me out of my chair, but she leaves the office before I have a chance to grab her and wrap her in my arms.

She’s not to blame in this. Sure, it was her choice to sleep with him, but this manipulation, this misrepresentation of his intentions, of who he is, that’s wholly on Ben. It’s on Ben and this dating guru who promotes this behavior.

It’s one thing for me to take a beating when it comes to men and relationships, but it’s an entirely different matter for Valerie to be treated so terribly by a member of the opposite sex. She’s the only reason I was able to leave my husband before he committed the unthinkable, and this gross violation of her trust isn’t something I’m gonna let Ben get away with.

I get behind my desk again and reach for my cell phone. Ben is about to get an earful from me. I’m prepping myself for one crazy verbal confrontation when the business card catches my eye.

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll start with the dating guru.

I snatch the business card up and smooth it out.

The Love Coach, I say in derision. Personal coach and mentor, offering you your very own geek’s guide to dating. Navigate the murky waters of what women want to finally win big in the game of love.

I snort in astonishment. This Love Coach is teaching geeky dudes how to play women?

My eyebrows nearly jump to my hairline when I flip the card over and I’m met with the logo on the back. There’s a blue infinity symbol smack dab in the middle. The circle on the left has a plus sign attached to the bottom and the circle on the right has a tiny arrow sticking out at a diagonal. Symbols for male and female within the infinity rings.

Mind whirring, my thoughts shift to the interview I just saw on TV and the tiny tattoo hidden behind Weston’s ear.

Is it possible?

Is Asher Weston running a side business where he teaches guys how to manipulate and play games to get laid?

I’m not one for coincidences, and previous experience has taught me to always follow my gut, and my gut’s telling me I need to hunt this Weston dude down and get some much deserved vengeance for my bestie.

She’s the most amazing woman in the world who deserves far better than some lame dude preying on her, snatching up her virginity and then tossing it to the curb like what she offered wasn’t of monumental importance.

My gut is also telling me I’m gonna need several more cookies for the road. Confrontation is always an adrenaline buzz, and that calls for massive amounts of sugar.

No sugar addicts in this non-profit facility.

I flip the card back and forth, searching for an address or some sort of contact information, but all I see is an email address which will get me absolutely nowhere if I actually want to confront this dude now.

I chug my cocoa like a soldier throwing back whiskey. Feeling invigorated, I’m totally ready to do battle. The cookies are in one hand, my phone and keys are in the other, and my purse is over my shoulder as I stride out the office door. I may not know where Weston’s home is, but I’m pretty sure I can find his office building on Google Maps.

Get ready, Asher Weston. I’m so coming for you.

CHAPTER 2

Asher

The awe-inspiring view of the Golden Gate Bridge from my office window teases me with its promise of security, sustainability, and perseverance. Constructed during the Great Depression, it’s a symbol of what can be achieved when grit and determination overcome impossible odds.

The view is completely ruined by the presence of Grant Stratford, a man who is most certainly here to test my grit and determination.

He sits across from me at my mahogany desk, looking for all the world like a man who’s about to get everything in life he’s ever wanted.

It makes me feel uneasy.

So what do you say? he asks. His southern drawl holds a subtle undertone to it. One that warns me to tread carefully here.

I shake my head, feigning regret yet feeling relief. That’s a very generous invitation, I say, but I don’t generally attend my clients’ weddings. I’m sure you understand.

Grant gives me a knowing look and leans back in his chair. His black cowboy hat, black boots, and shiny silver buckle might make other people write Grant off as just some hick fresh off the farm, but I know better. His shrewd head for business and annoying attention to detail has made him a rich man.

That and owning an oil company.

I only took him on as a favor to a friend, but Grant has been a thorn in my side since the moment