The Billionaire and the Virgin
Jessica Clare
Contents
Title Page
By Jessica Clare
About the Book
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
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
About the Author
By Jessica Clare
By Jessica Clare
Billionaire Boys Club Series
Stranded With A Billionaire
Beauty And The Billionaire
The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed
Once Upon A Billionaire
Romancing The Billionaire
One Night With A Billionaire
Billionaires And Bridesmaids Series
The Billionaire And the Virgin
About the Book
Marjorie Ivarsson is the picture of naiveté. A hardworking waitress raised by her grandmother, an evening playing bingo is her sort of socialising. But when she’s invited to be a bridesmaid at her friend Bronte’s wedding, she enters a whole new world.
Whisked away to the billionaire groom’s private island, Marjorie is awe-struck by the glitz and glamour. But what dazzles her most is notorious playboy and hot-shot TV producer Robert Cannon.
After Marjorie saves Robert from drowning in the island’s turquoise lagoon, she can’t help but feel drawn to him. But she’s not the only woman intrigued, and with his wild and womanising ways, they couldn’t be more wrong for each other. With the blistering attraction between them becoming hard to ignore, and the idyllic, irresistibly romantic island as their playground – will opposites attract?
Chapter One
Marjorie Ivarsson adjusted the bow on her behind and craned her neck, trying to look in the mirror at the back of her dress. “How is this?”
“Fucking awful,” said the redhead next to her in a similar dress. “We look more like cupcakes than bridesmaids.”
“Do you guys really hate the dresses?” Brontë asked, wringing her hands as the women lined up and studied their reflections in the mirrors.
“Not at all,” said Audrey, who Marjorie knew was the extremely pregnant, nice one. Audrey elbowed the not-as-nice redhead next to her, who was her sister. “I think they’re lovely dresses. And you do too.”
“No, I don’t—”
Again, she elbowed her sister and turned to Marjorie. “What do you think of the dress, Marj?” Her eyes were and trying to convey a hint that the other woman was just not getting.
“I love it,” Marjorie lied, casting a brilliant smile at Brontë. Truth was, all that red and white made her look a bit like a barber pole with a bow, but Brontë had worked long and hard to pick out dresses and had paid for everything, so how on earth could Marjorie possibly complain? She’d seen the price tag for this thing. Apparently they’d been custom-made by a fashion designer, and the price of just one dress cost more than Marjorie would make in months. Brontë was spending a lot on her wedding, and Marjorie didn’t want to be the one to kick up a fuss.
So she adjusted the bow on her behind again and nodded. “It’s beautiful. I feel like a princess.”
Brontë smiled, relieved.
“Oh, you’re so full of shit,” Gretchen began, only to be elbowed by the pregnant one again.
“I think I need this let out a bit more on the sides,” Audrey said, waving over the dressmaker. “My hips keep spreading.”
A woman ran over with pins in her mouth, kneeling at Audrey’s side as Marjorie gazed at the lineup of Brontë’s bridesmaids. There was herself, a six-foot-one Nordic blonde. There was Gretchen, a shorter, curvier woman with screamingly red hair that almost clashed with her dress, except for the fact that she was the maid of honor, so her mermaid-cut gown was more white than red. There was Gretchen’s sister Audrey, who was a pale, freckled redhead and heavily pregnant. And sitting in a corner, beaming at them as if it were her own wedding, was a frizzy-headed blonde named Maylee who was currently being stitched into her bridesmaid’s dress. Apparently she was a last-minute addition to the wedding party, and so her dress had to be fitted on the fly.
Gretchen fussed with the swishing tulle gathered tightly at the knees by decorative red lace. “My wedding is going to be in black and white, I swear to god, because this shit is ridicu—”
“So what made you decide to have a destination wedding, Bron?” Marjorie interrupted, trying to be the peacemaker. She was a little disturbed at Gretchen’s rather vocal opinions about the dresses, and sought to change the subject.
Brontë beamed at Marj, looking a little like her old self. “This is where I met Logan, remember? We got stuck here when I won that trip from the radio and the hurricane hit.” She grabbed Maylee’s hands and helped the other woman to her feet as another tailor fussed over the hems. “Logan bought the island and decided to renovate the hotel. He pushed for them to have it done this week so we could get married here. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Sweet,” Marjorie echoed, adjusting the deep vee of her neckline. Truth be told, her brain had stopped processing once Brontë had said “bought the island.” Marj was still weirded out by the fact that Brontë—quirky, philosophy-quoting Brontë—had dated a billionaire and now they were getting married. In her eyes, she always saw Brontë as a waitress, just like herself. They’d worked together at a 50s sock-hop diner in Kansas City for the last year or two . . . at least until Brontë had moved to New York City to be with Logan. It was something out of a fairy tale—or a movie, depending on which was your drug of choice. Either way, it didn’t seem like something that happened to normal people. “You’re so lucky, Brontë. I hope I can meet a guy as wonderful as Logan someday.”
“‘Hope is a waking dream,’” Brontë said with a soft smile. “Aristotle.”
Gretchen snorted, only to be thwapped by her sister again.
“Bless your heart, Brontë, for paying for everything so we could all be here with you,” Maylee gushed, striding forward to line up with the other bridesmaids. “Look at us. We’re all so lovely, aren’t we?” She put a friendly arm around Marjorie’s waist and beamed up at her. “Like a bunch of roses getting ready for the parade.”
“I believe they are floats in a parade, Maylee,” Gretchen said dryly. “Which, now that you mention it—”
Marjorie giggled, unable to stifle the sound behind her hand.
“So who are we missing?” Audrey asked, counting heads. “I know Jonathan and Cade are also groomsmen, right? That’s five groomsmen and I only count four bridesmaids here. What about Jonathan’s ladylove? What’s her name?”
“Violet,” Brontë added. “And I offered for her to be in the wedding, but she declined since we’re not familiar with each other, truly. Logan wanted me to add her to the bridesmaid lineup to make Jonathan happy, but Violet insisted on simply attending.” She strode forward and adjusted the lace band under Marjorie’s bust. “Does this look crooked to you? Anyhow. Angie’s flying in but her kid was having dental surgery today, so she’s not coming in until tomorrow.”