Memo: The Billionaire's Proposal. Melissa McClone

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СКАЧАТЬ had a thing for knights when I was younger. Galahad was my favorite, but the whole fairy-tale thing seems a bit…outdated. I don’t need anyone to rescue me. I can do it myself.”

      Even if she still might dream of a happily ever after of her own someday.

      “Very modern. Very practical.”

      “I am practical.” She’d had to be. “Anything wrong with that?”

      “Nothing at all.” The devilish look in his brown eyes matched the grin on his face. “I’m curious how your practicality has affected your current investment strategy philosophy. Do you prefer short-term, long-term or day trading?”

      “None of the above.” She raised her chin and met his inquisitive gaze. “I’m currently on hiatus from…investing.”

      Talk about a marathon session tonight. Drake had almost been grateful when the clock struck midnight and the chimes interrupted the taping.

      Of course he was the executive producer as well as the host, or talent as the crew called it. He could have shut down production at any time except he had a helicopter to catch on Sunday afternoon so he could make a flight at Heathrow. He didn’t want to cause any delays.

      Hot lights shone on him. Sweat dripped down his armor-clad body. Even though he was wearing a costume, the armor was metal not plastic. Drake was going to need a shower, and maybe a massage, when they were finished. He knew exactly who he wanted to help him with both.

      Drake couldn’t see Chaney Sullivan. He surveyed the drawing room looking for a peek of her caramel-colored hair, but couldn’t see her with the two cameras in front of him and the crew milling about behind them. Maybe she was hidden in the back.

      The antique one-of-a-kind clock continued to chime. Ten, eleven, twelve…

      Quiet. Finally.

      “Okay, people.” Milt, the director and producer, clapped his hands. “Let’s get this final scene wrapped up so we can call it a night.”

      Drake was all for that.

      “One sec.” The hair-and-makeup stylist, a woman named Liz who preferred soda to wine and pretzels to caviar, ran up to him. She fluffed, finger curled and sprayed his hair, making him feel like a fancy show dog. She smiled, satisfaction filling her eyes. “That’s better.”

      For her maybe. At least the wardrobe stylist, a guy named Russell, wasn’t trying to spit shine the armor. Just buff it with a soft, white cloth.

      “We only need the last line,” Milt said.

      Drake stretched his neck. “No problem.”

      “That’s what I like to hear.” Milt’s eyes narrowed. “I only want you to do one thing differently this time. When you smile at the camera, make it really count. Make the female viewers wet between the legs.”

      “I’m a businessman, not an actor.”

      “You’re neither of those things tonight.” As Milt patted Drake’s shoulder, his ring clanged against the armor. “You’re Lancelot, knight and lover extraordinaire. Guinevere, your queen, is alone in the castle, naked in her bed, and watching you. Make her wish you were there with her.”

      Drake fought the urge to roll his eyes. And laugh.

      This part of show business was something he would never understand. Still, doing the show was good publicity and PR for the channel and his company. He trusted his gut, and his instinct said do what Milt wanted. That was what Drake had done for the past two seasons and saw no need to change now. “You’re in charge, but let’s hope Guin’s covered herself with a blanket. Castles can be drafty this time of year.”

      The crew laughed. Even Milt cracked a smile.

      Liz came after Drake with the eyelash curler. “I forgot something.”

      “Is that really necessary again?” he asked.

      She winked. “Absolutely, Sir Lashalot.”

      Drake grimaced, allowed the deed to be done and readied himself for the scene.

      Holding a gold goblet precariously with his gauntlet-covered hand, he stood in front of an elaborately carved fireplace complete with an ornate coat of arms being held by two lion-faced cherubim.

      “Ready, Sir Lancelot?” Milt asked.

      Drake nodded once.

      Milt looked at Tony, one of the two cameramen on the crew. “Let me know when you have speed.”

      “Are the mikes working?” Tony asked the audio person, who gave him the thumbs-up. “Speed.”

      A few seconds later, Drake saw his cue.

      Show time.

      Once he nailed this line, he’d be free to do whatever he wanted. And he knew what—make that who—he wanted.

      Forget Guinevere.

      The adulterous queen had nothing on his new associate producer. An image of Chaney wearing her sexy, smart-girl glasses flashed in his mind.

      He raised the goblet and smiled at the camera. “And that’s why Abbotsford Castle is one of this billionaire’s favorite playgrounds.”

      Luxurious and romantic, this castle would be the perfect place to play with Chaney. Five years hadn’t changed the smart, pretty American’s appeal.

      Drake still wanted to taste those full, pink lips of hers that had tempted him during her internship. He wanted to see if the adorable dimple on her left cheek went as deep as it looked. He wanted to lend a hand as she wiggled out of those well-fitted jeans, cupping her bottom like a glove, so he could see if she wore a thong, boy short or other type of panty underneath.

      Most of all, he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d turned him down.

       Sorry Mr. Llewelyn. You’re targeting the wrong girl.

      He’d been sorry all right especially since he’d stopped dating a woman, a supermodel if he remembered correctly, to pursue Chaney. But she hadn’t wanted him.

      Drake had thought about that, about her, over the years. Now that he’d seen her again, and found out she wasn’t married as he’d believed, he wanted another chance.

      Before the weekend was over, Drake wanted to hear the word “yes” fall from Chaney’s lips. A “please take me now” wouldn’t be so bad, either. He wanted to prove to himself and her that he hadn’t targeted the wrong girl. Far from it. Given the antics and partying that accompanied the production crew during their two and a half months on the road, he had high hopes.

      His smile widened.

      Milt counted down with his fingers. Five-four-three-two-one.

      “Cut! That’s a wrap people.” Milt adjusted his LA Dodgers baseball cap. “Perfect, Drake. Keep smiling like that, and you’ll be a lock making this year’s Sexiest Man Alive list.”

      Drake СКАЧАТЬ