Romancing the wrong girl never felt so right…
The Billionaire’s Guide to The Marriage Deal, an all new, spicy, marriage-of-convenience romantic comedy, filled with delicious banter and steam from debut author Piper Marlowe, is out now and we have a look inside!
When my grandparents founded the Taylor Corporation, it was to make life better for future generations of Taylors.
But Grandma Sofia doesn’t think said generations are trustworthy enough to take over.
“Get married and prove you have an eye to the future,” she said.
“It'll be easy,” she said.
But “easy” is not exactly the word I’d use to describe the new Mrs. Easton Taylor. Phoebe isn't exactly my type, which is the plan–easy to marry, easy to walk away from. She makes flashcards for fun. She’s mouthy, sexy, and uninhibited. Worst of all, I'm now stepfather to a cat named Roger.
Some would call it a marriage of convenience.
But what I got into is more of a convenience store arrangement . . . an overpriced, fast, knockoff version of the real thing.
So why do I actually like the cat? And why can't I stop imagining something more real with my fake wife?
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Excerpt
“Miss? Can you come over here for a second?”
Christ.
Even all the way across the clubhouse, I can see her eyes narrow at the gesture. I don’t blame her. But she gamely scoops up the water I asked for and approaches.
“You gentlemen need something else?” she asks, setting the glass down beside me. Her eyes find mine, and I flash an apologetic grimace.
“What’s your name?” Max recaptures her attention.
The wary expression never leaves her face. Clearly she thinks we’re about to complain to a manager or something. “Phoebe.”
“Phoebe.” Max turns on the thousand-watt smile his Midwestern family all share. “My friend here will give you five grand to have lunch with him.”
Under the table, I kick him in the shin. To his credit, that smile doesn’t even waver.
Phoebe narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“Why not?” Max shrugs.
“For starters, because I’m not a prostitute.” She turns back to me, her gaze shifting in the type of once-over I’m more accustomed to giving than receiving. “And he’s not so hideous he’d need to pay a woman for a lunch date.”
My eyebrows rise. Did she just refer to me as only mildly hideous?
“So, I’m assuming the issue is terrible social skills. Still, five thousand seems excessive. Just hire a life coach, bud.” She settles her tray under her arm. “Pretty sure that would cost a lot less.” Then she tilts her head. “Although, I did serve a whole table of them here last week, so maybe they charge more than I think…”
“Told you,” Dylan murmurs to Max.
I need to pull this out of the fire. Otherwise, she’s going to think I really am some socially incompetent psycho—or worse, that I was actually trying to buy sex.
“Just lunch,” I promise. “Nothing a prostitute would do.”
She arches a brow. “Prostitutes don’t eat lunch?”
The assholes I call friends burst into laughter. Even I gotta fight to suppress a grin. Okay. So she’s funny. That’s a start. A start to what? This is a terrible idea, remember?
I suppress my inner critic. “An hour of your time. Five thousand dollars. I’ll write the check in advance if it makes you feel better.”
Suddenly, a look of understanding dawns on her face. “Is this an MLM?”
“MLM?” What the hell is that? I thought I knew all the major kinks. Is she into something even I haven’t heard of?
Promising, whispers the side of me I definitely should not be listening to right now. The side that can’t help noting the way she’s standing, hip cocked to one side, and how it accentuates the curve of her narrow waist and makes her ass jut out even farther in those grotesque uniform slacks.
Never thought I’d appreciate a uniform, but damn.
“You know, one of those multi-level marketing schemes. You recruit me to sell fancy face serums, but first I have to spend the five grand you give me on buying a million myself, and then I have to convince all my closest friends to pour their life savings into buying them from me if I want to make any profit…”
I frown. “Why would I think you need a face serum?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re into, big guy.”
I stare. No, she really, really doesn’t. Because it’s pretty much the opposite of her. She’s mouthy, suspicious, argumentative. As an actual wife, I can already tell she’d be a complete pain in the ass
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About Piper Marlowe
Piper Marlowe is an absolute legend, if you know where to look. And trust us, you don’t.
For national security reasons, her identity is a secret. As a matter of fact, there’s a good chance that at this very moment, she’s undercover, speaking with a bad Lithuanian accent to a bunch of shady characters. She can neither confirm nor deny that she’s writing ultra-fun, uber-witty, hot-darn-sexy romance to distract from the stress of her current clandestine operation.
Or maybe romance writing is the cover for a cover?
She could tell you, but then she’d have to…you know. That.
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An Irish mobster with a brutal grudge.
An Italian mafia princess with a dark secret.
Brutal Vows, an all-new steamy and powerful dark enemies-to-lovers mafia standalone romance from international bestselling author J.T. Gessinger is available now!
An Irish mobster with a brutal grudge.
An Italian mafia princess with a dark secret.
Two enemy empires joined in sacred marriage vows.
Let the hating games begin.
Grab your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
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Excerpt
2
Spider
I get only a glimpse of the woman in the window before the curtains fall back into place and she disappears, but the image of her is seared onto my retinas.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
And eyes that glittered silver in the afternoon sun like the flash of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.
She can’t be Liliana, the lass I’m here to meet. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has a sweet, innocent face. A shy, lovely smile.
The woman in the window looks like she’d only smile if she were slitting your throat.
Mindful of the armed guards, I say in Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”
Standing beside me, he follows my gaze and looks up at the blank window.
“Aye. Why?”
“Who else lives here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”
She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes.
She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle.
“This way,” says the guard nearest to me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the circular driveway into an interior courtyard.
Dismissing the thought of the mystery woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked on either side by towering marble columns.
The main house looms over us, three sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.
Inside the main foyer, the décor becomes even more ostentatious.
Naked cherubs frolic with hairy satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble, the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to water from the kaleidoscope glare of stained-glass windows.
Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”
He’s right. It’s fucking awful.
I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”
I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.
He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.
His cologne reaches me before he does.
His smile is blinding.
I hate him on sight.
“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”
He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.
Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclet teeth of his.
“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.
“Sir.”
“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first name basis, don’t you?”
I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.
Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Until she walks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is. I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
About J.T. Geissinger
J.T. Geissinger is a #1 internationally bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. Ranging from funny, feisty rom coms to intense, edgy suspense, her books have sold over five million copies and been translated into more than a dozen languages.
She is a three-time nominee in both contemporary and paranormal romance for the RITA® Award, the highest distinction in romance fiction from the Romance Writers of America®. She is also a recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book and the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy.
She’s a Southern California native currently living in Nevada with her husband and rescue kitty, Zoe.
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