Til Debt Do Us Part (Married At Midnight #4)

Chapter 15

Fifteen

Dare

I ’m at Herbsaint again, sitting at the best booth in the bar. I snap my fingers at a waiter walking by, grabbing his attention. He glares at me but stops, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Can I bring you something, sir?"

I point across the table to the blonde beauty sitting across from me. She tosses her hair and flicks her hazel gaze out at the room, turning her nose up and powdering her incredibly full lower lip.

"Elsa?" I prompt my date.

"Just vodka," she replies.

Her accent is Scandinavian, perhaps Norwegian, but she speaks English fluently. She levels me with a glare. Her perky breasts look mouthwatering as she adjusts the tiny straps of her black minidress and crosses her legs.

"What is it that you businessmen like this say?" She tosses her long hair and considers me. "Time is money. I got out of bed and came all the way here from New York City just to hear whatever you have to say. I am expecting an apology for the fact that you left in the middle of the night the last time you stayed at my apartment."

She folds her arms around herself as I give her a tight smile. I look at the waiter, who is impatiently tapping his foot.

"One whiskey for me. Something expensive, served on the rocks."

He bows his head and vanishes without a word. I tilt my head to the side and consider Elsa. "I can offer you an apology, or I can also offer you five hundred thousand dollars. Does that sound more amenable to you?"

She gives me a pouty look—her signature look that she uses in all the runways and cover shoots that she is so well known for. "I’m listening."

She doesn’t seem very happy about it, though. I would expect a little bit of gratitude.

Spreading my fingers across the table, figuring that, as a businesswoman herself, Elsa will appreciate it if I am just blunt with her about what I need. "I want to get married right away, maybe this month even. And then I also need to..."

The waiter interrupts, putting the two glasses down on the table a little harder than is necessary. He straightens his back and gives me a cold smile. "Anything else?"

"That will be all. We would like to be left alone now."

Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks away from our table. My eyes narrow on his back as I watch him go. Elsa reaches out and wraps her knuckles on the table, drawing my attention back to her.

"And what? You are explaining how I can earn a lot of money."

"Yes." In an effort to relax, I crack my neck, eliciting a loud popping sound. Elsa flinches, and her perfect nose wrinkles.

"I was saying that I need to have a kid right away. We would have to start trying immediately. Tonight, if possible."

Elsa picks up the glass of vodka and brings it to her lips. She takes a large swig and then tosses the remainder in my face. I blink as the vodka drips down my face, soaking my shirt.

Elsa stands up, her temper flaming. "What the fuck, Dare? How could you bring me here for this ridiculous offer? Not only do I not want to marry you, but I also wouldn’t dream of having your baby. You would be a terrible husband and a terrible father. Frankly, I am surprised that you would even ask me after ghosting me for the last five months!"

She holds up a finger, grabbing my attention. "I am a supermodel, damn you. I’m not a breeding cow. I’ve made millions of dollars by having a perfect figure, and I will go on to make millions more. And just so you know, I have my own expectations when it comes to a romantic relationship. I want the perfect man, an elaborate wedding, and maybe, eventually, a family. But did you even ask me what I wanted?" She laughs. "No! Of course not. You’re so self-involved. It’s not even funny."

I roll my eyes. "Elsa, if you would just listen to the deal that I’m presenting…"

She shakes her head vehemently.

"No. No way." Her lips curl, and she turns to the door. "Goodbye, Dare. Do not contact me ever again."

She storms out, leaving me in the booth. I grab the cloth napkin nearest to me to wipe off my vodka-soaked face.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. She’s the fourth woman that I’ve proposed to in the last twenty four hours and the only one remaining on my list of ex-girlfriends. Well, maybe not girlfriends. Hookups that I considered cool and levelheaded enough to even listen to my offer.

My brow furrows in frustration. I don’t understand why she would be so upset. I offered her half a million dollars in exchange for a quickie marriage and caring for my baby. I didn’t even get to the point where I explained that I could wire her half now and half upon the successful arrival of our child.

I fish my phone out of my suit pocket and send a text.

Come inside.

Not thirty seconds later, a small, balding man with a stylish sweater and tasteful dark gray corduroy pants appears. He looks around dramatically and arches a brow at me. "Did she leave, then?"

I frown and wave my hand at where she was sitting. "Sit down, Rob. And yes, she obviously left."

My personal assistant sits down carefully, crossing his legs, and places an electronic tablet on the table in front of him. He’s been waiting outside in my chauffeured SUV, right where I told him to be in case things went south with my proposal.

"I really thought that she would go for it." He looks a little perplexed. "With your money and good looks, you should be able to pull in any wife that you want. No matter what you’re offering,” he pauses; something obviously occurring to him. “How are you proposing the deal, exactly?"

I roll my neck again and grit my teeth. "Rob, shut up. I didn’t ask you to come here to give me dating advice or tell me how I should propose marriage."

"No?" He makes a face. "What do you need, then?"

"I want you to call a matchmaker. Not just any matchmaker. Find out who the best of the best is and hire them to bring me candidates right away. Make sure that the women are told that I want certain things: I want to marry right away, and I want kids as fast as possible. Not only that, but each woman needs to be the perfect candidate."

Rob pushes his cheek out with his tongue. He gives me a long look and opens the screen of his tablet, grabbing his pen to jot down notes.

"Okay, so what makes for a good candidate, in your mind?"

I wave a hand. "Oh, you know…"

"No, I don’t think I do know. What about Marilyn Jones?"

"The influencer?" I puff out my cheeks. "I don’t know. She’s very new age-y. And even though she looks good in photos, in real life she is very shy. Painfully so."

Rob makes a note. "So not painfully shy should be one of the requirements?"

I shrug. "I don’t feel good about Marilyn. Besides, I’ve never met her family. Who knows what kind of genetic pool she comes from? I wouldn’t want her to pop out a baby and the baby to take after Uncle Frank, who is bald and fat."

He looks at me for a long moment. "No fat babies," he adds to the list. "Okay. What about Marcia Shaw?"

My eyes squint off into the distance as I try to place the name. "Who is she again?"

Rob pulls out his phone and scrolls for half a minute. As soon as he shows me a picture, I wave the possibility off. "No. She’s the girl who got drunk every time I took her anywhere. I don’t want that. That's not exactly motherly material."

Rob purses his lips and gives me a funny gaze. "Never gets drunk," he murmurs. “Got it. So, can you give me a list of appropriate qualities, then?"

"That’s easy," I say. Steepling my hands, I consider the question. "I want someone who is born into an upper-class lifestyle. Someone who will not stand out but is still extremely good-looking. She’ll have a big family, so I know that she is fertile. I’ll have to have a good picture of her mother so I know who I will be marrying in twenty or thirty years. She’ll have to be willing to sign a prenup, and she’ll have to want to have at least one kid. Make that two kids," I squinted.

"Right." Rob scribbles a quick list.

"What, do you have a problem with my list?"

"No. I just wonder if a girl like this exists in reality. For a girl to have literally all these qualities... It just seems like she would really have to want your money to say yes to your proposal."

I dismiss his concerns with a wave of my hand.

"I'm not asking for too much, especially not for what I would offer and return. When I gain control of the company, she will automatically become one of the wealthiest wives on the planet. That’s not really anything to sneeze at."

"I just think you might be a little bit off base. If you gave up any of these characteristics, I'm sure there would be plenty of women lining up to be your wife. But this is a pretty specific list."

I give him a thin-lipped smile.

"The right woman does exist. She’ll be perfect. With the right dollar amount, anyone can be bought and paid for. This is a transaction, not a real marriage. I’m not looking for flowers and romance. I’m looking for something much more tangible and within my grasp. The right girl knows exactly what she is worth, and she’s out there, waiting. I’m sure of it."

Rob makes a noise that sounds like a hum of disapproval. But he just scribbles a final note and sighs.

"All right. That gives me somewhere to start with the matchmaker. Anything else right now?"

Pushing out my bottom lip, I slowly shake my head.

"No. That’s all I require of my personal assistant today."

"Great!" Rob says it with a saccharine smile. He scoots out of the booth, getting to his feet.

"Don’t get carried away drinking tonight. You have a call with Tokyo at three a.m."

I frown and wave my hand. "It’s fine, I’m sure."

"Well, good night then. I’ll talk to you two minutes before the three a.m. call."

Rob waits a second to hear my response, but he catches me mid-gulp. Rather than wait around, he turns and marches out of the bar, looking like he was stalking along a runway.

I drain the contents of my glass, hissing to myself as the alcohol slides down my throat, burning as it goes. I cast my gaze around the bar with a sigh.

The question now becomes whether I want to pick up one girl or two for the evening. The idea is appealing in a certain light. At least it would satisfy my hunger for a second.

I think of two girls, fairly close and laying on their backs, their hands between their legs, as they do every single thing I say. I tell them just how I want them to touch themselves—to play with their pussies and rub their clits. I would be in charge—the master of their orgasms. Really, it’s all the hands-off dominance that I crave on a regular basis.

The only thing is, I don’t actually know if I want to put the effort into finding partners to play with tonight. But something is stopping me. Something is holding me back. What could it be?

The next moment, completely unbidden, a thought comes to my head. I picture Talia and the way she looked when she was wearing that silver dress. But instead of the blonde wig, I would insist that she let her natural copper-colored hair fall all around her shoulders like the wild, wavy mess it is.

Arching an eyebrow, I squint. Is that what this is all about? Is Talia holding me back?

I already know how my next conversation with Talia will end. I’ll offer her another five thousand dollars for a night in my bed. It appears to be so straightforward. I find her body attractive, but every time she opens her mouth, I want to scream at her to shut up. So, I will make our hookup clean, professional, and very transactional.

I will get to watch her make herself cum while I jerk off.

Now that I admit it to myself, the idea runs through my blood as quickly as nuclear fission. It makes me feel strange and tingly, almost effervescent.

That settles it. I should just demand that she let me use her for her body. She should respond to my offer of cash. All women do when it comes to money. That’s all they want, but that makes it easy.

Then, once I have Talia out of my system, I should reward myself. I should find a new girl that I can dominate. I can take her on my boat and sail away, whatever the weather. It won’t matter, because I will be too busy counting her orgasms.

I get up and leave a pile of freshly minted hundreds on the table. Pulling on my coat, I bundle up and head outside. It’s a nice enough night, brisk and cold but clear. I walk aimlessly, looking at the stars.

I find myself wondering what I will do if that matchmaker doesn’t come through. I realize that I need something different this time around. Someone who needs money so badly that they will never leave me. Someone that can’t do better than me.

Not that there are many men who can compete with me.

Still, I will find a woman who meets almost all my criteria, perhaps sacrificing one or two points, and who desperately needs money. I run my tongue against my teeth, a little smile playing on my lips. That’s the sweet spot. I should really search there.

Smiling to myself a little, I turn toward the Morgan estate, walking more swiftly toward the house on the hill.