The Billionaire and the Virgin

By: Jessica Clare





“Look! Look! Tits or GTFO! Right?” The woman frolicking in the water near Robert Cannon’s float pulled off her top and shook her extremely fake cans in his direction.

He raised his drink to her, inwardly wishing she’d go away and take her friend with her. He touched his Bluetooth earpiece to indicate to her that he was on a conference call, despite floating on a raft at the beach, mixed drink in hand. He was several feet out from shore, and when people paddled closer, he stuck a hand in the water and steered his raft further out, so he could concentrate on his call. “What do you mean, ratings are down?”

“Just that,” said his assistant, voice tinny over the headset. “Reports are in and despite the new shows, ratings are down for The Man Channel by two percentage points.”

Rob swore and took another swig of his drink. Near his raft, one of the beach bunnies grabbed another tanned girl. Looking over at him, they began to make out in an attempt to get his attention.

He ignored them and paddled a bit further out. Fucking typical.

“What about the new show?” Rob asked. Hell, if he was down two points despite the new show, he’d need a much stiffer drink. This one wasn’t doing much to sustain his buzz.

“Naked Frat Party? Well, despite heavy marketing, it looks like we’re not hitting that target eighteen-to-forty demographic. I’m not sure what the deal is.”

Robert swore again. “And advertisers?”

“Already making unhappy noises.”

Great. That was just what he fucking needed. He swigged his drink, emptying the glass and waved it at one of the beach bunnies. On cue, one of the women took it and headed to the shore to get him a refill, her tits bouncing in her tiny bikini. “I’ll make some calls when I get back, all right? Just hold down the fort for this week while I take care of things down here.”

“Any luck with Hawkings?”

“Not yet, but I’m hoping to make some progress.” Rob told him absently, watching the antics of the two women. They kissed again—and then looked over at him to see if he was paying attention. One of them waded back out to his raft, his drink in hand. Rob shook his head. Ridiculous creatures. He’d become jaded on people long ago, and these two weren’t changing his mind, that was for damn sure. He shifted in his raft and adjusted the headset. “I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I want a full write-up of all the overnight ratings and a comparison of ad revenue. Have it to me by the morning.”

“Will do.”

“And find out at what point those ratings dropped. Which show tanked? Call me back.”

“Will do.”

He clicked off the call and tilted his head back, letting the sun beat down through his Bugatti sunglasses. Fucking hell. With ratings down, he was going to have a hell of a time convincing Logan Hawkings that starting up a new cable channel aimed at white-collar businessmen and executives was going to be worth his while.

Not that Rob couldn’t bankroll it himself. The billions in his bank account said differently. But he wanted Hawkings’s stamp on it, because Hawkings knew everyone in New York City and had a lot of cachet that Rob didn’t. People respected him and his business.

They didn’t respect Rob’s, no matter how much money it made him.

Most of the time he didn’t give a shit. Notoriety had made him as much money as anything else. And if he’d made his fortune capitalizing on cable channels and radio networks designed for the average joe, so much the better. So some of his shows weren’t exactly aboveboard. So what. Tits or GTFO was still popular. As long as there were girls with low self-esteem wanting to get on camera, they’d make money.

And he wouldn’t feel bad about it.

It wrecked his social life, but he’d just cry into his piles of money. Every woman that was even halfway interested in him wanted his wallet, or to be on one of his shows. The only girls he seemed to attract anymore were vapid idiots like the two currently making out and cavorting in the water in front of him just to get his attention. Didn’t care, really.

Rob took the drink that Blonde Number One offered him and tasted it. Strong, just the way he liked it. “Thanks, sugar.”

“So,” she said, giving her body a little wiggle to get his attention. “Think I’ve got what it takes to be on one of your shows?”

“Maybe,” he said absently, taking a bigger swig of his drink. Christ, that was really strong. He took another swig, because why not? He needed to get good and drunk. Two fucking ratings points. Jesus.

The other girl swam up next to him. “I heard you did lines off of Tiffany West’s stomach in Cannes,” she said with a sultry smile.

“Did you? How nice,” he said flatly. He didn’t even know who Tiffany West was, and he sure as shit didn’t do drugs. Alcohol was easy. Drugs just made you end up as someone’s prison bitch. He gulped the drink again, pleased that an alcoholic buzz was kicking in. He’d had three of these babies already, and number four was going to get him good and toasted. Which was a good thing, if ratings were down.

The busty blondes weren’t leaving. One swam up to the side of his raft, nudging it further out into the water. She smiled up at him. “Wanna do lines off of my stomach?”

“I’m busy.” Another call was due to come in any minute now.

“I can save the good stuff for later, if you want to party.”

Fuck that. Party of one in his raft, right here. He tossed down the rest of his drink, enjoying the burn it left in his mouth, and handed it off to one of the girls who watched him expectantly. When they didn’t go away, he looked back over at them. “How about you and you,” he said, pointing at both of them, “go do lines together and leave me the fuck alone?”

One of the blondes gave him a furious look and stormed away. The other wasn’t quite so nice. She huffed up, her fake breasts rising, and then gave his raft a vicious shove.

Rob flipped over and landed in the water, head going under.

Fucking perfect. His head spun and he resurfaced long enough to glare at the women who left. One of those two was going to buy him a new Bluetooth headset, so help him—

One of his legs cramped up, shooting pain through his muscles. Rob bobbed back under the water, thrashing. It was like his leg had locked up. Combine that with his spinning head, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings. He dragged his hands at the water, but only succeeded in getting a mouthful of brine and even more turned around. The current ripped at him, stronger than he’d ever thought. He pushed against it, but he still couldn’t find the surface, and now the water was dragging him farther away from the shore. Huh. Riptide. He thought you had to be farther out for those sorts of things. His lungs were aching, and he tried to push his head back above the water, but it seemed farther and farther out of reach.

Goddamn it, was he going to drown on the beach of someplace named Seaturtle Cay? Really?

But he couldn’t find air. Reflexively, his throat worked and salt water filled his lungs, his mouth, his nose. He choked, and the world started to go black. He was really, truly dying. His last thought was that he’d be in the tabloids for forever now—legendary for drowning in a few feet of water at the beach.

More blackness filled his vision, then red . . . and white polka-dots.

Polka-dots?

A strong arm grabbed him, and suddenly Rob’s face was hauled against a pair of breasts. Real breasts. He barely had time to process this before more darkness swam through his mind, and he followed it under.

“Breathe,” a voice shouted in his ear, and then lips pressed against his mouth. Air pushed into his lungs—and fuck, that hurt like hell—and suddenly water was coming up out of his throat and his nose and he turned his head to the side, vomiting salt water. His head ached in the most blisteringly awful fashion, and those white polka-dots were swimming in his vision again. But there was sand under his back, and slowly, blearily, he focused his eyes.

An angel bent over him on the beach. An angel with a faint peppering of freckles across her nose, a strong jaw and messy, wet, blonde hair, and dressed in the ugliest polka-dotted swimsuit he’d ever seen. And she was smiling down at him.

She’d saved him. And the look she gave him was so shy and proud all at once, that he felt his heart swell.

Rob was in love.

***

Oh sweet lord, this man was gorgeous. Marjorie pressed her mouth to the unconscious man’s lips and blew, trying to remember CPR steps that she hadn’t done since the fifth grade. She hoped he wouldn’t mind that a girl like her was mouthing on him, but she figured saving someone’s life took priority over petty things like attractiveness in a rescuer.

So she pumped his chest and blew into his mouth, and on her second round, salt water came rushing out of his mouth into hers, and she pulled away and spat even as she turned him on his side so he could vomit.

A moment later, he turned on his back and gave her a dazed, dopey look.

She couldn’t help smiling down at him. What a cute man. He was dark-haired, had green eyes with interesting amber flecks, and a fantastic chiseled nose. He’d also tasted like alcohol when she’d put her mouth on him—not Marj’s favorite thing—but this was a resort and most people drank.

He opened his mouth and made a garbled sort of sound. Probably a thank-you of some kind.

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