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The Wedding Rescue, Book One

By:Alexa Wilder



I saw her across a crowded room. It’s such a cliché, especially for me. I see beautiful women across crowded rooms all the time. The Delecta was my casino, and she was sitting at my bar.

It’s hard to say what made me stop. She wasn’t a showgirl or a model, and nothing like the tall, skinny, overly made up women I was accustomed to. No, she was something else. She was real.

When was the last time I’d had real? Real curves, generous enough to have her hips straining the seams of her navy blue dress. I wanted to sink my fingers into those hips while I fucked her from behind. Real tits. Had to be. They were soft and full, even from a distance. They, too, strained against her dress. Mouthwatering. And her lips. Plump. Perfectly shaped to wrap around my cock. I had to see more.

I eased into the bar, busy enough for six o’clock on a Thursday, but not as crowded as it would be in a few hours. I needed a better angle to see her face. From the door, all I got was long, shining, dark hair, streaming down her back in loose waves, a hint of her lips, the curve of an eyebrow, and nothing else. Did her face live up to the promise of her body? I was going to find out.

I crossed the room to the bar, nodding at a few people as I went. Sliding into the seat beside her, I raised a finger for the bartender.

“Sir,” he said with a deferential nod. I waved it away. This wasn’t the time to impress her with my status. Not until I knew if she’d be impressed. She might be one of those anti-corporate types, in which case being a billionaire wasn’t going to help me get her in my bed. And the closer I got, the more certain I was. However her night had begun, it would end with me.

I ordered a Manhattan. At the sound of my voice, she turned to look at me. Fucking perfect. Her face was as real as her body. No dramatic cheekbones or startling blue eyes caked with mascara. No, she barely wore any make-up. Not even lipstick. Her grey eyes were clear and intelligent, and her sweet, rosy lips had a natural pout. Her dark brows matched her hair. When her eyes met mine, they widened. For a second, she looked like a deer caught in headlights. Or one who’d spotted a predator far too close and knew he’d locked on. Her instincts told her all she needed to know. She was in danger and there was no escape.

Then I saw it. The red rims of her eyes, the streak of moisture on her cheek. A primal part of me felt a bolt of satisfaction. She’d been crying. The tears were a weakness, and my way in. With all the resources at my disposal, whatever problem she had, I would fix it. Then she’d be mine for however long I wanted her.



I was well into my second appletini when I heard the chair next to me slide back. I kept my eyes on the bar, not interested in company or polite chitchat. My calm, orderly, sedate life was in a shambles, and I had no interest in talking to anyone except the bartender. That is, until I heard his voice. It was low and dark, like hot chocolate with caramel drizzled on top, and it sent shivers down my spine. He had to be hot. No one with a voice like that could be anything else. I snuck a peek and froze. Holy crap. Hot didn’t begin to cover it. Our eyes met and I couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away.

His eyes were the crisp, fresh green of a Granny Smith apple. I’d never seen eyes like that before. On anyone else I might have wondered if they were contacts, but not on this man. His eyes were extraordinary, but serious. This man didn’t put up with bullshit. Not one who’d wear colored lenses. His face could have come out of a magazine, with his thick, dark hair, those bladed cheekbones, and that full lower lip. But he lacked the empty blandness of a model in an advertisement. No, his face had character. He had fine lines around his mouth that suggested he laughed a lot. A tan that said he liked to be outdoors. His gaze was assessing, evaluating me. I wanted to tear my eyes away and look anywhere else, but I couldn’t.

He wasn’t just a regular guy. I knew that already. Spinal shivers from his voice aside, the bartender had called him ‘Sir’ when he’d come in. And that suit. I didn’t know a ton about fashion, but it was too well tailored not to be custom made. He was way out of my league—way, way out.

“Bad day?” he asked in that chocolate and caramel voice. More shivers ran down my spine. A suspicious heat grew between my legs. Women would pay just to hear this guy talk.

“Bad week,” I said, my mouth moving before I could stop it.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The bartender delivered his drink, and he took a sip, eyes still on mine. He waited with all the patience in the world to hear my pathetic story. Suddenly, I was less depressed and more ashamed. How had I let my life come to this?