The Billionaire and the Virgin(9)

Marjorie blinked rapidly, still a bit stiff from recoiling from his hug. He guessed she wasn’t much of a hugger. She seemed too awkward for that sort of thing.

Didn’t matter. He’d ease her into his brash displays. She’d get used to him. “So . . . seven? Seafood okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Wear a dress.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He grinned, resisted the urge to give her another hug, and then turned to walk away. He paused, and turned back to her. “Give me your full name and your room number.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice just as blank. Tired? Surprised? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. He’d have all of dinner tomorrow night to figure Marjorie out, and then he’d have her in his bed. He’d f*ck her a few times to get her out of his mind, and then he could go back to work and not think about women with incredibly long legs and freckled noses and too-earnest smiles.

She wasn’t saying anything else, so he prompted her. “Room number? Just in case I have to call you.”

“Three-oh-one,” she told him. “Ivarsson.”

He pulled out his phone and started typing. “You’re in the Ivarsson suite?”

“No, my last name is Ivarsson. Marjorie Ivarsson.”

He nodded. “Well, it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Marjorie Ivarsson. I look forward to seeing you for dinner tomorrow night at seven. Shall we meet at the bar?”

She nodded again and stuck her hand out to him to shake.

Amused, he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth to kiss the back of it one more time. “Until tomorrow.” Sure enough, she blushed again, then turned and left, her walk back inside the hotel stiff and a little rushed.

He watched her go, those impossibly long legs practically dancing as she went up the three stairs to the lobby itself. He couldn’t wait to have those wrapped around his waist. Hot damn. As she left, he realized she didn’t bother to ask for his last name. He deliberately hadn’t volunteered it, just to see if she’d inquire. Most women recognized the name once they saw his face, and he knew they’d start googling him the moment he left. But Marjorie had smiled politely, tried to shake his hand and walked away.

Marjorie was more naïve than he’d originally thought. Trusting. She wasn’t going to spend all night googling him online.

Well, that worked for him just fine. He could handle naïve. It never stopped him for long.

But even as he thought that, he frowned to himself. Marjorie was different. She was good, wholesome, pure, and sweet. He didn’t want to f*ck up her purity of spirit. The other chicks he dated might be nail and bail, but he knew instinctively that Marjorie wasn’t like that, and it was shitty of him to think of her that way.

Maybe it was him putting her on a pedestal because she’d saved his life. He didn’t know and didn’t much care.

But as Rob strolled back to his room, whistling, he realized that he needed to find out more about Marjorie Ivarsson. Because he wanted her. And the best way to get what you wanted was to treat it like he did business—formulate an attack, go on the offensive, and swoop in for the takeover.





Chapter Five



First on the docket, though? An assessment of exactly who he was planning on seducing.

At seven in the morning, he called for one of his assistants. The three of them were on call at any hour of the day, since Rob tended to keep odd hours and was a workaholic insomniac at best. He knew they rotated the on-call phone between them so he could have someone available at all times. It rang once, and then a female voice picked up. “Who’s this?” Rob asked. He had a female assistant, but damn if he remembered her name. He tended to run through people too fast.

“This is Smith, sir.” She didn’t even sound sleepy. “What can I help you with?”

“I have a date tonight,” he told her, putting a hand behind his head while relaxing in bed. He stared up at the ceiling, mentally picturing Marjorie’s face. “Marjorie Ivarsson. She’s staying in room three-oh-one. I want to know everything you can tell me about her in the next two hours. I’m not talking five minutes on Google, either. I’m talking Grade-A, private-detective, get-me-the-color-of-her-panties shit. You understand?”

“I understand,” Smith’s voice was coolly efficient. “Is there a price cap on this knowledge, sir?”

“Nope. Just time. Two hours. Make it happen.” He hung up, padded to the shower, got in, jerked off to the thought of honey-blonde hair, endless legs, and a hint of freckles.

After he dressed, Rob worked on his laptop, losing himself in emails and endless spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations of ratings numbers until his phone rang, precisely two hours later. Another point in Smith’s favor—she was prompt. Better than that f*cking Gortham. He was going to fire that kid when they got back, he really was.

He tucked his Bluetooth headset into his ear and hit Receive. “Talk to me.”

“Marjorie Ingrid Ivarsson,” Smith said. “Age twenty-four. Driver’s license lists her as height six foot one, weight estimated at one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Blood type O positive. Organ donor. Date of birth is July 10. Cancer star sign. Cancers are traditionally nurturing, loving, and very domestic. Parents were George and Rita Ivarsson. Both died in a car accident when she was aged two, and Marjorie was raised by her grandparents, John and Ingrid Ivarsson. Straight A student through high school. Attended one year of community college and then abandoned classes when John died and Ingrid suffered a stroke. Ingrid passed one year later. Marjorie was executor of the estate and settled family debts, then went to work at the Rise and Shine Diner, a sock-hop-themed, privately owned diner in Kansas City. It is currently owned by Hawkings Conglomerate, who purchased the diner earlier this year.”