How To Marry A Billionaire. Ally Blake
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Was he saying what she thought
he was saying?
Was the gorgeous, emotionally unavailable, confirmed bachelor, billionaire Adam Tyler saying that he would like them to try each other on for size?
Adam watched her with his usual quiet patience. Well, he would have to wait. Her answer would be one of the most important of her life.
Think, Cara. Think!
Gorgeous—God, yes.
Emotionally unavailable—surely as much as ever. But aren’t you the same?
Confirmed bachelor—meaning he would never try to change you so as to keep you. Isn’t that perfect?
Billionaire.
That was where it all fell apart.
ALLY BLAKE
worked in retail, danced on television and acted in friends’ short films until the writing bug could no longer be ignored. And as her mother had read romance novels ever since Ally was a baby, the aspiration to write novels had almost been bred into her. Ally married her gorgeous husband, Mark, in Las Vegas (no Elvis in sight, thank you very much), and they live in beautiful Melbourne, Australia. Her husband cooks, he cleans and he’s the love of her life. How’s that for a hero?
How to Marry a Billionaire
Ally Blake
MILLS & BOON
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To one grandmother for the treasure troves
of romance novels that were always to
be found under her spare bed, and to the other
for coloring my life with Dr. Seuss’s ABC.
CONTENTS
IT WAS love at first sight.
‘I have never seen anything more beautiful,’ Cara said as she stared through the window of the stylish Chapel Street shoe store.
‘You simply have to have them,’ Gracie agreed, her nose pressed up against the window-pane.
‘They’re frivolous. Certainly not a necessity.’
‘So be frivolous, while you’re still young enough for it to be charming.’
‘But they’re Kate Madden Designs!’ Cara pointed out, hoping that at least would be argument enough to stop her from making such a rash purchase.
‘So?’
‘So, they cost more than my father used to earn in a week!’
Gracie turned to her. ‘Now that’s the strangest reason I have ever heard for not spending one’s own hard-earned money. Even from Cara, the Queen of Thrift.’
Cara decided it was best to keep focussing on the shoes.
‘And how much do you earn a week?’ Gracie asked as though talking to a two-year-old.
‘More than my father,’ Cara admitted.
‘So there you go!’ Gracie grabbed Cara by the upper arms and turned her so they were face to face, the shoes glistening on the periphery of their vision. ‘You have no choice. This is the big time. This is not mucking about with styling mousse and safety pins in converted warehouses, styling emaciated models for magazines. This is not getting kudos for finding designer clothes at bargain-basement prices. This is gold credit cards. This is limousines. This is television!’ Gracie spread her hands before her as though indicating the way of the future. ‘You want to make an impression and these are the shoes that will do it.’
Cara’s gaze was irresistibly drawn back to the stunning creations sitting atop their own black velvet stand. The shoes were elegant, they were red, they were embroidered satin, and they had heels one could use as a lethal weapon if ever one found the need. In a word, they were unforgettable.
‘And just think,’ Gracie said, leaning her head on Cara’s shoulder as she returned to her vigil before the coolest shoes ever made, ‘if you don’t get the job, at least you’ll have a killer pair of shoes to console you.’
Cara nodded. The thing was, she had to get the job. She would be twenty-seven in a couple of months, the same age her father was the first time he filed for bankruptcy, and if her serious plans to have the St Kilda Storeys apartment building paid off by that