All-In by Sierra Cartwright

Billionaire’s Matchmaker

Rafe Sterling strode through the door of his downtown Houston office and into a Monday morning predawn ambush.

To make matters worse, his shoulder hurt from where he’d landed on it during a bicycle race the previous day, he’d slept badly, and he hadn’t had a single cup of coffee.

Three women stood with their backs to the window, a terrifying army in silk and stilettos.

His mother, Rebecca, had her arms folded across her chest, wearing resolve like armor. His sister, Arianna, was in the middle, and she squirmed under his scrutiny. Good. At best, she was a reluctant accomplice.

The third woman, all the way on the right, he’d never met.

Her well-defined cheekbones were striking, and her lips were painted a wicked shade of fuck-me red. She wore her long brunette hair loose, the locks flowing around her shoulders. But it was the way she studied him, with total focus, that riveted his attention. Her eyes were a startling shade, not hazel but deeper, like gold. For a moment—a fascinating, unwanted, and mercifully brief flash of time—he imagined them swimming with tears of submission.

He cleared his throat, and she broke their connection by glancing toward the floor.

Fuck. Her gesture arrowed through his gut. For the first time in years—since Emma—he was captivated.

Rafe shook his head. He had no patience for relationships, not even with a woman who wore a skirt that hugged her enticing curves.

“Rafe, darling!” His mother broke ranks and took a couple of steps toward him.

Galvanized, he closed his office door behind him. Better to meet the battle head-on so he could get on with his day. “Morning, ladies.”

He crossed the room to drop an obligatory kiss on his mother’s cheek, then he noticed a pile of folders on his desk. Something to do with the visit from the unnamed woman, no doubt.

With distrust, he flicked another glance in her direction. Who the hell was she? “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Rafe eased into his leather executive chair.

His mother took a seat across from him and skipped any further pretense of pleasantries. “You need a wife.”

“Ah.” He slid the manila menaces to the edge of the desk and resisted—barely—the urge to knock them into the waiting trash can. “Understood. Now this is the part of the confrontation where I tell you I will find a bride when I’m damn well ready. Thank you for your time and concern.” He attempted a smile. Judging by his mother’s wince, the curl of his lips was closer to a snarl. “I’m sure you can show yourselves out.”

“Don’t be rude, Rafael Barron Sterling.”

He quirked an eyebrow. His mother hadn’t used his full name since he was in college.

“Your father is planning to marry Elizabeth.”

Rafe opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. He didn’t need to state the obvious. His parents were still married.

“It’s imperative we make you the CEO of Sterling Worldwide. This madness must stop at once,” Rebecca finished.

“Mother—”

“He bought her a forty-thousand-dollar ring. I saw a picture of it in his email. Gaudy. He has terrible judgment and even worse taste.” She shoved the manila folders back to the center of the desk.

Because of Theodore’s unstable behavior, his mother suspected her husband had the early stages of dementia. His physician disagreed, saying that Theodore was at an age where he’d acquired vast wealth and wanted to enjoy it. The motorcycles he couldn’t ride and the yacht that needed a crew were proof of that, as were the classic Rolls Royce, a chauffeur, a château in France, and a twenty-three-year-old mistress to enjoy it with.

Rafe suspected that both his mother and the doctor were partially correct. Theodore had never wanted any part in Sterling Worldwide. He’d been the unexpected and much pampered late-in-life and third-born child of Barron and Penelope Sterling. His parents had believed Theodore to be nothing less than a gift from God, and they’d treated him as such, indulging his every whim, allowing him to travel the world from a young age, buying him gifts that had been denied to his siblings. He’d also bypassed the boarding schools that the other Sterling children had attended. But his parents had insisted on a college education. They’d made a sizable donation to the university’s foundation to ensure he received passing grades. Surprising everyone, including himself, he’d excelled in business school.

When his older brother, Barron Sterling, Jr., had been killed in a hunting accident, Theodore had been thrust into the unwelcome role as heir and CEO of a worldwide hotel empire. He hadn’t known that his much more qualified sister couldn’t inherit the business. He’d hired attorneys, but in the end, the terms were absolute. Theodore had lost his freedom and his jet-setting lifestyle. Within weeks of his brother’s burial, he was married to the formidable Rebecca, a woman his mother had selected.

Now that Rafe had proven himself competent as the conglomerate’s Chief Financial Officer, Theodore had run away from his day-to-day responsibilities in favor of living the life he’d imagined.

Unaware or uncaring that her son hadn’t responded, Rebecca continued. “Ms. Malloy”—she pointed to the brunette—“has compiled a list of suitable candidates for your consideration.”

“Candidates?”

“To become your wife,” Ms. Malloy clarified, taking over the meeting. She crossed the room toward him, her hips swaying and her peep-toe shoes sounding a tattoo that did evil things to his libido.

When she stopped near his desk, her scent reached him, lilacs and summer, a contrast to the darkness that hovered over his life.

“The list has been narrowed to five finalists for your consideration.” Obviously she had no clue she was rearranging his brain cells. “Each of the ladies is qualified to be your wife. Of course, for your privacy, they only know certain things about you. A general description, the fact that you’re an executive, that you live in Houston. The women have been interviewed and prescreened. We have nondisclosures on record, so any exchange of information will be confidential. Because time is of the essence, a mixer on Thursday or Friday would be most expeditious. If you prefer, we can arrange casual meetings, coffee or breakfast, perhaps lunch as you narrow your selection to three. From there we will be happy to set up dinners. That way you can get to know her before actual social events. We can make it appear like a whirlwind romance and—”

“Stop.” He held up a hand and trapped her gaze. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I didn’t realize that you weren’t aware…” She glanced toward his mother, but Rebecca looked down to pluck a piece of lint from her skirt

Recovering, the brunette smiled. The gesture was quick, practiced, and polished—meant to impart confidence without being too familiar.

Irrationally, it—she—irritated the hell out of him.

“I beg your pardon. I’m Hope Malloy.” She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sterling.”

He ignored her gesture. “I asked you a question.”

As she dropped her arm, her smile vanished. When she spoke, her tone was more formal. “I own The Prestige Group. Celeste Fallon recommended my team to your mother.”

“Team of…what?”

“We are an elite matchmaking service for the world’s wealthiest, most discerning individuals. We understand that it’s difficult for men such as yourself to meet appropriate—”

“You’re a matchmaker? You stick your nose in other people’s business for a living?” Stunned, Rafe swung his gaze toward his mother. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Watch your tone.”

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I throw all of you out.”

“I know this is a shock, so I’ll forgive your bad manners. Prestige will be discreet on this search. No one needs to know it’s happening.”

He stood and slammed his palms flat on the desk surface. “You hired them to find me a wife?” The killer-heeled woman was here to marry him off to some nameless woman to safeguard the Sterling empire?

“Celeste has assured me that Ms. Malloy is the best.”

Of that, he had no doubt. Fallon and Associates was one of the world’s most exclusive crisis management firms. For more than a hundred and fifty years, they’d specialized in high-profile cases, restoring reputations, saving careers, ensuring people never talked. Like Sterling Worldwide, the Fallons had also kept the business private, and all owners had been related to the founder, Walter Fallon—who’d been part of a secret society at the University of Virginia with Rafe’s great-great-great-great-grandfather, John.

Along with five other young men who’d been in the same organization, John and Walter had become lifelong friends. Over the years, the Sterlings and Fallons had helped each other numerous times, including earlier in the year when Theodore and Lillibet had been caught in the first-class toilet of a commercial aircraft.

Thanks to Fallon and Associates, the investigation had gone away, and Celeste had managed to kill the story before a prominent East Coast newspaper could get anyone to verify the distasteful rumors.

As it was, only one blog had run the story, under the headline, Little Girl and her Teddy Join the Mile High Club! The teaser, as vile as it was provocative, had been a clever play on his father’s name and the ridiculous age difference between the lovers.

A week later, the website had vanished.

“Ms. Malloy has done a fine job. At this rate, we can announce your engagement within a few weeks.”

“Goodbye.”

Undaunted, his mother went on. “It’s a matter of time before your father causes a disaster we can’t recover from.” Even though anger strung her words together, she didn’t raise her voice. As always, Rebecca was the picture of calm, focused resolve. “You’re over thirty. If you had done your duty years ago, we wouldn’t be facing this situation now.”

He winced at the truth of the accusation. Ever since Rafe was a child, his mother had been clear about his obligations. But to him, love equaled drama, and he despised both.

“You need to be sensible.” She brought her index fingers together and studied him.

Arianna joined them. “I know you don’t like people meddling in your life, but—”

“Meddling?” He’d had enough. “You call this meddling?”

“Things are going to get worse, not better, with Dad and his—” Arianna caught her bottom lip with her teeth. “With Elizabeth.”

Every day, Rafe hoped his father would return to Houston and his office, but since his dad and Lillibet, as he called her, had been ensconced in their St. Pete’s Beach love nest for two weeks, that didn’t seem imminent.

Rafe sighed. “I know you’re concerned, and I understand it.” More than ready to get out of this mess, he said, “I’ll talk to him again.”

“You’ve done so numerous times,” Rebecca pointed out.

Dozens. Maybe more. “If necessary, I’ll fly out there.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Rebecca asked in a chilled tone. “This cannot continue. You’re a smart man, Rafe. You know how delicate this situation is. Let’s not make it any more complicated than it needs to be.”

Possible scenarios lined up in his mind and fired across his brain in a burst of nightmares, each worse than the last. Theodore asking for a divorce. His mother being awarded half of the company and the courts being involved in the painstaking divisions. It could drag on for years while his father played with his mistress. In a worst-case situation, Theodore might, indeed, commit bigamy, which would create a public relations quagmire that Sterling Worldwide might not recover from.

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Noah stopped by the house Friday evening,” Rebecca said. “Your father isn’t returning calls. I understand from his assistant that Noah’s been dropping by the executive office every day. She’s been making excuses, but she isn’t convinced he believes her.”

Rafe struggled to hold his temper in check. His cousin, Noah Richardson, son of Rafe’s aunt, Victoria Sterling-Richardson, believed he had grounds to challenge Rafe’s position as heir apparent. According to the archaic terms of the trust, succession went to male descendants in birth order. Even then, the heir was required to be married.

Noah ran one of the divisions, was a multimillionaire in his own right, and he believed he was the rightful heir since Rebecca and Theodore hadn’t been married when Barron, Jr., had been killed. Noah itched to break up the corporation and sell it off, a philosophy Rafe was against. Noah had threatened to see Rafe in court numerous times. Rafe had responded that any challenge should have come a generation ago. But because Noah was married with children, there was a chance, however slight, that he might prevail in a court case. Even if the decision was in Rafe’s favor, the litigation could drag on for months, even years. The financial cost could be devastating.

“I’m sorry.” Arianna wrung her hands. “I hate this, and I didn’t want to be part of it. It’s awful that we have to coerce you into doing something you’re not ready to do.”

He believed her. Unlike him, she was a romantic, a dreamer shattered by her second divorce.

“Arianna and I will leave you to it.” Rebecca stood.

“I haven’t agreed to anything.” He refused to be railroaded.

“You’ll do what you need to.” His mother wasn’t backing down.

She closed the door with a decisive click, sealing him in with the enemy. Hope was a beautiful, seductive temptress, but the enemy, nonetheless.

“You’re a matchmaker.”

“It’s an honorable profession.”

“Is it? Much like operating an escort service. I hire you. I will end up paying to fuck a woman, one who’s interchangeable with any number of other candidates.”

“That’s as insulting as it is crass.” She set her chin and didn’t sever the connection of their gazes, meeting the heat of his anger with cool, aloof professionalism.

He wanted to shake it from her, strip her bare, discover what lay beneath the surface to leave nothing but aching, pulsing honesty between them.

Either not noticing the tension or ignoring it, she continued. “Throughout history, families arranged marriages all the time. In parts of the world, it still goes on. Today, there’s a bigger need for my services than ever before. I have clients all over the world, from all sorts of backgrounds and of all ages. Often, men in your position don’t have time to meet women in the traditional way. You’re far too busy, important, insulated.”

“Spare me the sales pitch.”

“It makes sense to select someone I’ve interviewed, a woman who suits the needs of a man such as you. A woman of the right temperament, with the same interests, goals, morals, outlook, political leanings, religious preferences. A woman who understands what is expected of her and is willing to assume those responsibilities.”

“A business arrangement.”

“If you like.”

Rafe took his seat and left her standing. It was undoubtedly rude, but justified. His mother had hired Prestige, but Hope had been part of the early-morning intervention. She could have refused, but she hadn’t. That made her complicit. “So that’s what’s in here?” He flicked a glance at the folders. “A money-hungry bride-to-be—I beg your pardon, candidate—who understands what she’s getting herself into?”

“These women all deserve your respect.”

“And an expensive engagement ring?” He leaned back. “Why should I trust you?”

“Five years of success. Thirty-seven marriages.”

“Divorces?”

“Two.”

“Much better than the national average. Yet five years in business means your experiment hasn’t made it to the seven-year itch yet.”

“Whether that exists or not is a matter of debate. There’s a study that suggests there’s a four-year itch as well as a seven-year one. Oh, and a three-year one. And most couples who divorce tend to do so after a decade. So that means there’s a twelve-year flameout as well.” She lifted one delicate shoulder in a half shrug. “Whatever your bias, you can find a study to support it. The truth is, each individual is unique, and so are their relationships. People divorce for a lot of reasons and after any length of time.”

“Fair enough.”

“There are, however, a number of factors that enhance chances for success. I call them the Three C’s—compatibility, chemistry, and commitment.”

“Define success.”

She tipped her head to one side. “I suppose that’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“Take my parents. They’ve been victims of wedded bliss for thirty-three years.”

“There are financial and legal benefits for people who are married.”

She’d sidestepped his point neatly.

“Couples who are wed, versus those who cohabitate, tend to live longer.”

“Or perhaps it only seems that way.”

She smiled, and it transformed her features, making her no longer standoffish and professional, but warm and inviting. No wonder lemmings turned to her for matrimonial advice. “Have you always been a cynic, Mr. Sterling?”

“About marriage?” Not always. But the few illusions he’d held had been shattered. “Can you blame me?”

“You can’t think of any positive examples?”

“Like my sister? She’s twenty-seven and going through her second divorce, and this one is more gruesome and costly than the first. My best friend and college roommate, Griffin Lahey? His wife of three years just walked out, dumped him, ripped apart their future, and took away their son. For the final knife in his heart, she’s suing for half of his estate because she met an artist who she fancies and wants to move to Paris with him. Noah’s parents live on separate continents. My grandmother had to be coaxed into attending my grandfather’s funeral. I’m told she was drunk at the time, and not from grief. On the morning he was to be buried, legend has it that she knocked back an entire bottle of champagne…from the private reserve he had saved for special occasions. So, no, I’m not anxious to stick my neck in the matrimonial noose.”

“You asked why you should trust me. You shouldn’t. You have no reason to, yet. I could give you references from satisfied customers. I could reassure you that I’ve signed a nondisclosure. Or that Celeste Fallon believes in me. But none of that means anything. You need results. If the potential women I’ve matched you with don’t suit your needs, I’ll give you another five. Or fire me and I’ll refund your mother’s fee.”

“Fee?” He narrowed his eyes. “How much do you charge?”

“I’m expensive, Mr. Sterling.”

“Ten thousand dollars? Twenty?” When she didn’t react, he tried again. “More than that?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“Shit.” People were willing to pay a hundred grand to meet someone? If it worked out, he’d have the honor of shelling out thousands more for baubles to go along with it? Then, when the shine wore off, she’d keep them and half his fortune?

“I’m worth every penny.”

“That’s pretty confident.”

“I am.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I work hard to ensure I satisfy my clients.”

He glanced at the top folder as if it were rabid. “How did you choose these particular women?”

“In normal circumstances, I meet with a gentleman so I can get a sense about him. Then he fills in a questionnaire. It’s rather detailed. Fourteen pages of likes, dislikes, things that worked in previous relationships. Things that didn’t.”

“Go on.”

“Expectations around traditions are important as are roles in the relationship. To some, religion is important. I find out if he wants children. If so, how many? Will he want them raised in a particular religion? Where does he plan to live? In the US or abroad? Will the children attend private school? Boarding school? Will a nanny be hired? A housekeeper? After I’ve reviewed that, I have a second meeting with him for further clarification.”

“And they need you for this?”

“Most of the men I work with don’t have the opportunity to meet women they might be serious about marrying. They’ve often focused their attention on their careers or education. Some of them are famous, but they don’t want to settle down with a woman they’ve met on the road or someone who’s been part of their fan club.”

“And where do you find the women who are anxious to throw themselves at the feet of these rich men?”

“I belong to a number of organizations, and I’m active in Houston’s art and business communities. It may surprise you, but I’m often invited to high-society events. I’ve seen you at a few.”

Rafe regarded her again. “We haven’t met.” He would have remembered. Her eyes, her voice, the sweet curve of her hips, the way her legs went on forever in those shoes. Yeah. He would have remembered.

“No. I spend most of my time talking with women. Part of my value is that I’ve met all the candidates, interviewed them, watched them interact at social events.” She nudged a folder toward him. “Try me.”

“Have a seat.” Rafe wondered at his sudden offer of hospitality. He didn’t need Hope and her lilac-and-silk scent in his office while he looked through the files.

She sat opposite him, her movements delicate. Her skirt rode up her bare thighs, just a bit. He imagined skimming his fingers across her smooth skin while she gasped, then yanking down her panties, curving his fingers into the hot flesh of her ass cheeks.

Christ.He’d spent all Saturday working on next quarter’s business plan. In the previous day’s bike race against some of his friends, he’d pushed too fast, too hard, on a grueling part of the course and crashed. He’d had a shot of Crown before going to bed but skipped taking anything else for the pain. He’d slept like hell, and he’d spent too long working out cramps in the shower to even think about masturbating.

Now, he wished he had taken the edge off.

It had been over a month since he’d visited the Retreat, a BDSM club in a historic warehouse on Buffalo Bayou in downtown Houston, and even longer since he’d enjoyed the singular pleasure of playing with a sub at the discreet second-story Quarter in New Orleans. Of course being this close to an attractive female after such an intense drought would give him an erection. Shit. He couldn’t force himself to believe his own fucking lie. Every day, he was surrounded by beautiful women. He wanted Hope. With her ass upturned, listening to her frantic breaths as she waited for his belt…waited for his touch. It was more than the sound of her voice or the innocent-yet-provocative shoes, it was carnal desire. Lust. The last time he was gripped by its power, he’d been in college and far more helpless than he was now.

He imprisoned his thoughts and focused on the task in front of him.

Picking up the first file, he flipped it open.

The top page had a name, a picture, and the vital statistics of a beautiful twenty-four-year-old blonde. She was a UT Austin graduate, a pageant winner who flashed a tiara-worthy smile and worked as a fundraiser for underprivileged schools.

In every way, on paper, she should interest him. She was attractive, knew how to handle herself in public, and she had philanthropic inclinations.

Naturally his mother would approve. And yet… He felt nothing—less than nothing. He was uninspired and disinterested. The hard-on he’d been sporting vanished. He glanced up at Hope Malloy. “You said chemistry matters?”

“She doesn’t appeal to you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Perhaps you’ll have better luck with another choice?”

He didn’t.

After perusing the second picture, he glanced back at Hope.

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“It’s possible the attraction would develop after you meet someone. Her choice of conversation, the way she moves or looks at you.” She shifted. “Pheromones.”

Those, he was starting to believe in. Keeping his mind on the folders, he said, “I see. My mother hopes I will select a bride, whether I want to fuck her or not?”

Hot pink scorched Hope’s cheekbones before she recovered. “So, you would rather have a spine-tingling attraction to someone who consumes you?”

“No.” He’d had that. Once. With Emma, in college. He’d been crazy enough about her that he’d bought her a stunning ring.

He had been invited to join her family for Christmas brunch, and he’d intended to propose then. Unbeknownst to him, Emma had been so intent on getting married that she’d been juggling dates with three different men. One of them had popped the question on Christmas Eve in front of the tree’s twinkling lights.

When she’d called to let him know, she wasn’t apologetic. She reminded him she wanted a wedding as a college graduation present, and Aaron had offered her just that. It was nothing personal. She would have been happy marrying any of them.

Rafe had hit the local bar near a shopping center. When he left, there’d been a red kettle set up outside. A man nearby was ringing a bell and asking for charitable donations. Rafe stuffed her ring through the slot and accepted the candy the bell ringer offered as thanks.

A sucker.If there’d ever been a more appropriate gesture, he didn’t recall it.

Rafe had spent every day until the new year in an alcohol-induced stupor, calling her at all hours, sending desperate text messages, even driving to her home in a stupid and embarrassing attempt to get her to change her mind.

“Mr. Sterling?” Hope’s questioning voice cut through the morose memories.

He flipped the folder closed without reading any of the pages. He refused to be out of control over a woman ever again. But if he was expected to marry and produce an heir or two, he should at least want to go to bed with her.

“Perhaps of the three C’s, compatibility and commitment are more important than chemistry?”

How much longer until he could dismiss her?

When he didn’t answer, she filled the silence. “Can you tell me what it was about the first two candidates that didn’t suit your needs? It will help me refine the search.”

“Ms. Malloy…” He struggled to leash his raging impatience. “Show some fucking mercy, will you? Until ten minutes ago, I didn’t know I needed a candidate.”

She edged the third folder toward him.

With great reluctance but with a sudden urge to get through this, he thumbed it open. Another blonde. Another perfect smile. Another impeccable pedigree. “Since I didn’t fill in your forms, I assume it was my mother who decided what college degrees and background were important?”

“Your sister rounded it out as far as activities you enjoy.”

“Yet I don’t see any of them who like to ride a mountain bike.”

“Not a huge demand in this part of Texas.”

“Kayaking?”

“I’ll add that to the next search.”

He gave in to curiosity. “Was Celeste consulted?”

“I invited her to be part of process. She declined.”

If Celeste had been involved, perhaps there would have been a redhead or a brunette. Even someone with pink toenails in peekaboo shoes.

For the second time, he resisted the impulse to hurl the files in the trash. Instead, he opened his top drawer and swept the offensive lot inside, then slammed it shut.

Hope uncrossed her legs and leaned toward him. Then, evidently thinking better of it, she sat back and recrossed them.

He swore her skin whispered like the promise of sin.

“Perhaps you should consider the options at a more convenient time,” she suggested.

“I’ll see you receive full payment.” He stood.

“I’ve already received it.”

His mother had written this woman a check for a hundred grand? “Thank you for your efforts.”

“Mr. Sterling—”

He walked past her to the door and opened it.

She sighed but stood. After gathering her purse—a small pink thing shaped like a cat, complete with ears and whiskers—she joined him. Instead of leaving, as he’d ordered, she stood in front of him, chin tipped at a defiant angle.

Hope projected competence, but the heels and fanciful handbag gave her a feminine air. A sane man would think of her as a vendor or business associate, so he could slot her into the off-limits part of his conscience. She wasn’t a potential date or wife. Or submissive.

He wanted her9.

She isn’t mine.

Fuck his conscience.