Mr Casanova: Billionaire Bachelors: book five Read online

  Mr Casanova

  Billionaire Bachelors: book five

  Lila Monroe

  Lila Monroe Books

  Contents

  Copyright

  Mr Casanova

  Also by Lila:

  Prologue

  1. Stella

  2. Stella

  3. Luke

  4. Stella

  5. Stella

  6. Stella

  7. Luke

  8. Stella

  9. Stella

  10. Stella

  11. Luke

  12. Stella

  13. Stella

  14. Stella

  15. Stella

  16. Luke

  17. Stella

  18. Stella

  19. Stella

  20. Luke

  21. Stella

  22. Stella

  23. Luke

  24. Stella

  25. Stella

  26. Stella

  Epilogue

  You’ve Got Male

  1. Zoey

  Also by Lila:

  Lucky in Love Series

  About the Author

  Copyright 2018 by Lila Monroe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mr Casanova

  Billionaire Bachelors: Book 5

  Hot TV star Luke Rafferty is Hollywood’s newest bad boy… at least, according to the tabloids. He’s been steaming up the screens as Dr. Casanova for ten years, but thanks to his ex-wife, some tricky contract negotiations, and that incident with the stethoscope (don’t ask), he’s suddenly on an extended vacation - with his heartthrob career on the line.

  Enter Stella Hartwick.

  A Hamptons local, she’s trying to get her home renovation company off the ground; winning the job for Luke’s new beachfront retreat would be her big break. And when she just happens to overhear his agent suggesting a fake relationship to give his reputation a swoon-worthy makeover, Stella sees the perfect solution to both their problems.

  What’s a little fake smooching between friend(ly professionals)?

  Stella is determined to keep her eyes on the prize renovation and her hands OFF the hunky actor wandering shirtless through her construction site. But Luke has other ideas. Midnight skinny-dipping ideas.

  If only he wasn’t so heart-stompingly, panty-twistingly handsome…

  Soon, sparks are flying, and they’re both forgetting their kisses are just for show. But can this fake relationship weather a very real tabloid storm? Or will past betrayals and the Hollywood spotlight drive them apart before their romance has even begun?

  Billionaire Bachelors Series:

  1. Very Irresistible Playboy

  2. Hot Daddy

  3. Wild Card

  4. Man Candy

  5. Mr Casanova

  6. Best Man (March 2019)

  Also by Lila:

  Billionaire Bachelors Series:

  1. Very Irresistible Playboy

  2. Hot Daddy

  3. Wild Card

  4. Man Candy

  5. Mr Casanova

  6. Best Man

  The Chick Flick Club Series:

  1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days

  2. You’ve Got Male

  3. Frisky Business

  The Billionaire Bargain series

  The Billionaire Game series

  Billionaire with a Twist series

  Rugged Billionaire

  Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)

  The Lucky in Love Series:

  1. Get Lucky

  2. Bet Me

  3. Lovestruck

  4. Mr Right Now

  5. Perfect Match

  6. Christmas with the Billionaire

  ***

  Want more sexy romantic comedy reads?

  Sign up for my mailing list and receive a FREE copy of my novel RUGGED BILLIONAIRE.

  CLICK HERE to claim your book.

  ***

  Follow me on BookBub:

  https://www.bookbub.com/authors/lila-monroe

  1

  Stella

  I have a talent for recognizing good bones.

  When you’ve worked in construction as long as I have, you start to develop a sixth sense for how to improve even the grungiest of fixer-uppers. The hardwood floors hiding under the mangy carpet. The dated crown molding that just needs a coat of paint. The window that looks directly into the nudist neighbors’ living room, the view from which would be greatly improved by some tall, evergreen shrubbery.

  I have a talent for recognizing good bones—which is how I know, as I follow Dave and Ginnifer on a walk-through of their soulless, early-2000s McMansion, that this place doesn’t have them.

  “A lady carpenter, huh?” Dave says as we make our way through the dark, narrow kitchen. He looks me up and down with a leering expression. “You don’t see that every day.”

  “I’m a general contractor, actually,” I say, pasting a smile on my face. Dave—the vaguely pervy hedge-fund guy—might not be my ideal client, but it’s not like I don’t need the work. Business has been achingly slow this summer, and beyond a kitchen addition and a couple of quick bathroom facelifts, I have no idea how I’m going to keep my crew busy through the fall.

  “I was thinking I’d do the demo myself,” Dave tells me now, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his red khaki shorts. He’s wearing a pair of brand-new boat shoes, and his fabric belt is printed with tiny whales. He looks like he stepped off the pages of Yachting Monthly. “You know, a little DIY to keep costs down.”

  “That’s definitely one option,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheerful. If I had a dime for every client who saw one episode of Property Brothers and thinks he can dismantle a whole house in forty-five minutes all by himself, I could retire early and spend my days getting hot stone massages in the South of France.

  Right on cue, Dave mimes hitting a wall with a sledgehammer. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble. How hard can it be to get in there, knock a few walls down?”

  “Well, depending on whether or not they’re load-bearing—” I start, but Dave isn’t listening.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says with a satisfied nod. “So—let’s talk about what really matters: my man cave.”

  It turns out Dave has been dreaming of this day since he was a boy. Which might be a reason his design is lifted straight from the Playboy mansion. “You walk in, and BOOM! Flatscreen. Wet bar. Grotto Jacuzzi pool.”

  I blink. “A grotto might be difficult to excavate,” I start explaining, just as Ginnifer’s cell phone rings in her pocket.

  “Oh!” she says, frowning at the screen. “I’ve got to take this. It’s my plastic surgeon. You all just keep going without me! I’ll be back in a sec.”

  The minute she’s gone, Dave is right beside me. He slips an arm around my waist so fast it’s like the man has superhuman groping power. “Now that we’re alone. Want to, ah, take a look at the bedroom next?”

  “No thank you,” I say, trying to politely duck out from under his grabby hands. What I’d like to do is tell him exactly where he can stick his grotto, but I learned a long time ago that if I told all my lecherous male clients exactly what I thought of them, I’d never get hired again. Usually, I have my crew run interference, but when I’m pitching on new jobs alone, there’s nobody around to kee
p them at bay. “We should wait for your wife to get back. She’s great!” I add brightly. “How long have you been married?”

  “Too long,” Dave replies, his hand sliding over my ass again.

  Which is, of course, the moment that my ex-fiancé walks in the front door.

  “Well hey, Stella,” Rob says, tipping his Yankees cap in my direction like it’s a ten-gallon hat and smiling that wide grin I used to think was so charming. You know, back before I caught that handsome mug face-down between some other woman’s thighs. “You’re bidding this project, too, huh? That’s cute.”

  “I sure am,” I say, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. “I’ve got some great ideas for this place.”

  “Of course you do,” Rob says with a condescending nod. “Seems like a big undertaking for you, though, huh? You sure you’re up for it?”

  Is he kidding me right now? This doofus didn’t know a table saw from a butter knife when I met him back in college. We built our contracting business together, from the ground up, but since we broke up, everyone assumes he must have been the brains and the brawn behind the operation, just because he’s got a dick.

  And, frankly, it’s not even a very big one.

  Sure enough, Rob offers the hedge fund guy a firm handshake. “Rob Barclay,” he explains. “Stella used to work for me.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” I jump in, but Rob’s already got the husband’s attention with his “just us bros” routine.

  “Taught the lady everything she knows, huh?” Dave asks, and before I can get another word in, they’re deep in conversation about the logistics of adding a home theater system to the man cave. Even Ginnifer returns in time to make googly eyes at Rob, practically swooning over every word.

  “How soon can you start?” she asks him breathily. “You’re obviously the most . . . talented man for the job.”

  Rob flashes me a smug grin. “Don’t look so down, Stella,” he says condescendingly. “You’re up against the big dogs now. Aroooo!”

  I leave them to their grotto plans and step back out into the summer sunshine. Rob’s obnoxious yellow truck is boxing in my bicycle, but I manage to haul it over the flatbed and start riding back towards town.

  At least it’s a gorgeous day.

  I take a deep breath of salty sea air, riding the shore road past the trail of summer traffic. East Hampton is teeming with tourists this time of year, and I don’t blame them. We have miles of gorgeous sandy beaches and cool leafy woodland, and in town, the cobblestone streets are lined with cute boutiques and restaurants. I feel my mood lift as I pedal down Main Street, swerving to avoid all the pedestrians strolling in the midday sun.

  This is why I’ve stayed in the Hamptons all these years. Sure, the place is a summertime playground for the rich and famous, but to me it’s always just been home. I’ve lived here my whole life, not counting a brief flirtation with the city back in college. I could have moved anywhere, but in the end, the call of the ocean was just too strong.

  That, and the best ice cream on the Eastern Seaboard.

  I park my bicycle outside The Fudge Shoppe and duck into the cool candy paradise. I definitely deserve a treat after a morning with the Groping Yachtsman, so I take my place in line, practically drooling over all the delicious flavors.

  “What’ll it be, Stella?” the owner, Bess, asks. “The usual?”

  She’s been serving me since I was about five years old and knows my order by heart. “Yes please,” I sigh with pleasure as she scoops me out a double-double chocolate cone. “You’re an angel.”

  “An angel who charges by the scoop.” Bess grins, wiping her hands on her chocolate-smeared apron. I reach for my wallet, but she waves me away. “Not you. I still owe you for fixing those shelves.”

  “That was an easy job!” I protest, but she just gives me a look.

  “If it was so easy, why didn’t Rob do them, even though he promised a hundred times?”

  “Well, promises aren’t exactly his strong suit.”

  Like monogamy. Or foreplay.

  I’m just taking my first lick of ice cream when a hush falls over the shop. I turn to the door, wondering what’s going on, and barely keep myself from gasping when I see the man who’s just walked in. He’s hardly the first famous person ever to wander in here. Hell, he’s probably not even the first one this week.

  Still, it’s a fair bet that he’s the hottest.

  Blonde, ruffled hair. Eyes so blue they should get a Pantone color swatch. And six-foot-three of broad-shouldered, tanned muscle.

  “That’s—” I glance across counter to Bess, who nods.

  “Luke Rafferty,” she mutters back. Until this past spring he played Dr. Casanova, the sexy lead surgeon on Heartbreak Hospital, a medical drama so soapy you could practically take a bath in it. I devoured all ten seasons in less than a week when Rob and I split up, weeping into a family-sized bag of kettle corn and wishing for a hot doctor of my own to come give me a physical.

  “Is he shooting a movie here?” I whisper.

  Bess shakes her head. “Haven’t you been reading the tabloids?” she asks. “He’s totally gone off the deep end since the divorce. I heard he ordered a dozen prostitutes to the Chateau Marmont, then got high on bath salts in the lobby, bashed up all the furniture, and demanded they make him and all his friends grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Do they make grilled cheese sandwiches at the Chateau Marmont?” I can’t help but ask.

  “They’ll make anything you want at the Chateau Marmont,” Bess informs me, with the confidence of a person who spends her every waking moment doing her best to keep up with the Kardashians. “Now, I can’t remember if this was before or after he hit his wife’s BMW with a fake police car he stole off the set of Chicago PD, but either way: Luke Rafferty is bad news. I think he’s only here to dry out.”

  “Good to know,” I murmur, dropping a couple of dollars into the tip jar and sneaking one more look at Luke. I have to say, he doesn’t exactly seem like the car-stealing, prostitute-ordering type. You always hear about actors being shorter or balder in person, but if anything, Luke is sexier off screen. He’s dressed in a simple pair of shorts and a soft-looking T-shirt, tawny hair curling down over his ears and a few days’ worth of vacation scruff on his chin and jaw.

  I lick a drip from my cone and sigh. It’s not fair for men that handsome to exist—to parade them around in front of sex-starved single women like some tempting, delicious treat, always out of reach.

  I mean, how are we supposed to throw ourselves enthusiastically into the depths of Tinder or Bumble or Perfect Match, or whatever the hot new dating app is, when none of the photos on screen look anything like that? There’s a reason why movie stars are kept in LA or New York, so that normal women like me don’t run into them on the street and get the idea we might actually touch a body like that one day.

  Sure enough, Dr. Casanova is already causing a stir. Every teenage girl in East Hampton is suddenly surrounding him like a pack of perfumed piranhas.

  “Can we take a selfie?”

  “Can you Facetime my friend at camp in Minnesota?”

  “Can you sign my boobs?”

  “Um . . .”

  You’d think he’d be used to that kind of attention, but Luke actually looks a little rattled by the chaos, abandoning the line and attempting to edge through the crowd toward the door. “I’d love to, honestly, but I don’t want to interfere with—” He motions toward the counter. “I should probably get out of everyone’s hair.” He’s nearly to the exit when his toned, tanned elbow whacks into roughly into mine . . .

  And knocks my entire ice cream cone smack down the front of my shirt.

  “Oh! Sorry,” I say dumbly, even though the collision blatantly wasn’t my fault—and I’m the one currently wearing a scoop of Dark Chocolate Explosion right across my chest. But Dr. Casanova doesn’t seem to notice, hardly sparing me a glance before dashing out the door and off into the sunset.
>
  “Celebrity crush: dead on arrival,” I mutter, and toss my empty cone into the trash.

  My friend Katie is in town for the week from the city, so I change my clothes and pick up a bottle of wine before heading over to her place for dinner. Katie and her husband Seb own a restaurant in Manhattan that wins awards every other week—which, I think as I watch her throw together an effortlessly beautiful cheese board garnished with tomatoes and basil she grew herself, is more than deserved.

  “So he was a dick?” she asks, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of white and topping off my wine glass. “Dr. Casanova, I mean?”

  “I didn’t exactly talk to him,” I admit, reaching across the counter and popping a marinated olive into my mouth. Katie and Seb’s summer place is a classic beach cottage, all simple white shiplap and overstuffed sofas. Souvenirs from their various travels are tucked into every corner: handmade pottery from Marrakesh and woven baskets from the South of France, making the place homey. And expensive. Expensively homey. “But yes, he definitely gave off a whiff of douche.”

  “Floral,” Katie jokes, handing me the cheese board and leading me outside to the patio. “A hint of lavender for that shower-fresh feeling.”

  “He bought the place on Sandy Lane, you know,” Seb calls from his post by the grill, where he’s putting an expert sear on some lamb chops.