The Playboy's Princess Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Playboy’s Princess

  ...

  Joy Fulcher

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  The Playboy’s Princess, Copyright © 2014 by Joy Fulcher

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, October 2014

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, October 2014

  ...

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ...

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  ...

  Fulcher, Joy.

  The Playboy’s Princess / Joy Fulcher – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623421-42-7

  1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Money—Fiction. 3. Marriage—Fiction. 4. Disney—Fiction. I. Title

  ...

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my great-grandparents, Arthur and Lily.

  I never met you, but the story of your love

  has inspired me from a very young age

  to believe that true love really does exist,

  and that sometimes, you find it

  in the most unexpected places.

  Love is like a friendship caught on fire.

  …Bruce Lee

  Chapter One

  Black and White

  BLACK. DREW LOOKED AROUND and all he could see was black. Black clothes, black expressions, black moods. Gran would’ve hated that. Drew knew if there was any part of her still watching over them, she’d be deeply disappointed in her funeral.

  “Margaret Finlay was a strong woman who overcame many challenges in her life and rose to become one of the most celebrated artists of her time…” the priest droned on.

  Drew looked down at the program in his hands and at the photo of Gran. Her wrinkled, smiling face looked back at him, and he felt a tear prickle behind his eyes. He was going to miss that old bird; she was the only person in the family who understood him. She was the only one who let him be free, who let him be himself.

  Drew’s parents loved him; he knew they did. But he was a huge disappointment to them. He should have been successful like his father or motivated like his mother. He should have been married by now and have a junior Malik to carry on the family name.

  He looked over at his mother and saw her crying quietly against his father’s shoulder. She’d lost her mother, but in a way it felt like Drew had lost his too. His parents hadn’t been the hands-on type, often leaving him with a nanny while they indulged in their life of parties and functions. So, Drew had often spent time with his Gran when he got lonely.

  People started moving and standing up. Drew looked around, confused. He knew he should’ve been paying more attention to what was going on, but he just couldn’t listen to people talk about his Gran when they hadn’t really known her. They didn’t know anything about her real life, only what they’d read in the papers. When his grandfather had died four years ago, it was Gran who had stood up to give his eulogy. It felt wrong that she didn’t have someone to give hers. Drew’s mother had said she wasn’t strong enough, and they’d said it wasn’t proper for Drew to do it. His reputation as a playboy wasn’t the image they wanted portrayed to their friends or the media. As if it wasn’t already all over the tabloids.

  “Are you coming, Drew?”

  “Where?” He looked up, staring at the cold eyes of his father.

  “For God’s sake, weren’t you even listening? Don’t you have any respect for anyone?” Sounding frustrated, his father repeated the words Drew had heard him say more times than he could count.

  “Please calm down, Aaron.” Drew’s mother, Laura, put a hand on her husband’s shoulder and whispered into his ear.

  Aaron Malik sighed and gave his son an irritated look. “We’re going to hear the reading of the will.”

  Of course. The will. It made sense that his father was more concerned about the financial aspect of his mother-in-law’s passing than the emotional effects his wife and son were obviously feeling.

  Drew walked slowly behind his parents as they made their way to one of the back rooms. It seemed morbid to read the will in the church, but Drew wasn’t going to provoke his father further by questioning it.

  They entered a small room and sat down on some uncomfortable, rigid wooden chairs with Mr. Goldsmith, the family’s lawyer.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Laura.”

  She gave a weak smile and folded her hands tightly in her lap. He fumbled around in his suitcase and pulled out a thick stack of papers.

  “I, Paul Goldsmith, in the presence of the deceased’s family, am reading the official will and testament of Mrs. Margaret Rosemary Finlay.” He cleared his throat. “The Hollywood Hills property and London property, as well as Mrs. Finlay’s entire share portfolio and bank account contents, are left to her daughter, Laura Louise Malik.”

  Drew’s mother and father both nodded. It was expected; his mother was an only child and would of course be the main beneficiary.

  “Andrew Aaron Malik, grandson of the deceased, is to receive the property in Los Feliz,” Paul read on.

  Despite his low mood, Drew couldn’t help but smile at the news. That house had been Gran’s hideaway. His grandfather had bought it for her as a getaway/art studio ten years before, and she’d spent much of her time there. Drew had often visited, and it was a special place for him. He was glad Gran had known how much it meant to him. It also meant he could finally move out of his parents’ house.

  “Are you sure that is a good idea? Maybe we should wait until he’s a bit older,” Aaron asked.

  “I’m twenty-six years old. Most people my age have long since moved out of home, Dad,” Drew protested.

  “Yes, but most twenty-six-year-olds have worked hard at college and made something of themselves. You, on the other hand, have done nothing in the past few years but drink and hang out with your friends.” He said the words “hang out” with disgust, as if his son had committed some horrible crime.

  “We can discuss Drew’s living arrangements later,” Laura scolded. “Let’s just listen to the rest of the will.”

  Paul nodded and looked down at the papers again.

  “Drew is also to receive full payment of his trust fund, in the amount of eighteen million dollars, on his thirtieth birthday, or the day of his marriage, whichever occurs first.”

  Drew stared blankly at Paul to see if he was joking. He wouldn’t get his inheritance until he turned thirty or got married? Well, there went the idea of moving out of his parents’ house. There was no way he could afford to live on his own without the trust fund. Acid burned all the way up his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Drew’s friends had all received their funds when they’d turned eighteen or, at the latest, twenty-one.

  “We agree with those terms,” Aaron said.

  Drew sighed. “Of course you do.”

  “Mrs. Finlay also states she would like ten percent of her liquid assets to be donated t
o the California Arts Council,” Paul added. “With any of her unsold works to be auctioned for charity.”

  “We can facilitate that,” Laura agreed.

  “Okay. Well, that’s everything. If I can just get each of you to sign this, to state you agree to the terms of the will, then I will arrange the transfer of funds to you,” Paul said, holding up a pen and pointing to a piece of paper on the desk.

  Laura signed, and Drew stood up, slowly walking over to the table. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do, besides contesting the will, and that would take time and money to pay for a lawyer. Money he didn’t have. Sure, people would look at him and laugh if he told them he couldn’t afford something. Drew was the only child of one of Hollywood’s biggest action movie stars, and the only grandchild of the very successful painter Marg Finlay. But the money wasn’t his. He had no access to it, and his father made sure he knew about every dollar Drew spent from the family account.

  Grudgingly, he picked up the pen and signed his name.

  “Thank you, Paul.” Aaron reached out to shake the lawyer’s hand.

  “If there’s anything else I can do, please let me know. I’ll be in touch when the transfer documents are ready.” Paul packed up his briefcase.

  Aaron looked over at his son with a smug smile. Drew rolled his eyes and walked out of the room. As he passed Gran’s coffin, he stopped and laid his hand on the smooth polished wood.

  “Good-bye, Gran,” he sighed.

  “Over here!” Sam called loudly as he held his arms up in the air.

  Drew threw the ball around Simon’s waving hands and then ran past him to the hoop. Sam took a shot. He and Drew cheered as it swished through the net.

  “Damn!” Chris said loudly.

  “Can’t help that we’re awesome!” Sam laughed back.

  “Whatever. This is boring, anyway. Let’s go get a beer,” Simon said, walking off the basketball court.

  Drew shrugged and followed his friends. It was a hot day, and a cold beer sounded great. He grabbed his shirt up off the asphalt and pulled the hot material down over his chest.

  “What’s up with you?” Sam asked as he came over and clapped Drew on the back.

  “My parents are really pushing me to get a job.” Drew let out a loud sigh and scratched at his scruffy face. He really needed a shave.

  Aaron had spent half an hour over breakfast that morning lecturing his son on how important it was to contribute to the family, and to society, and to stop being lazy.

  “What about all the money your grandmother left you in her will?” Chris asked when they were seated in one of the back booths of their favorite bar.

  Drew laughed sarcastically. “I won’t get my hands on that until I turn thirty or get married.”

  “Well, it’s only four years away. Just suck it up and wait,” Simon said with a shrug. He took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it, blowing a long stream of smoke directly up into the air.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Drew said to his smug friend. “Your trust fund kicked in years ago.”

  “I could give you a loan,” Chris offered.

  “Or…” Sam started to laugh.

  “Or?” Drew asked curiously.

  “Or…you could get married,” he said with a smile. Sam took a drink of his beer and looked at Drew over the rim of the glass.

  Chris and Simon both burst out laughing.

  “Drew? Get married?” Simon coughed and almost choked on his beer.

  “Fuck you. I don’t have any problem getting women,” Drew shot back.

  “No, you certainly don’t, which is why you’ll never get married.” Simon laughed.

  Drew knew they were right. He didn’t want to get married. He wasn’t the settling down type of guy. He had a new girl every few weeks, and that was the way that he liked it. He was free.

  “How would someone go about finding a wife on short notice?” Sam asked. “Hypothetically.”

  “One of those Russian bride web sites?” Chris asked, looking up at the smoke-stained ceiling in contemplation.

  “Or an ad in the newspaper?” Simon added.

  “I’m guessing it would have to be a real marriage, though, not a fake one,” Sam said.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be that hard, really,” Simon explained. “I mean, think about it. You put a discreet ad in the newspaper for a girl, you both sign a secret contract to state it’s a fake marriage, and you tell everyone you are dating her. Then marry her, get your money, and you can divorce her. I think it would work.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Drew told him.

  “Ridiculous or genius?” he asked with a smile.

  Drew rolled his eyes. While his friends joked around, continuing their fantasy about the fake marriage, Drew excused himself and headed to the bar. He needed a shot of tequila—now—to calm himself down.

  As he downed his drink, he looked over and saw the guys whispering together…something bad was being planned.

  White. Everything around her was white. White chairs, white flowers, white dress. What was so romantic about the color white, anyway? Why was white the traditional color for weddings? Wouldn’t red be more appropriate? Red was passionate. White was stark and cold and…perfect.

  Jade drank a whole glass of champagne in one gulp—she needed it. All around her were happy faces. Her best friend, Clare, had just married the love of her life, Stuart, and Jade was happy for them. Really, she was.

  Jade loved Clare like a sister and was thrilled beyond measure that she’d found love. Jade was happy for Clare. But she wasn’t happy for herself.

  “Bridesmaid again, Jade? You must be getting used to that role.”

  Jade gritted her teeth and tried her best to smile. “I’m so glad to be able to support Clare today.” She turned and walked from Martha, her supervisor at work, and headed for the bar. She whispered to herself over and over, “Punching your boss isn’t a good idea,” as she made her way through the crowd.

  Two shots of tequila and another glass of champagne later, Jade was happily dancing with a groomsman. Clare and Stuart twirled past them, and Clare winked, their secret code that she thought the groomsman was hot.

  Jade looked at his face with blurry vision. He was tall, obviously younger than her, and his green eyes were mesmerizing. He smiled, apparently having noticed that she was staring.

  “You wanna get out of here?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

  “Yes.”

  The word was out of her mouth before she’d really thought it through, but the fact that someone wanted her was too good to pass up. If there was a sure-fire cure for feeling rotten about yourself, it was a hot guy finding you attractive. At least it was a short-term cure, and that was all she needed.

  Jade woke up naked with a pounding head on a mattress on the floor of some apartment she didn’t recognize. She could hear snoring next to her but didn’t want to face the nameless groomsman who had momentarily boosted her self-confidence. Instead she decided to creep out of bed, put on her bridesmaid dress, and run outside to find a taxi.

  “I love Sunday morning shifts,” the driver said with a laugh when she climbed inside his car.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “I get to see all the girls doing their walks of shame,” he explained and then laughed again.

  “Just shut up and drive.” She slumped back into the seat and closed her eyes.

  She didn’t need guilt and shame laid on her by a taxi driver. She felt it enough already. She must have looked a sight, wearing a large pink tulle dress with makeup smeared all over her face and her hair sticking out in various directions from the massive amounts of hairspray she’d had to use yesterday for the wedding.

  When she got home, Jade threw her bag and heels down on the floor and went straight to the bathroom, stripping the dress and corset off on the way and leaving them on the floor in the hallway. She turned on the shower but had to wait a few minutes for the ancient sys
tem to heat the water before she could get in. She shampooed her hair three times to get all the product out before she scrubbed her face with exfoliant and finally started to feel like herself again.

  Once she was dry and dressed in an old pair of sweats, she picked up the dress from the floor and hung it in the closet alongside the bridesmaid dresses she’d worn for other weddings. Slamming the closet door a little harder than was necessary, she stomped into the kitchen and pulled a large tub of ice cream out of the freezer. Accidently banging her wrist on the broken drawer next to the sink, she took a spoon off the drying rack and sat down in front of the TV. A spring in the couch cushion was sticking into her thigh, and she sighed loudly. She wished she could afford to buy new furniture and not have to put up with flea market or yard sale cast-offs.

  A part of her felt guilty for eating ice cream at eight in the morning, but a bigger part of her didn’t care—and, besides, she didn’t have much other food in the house. After she’d eaten about a quarter of the tub, her restraint came back. She forced herself to put it back in the freezer before she finished the whole thing. It had happened before.

  She picked up yesterday’s newspaper, which was still sitting on the coffee table, unread. The headline caught her eye.

  Marg Finlay dies at age 72.

  She scanned the article. It seemed the famous artist had died of lung cancer. Her seven-figure estate was left to her daughter and grandson, who was the son of Aaron Malik, the actor. As if that family needed more money.

  She began to flick through the pages and decided to have a look at the classifieds, just for a laugh. She often enjoyed reading the messages people wrote and thought it might cheer her up to know she wasn’t the most lonely, desperate person in Los Angeles.

  She chuckled her way down the columns of singles ads but stopped when one caught her attention.

  Wife wanted. Write to Drew.

  There was a post office box address supplied. Was this guy for real? She stared at the ad, wondering if it was meant to be a joke. Was that what our society had come to…advertising for a wife? What about courting and romance and falling in love over long walks under the moonlight? Who did this Drew think he was, anyway? He was probably in his fifties, balding and overweight, with too much money for his own good. He probably wanted a trophy wife who cooked, cleaned, and sucked his cock like a Hoover. What an ass.