Abigail Strom - The Millionaire's Wish

“I’ll do it.”

Rick blinked at her in surprise. “What?”

“I accept your proposal.”

“You do?”

“On one condition.”

“What if I say no?”

Allison shrugged. “You’ll have to find another woman of character who’s not attracted to you. It won’t be that hard. From where I sit, those two qualities seem to go together naturally.”

“I should have realized you were capable of driving a hard bargain. You don’t give up easily, do you?”

She took a quick breath. “So do we have a deal, or not?”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “We have a deal.”

Dear Reader,

On the surface, Allison Landry and Rick Hunter don’t have much in common. She’s the director of a non-profit agency; he’s the millionaire CEO of a software company. Allison is passionate about helping others; Rick believes he’s too jaded to care about helping anyone. Allison avoids relationships and hasn’t been on a date in more than a year. Rick, on the other hand, has a well-earned reputation as a playboy.

But appearances can be deceiving. And underneath the surface, these two have a lot more in common than they realise.

When Rick makes Allison an offer she can’t refuse, the two of them enter into a dating bargain that’s supposed to be all business. The only thing that could derail their perfect plan is the one thing they could never have predicted: falling in love.

Rick and Allison have a special place in my heart, and I hope you enjoy reading their story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

My very best wishes,

Abigail

ABIGAIL STROMstarted writing stories at the age of seven and has never been able to stop. She’s thrilled to be published by Mills & Boon. She works full-time as a human resources professional and lives in New England with her family, who are incredibly supportive of the hours she spends hunched over her computer. She loves hearing from readers and can be reached at abigail@abigailstrom.com.

The

Millionaire’s

Wish

Abigail Strom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband

Authors are often encouraged to write what they know.

Thanks to you, when I write about true love … I am

“How hard would it be to rob a bank?”

Allison Landry frowned at the financial statements covering her desk. One of her volunteers, who also was one of her best friends, had just come into the office with a letter in her hand.

“That bad, huh?” Rachel asked sympathetically. “Or maybe we could pull off a jewel heist.” “We could wear black leather catsuits,” Rachel suggested. “And hire a professional thief to help us. You know, like the guys in Ocean’s Eleven . Preferably a George Clooney look-alike. I’d also be willing to consider Brad Pitt.”

Allison’s mouth tipped up in a smile. “I’d go with Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief , but then I’m old-fashioned.”

Rachel laughed. “I’m liking this idea more and more.” She paused. “Okay, fill me in for real. What’s going on?”

Allison sighed, closing her eyes briefly as she ran both hands through her short brown hair. “It’s been a bad day. Kevin Buckley is in the hospital again—I heard from his parents this morning. And our financial outlook for the coming year is pretty grim. Donations have been down ever since the recession started, so we’re going to have to cut back on some of our existing services. And we’ll have to put the plans for Megan’s House on hold again—indefinitely, this time. It’ll be a struggle to keep some of our programs going at all, and it’s not the time to start something new.”

She felt the disappointment all over again as she spoke the reality out loud. For years she’d cherished the dream of building a retreat center for families dealing with childhood cancer. She’d hoped the dream was close to being realized, but the bleak financial picture in front of her said otherwise.

“It’ll happen someday,” she said now, half to Rachel and half to herself. She couldn’t let her determination be quenched. After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d had to face harsh realities. When you lost a sister to cancer—Megan had been just fourteen when she died—you also lost any illusion that life was fair.

“I’m sorry,” Rachel said, and Allison knew she really meant it. Still, her expression was more unhappy than the occasion warranted.

“Does the look on your face have something to do with that letter in your hand?”

Rachel nodded. “I hate to give you more bad news. It’s about Julie’s wish.”

Allison frowned. “But that’s the easiest one we’ve had in ages. She just wants to meet that software CEO—the man who designed that video game she likes so much. Rick Hunter, right? He lives right here in Des Moines. What’s the problem?”

Rachel shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “He turned us down.”

Allison just stared at her. “That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even have to get on a plane. His company owns that big office building on Grand. He could walk to the hospital, for goodness’ sake.”

“He could, but he won’t. He sent us a donation instead.”

A donation. Of course.

Not that the money wasn’t welcome. As her financial statements clearly showed, they needed every donation they could get.

But she was willing to bet this wasn’t the first time Rick Hunter, president and CEO of Hunter Systems, had pulled out his checkbook instead of volunteering his time.

And now he was trying to buy his way out of visiting a cancer patient.

“Let me see that,” Allison said, and Rachel handed it to her.

“Must regretfully decline your request … busy professional … demands on my time …”

She crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it toward the wastebasket. She missed by two feet. “Busy professional, he says. Can you believe that? We got the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers to visit one of our kids last year, and that was during football season!”

It had been a lousy day, and even though only part of her current frustration was really directed at Rick Hunter, he was her most convenient target at the moment.

Extremely convenient, in fact. As in a five minute drive from her office.

She shoved her chair back and rose to her feet.

“You look really pissed off,” Rachel said warily. “You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?”

“That depends on your definition of crazy. I’m just going to have a little chat with—”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “You’re going to yell at him. You’re going to yell at Rick Hunter. Allison, you can’t do that!”

“I can’t, huh? Give me one good reason,” Allison said, turning off her computer and grabbing her purse.

Rachel was at her own desk now, rifling through file folders and stacks of papers. “He’s rich, for one thing. Like potential platinum donor rich. He designed the most popular video game in the world. He’s important.”

“Julie’s important, too.”

“Of course she is. I just think—got it!” she announced suddenly, holding up an issue of People magazine.

“What’s so exciting about that?”

Rachel opened the magazine to a two-page profile—picture on the left and a short biography on the right.

“America’s Most Eligible Bachelors,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“I take it Rick Hunter made the list.”

“I’ll say. Allison, just look at him. You’ll have to agree there are better things to do with this man than yell at him.”

Allison rolled her eyes, but when Rachel brought the picture over she glanced at it to satisfy her.

Rick Hunter was on an unmade bed, leaning back on his elbows with a slight smile on his face, as if he found the person holding the camera mildly amusing. He was wearing a tuxedo, jacket off and tie loosened. That, along with the stubble on his jaw and the artfully tousled black hair, gave him an air of casual decadence, as if he’d recently enjoyed a very good time in that bed.

His eyes weren’t as casual as the rest of him. They were green, and the expression in them was reserved, even remote, but with a kind of intensity in their depths that probably had most women ready to fall at his feet.

In spite of herself, she found herself looking into those eyes a shade longer than she meant to. When she realized it, she took the magazine from Rachel’s outstretched hand and tossed it back onto her desk.

“I admit he’s decorative,” she said. “So what? I hope you’re not saying I should be nice to Rick Hunter because you think he’s cute.”

“Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. This man is gorgeous. I’m talking drop-dead, stop-the-presses, melt-your-knees gorgeous.”

“You forgot to mention spoiled, selfish, arrogant—”

“I don’t think he’s like that,” Rachel objected. “Did you look at the article? He—”

“I’m not interested,” Allison said firmly. “He turned down a kid with cancer. There’s no possible excuse for that, and I’m going to tell him so.”

Rachel grabbed her hand as she headed for the door. “You have to go home and change first.”

Allison glanced down at herself. She was wearing a typical outfit for a day when she had no meetings with hospital directors or wealthy philanthropists—jeans and a blue flannel shirt. Her feet were clad in an old pair of tennis shoes.

“I’m not going all the way back to my apartment to change clothes. Why, do you think his office has a dress code?”

“Very funny.” Rachel grabbed her purse and started looking through it. “At least let me put some makeup on you. Lipstick, mascara, something. Your face is all naked!”

“Sorry,” Allison said firmly. “This is going to be a come-as-you-are meeting.”

Rachel put her purse back on her desk. “There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t primp before going to see Rick Hunter. You’re not normal, Allison.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“And yet, I still love you.” Rachel sighed. “Have fun storming the castle.”

Rick Hunter held the phone away from his ear as he typed one-handed, listening to his grandmother with half his attention while he focused on a complicated spreadsheet.

“—and it’s not that I’m prudish —I was a bit of a rebel in my time, I’ll have you know. Your grandfather could tell you stories. Well, he could if he were alive. But I do not appreciate half the people I know calling me to discuss this appalling magazine article, which refers to you as ‘The Playboy of the Midwest,’ I might add.”

Rick winced. He’d only done that damn photo shoot because of his company’s upcoming annual charity event, a ball at the Grand Hotel to be followed by a bachelor auction. He wasn’t participating—he never did, despite his undeniable bachelor status—but the magazine, along with his marketing director, had convinced him it would be great publicity for the event if the company president was in the article.

“I didn’t write the copy, Gran. And I told you before—”

She spoke right over him. “I wouldn’t be so upset if it didn’t confirm what I always suspected. You have no intention of ever settling down, have you?”

He was correcting a complicated cell formula and missed the question. “What?”

“I said, you have no intention of ever settling down. The women you involve yourself with! The fluffy, brainless ones are bad enough, but the ruthless corporate types are even worse. I actually look forward to the straightforward gold diggers you toss into the mix occasionally. Not one of the girls you’ve dated in the last five years has been someone I’d be proud to call my granddaughter. Not that I’ve had cause to worry, since you’ve never shown the slightest interest in committing to any of them.”