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    Bad Boy: A Billionaire Romance
    Bad Boy: A Billionaire Romance
    Bad Boy: A Billionaire Romance
    Ebook87 pages1 hour

    Bad Boy: A Billionaire Romance

    By Matilda Martel

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Meet beautiful Franco Bianchi, the thorn in his father’s side. Heir and scion of one of Manhattan’s wealthiest families.


    They might be new money but they have more than most. Plus, they have an old money politician in their pocket who needs a favor as much as Franco’s father needs to find his son a wife.


    Meet Carine DuBois, the good girl. She’s the good daughter of an old money politician who needs a favor as much as Franco’s father needs to find his son a wife. 


    Tasked with saving her family from an impending scandal, she’s arranged to one of Manhattan’s richest bad boys but she fears he might just be too much to handle.


    Bad Boy meets Good Girl and instead of protesting the match he fights tooth and nail to make it happen. 


    This scoundrel is madly in love and wants his happy ending.


    This is a steamy romance, with one bad boy, one good girl, a few meddling parents and soul mates who get their happy ending.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMatilda Martel
    Release dateNov 29, 2023
    Bad Boy: A Billionaire Romance
    Author

    Matilda Martel

    Matilda loves many things---her husband, dachshunds, cats, the two terrible Chihuahuas who live with her, Paris, New York, a few select friends and family, Nutella, books, lots and lots of books, and writing sweet, steamy romance for nerdy girls-- because that's who I am.If you like your romances steamy but sweet. Sexy, but on the shorter side. With smart and sassy heroines who fall for soulful Alphas- then you might like my books.I write A LOT of OMYW, cause that's just my bag. But no matter what kind of story it is, my ladies are always adored and my endings are always HEA.Please head to my blog: www.matildamartel.com, to learn what's in the final stages and will be coming out soon!Want a free Ebook? Join my mailing list to get my monthly newsletter at : www.matildamartel.com/mailinglist/

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      Book preview

      Bad Boy - Matilda Martel

      Chapter 1

      Franco

      The sun pours in through a crack in my new solar block curtains and strategically lands on my eyes. Brutal light singes my retinas and shocks me awake.  What time is it?  I rub my forehead and squeeze my temples with my thumbs. My heart hammers in my chest. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like shit, my tongue clicks, and my lips feel glued together. 

      As always, I pray for the ache to go away. It's useless. I don't deserve these small mercies, and God stopped listening long ago. I've lost favor, and he's got much more pressing concerns than my hangovers.  

      I glance at the clock. It's 12:20---Fuck, I missed work.

      Why the hell did I take that stupid bet? My brother knows precisely how to bait me, but I'm the moron who can't walk away from a challenge. I missed a 10:00 meeting with my father thanks to him and my fragile ego. It's the third this month, and it's too late to call with a lame excuse.  

      He's gonna read me the riot act as soon as I see him, but I'm in no mood to hear it now. Too tired to crawl out of bed and close the curtain, I throw the blanket over my head. Seconds later, I toss it off, gasping for air. It's too hot. I can't breathe. I punch the pillow, flip to my stomach then turn on my back again. This room is too bright, but if I get up, it's over. I'll never get back to sleep. 

      I need water, but I need to sleep more. 

      With a heavy breath, I roll out of bed and stagger into the bathroom. I think I'm dying. My old man is right--- I'm too old to keep doing this to my body. I'll be thirty-five in two days, and most of my friends are still in their twenties. There's no way to keep up with them. I fight like hell all night to stay at their pace, only to wind up being the idiot who pays the bill. 

      Now, look at me. I'm hours late for work and too dizzy to stay upright while I piss. How the hell does my mouth feel so dry when I have this much fluid in my body?  

      After two glasses of water, three Advil, and a splash of cold water on my face, I trudge into the kitchen to look for an antacid and something with ginger. I typically have a cabinet stocked with home remedies for hangovers, but I've blown through much of my supplies this past week. I'm not taking this birthday well. Thirty-five is big. Whenever I think about it, I want to punch the wall and pull my hair out. Figuratively, of course. 

      My hair is awesome. 

      I know I'm not where I'm supposed to be, and I love to pretend it's no big deal. If forty is the new thirty, then thirty-five is the new twenty-five. Right? Whatever. I'm five short years from forty. And in two months, I'll be sitting pretty in front of all the Bianchis and Russos at my baby brother's wedding as the biggest fucking loser in Brooklyn. 

      Little shit is twenty-eight years old, and he's making me look like a bigger dickhead than I already feel. Who the hell does he think he is? My father's convinced he's a saint--- he's not. He's worse than me. He's just better at hiding it.

      By next year, he'll show me up again and produce the first grandchild. Then, I'll be the loser uncle baptizing his baby. God forbid they have twins. I'll never catch up.  

      Jesus Christ, just kill me already.

      I hang my head and search for my phone. Eighteen texts and seven missed calls. The old man must be furious. I swore the last time was the last time. Pacing across the floor, nibbling on a piece of stale bread, I search my mind for a plausible excuse. Nothing feels credible. I'll bet Vince showed up to work and ratted me out. Fucking Judas.

      While I scroll through my messages, a loud noise startles me. The front door swings open and slams against the wall. Freaked out, I jump back and reach for a knife. 

      It's worse than I thought. It's not a break-in--- it's my father. 

      For crying out loud, it's almost 1:00 in the afternoon, and you're still in your fucking underwear?! He bursts through the foyer and heads straight into the kitchen. 

      Dad, I was just... He doesn't interrupt me, but I quit while I'm ahead. There's no sense voicing a defense--- I'm a grown man. A useless man in his boxers, hungover in front of his father. And he's not alone. He's brought his lawyers.

      Son of a bitch---the old man is finally cutting me off. 

      Save it, Franco. I'm glad your mother isn't alive to see you like this. He tosses a newspaper detailing my recent arrest for public intoxication and assault. I glance at the paper and cringe at the photo they used. Charges were dropped. The other asshole threw the first punch, but that didn't make headlines. I did.

      Would you please stop saying that? I'd prefer it if my mother was alive today. I didn't start drinking like this until after her death. I head for my bedroom.  

      Where the hell are you going? He yells and shakes his fist. 

      "Let me

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