The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancee
French Conquests, Book 1
After one impulsive mistake, Jacyn finds herself blackmailed into the role of a lifetime.
When she vandalizes billionaire Alexandre Dubois's Ferrari in a moment of rage, Jacyn faces jail time or a devil's bargain: spend three months posing as his fiancée at his family's French château. She agrees, thinking it's a simple transaction. Pretend, collect her freedom, move on.
She wasn't counting on Alexandre being dangerously irresistible.
Or on his feigned kisses feeling terrifyingly real.
As their carefully constructed lie deepens with every stolen moment in lavender-scented fields and moonlit gardens, the boundaries between performance and passion blur beyond recognition. Jacyn finds herself falling for the one man she can never have—a man who's still haunted by the ghost of his first love.
When the woman Alexandre has loved since he was seventeen suddenly becomes available, Jacyn faces an impossible choice: fight for a love that was never supposed to be real, or walk away before heartbreak destroys her completely.
Something hit her with the force of a train, sending her flying forward. She bounced off the fender of the car and was on her back in a puddle of water, feeling the cold wetness soak into her back and legs.
A man was straddling her, pinning her down, a guttural roar making its way past his gritted teeth. One hand was pressed against her shoulder, and the other at her throat.
That’s it, she thought. I’m dead.
The man above her gasped, “You’re a girl!”
In return, she choked out, “Y-You’re not Gregg!”
They stayed frozen in a tableau of horror and confusion until the man eased his bulk off her without letting go. A stream of words assailed her ears, but she had no idea what he was saying. Was it Spanish? Definitely not; she knew a smattering of that. Portuguese? French? Whatever it was, the speaker was enraged.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you drunk? High? Crazy?”
She certainly was not drunk. Every drop of alcohol she’d consumed had evaporated the second she’d found herself on her back under this large, intimidating man. “I’m not drunk!” she protested. “And I have never done drugs in my—”
“Folle, alors!” He pounded the side of his head in a very European gesture. “Out of your mind!”
“I am not—”
“Then why have you done this to my car?” he roared. He seemed frighteningly angry.
It was only now that she was able to fully take in the size and shape of the vehicle she’d so assiduously tried to destroy. It was smaller than Gregg’s, more elegantly shaped, an arrangement of swooping curves that moved into each other like dancers in a ballet. Not only was this man not Gregg, this wasn’t his car, either.
Well, shit!
