Convenient Cinderella Bride

Jack glared at him. “I want to see you married. I want to see your child. I want to be assured that the Halstead fortune will not pass out of our bloodline.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t demand that I produce a child in three months, as well,” Jonas snapped.

“I’m not that demanding. That being said, if you marry, then there’s a good chance children will come from the union,” Jack said, stubbornness in every word he spoke. “Eventually. And I know you well enough to know that you’d hate, as much as I do, the idea of Halstead money, generations of effort and hard work, benefiting someone not of our bloodline.”

Bloodline? Jack sounded like a medieval lord talking about his estates. “This isn’t sixteenth century England, Jack. And I do not appreciate you meddling in my private life!”

“Pffft! Arranged marriages have worked for hundreds of years before love clouded the issue. It’s simple, Jonas. Marry and I will give you Halstead. Do not and deal with your father.”

Jonas muttered a low curse. Jack knew exactly what buttons to push; he knew Jonas would do anything to keep his father out of the company and that he wanted complete control of Halstead & Sons.

But there was a price to that freedom and the price was marriage. The one thing he’d planned to avoid for as long as possible.

But Jack had left him without a choice. It was Jack’s way or the highway.

Jonas pushed his chair back, tossed his linen napkin onto the table and leaned across to shake Preston’s hand. He ignored his grandfather, too angry with him to speak. He started to walk away but Jack’s voice followed him.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he demanded.

Jonas relished the note of uncertainty in his voice.

He slowly turned and eyed his elderly relative, his smile cold. “I’ll guess you’ll find out in three months. You can wait until then.”

* * *

Katrina Morrison slid her hand beneath her hair and, discreetly, pushed her finger under the seam of her dress, moving the still attached price tag in the hope that it would stop scratching her skin. How she wished she was in the position to yank the tag off and be done with it. But Tess, her best friend, who happened to be the manager of The Hanger—a downtown Santa Barbara boutique selling designer dresses—would slap her silly if she did that. Tess still had to sell the dresses Kat had “borrowed.”

God knew what Tess would do if she ripped the dress or spilled wine or food on it. Katrina would probably be tarred and feathered at dawn.

Or, worse, she’d have to pay for the dress. And she didn’t have a thousand-plus dollars to spare. Even if she did have that sort of cash lying around, Kat doubted she’d spend it on a mid-thigh, sleeveless, pleated dress that was so understated it screamed “expensive.” But appearances, especially when you were the host at El Acantilado, the award-winning and flagship restaurant owned by America’s favorite chef and entrepreneur, Harrison Marshall, were everything. El Acantilado’s patrons expected a unique and expensive dining experience. Kat was the first person to welcome them into the restaurant, and her first impression had to be favorable. Hence the designer dress, expertly applied makeup, glossy lips and black suede three-inch heels.

She was happiest in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, her nearly waist-length hair in a ponytail or a braid and her face makeup-free, but this job paid the bills. If dressing up like a fashion model was what was required, she’d do it.

Kat tapped her pen against her leather-bound reservations book and looked into the wood-and-steel restaurant to watch the waitstaff. The newest waiter, Fred, seemed stressed, his hand wobbling as he placed Harrison’s iconic roasted duck between the solid silver cutlery in front of Senator Cordell. Thank goodness he wasn’t serving Elana Marshall, Harrison’s daughter, who was sitting at the best table in the house with Jarrod Jones.

Hmm, Elana wasn’t dining with her long-term boyfriend Thom. Jarrod’s wife, the feted Irish actress Finola, was also missing.

God, Kat could make a fortune selling celebrity gossip to tabloid newspapers. They’d made her offers before, promised her anonymity, and she’d desperately needed the money.

Kat sighed. Selling gossip would be an easy solution to her financial woes. Damn her integrity and self-respect.

Kat smiled as Fred walked passed Elana’s table, his gaze sliding sideways. The waitstaff was expected to turn a blind eye, to not notice a damn thing, but Fred was young and a little starstruck. And, really, since Elana Marshall looked like the millions of bucks she was reputed to be worth in that barely there dress highlighting her cleavage, how could Fred not notice that impressive rack, that fabulous face and those pouty lips?

Hadn’t Kat, when she’d first started as a waitress years ago, been equally impressed by the star power that lit up the room? She’d stuttered when she’d first spoken to Angel Morales, the hottest and most talented celebrity around. She’d blushed when the younger Windsor brother had thanked her, very nicely, for a wonderful dining experience. She’d nearly fainted when a table of Oscar nominees had left her a two-thousand-dollar tip.

After serving so many wealthy and famous people, she was no longer easily impressed, and that was why she’d been promoted to the position of hostess a year or so ago. Harrison Marshall had personally promoted her, his decision based, he’d told her, on her popularity with his well-heeled clients. She was polite and personable, but she didn’t fawn or simper. His clients, Harrison had said, liked that. They, apparently, liked her.

Kat looked down at her book and then at her watch. The Henleys were late, but then, they always were. Jonas Halstead and guest would be arriving within five minutes, and he was always on time.

Kat idly wondered who Jonas would be with tonight. By her calculations, the blond pop sensation he’d been dating for the past three months had reached her sell-by date, and there would be another girl on his arm tonight. Jonas, the billionaire property developer specializing in hotels and casinos, was a repeat visitor to El Acantilado over the past year. He’d recently bought Cliff House and was renovating the iconic Santa Barbara hotel. Rumor had it that he’d out-negotiated Harrison Marshall for the property, which suggested that Halstead was a hell of a businessman...or a shark.

Kat sighed. Tough businessman or not, his was the world she wanted to be in. The one she’d been destined for. The one that still beckoned to her. But, at twenty-eight years old, she was still working here and the closest she’d come to the world of finance was to show billionaire businessmen like Jonas Halstead to his table.

God. How sad.

“Katrina.”

Kat’s head snapped up and she silently cursed when she realized Jonas was standing in front of her, impeccably dressed in a black designer suit worn over a rain-gray, open-necked shirt. Her eyes traveled up, across a broad chest and wide shoulders, along a tanned neck, to a strong jaw covered with two-day-old stubble and a mouth that was slow to smile but still sexy. He had a long, straight nose and deep green eyes under strong brows. Rich, successful and hot.

He had the reputation for being a bit of a bastard, in business and in bed. That fact only dropped his sexy factor by a quarter of a percent.

“Mr. Halstead, welcome back to El Acantilado,” Kat murmured, ignoring her jumping heart and squirrelly stomach. Yeah, he was built and so damn handsome, but geez, she wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old waitress anymore.

“Call me Jonas.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d made the offer, but Kat had no intention of accepting. It wasn’t professional to call him by his first name, and not doing so kept a very healthy distance between her and the Jonas Halsteads of the world. Like her ex-husband and like her father, rich guys in fancy suits were not to be trusted.

Then again, what man could be?

But it really annoyed Kat that Jonas did funny things to her stomach and made her heart jump.

Fast, furious sexual attraction had led to her falling in love with and marrying Wes, and since he’d ended up using her heart as a Ping-Pong ball, she didn’t trust her pheromones’ ability to pick men wisely.

But every time she saw Jonas, her libido loudly reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in a very long time. Jonas Halstead would be damn good at sex. He’d had, it was said, a lot of practice.

But tonight he was here alone. “Is your guest not joining you tonight?”

Jonas placed his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. “Rowan will be joining me shortly.”

Kat widened her eyes in surprise. He was dating Rowan Greenly? The actress had just separated from her very volatile husband after a domestic abuse charge, and the hot-tempered rock star had threatened to kill anyone who made a move on his wife.

“You’re brave. I suggest you wear a bulletproof vest,” Kat couldn’t help murmuring, even though she knew she was being indiscreet. “Rock likes his guns.”

Jonas frowned, confused. Then his austere face softened as he released a low chuckle.

A thousand sparks danced on her skin as his smile turned his face from remote-but-still-hot to oh-my-God-I-want-to-rip-his-clothes-off. Kat placed her fist under her sternum and resisted the urge to scrunch her eyes shut.

No. God, no. She couldn’t have the screaming hots for Jonas Halstead. She’d married, and divorced, a ruthless and merciless man. A competitive and cutthroat billionaire should be the last person to interest her. She was avoiding the male species in general, and the hot and sexy ones in particular.

Jonas was not her type.

The front door to the restaurant pulled open and all six feet and five inches of the best basketball talent in the country stepped into the restaurant. Rowan Brady. God, of course it was.

Kat glanced at Jonas, who lifted one dark eyebrow. “My date.”

Rowan joined them, clasping Jonas’s shoulder as he did. “Joe, we’ve known each other since we were kids and I keep telling you you’re not my type.”

Kat heard the teasing note in Rowan’s deep voice and blushed as his dark eyes settled on her face. “And I’m curious as to why you’d want this gorgeous creature to think that I am.”