The CEO's Fantasy

By: RG Alexander


Our favorite Billionaire Bachelors were spotted this weekend at Warren Industry’s annual charity gala.

Yes, the country’s most eligible bad boys are all in town again and they each decided to go stag—that is, sans their usual sugary arm candy—signaling to single Cinderellas everywhere that these princes are on the market once more. Surprised? If you are, you haven’t been paying attention. This fierce foursome goes through women like…well, let’s just say if I had a nickel for every time a heart was broken by our charming scoundrels, I’d be a billionaire too, and between globetrotting and manicures, I wouldn’t have time to fill you in on every last detail of their infamous adventures.

I dare you to send Ms. Anonymous your nickels.

But potential sudden windfall for yours truly aside, this relationship update leads me to today’s question:

We know every debutante’s mama wants a piece of their action, but if you could choose without repercussions, which of the Billionaire Bachelors would be your fantasy? The true hardcore cowboy who has enough land and employees to start his own country but no dancing partner for his special kind of two-step? The musician with a royal pedigree, a wild streak and a vast fortune at his disposal, who’s never been seen with the same woman twice? His best jet-setting buddy who can claim no less than five estates, four degrees and three charges of lewd public behavior on his record? Or the sweet-talking, picture-perfect tycoon-cum-philanthropist who used to be the baddest of the bunch but put those days behind him when he took over as CEO of his family’s company? (Or did he?) His public image has certainly been polished to a dazzlingly dull shine, but is the strain of the straight and narrow getting him down? If his grim countenance and lack of companionship of late are any indication, perhaps it is.

So ladies, pick your fantasy lover—rocker, rancher, rebel or reformed rogue. Glass slipper shopping is a dangerous sport to be sure, especially with prey as slippery as these particular animals, but I’ll still wish all my readers happy hunting.

Dean Warren crumpled up the gossip page of the newspaper he’d been handed and drank the rest of his scotch in one go, reaching for the bottle that had been left for him at the table.

“Happy hunting, my ass.” Someday he was going to find Ms. Anonymous and tell her what she could do with her column. In graphic detail. As it stood, he’d be spending more time at his office, and his assistant would be busy for the next month fielding personal calls and invitations instead of working, the way he did every time the columnist mentioned Dean in her article. He’d ask for another damn raise and Dean would give in, because he would rather pay the man more money than allow his secretary, Mrs. Grandholm, to take on the burden alone. She was a national treasure and too close to her well-deserved retirement to start worrying about his love life again.

“I don’t think reformed rogues are supposed to swear,” Peter Faraday admonished, grinning at the others around the dining table in the private room Dean had reserved for the four of them. “But then, I’m not sure his image would keep its sparkle if Anonymous knew where he was right now. This place is more my speed, according to her. Speaking of, did you notice how she always finds a way to use the word lewd in connection with me? Every damn time. What’s that about?”

“She obviously knows you well,” Henry Vincent offered helpfully from his chair. “Maybe you got her mother arrested, you cad, after convincing her an orgy in a public fountain was harmless fun. Now, because of your indecency, we’re being punished with this flagrant example of stereotyping. Rocker, rancher, rebel, reformed rogue…” He snorted. “As a writer, I commend the clever alliteration, but she makes us sound more like Ken doll collectibles than men. I’m not just a piece of beefcake performing on a stage, you know. I have feelings. I’m a complicated man with a dark, mysterious soul. I’d be more than willing to show her, if she’d like.”

Peter groaned. “Dude, give it up. Co-writing song lyrics doesn’t make you a writer. And there’s nothing mysterious about you other than why you brought that to dinner and why we’re here instead of Dean’s townhouse. I thought you wanted to stay under the radar this trip.”

“I picked the restaurant,” Dean assured him. “Henry told me he wanted real food, Tracy always enjoys a show with his meal and I didn’t think you’d care. To put your mind at ease, Franco’s is the best kept secret in the city. He wants privacy to work on his gastronomic masterpieces, and I have a fondness for his seared scallops, so it works out perfectly. No one who comes here discusses it, and no one who hasn’t knows it exists. It’s about as under the radar as I could manage on such short notice.”

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