Billionaire Romantic - Special Edition Paperback

Noah Maddox is a hot as hell billionaire who, as it turns out, is impossible to resist. He’s also an absolute beast in bed...

Details I didn’t know, of course, when my best friend sets me up on a blind date with Noah “Steel”. It’s obviously a fake last name. But then again, so is mine.

From the moment we meet, we’re like magnets who can’t resist each other’s pull. The blind date lasts all night. Then the entire weekend. The best of my life, if I’m being honest.

But when Monday morning comes too soon and we both have to go back to work, I’m shocked to find out that my sexy blind date is actually Noah Maddox, the evil CFO of the company that’s planning to take over my late father’s struggling investment business. The takeover will cost me my job, every cent I have and, worst of all, my beloved apartment.

If only I hadn’t spent the weekend in bed with the devil, cashing in my V-card and throwing all caution to the wind…because how does a girl say no to all those mind-blowing org@sms?

I thought he was perfect. Until I find out he’s not the sweet-and-dirty-talking dream man I fell for at all, but a shark who’s about to take everything I have.

It’s entirely Noah Maddox's fault that my life is now in shambles. I don’t care how drop-dead gorgeous he is, the man is obviously a nightmare.

So why is he obsessively trying to prove to me that he's the most devoted, head over heels billionaire in New York?

And how am I supposed to resist the hot romantic who has already stolen my heart?

Billionaire Romantic is a steamy billionaire romance starring a hopelessly romantic CFO and the sassy blind date he’ll do absolutely anything to keep. Each book in the New York Billionaires series is a complete standalone with a sexy fairy tale HEA.

New York Billionaires

Billionaire Romantic
by Julie Capulet

Chapter One
~ Noah ~

As I weave my Ducati through the usual madness of New York City traffic on a Wednesday morning, I make a decision.

It’s safe to say I’m different to my brothers in many ways. My brothers always describe me as the “nice” one out of the four of us. The “romantic” one. The one who’s most likely to believe that something like true love actually exists, despite the train wreck of our parents’ legacy. I’m the one who supposedly still has faith that good things can happen. According to my brothers, they’re the cynics and I’m the optimist.

But the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Because over the past few months, all three of my cynical-to-their-bones brothers have fallen head over heels in love.

I’m happy for them. I’m over the moon that fate has somehow proved them wrong. That each one of them is capable of falling so hard and so fast that all three of them had rings on the poor girls’ fingers before they even knew what hit them—and, in at least one case, or possibly more, they’ve already knocked up their wives-to-be because they’re incapable of thinking about anything except getting that particular job done.

And I, the only one of us who isn’t—at least wasn’t—allergic to the words “relationship” and “commitment,” am still thoroughly unattached, disillusioned as fuck and pissed off that my “optimism” has obviously jinxed me.

Here I was, thinking it was worth waiting for The One. I’m the only brother who hasn’t relentlessly slept my way around the island of Manhattan because I idiotically convinced myself that I’d prefer to actually feel something for the person I’m having sex with.

No longer. That game plan has done nothing except provide me with endless disappointment.

The decision locks into place, right here on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 34th Street.

I’m no longer going to wait for that one elusive, perfect woman who never shows up for me. My brothers can drool all over their one-and-onlies, freeing up the New York dating pool for yours truly.

Fuck it.

I’m going to go out and find myself some unsuspecting girl with fake tits and dollar signs in her eyes, like they all seem to do. I’m going to stop pretending that the woman of my dreams exists.

And I’m going to get fucking laid.

It’s been way too long.

It’s not that I can’t get women to fall in love with me. I can, very easily. The only problem is, most of them are after me for my looks or, obviously, my money. My brothers and I happen to be some of the wealthiest and most successful investors and businessmen in New York City. So was our father and so was our grandfather. It’s well known that a shitload of zeroes are attached to my many bank accounts, which of course is a super-powered magnet for every woman with a heartbeat.
Being the fool that I am, I’ve mostly avoided meaningless sex because I was hoping I would find…well, meaning. Love. True love, even. The kind of love you’d kill or die for. The kind that completely blinds you to everyone and everything except the one true love of your life.

The kind of love that staunchly, relentlessly eludes me.
Unfortunately, my brothers know me too well. I am a fucking romantic. I crave it. I want to fall in love so badly I feel like I can’t breathe some days. Like there’s a huge hole in my heart and my life that only she—a phantom lover who probably doesn’t even exist—can fill.

It’s depressing. And infuriating.

Where the fuck is she?

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