Romancing the Undercover Millionaire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Sneak Peek

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author | By Clare London

  Now Available

  Coming in January 2019

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Romancing the Undercover Millionaire

  By Clare London

  Romancing The…

  Can poverty and privilege find a loving compromise?

  Alexandre Bonfils, a rich and spoiled second son, is tired of being ignored and decides to help when the family’s exclusive wine business is in trouble. Going undercover in the warehouse, he loves the adventure—and the chance to be close to the sassy and sexy manager, Tate Somerton.

  Tate is hardworking and financially struggling, bringing up his siblings on his own. A suspected saboteur at work is his latest challenge, but now he also has a clueless, though very attractive, new intern. There’s an immediate spark between the ill-matched couple, until a shocking accident cuts short Alex’s amateur sleuthing.

  While recovering in the generous care of Tate and his family, will Alex realize what belonging really means? Passion and pride come together to fight for the company they’re both committed to preserving, but can a personal bond remain when the dust settles?

  Tate knew he shouldn’t be devouring Alex’s attention like he was—it was rude, he didn’t behave like this, at least he hadn’t before, he didn’t even know if the guy was gay, and he’d never thought about dating a fellow employee before, that would be unprofessional, right? And oh God, even his mind was rambling—but he couldn’t seem to look away.

  Alex’s hand shifted very slightly, but enough for his thumb to brush the palm of Tate’s hand as he let go, almost reluctantly. A small smile teased the edge of his handsome mouth. “Mr. Somerton, may I say—?”

  “No, y’ bloody may not!” Percy snapped into his ear, having borne down on him without either Tate or Alex noticing.

  Alex gave a small, embarrassing yelp.

  Tate bit his lip to stop from laughing. “Welcome to the firm, Alex,” he said briskly and turned away.

  To a wonderful team of betas, sources, and motivators who went above and beyond! Lillian, George, Liam, Sue, Ali, Rhys, Anna, and Dave. I genuinely couldn’t have done it without you.

  Chapter One

  “ALEXANDRE, good morning.” Charles Bonfils, the patriarch of Bonfils Bibendum, the highly prestigious London wine merchants, a cousin of an English baronet, and a personal multimillionaire—if he ever had the poor manners to share actual financials with anyone other than his personal advisors—inclined his distinguished, salt-and-pepper-haired head at the young man sitting on the other side of his desk. “Good of you to turn up on time.”

  Alex Bonfils inwardly winced. His father was one of the few people who could, without fail, make him feel four years old again. He resisted rubbing his palms dry on his designer slacks, but only just, and nodded in reply. “Papa, when you call, I come. Of course.”

  Charles lifted one eyebrow; that was all.

  It was enough.

  “Father.” Alex took a deep breath and ran his hand through his blond hair, inevitably destroying the artful work of his personal stylist. “Okay, so I know I haven’t been your most reliable son—”

  “I only have two,” Charles murmured. “And all I ask is that they are both full participants in the family business. Or any legitimate business, for that matter.” He sounded calm, but his fingers tightened dangerously around his antique ink pen.

  “Yeah.” Alex assumed this summons was something to do with him missing the latest Bonfils management meeting. Or maybe it was because of those embarrassing paparazzi pictures taken in the nightclub last weekend with the twin male models. Or when he gate-crashed the Queen’s garden party last summer, or the fact that Alex had never bothered to finish his university business management course, preferring to go backpacking in Ibiza, or… or… oh, many more examples of how he continued to disappoint his august Papa.

  “I think the time has come to face facts,” Charles said.

  “Yes? I mean, it has? What about?”

  Charles grimaced, obviously struggling to keep his temper. “You have shown little enthusiasm in the business to date, whereas Henri….”

  Alex bit back a snort. Henri. His revered, very sober and sensible elder brother, with a gorgeous aristocratic wife and two precocious children to carry on the Bonfils family line. Henri was their father’s chosen heir to the business dynasty. Henri was brighter, smarter, more reliable, more respectable, more predictable—

  “Alexandre? Are you listening to me?”

  Alex jolted back to attention. “Sure. Go on. You were talking about Henri. How does that affect me?” He hadn’t meant to sound snappy, but constant comparison to a preferred sibling would do that to a guy.

  “He’s Bonfils’s CEO for a reason, Alex. He’s committed to the company, a fierce supporter of the industry. He listens, and he learns. Then he works hard.”

  The implication was there—Henri was and did all the things Alex wasn’t and didn’t.

  “I can work hard.” Alex wished he sounded less defensive. He could work hard. He was just so rarely inspired to. Or rather, he was distracted by things more exciting, more dramatic, more intriguing than profit and loss accounts, stock turnover ratios, and five-year operational budgets.

  He hid his shudder at the mere thought.

  Surprisingly, his father didn’t scorn his protest. Instead, his gaze almost softened. “Believe me, I know you can. And you do, for the things you love. You have many excellent qualities, and the good intention of using them. But I can’t rely on mere intention for the continuing, successful management of this company. It needs to be your life’s work.”

  Alex blinked hard. What was Charles saying? “Jesus, Papa. Are you firing me?”

  Charles blew out a tight breath. “I cannot fire you, as you so quaintly put it, when you have a unique position as my son. However, I see no reason to burden you with an operational role any longer.” His tone hardened. “Alexandre, I think you should find yourself a new, personally satisfying project. You will no longer be needed at the monthly management meetings. Your personal allowance will continue—it was your mother’s last wish that all members of the family are supported, regardless of their role in the business—but I think it best for both our expectations if you distance yourself for a while from Bonfils’s Bibendum.” He placed his pen down on the desk blotter with exaggerated care.

  Alex was speechless. It was an unfamiliar status.

  For a long moment, Charles was still. Then he stood and half lifted his hand from his side, as if he was about to shake Alex’s hand or maybe—just maybe—pat him on the shoulder. Instead, he sighed deeply and gestured gently toward the door for Alex to leave. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment elsewhere.”

  ALEX was still in a state of shock a half hour later. He sat in one of the luxurious chairs in the office reception area, nursing
a cup of coffee that had gradually gone cold. Just for a while, he wasn’t sure where else to be. He’d put aside most of the day to meet his father, assuming his periodic hauling over the coals would take its usual thorough and teeth-clenching time. However, it had taken Papa less than fifteen minutes to dump his own son. Okay, so that was melodramatic, maybe, and Papa had dressed it up in a civil way, but that was the gist of it. His father had probably assumed that Alex would be relieved to step away from daily management, to leave the hassle and complexity to Papa and Henri. After all, that’s what Alex usually did, wasn’t it?

  But it still hurt, and in a rather perplexing way. He’d never really worked anywhere else but Bonfils. During school vacations, he’d helped out with menial tasks in the office or one of the warehouses, though he realized now he’d never given work the same attention that Henri did. He didn’t need to work, was the issue at the heart of everything. He had family money, excellent schooling, the youthful confidence of a well-bred English man in his late twenties, and—no point in being coy—natural good looks. That had sufficed him through life so far. His lovely French mother had died when he was only thirteen, his bereaved father continued to work all hours God sent, and Henri was already working toward his position at Papa’s side in the business. So there was little rein on Alex’s behavior. What was he meant to do, with such minimal supervision? They were damned lucky he hadn’t gone completely off the rails. As it was, he’d spent most of the time enjoying every opportunity his position and wealth made available. He sighed rather theatrically, though no one paused in their scurrying past him, to and from the meeting rooms. Everyone knew their place here, and their duty to the Bonfils family.

  Except me, apparently.

  “Mr. Alexandre? Would you like some more coffee?” The two beautifully groomed assistants on reception were very polite, but maybe a little nervous as well. People weren’t used to seeing Alex in the office. And when he did pass through, it was always in a rush of laughter, impatience, and widely dispensed flattery. Not this unfamiliar introspection in the guest seating of his own family’s domain.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” He didn’t miss the quick glance between the young man and his female companion. He might have been introspective but he wasn’t blind. From their shared expression, they were wondering whom to call on his behalf. His father? A doctor? Security? Alex bit back another sigh. He seemed to remember confidently flattering both of the lovely young things in the past. No wonder they were bemused.

  His gaze drifted to the large windows beside the reception desk. Here on the eighth floor of an exclusive building in the heart of the financial district, they maximized a superb view over London. Birds wheeled around the top of the tower blocks, the late October sun glinting off their myriad windows. Black cabs trundled along the road, so far below Alex that they looked like Matchbox toys. Homegoing office workers scurried onto double-decker buses and down into the Tube system, swarming and swerving around each other with the same innate sense of purpose and direction as soldier ants. Souvenir shops splashed the red, white, and blue colors of the British flag in their merchandise, coffee chains tempted passersby into their premises with seductive menus, the occasional, select fashion stores displayed the latest glamorous styles on androgynous models. On the Embankment, the London Eye loomed over everything, its pods revolving so slowly, so soporifically, that Alex wondered if he should just sit here another hour or so, watching them as meditation. It reminded him of that vacation he took in the Himalayas one year, on the quest for life advice from that grizzled old guru—

  Yet it was the memory of another place that struck him now with a rush of joy, peace, and some bittersweet memories. The Fairweather Vineyard in England’s West Country, where the grapes for Bonfils’s sparkling wines were grown, had been part of Alex’s life from when he was a child, from when… Mama was still alive. He found himself yearning for that now, for the quiet yet vibrant fields enclosing the site, the lush grass under his often bare feet, the rustle of the vines on their supports. He and Henri had played there as kids, and even in Alex’s later years, he would visit there when he needed to break away from the hectic city life he led. They’d helped with the harvest until their late teens—well, as much as youngsters could help who didn’t depend on the crop for their wages and got caught eating the too-sharp grapes too often to be efficient. The managers were grimly tolerant of him, Papa had rolled his eyes, and Mama…? While she lived, she always smiled even after she chastised him, even though the smile was sometimes sad. She’d loved the vineyard too and had helped plan the hospitality suite they ran there for guests and tourists. She’d chosen the warmest side of the building to build a luxurious patio, where she herself could sit and enjoy the view across the Devon hills at any time of day or night, gazing over the heads of the vines and the surrounding hedgerows, sipping a glass of her family’s best wine.

  It was one of his most vivid memories of her.

  A well-dressed, attractive woman in her early thirties sat down abruptly in the chair beside him. “Alexandre? Good to see you here. We need to talk.”

  Good God. One of the grimmest phrases in the English language, in Alex’s honest opinion. He could remember more than a few exes starting off their final conversations with him with just those words. “Tina, ma chère! Hello to you too. Are you bringing a message from my father?”

  “No. What were you expecting?”

  A groveling apology from Papa for ever doubting him? A plea for Alex to come back to the board, to bring his unique blend of charm and wit to the stuffy old agenda? Not gonna happen. Alex knew it as certainly as he knew the young man at reception—quickly replacing the handset of the telephone, having called in his reinforcements—was now very obviously blushing at him, and could be tumbled into a compromising position within the hour, if Alex wished it. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had refused him anything. Well, until today’s meeting with Papa.

  “You heard I’d been brutally sacked? Told to keep out of the damned way?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t like that at all, Alex. Heavens, everything’s so melodramatic with you.” Tina graciously thanked the young woman who brought them fresh coffee, as if magically conjured up. Tina Archer was his father’s PA, and a dear family friend. She was unflaggingly professional and always discreet, but she also took no nonsense.

  “I’ve been fired. Discarded. Abandoned.” Alex was working himself well into the role of victim. “I’ve never wanted to be anything but a Bonfils.”

  “You always will be. But did you think that was a one-way street? That you wouldn’t have to offer your time and effort in return?”

  “I am family. That should be enough.”

  Tina snorted in a very unladylike manner. “Yes, like I said. You make everything a performance.”

  Alex opened his mouth to protest angrily, then rethought. If he were honest with himself—and he almost always was—she was right. But dramatic effect made life more exciting, didn’t it? His life, anyway. His hedonistic, rather empty, purposeless life. Dammit. He couldn’t help but recall his father’s earlier sigh of disappointment and frustration. Maybe it was merited, after all.

  Tina sipped her coffee and her expression became more sympathetic. “You are so lucky, Alex. You have looks, charm, access to almost limitless money. Yet what do you do with it?”

  He was pretty sure have fun wasn’t the right answer.

  Her gaze softened. “I love you dearly, Alex. We’ve been friends since you were a teenager and I first came to work for the company, remember?”

  He did indeed. Tina had arrived in the London office with the glowing references that Alex would have matched to a much older, more serious, and extremely dull person. Instead, he’d met a witty, pretty, perceptive young woman who, over the years, had paid as much care and attention to the Bonfils family members as to the company’s smooth operation.

  “Back then, you and Henri were enthusiastic, caring, fun-loving young men. I know what he
grew up to be—”

  Alex tried hard to keep his expression neutral, he really did.

  “—and yes, I know you think that’s boredom personified. But what about you? You’ve swung so totally the opposite way, I sometimes don’t recognize you. You’ve created this frivolous, careless playboy image, then take every opportunity to thrust it in everyone’s face. Your timekeeping is appalling, you chase after every latest fad, you serially date any and all young men who take your fancy, you habitually waste money, and above all, you show little business interest in the company. Is it any wonder Mr. Charles has grown tired of trying to engage with you? It must seem to him that whatever you’re given, you expect more. That you really do think everything is yours for the taking.”

  Wow. No holding back there, then. Yet her words reverberated in his mind. Am I really like that? He knew exactly how well and enjoyably he lived, yet he didn’t want to believe that was the whole story of his life. An unfamiliar flush heated the back of his neck.

  “Wait.” Tina reached out to take his hand, shaking her head. “I haven’t finished.”

  “Good God, really? Well, don’t feel you have to hold back on my account—”

  “No, you idiot.” Tina laughed at his aggrieved tone. “I know very well that isn’t the sum of Alex Bonfils. You have far more to offer, you’re intelligent and compassionate, and care for far more than entertainment. You just hide it too well! For example, who really knows it was your idea to start a Bonfils sommelier internship, open to all applicants?”

  “Well, no one outside the board, but that was so obviously a good initiative—”

  “And that you’ve been mentoring Liam, the new assistant in HR, developing the training program?”

  “I mean, yes, but that’s no hardship, when he’s got great potential and is so very enthusiastic—”

  Tina pressed on, more firmly. “And when the company budget wasn’t adequate, you paid personally for all the staff in Packaging to attend training in the new inventory system?”