How to Lose a Bachelor

  Revenge was never this much fun…

  When Rochelle Ransom auditioned for the dating show Luring Love, she had big plans for winning the prize money to help her favorite charity–and if she won the hot bachelor’s heart, even better. But at the last minute she finds out the hot bachelor is her ex-boyfriend, Grant Drake. Desperate to keep her distance from him, she’ll do anything–and everything–to get voted off.

  Years ago, Rochelle broke Grant’s heart, and he’s out for revenge. There’s no way he’ll vote her off.

  After all, vengeance is a dish best served red-hot…and on live television.

  When her hilarious antics to get kicked off the show escalate, Grant’s reminded why he fell in love with her the first time. Now he isn’t sure which might be more fun… Seeing how far Rochelle is willing to go to get away or how far he will to keep her forever.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Find your Bliss with these great releases… Crazy for the Competition

  Resisting Her Rival

  Kissing Her Crush

  Taste the Heat

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Anna Banks. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Bliss is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit http://www.entangledpublishing.com/category/bliss

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-454-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2015

  For my sister Tami, who loved the idea, but never got to read the story.

  Chapter One

  Rochelle Ransom hadn’t worn a dress like this since…actually, she’d never worn a dress like this. Short, tight, lots of cleavage. Hooker red. Any judge would kick her out of the courtroom if she traipsed in looking like this, hauling a briefcase and with a mortified client trailing behind her. Of course, she’d never make it to the bench. Not in these ankle-breaking stilettos.

  But this wasn’t a courtroom. This was the set—or rather, the dining room of a humongous mansion—of Luring Love, the reality show she’d signed up for six months ago. Oh, at first, she’d thought it was funny that the show was auditioning in her city. She thought women had to be desperate to put themselves out there like that, and chase after a man. The last thing she needed in life right now was a man interfering with her career and the time she spent working for her favorite charity, Helping Hands. But as the audition date drew near, she began to think of a very good reason to try out. Of course, there was the prospect of meeting an attractive man who was probably only interested in sex (and Rochelle’s sex life was nonexistent), but there was also the exposure on national television for Helping Hands, and the prize money if she actually won the show. Yep, she was all in when she realized the possibilities. She could sacrifice some pride in order to raise funds for a good cause couldn’t she? Of course she could. And so, after dozens of interviews and near-painful home videos outlining the very boring details of her life, she’d somehow made it as a finalist. She was going to be on TV. But more importantly, nothing was going to stop her from winning the grand prize money for her charity.

  Oh yeah, and the bachelor’s heart or whatever.

  But seriously, the winnings would free up time to take on the cases that meant something to her—instead of all the time she wasted making rich corporations even richer. Sure, being a corporate attorney paid the bills but representing penniless, battered women who came through Helping Hands was her real passion. After most grueling workdays, she would head over to give the last of her energy to the incredible women staying there. It was a shelter without other connections or financial options, and she would often find herself rotating between the roles of pro bono legal advisor, amateur therapist, and housekeeper depending on the daily needs and demands.

  Becoming a contestant on this show put her in a better position to meet those needs and demands.

  It was a shallow means to a worthy end. Her closest girlfriends could tease her all they wanted about “ulterior motives” but Rochelle stubbornly refuted them. This was NOT about finding love. That ship had sailed—and sunk and was rotting on the ocean floor.

  She took a generous sip of champagne, wondering how many times she’d have to tell herself that over the course of the next twelve weeks. I’m whoring myself out for money, after all. She’d never even seen an episode of Luring Love, but she’d overheard her assistant Jennifer and her paralegal Gemini talking about past seasons, and the word “scandalous” came up every few sentences or so. Who slept with whom. Who threw a colossal temper tantrum and got voted off. Who had the bikini “mishap.” (Apparently there was always a bikini mishap.)

  One thing she had already decided, though, was that there was no way she was sleeping with the guy. He was lucky enough to have all these women vying for his attention, but to expect them all to sleep with him, too? You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. We might as well inject ourselves with an STD cocktail.

  But all else was fair game. Charm him, wine and dine him. She was even willing to do her own version of a bikini mishap in order to rouse his, er, heart—or at least, borrow his affection for the duration of the show. Maybe after the show, they could even be friends. As long as she could talk him out of his half of the prize money.

  Heh.

  Either way, this poor guy didn’t stand a chance. Jennifer and Gemini saw to it that she knew all the ways to win his heart and all the ways to avoid getting voted off the show. If there was one thing Rochelle had cornered the market on, it was persuasiveness. Her track record in the circuit court system was evidence enough of that. How hard could romancing a bachelor be, anyway?

  A man was a man was a man. They were all the same. Clean-shaven sasquatches dressed in suits and ties.

  She glanced around the room with a self-satisfied grin and began sizing up the competition as she sipped her champagne. And her confidence abruptly faltered. She was the least attractive out of the entire bunch—and that was after she’d put more effort into her appearance than ever before.

  O
h crap. The nine other women were nothing short of gorgeous, each in their own way. And “gorgeous” was something Rochelle had never considered herself. Not even now, in her prostitute uniform.

  But the one who worried Rochelle the most was the tall woman who lingered shyly in the corner, acting oblivious to the fact that she was the most striking female in the room. Long, straight black hair. Smooth, dewy skin the color of a perfectly crafted cappuccino. Legs that went on for decades, and lips that formed a perfect come-hither pout without even trying.

  I’m so screwed. Rochelle took an unfeminine gulp of her drink, downing the last of her champagne and motioning for another. The waiter paused as she switched out the empty glass for a full one on his tray. Down the hatch it went.

  The waiter gave her a startled look. “No need to be nervous,” he whispered in an Australian accent. “He’s actually quite nice.”

  “Who?” Why would he think she was nervous? Didn’t everyone, on occasion, guzzle champagne?

  “The Bachelor.” The waiter turned on his heel. “I think you’ll find him to be decent.”

  “Oh. Right.” The Bachelor. The poor sucker who was about to be subjected to irresistible temptation by the sumptuous Nubian princess over in the corner. I might as well go home.

  And that was when she realized why she had been chosen for the show. Someone had to represent the ninety-nine percent of women who didn’t make the cut for this show.

  Oh God.

  The waiter left, making his way around the room, catering to all the other women who probably were well aware Rochelle was there for a quota, but didn’t have a clue they were about to lose this competition to the shy black woman in the corner.

  After the second glass of champagne kicked in, Rochelle decided to be proactive. And why shouldn’t she? After all, she had more to lose than these other women. Attracting rich bachelors was probably just their hobby. Risking her life in the six-inch stilettos, she eased her way around the dining table, hobbling in the heels like a newborn calf, one graceless step at a time, until she reached the hands-down winner of Luring Love.

  “Hi,” she told the princess. Even I’m irritated by how perky I sound. In fact, she was usually allergic to perky people herself—especially before 9 a.m. and two cappuccinos—but she suspected dry sarcasm wasn’t going to win her any points on the show or with the beauty queen standing next to her. It wasn’t wise to piss anyone off just yet, because her assistant had told her—over and over again—that would be asking for immediate sabotage by the other contestants. So perky it was. “I’m Rochelle.” I’m here to represent the normal Americans who couldn’t make it today.

  The princess smiled, revealing the teeth of a dentist’s daughter. Of course. “I’m Maya,” she replied. “I like your dress.” Maya swirled the champagne in her glass. “Are you nervous? Because I’m about to pass out.”

  So Maya was lovely and honest. “Don’t be nervous. The waiter tells me our bachelor is a nice guy. So, no need to poison him just yet.” Oops, too morbid.

  But the other woman laughed. “Honestly, I’m more nervous about the competition. He’s just a man, right? But look at you, for instance. You’re rocking your dress. And have you seen the twins? What’s up with that?”

  Lovely, honest, and humble. Triple threat, which means I’m doubly screwed. “They’re really twins, you think?”

  “I know so. I asked.”

  “So if one of them wins…”

  “Awkward.”

  Yep, she officially liked Maya. Which wasn’t good, since she was going to have to be ruthless in getting her voted off. Preferably first.

  Just then, the producer, Richie Odom, a buttery-smooth-talking man with a slicked-back hairpiece—and an ego the size of a tank—interrupted Rochelle’s strategizing. Holding up both his hands, which revealed that his tacky red velvet jacket was a bit too short in the sleeves, he announced, “Okay, ladies, we’re about to start filming. The bachelor is going to enter through the door behind me. When he does, I want you to act naturally. Do whatever pops up first into your head when you see him—which I hope looks a lot like insta-love googly eyes. Remember, there are ten of you and only three cameramen, so if we’re going to get a shot of his first impression of you, you’ll have to hold your pose—in the most natural way possible, of course. Remember, this is a reality show. Everything is real. So make sure real looks good.” He consulted the stopwatch in his hand. “We’ve got a twenty-second countdown.”

  “Here we go,” Maya whispered.

  Rochelle took the opportunity to swap out another empty glass of champagne for a full one from the waiter’s tray as he passed by. He shot her a disapproving look but continued on his way. Yeah, that’s right. Keep walking. You’re not the one about to trade your dignity for cash.

  “Ten seconds!” Richie yelled.

  All eyes focused on the entryway, waiting for the moment when the small talk would end and the rivalry would begin. The second that Bachelor hit the door, he’d be the center of attention for the next twelve weeks.

  And for the next twelve weeks, Rochelle was going to have to be perky. Likable. Non-snarky.

  Think of the money, think of the money, think of the money.

  “Five seconds!”

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Rochelle hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath—until Grant Drake stepped through the entryway. Then she let it out in a heaving gasp.

  And her champagne glass plummeted to the floor.

  Chapter Two

  They had instructed Grant to smile at each and every bachelorette in the room, at least long enough to give the camera a slight reaction. But his attention immediately fixated on the sound of shattering glass—and on the woman who stood in a puddle of champagne and glass shards.

  Rochelle Ransom.

  The woman who’d stormed out of his life like an all-consuming hurricane.

  He would have been a jackass if he’d asked her to stay in Florida after she’d been accepted to Berkeley. As it turned out, he’d acted like a jackass anyway. But what had she expected? She’d applied for Berkeley behind his back and suddenly sprang it on him at the dinner—where he was going to propose—that she was leaving for the west coast. Of course he’d been mad. And, all truth told, he’d been destroyed, too.

  Now he was going to have to relive it all over again in order to get his vengeance.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  The producers of the show had outdone themselves this time, sifting through hundreds of applicants, trying to find perfect matches for one lucky bachelor. To him, Rochelle Ransom was, and always would be, his perfect match. Obviously, the casting director of Luring Love agreed with him. That guy deserved a special crevice in hell.

  But God, Rochelle was still a knockout. Red had always been her color, but stilettos? He’d never seen her flaunt her assets like this, not even at college parties. The way her dress clung to her every curve like static electricity, how the halter exposed the corresponding perfection of her breasts. They may not have been the largest pair in the room, but he remembered vividly how they’d felt in his hands. How good they’d felt pressed against his bare chest.

  And she couldn’t have picked a better shade of red lipstick. Lips that knew just exactly how to make him growl with pleasure.

  Yes, she was the most tempting thing in the room, by far. The lust shooting straight through him was evidence enough of that.

  Still, it made him furious, all of it. She always dressed in T-shirts and jeans for me, and now she’s dressed like a supermodel in hopes of tempting some joker on a reality show to marry her?

  Then he remembered—he was that joker. And this reality show could be his chance for revenge. After all, his friend just happened to be the show’s host, Chris Legend, who helped get him on in the first place. This had to work. In theory, it had sounded brilliant. But by the withering look Rochelle was giving him, he only
had it half right. He was a joker—but this might not be a chance at vengeance.

  Richie Odom was about to make things much, much worse, he could tell. “You two, come with me. Now.”

  The grand, elegant set of Luring Love erupted in whispers and pointing as he followed Rochelle and Richie out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  How many times can Grant Drake ruin my life?

  Rochelle took the seat next to him in front of Richie’s desk, unwilling to look in his direction. Instead, she let her eyes wander everywhere else, taking in the majestic gentility of the mansion’s library, which Richie had obviously claimed as his personal office space. Books lined each of the walls, and the shelves were adorned with tracks for a rickety-looking sliding ladder—a reader’s paradise. A hint of stale cigar smoke wafted in the air, lending the room a distinctly male atmosphere.

  She scooted her chair as far away from Grant as possible before fixing her gaze on the flustered producer in front of her.

  “You two know each other. How?” Richie leaned to the side of his high-backed office chair, drumming his fingers impatiently on the giant desk. It reminded her of the many times she had been called into the dean’s office at university. Who knew debating a professor’s view on every single subject was a mortal sin?

  She didn’t know how to answer Richie’s question. Not like a lady, anyway. She certainly didn’t want to re-hash their story to anyone, especially a snide producer who wouldn’t understand insignificant things such as feelings and pride and random urges to attack the man sitting next to her.

  She stopped herself cold. Feelings? The only feelings she had left for Grant Drake were borderline murderous—right? So why are my insides whirling like a tornado?

  Grant wasn’t talking, either. Probably too ashamed of himself. And rightly so. He’d stolen her heart and then river-danced on it with cleats. The thought of it made her nearly choke on the fiery bile erupting from her stomach.

  Her insides screamed at her, What’s the deal? Why am I letting him affect me this way? For the past ten years, she had successfully suppressed all the anger and hurt he’d caused, never letting it bubble to the surface, never letting it affect her life, her career. Sure, there had been a time when she’d thought Grant was The One. That was before he’d abruptly ended their relationship just when she was going to ask him to take it to the next level. Just when she was going to ask him to up and move with her to the west coast after she got accepted to Berkeley.