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Trudi was coming down with a cold, she said, and could I step in and get the interview from the enigmatic and reclusive billionaire in his mountain hideaway. I should have been suspicious for the start.

Why would Trudi have been so eager to pass up this chance? Her
Hot Property
blog profiled the wealthiest and most gorgeous men in the public eye. Bernhard
Grarr
was cosmically wealthy and scorching hot, but mostly obscured from the public eye, or any other prying gaze, as I discovered while I researched him.

How she got access to her first subjects remained something of a mystery but she tapped into a weakness of the wealthy. Many of them were incredibly vain, and even those who weren’t vain were insanely competitive, so however she got the first half dozen or so hunks of prime beefcake on board, now that she was established they would beat each other off with sticks to be her monthly feature.

Trudi herself made no bones about why she started the series. “I love meeting rich men. Especially the ones who are devastatingly handsome,” she cooed over cocktails in some ridiculously swanky hotel bar.

We had been friends from school, and when she was waiting for her subjects – they were invariably late, often by hours – I sometimes kept her company. I knew how excited she got. Having very briefly met a few of her subjects, it wasn’t hard to see why.

That was what made it all the more baffling that she ‘got sick’ for this interview. Bernhard Grarr was not only the richest of her featured billionaires to date, he was way the most handsome. Yet, when the date for her interview with him came up, she started making noises about how it was bad timing or maybe he ‘wasn’t right’ for her blog or that it was too short notice.
 

Over the two weeks leading up to the appointment, she rolled out a laundry list of first-rate reasons to not do it. At the very last minute she asked me if I could step in and do it for her, and like an idiot I said, ‘Of course.’

As we got closer to the house, the sweeping curves and soft lines of glass and timber blended more and more perfectly into the landscape. The glass had a matt surface that made it appear to recede.

The few solid structural planes were cut from timber and appeared to be weathered and unfinished. Some looked like raw bark and sprouted with moss and lichens. The whole thing, massive as it was, seemed to have grown organically from the hillside. The only parts that looked truly man-made were the high, arched, dark wooden double doors.

Ivy and other creepers straggled around the doorway. Big black iron hinges and heavy black rings for handles made the entrance look like that of a medieval castle. Not a nice castle, either. More like Bluebeard’s or some black baron’s castle lair.

Even more incongruous, when he turned a massive black iron key in the big black iron lock, it turned with a smooth, modern precision, and the door glided open like it weighed nothing. No creepy squeak at all.
 

He ushered me into a wide atrium, lit from the glass skylight way above. The floor was mottled, unpolished stone, also probably local as it made such a perfect fit with the outside. At the far side was another set of double doors like the ones we’d through which we’d entered.

From the center a wide glass staircase swept and wound upwards. The half dozen or so doors that I could see on this floor were simple, taller and wider than standard. They were plain, pale, natural wood. And shut.

When he closed the big doors behind us, there was a small but distinct echoing clunk. My heart missed a beat as I waited in the middle of the flagstones. When he came up to me, I realized it was the closest we’d been. His scent made me aware of it. Dark, strong and primal, it was more of a mountain forest essence than any of my study of this software billionaire prepared me for.

Turning to face him, I gave him my best good-girl smile and said, “I think maybe we haven’t got off to the best start. Let me introduce myself, you can do the same and we can start over, what do you say?” I reached my hand towards him. He jumped back so fast it was like a blur in a martial arts movie effect.

I didn’t know whether I was more shocked by the rudeness, the extraordinary force or just the sheer baffling how-the-fuck-did-he-do-that of his reaction. He glowered at me and snarled, hulking in an angry crouch, “Don’t try to touch me.”
 

Okay, mister
, I thought,
You’re so very special that you can’t risk contamination from ordinary mortals
. It occurred to me that perhaps this applied especially to plain girls who were frumpy and slightly round. I know, I’ve seen it all before.

Guys who
loooove
’em some soft curves, but only alone in the in dark. They can’t risk being seen with you in daylight, or any kind of light, come to that. Then there are the mothers who think their precious toddler might catch the fat bug if they get too near. Potential employers who fear you might breach their building regulations and bring the mezzanine crashing into the foyer.

I’ve seen dread of the womanly curve drive folks to do some very strange things, but this instant backward leaping was a new one, even for me. Perhaps he has a dreadful allergy to cellulite, can’t come within three or four inches or he bounces away.

And, like with the paranoid moms and the guys who pretend to live in the dark, I’m used to letting the implied personal affront bounce off me.

“Please, don’t be upset,” it was the closest to a kind thing he’d said since we met. He did effortlessly rescue me from a bear, I reminded myself, but I doubted that was an act of particular kindness. Most likely his insurers laid out a scale of costs for having guests mauled, maimed or devoured.

“It’s… ” he seemed to be hunting for an explanation. It didn’t look like he got a lot of practice in doing that. His brows furrowed in waves while he thought. “It’s a skin condition,” he said.

I wasn’t ready for that. It was so ridiculous that a wide eyed explosive ‘
pah!
’ got out of me before I could stop it. I thought about trying to pretend it was a sneeze. Well, it wouldn’t be any more absurd than his ‘skin condition,’ but I didn’t go there.

Saying ‘
pah!
’ to a billionaire is probably a high-risk strategy, but it was done and there it was.

He at least had the grace to scowl like a sulky teenager caught with his hand in a place where it shouldn’t oughta be.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s start over. It’s a great idea of yours. No touching, though.”

“Alright. You first.”

“I’m – well you know who I am,” he watched as I drew a long breath in, my lips tightened and my head shook slowly. He said, “Oh, you really want to play the game? Alright.” His voice and his eyes hardened, “I’m Bernhard Grarr, owner, CEO and chief engineer of Grarr Tech, and president of the Grarr Group of equity funds.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Grarr. I’m Maxi Cuddles, graduate student and president of no corporations, institutions or funds, here to interview you on behalf of Trudi Bumpshutz’s blog,
Hot Property
.”

Trying to be polite and making nice with him made me even more wound me up than I was before. There was a pause. Not the kind of a pause that old friends, close family or a familiar, supportive group might fall into. An awkward pause with a hum of tension.

Rather than risk more rough handling from Mr Grarr’s manners, I decided to try and take the initiative.

“This is a beautiful building, Mr Grarr. Is this your home?”

“Yes.”

“Which I’m guessing you commissioned and built.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you take much of a hand in the design?”

“Yes.”

I hadn’t much experience as an interviewer but I had helped Trudi to edit some of the interviews for her site. I knew how just scintillating it was going to be for the followers of her blog to read a column of synonyms for ‘yes.’ Supposing he said, ‘no’ once? The thrill would be just devastating.

I changed tack. “Do any of the rooms have chairs, Mr Grarr?”

“Yes. Most of them do.”

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t getting it. “Are many of the chairs comfortable?”

“Yes.” He said, “All of them.”

“As comfortable as standing on stone in a hallway, more comfortable or less, would you say?”

He frowned. “Much more. Would you like to sit down, Ms Cuddles?” He had a very attractive frown. I counted that a plus, because I was confident of seeing many more frowns.

“Why thank you, Mr Grarr. What an excellent idea.”

He frowned, “Why did you not ask?”

Bernhard Grarr showed me into a large room lined in pale wood. The walls were plain with no windows. It was brightly lit from the high glass roof. Three pale chairs were arranged around a low wooden table. At the far end was a door like the one we entered through.
 

As the door opened I thought I must be looking into a huge mirror. But then, where was
my
reflection? If he had a reflection and I didn’t, that would mean that I was a vampire. Or something. This whole thing was too confusing.

Through the door stepped another of Bernhard, an exact replica. I decided that they must be twins. The proximity of one of them had been hard enough to deal with. Now
two
? I could wind up hospitalized.

He came towards me and my knees weakened as he spoke, “Is this Trudi Bumpschutz? I didn’t think she would be nearly so… beautiful.”

“No, this is Trudi Bumpschutz’s impostor who she sends for interviews she can’t be bothered to do herself. This is Ms Cuddles.”

Benjy said, “Bernhard, you’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

“Maxi Cuddles. Ms Cuddles, this is my brother Benjy.”

He stood in front of me and towered over me. A perfect mirror of Bernhard, yet something was distinct in the look in his eye, the slight turn of amusement on the corners of his mouth. In his voice he carried a faint trickle of playfulness.

He looked me over. I felt his eyes lap me up from head to toe and back. He didn’t miss a detail. As his eyes feasted on my lips, his tongue flicked out to lick his own.
 

After he toured my face he looked slowly and deliberately at my neck and my throat. He followed the slopes down to my creamy, fluttering cleavage. Inspecting my breasts was an unhurried affair and it involved two distinct sighs on his part.

My heart pounded so hard that I thought it might jump out and into his hands.

“But she’s gorgeous, Bernhard.”

“Yes, Benjy. I know.” He did? That was the first I’d heard of it.
 

“Has Mischa seem her? More important has he sniffed her?”

“Seen, yes. Not sniffed, except from a distance.” Who was Mischa and when had he seen me?
 

Benjy came closer and instinctively I reached out to shake his hand. His hand snatched away and I remembered what Bernhard had said. No touching. Did they both live in mortal dread of the chubby gene? As fast as he pulled back his arm, my fingertips had touched the back of his hand. A great flash of shock poured through me like thick, cool alcohol.

Benjy’s hand and his forearm swelled enormously. It was such a sudden and extreme reaction that I thought I must be imagining it, but as his flesh was blanketed in a dark mist, the sleeve of his shirt tore. It looked as though thick fur sprouted from his arm and his knuckles seemed to swell up.

For an instant, his hand look like a huge rounded paw. His fingernails crackled and appeared to sprout, like claws.

“Benjy!” At the crack of Bernhard’s voice, Benjy shrank away. He crouched as he turned to leave, but he seemed to be getting bigger. I wondered if the altitude was having an effect on me.

The dark mist swirled around Benjy as he scuttled back through the far door and out.