Billionaire on Board (13 page)

"Everybody needs to work. Idleness is the root of all evil. What would I do with the interest of the interest of the interest if I don't invest it?"

"You wouldn't need to be idle, you could play polo, put up a team, vamp up people's yachts… What's more time and money consuming than horses and boats?"

"A lovely thought."

"I think so."

"Hm."

"You know," I leaned over and placed a kiss on his shoulder, "I always wanted to see their spa. I'll book the most expensive treatment they have. I think it involves yoghurt, a rattlesnake and a Tibetan monk massage."

"I know who takes the rattlesnake part but what's a Tibetan monk massage?"

"They import monks especially from Tibet. When somebody comes and asks for the massage they grab a monk by his hands and feet and they roll him over the client."

He snorted. "Are you sure about the twelve hours?"

"Not at all."

"I see you in a bit."

"You can bet on it."

Eighteen

It was our last night together and Ryan had gone off to sleep about an hour ago but I was still lying wide awake, heart-poundingly, tummy-achingly, fist-clenchingly awake. There had also been too much champagne.

All right, I was caught up in a series of Julia Roberts movies and when the morning dawned, I would have to face the scene where Richard Gere tells Vivian, his hooker love, how he had organised for her to have an apartment and a car and how he would look in from time to time. 

Now, I am one of those people who always shout at her for being ridiculous and to take the condo and the car and to slowly get to know the guy.

But I already owned a condo and a car, neither was I a prostitute — even though I do get into people's cars for money. 

I did not want anything from Ryan. I only wanted to be with him. 

As you will all have realised by now, I had the worst kind of crush on him, the kind where you sometimes think you are going to fall over because you have no more control over your muscles. The kind that makes you crouch in silent agony when you are on your own for just a minute, say, in the loo. The kind that makes you stop breathing.

But I did not want to have an uncomfortable conversation with him either. I did not want to stand there like another silly girl who simply does not get the rules of the game. I suspected he was going to say something like "hey, why don't we try to meet up from time to time, I could drop by in my Gulfstream for a stop and hop over" thereby including me into his network of Bugatti driven acquaintances.

I could never do it. The idea of having to share him with a team of nameless, faceless, long-legged society geishas made me physically sick. 

He did not do the girlfriend thing. 

And I did not want to be the one who was idiotic enough to hope to change him. I was not deluding myself to be the one who could 'save' him or 'conform' him. In the end, in reality, I did not live in a Julia Roberts movie after all.

No, I would simply have to let go, get over him, cry him out, work myself through the valley of despair and eventually recover. I always had until now and there had been some bad cases of love-sickness before. In a year or two this would be just a crazy, beautiful memory to be cherished, giggled and hooted over with Lilly and Tina and a bottle of discounter wine. 

I made up my mind to tell him, with a big smile, how I had enjoyed our naughty weekend and how I would always remember this funny coincidence. Ha ha ha, bear hug, off I go.

I mentally rehearsed it about five-thousand times, but maybe a little less, because I did fall asleep over it in the end.

I woke to bright daylight, alone and feeling as if I had lain beneath a steamroller for the last hours. 

I tiptoed into the sitting room but Ryan was nowhere to be found. For one terrifying second I feared he had just gone without saying goodbye but then I saw his laptop standing on the coffee-table. I went back, through the bedroom, into the bathroom and straight into the shower. When I came out, there was still no Ryan.

He had probably met with Angelo in the lobby. The replacement skipper had arrived last night and had called on Ryan to tell him a car from the shipyard would pick them up at 11am. I looked at the antique clock on the mantlepiece. 9.41.

I knew I had to get dressed but I had no clothes other than the Baywatch dress so I reluctantly squeezed myself into it. 

I sat huddled on the bed until I heard the door fall into the lock. 

No, that is not true, I confess, I went to the bathroom once to throw up. No, dear romance novel readers, I was not instantly pregnant despite the pill and the condoms, I was just a nervous wreck. And in case you wondered, yes, I did brush my teeth afterwards. There still was the bear hug to be considered.

Anyway, the door fell into the lock. 

Briefly, I considered to dash into the bathroom for another puking session just to make sure I would not barf all over Ryan's designer shoes but I got up and slowly walked towards the sitting room door, inwardly expecting to see a shrieking Roman circus audience and an altar of sacrifice. 

I pushed the door open.

What I saw instead was Ryan in a pair of dark blue jeans, a yellow polo neck and sailing shoes.

Next to him stood a large pink suitcase and a bright red laptop bag. 

The shock hit me like a cannon ball. Not because their colours clashed so badly but because they were mine.

"What are they doing here?" I could hardly tame my voice. 

"Well, Buttercup, what do you think? You're coming with me of course. A few weeks of sea and sunshine…"

Nothing was of course. My blood was rushing through my ears like wild water.

"How did they get here?" I hissed.

He bestowed a satisfied grin upon me. "Your mother brought them here yesterday, I asked her at the wed—"

"You did WHAT?" I screamed with a fury hitherto unknown to me. "Are you totally mad? How dare you! How DARE YOU! You should have asked me!" 

"Wait, is this the Grouch? Do you need food?"

"No! This is
not
the Grouch!
Verfickte Scheisse
!" No translation needed here, I am sure. 

"Come on, it was supposed to be a surprise."

So, while I had spent the night in pain, agonising over how to say good-bye and eating my heart out, my luggage had already been in the hotel. No wonder he had slept so soundly!

I felt sick, I felt tired and to tell the truth I also felt my period coming on. What does a woman do in such circumstances?

Correct. She freaks out.

"How DARE YOU?! How DARE YOU ask MY MOTHER to go into MY FLAT and take out MY THINGS!? How DARE YOU invade my privacy like this? MY MOTHER! MY MOTHER OF ALL PEOPLE! ARE YOU A TOTAL MANIAC? YOU CAN'T RUN ME OVER LIKE THIS!"

He came towards me and held out his arms to appease me. "Judy, don't be angry, your mum was sure you'd like to come and she has offered to reappoint all your bookings for the next weeks. Your computer's here, you can work on your thesis, please, let's talk about this."

I was beyond myself. I also felt silly and defenceless, barefoot in a stupid red dress.

"How dare you," I whispered.

"Baby, I'm sorry, I just thought—"

"NO! You did NOT THINK AT ALL, you did NOT THINK when you bought that BLOODY RING and you DID NOT THINK when you INVITED YOURSELF TO BREAKFAST IN MY HOME and I'm NOT your BABY, NOR your JUDY! You're NOT my friend, you're NOT my family, you're JUST SOME GUY I FUCKED, DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?"

"Oh, come on, the ring served you quite well in the end!"

"HOW DARE YOU!?"

He put his hands on top of my shoulders but I shook him off. He did not say anything anymore, he just stood there, scowling. 

Why was he the one to scowl when I was the one to be offended? Was here the final proof of male egotism?

We  stood in a dead silence for a few minutes.

"Why did you want me to come?" I finally asked. I really wanted to know. Maybe he had a redeeming answer for me. You know, one compatible with a Julia Roberts movie.

He took a deep breath. "Well, why not? Isn't it fun? You could work on your thesis on deck, my staff could get you whatever you wanted, you'd be spoiled 24/7, you could swim in the sea, we could go to parties, restaurants, to the casino…"

"Uh…" 

What he actually meant was, he could continue to have insanely good sex with me until he needed to fly off to New York, Rio, Tokyo.

He came closer again. His fingers brushed my temple. He caressed my face and my throat and my shoulders and my cleavage. "You see, Poppy Jude, I just haven't had enough of you yet."

YET?

That did it.

I smiled brightly up at him. "All right, I'm coming!" I pushed past him to get to my suitcase. I was sure to find more comfortable clothes in there. My mother could be depended upon. "Just don't expect me to sleep with you."

PART TWO

One

After breakfast I felt much better. I did, however, not change my mind, on the contrary, my resolve was strengthened. Ryan would pay the price for his overbearance by spending his three week cruise in abstinence, with the carrot dangling in front of his nose.

I had no doubts about my power of endurance for two reasons.

A: I was going to be on my period which meant my libido had just gone down to minus a million.

B: I was going to be on my period. Period.

Not for the next three weeks obviously, but long enough to convince him all hope was futile.

I had managed to text both Tina and Lilly about the latest developments and their reactions were mixed.

Tina accused me of being "an enemy to emancipation" who would not manage to "keep her knees closed for even a day" and I should "head home right now" and if I could not, I should at least write a "semi-auto-pornographic novel" about it. Whereas Lilly lauded my "attempt at platonic love" and advised me to "baptise the yacht with my menstrual blood for reasons of safety." Gross, I know. Sorry.

It was a rainy day. The first since a long period of sunshine.

We were picked up by a Mercedes Viano, equipped with the obligatory flashing lights and the special license plates granting admission to the restricted port areas. The rest of the crew had already been delivered to Myrtle by coach in the early morning to get her ready for inhabitation. 

Not cohabitation!

I was introduced to Angelo who was an American from Fort Lauderdale currently residing on Antigua. He looked exactly like one would picture a yacht captain. He was tall, tanned and had a square jaw. He wore a crisp white shirt with golden stripes on his shoulders and matching white trousers. He told me how he and Jonathan and some other captains had founded a full-service company to provide crews for large luxury yachts and how he had known Ryan for a long time because they both were friends with Gus, the yacht designer. 

When Ryan had finally signed the bill and tipped the relevant people he joined us in the car.

"Have you been able to take a good look around, Angelo? How's she doing?"

"Oh, she's fine, she's fine. Dan even managed to try out the chopper and it's perfect."

"The what?" 

Of course I knew what a chopper was. But as everyone with a severe fear of flying can imagine, the sole mention of any flying object gives me the jitters.

"The helicopter?" I looked at Ryan but he ignored me. "Only so we're clear. I'm not going on a helicopter." 

He continued to ignore me. No, he did not, he actually tried to suppress a smile. 

"You don't believe me, right?"

He cleared his throat. "I believe you."

"No, I meant about what I said earlier."

"Not really."

"Well, you'll see."

"Right. — Will you be fine with the bridge?" He was talking to Angelo again.

"Sure, no problem, I did Lahalila for charter last winter and she's been refitted with the same equipment. I'll get the hang of her in no time."

There we had it, Ryan did not believe I was not going to have sex with him. I had already wondered why he had not given up his plan of taking me along, after I had raged at him like a rabid dog. I would not have taken myself.

Well, if he thought he had me in his pocket he was dead wrong. I was really looking forward to see the smugness disappear from his beautiful face.

Myrtle's square windows eyed us up merrily as we approached. She seemed to be eager to be out and about and she hooted enthusiastically. It was a friendly noise. She would be gone as soon as her master had boarded. White smoke was coming from her chimney already. 

During the ride to the port I had been enlightened about the actual route we were going to take. Myrtle was too big for most yacht marinas so she was forced to stop in a big port from time to time to refuel. Our first stop would therefore be in A Coruña in three and a half days, where we would only stay for a few hours to get fresh fuel and fresh water. Barcelona would be reached within a week. 

I unwisely commented those would be really long trips without stopping in between. But, lo, Myrtle had a range of 3500 nautical miles and could even cross the Atlantic, I was proudly informed by her proprietor. 

She never
had
crossed the Atlantic on her own power though, because when she crossed, she travelled on a semi-submersible vessel used for mega yacht transports all over the world. She was far too precious to be exposed to such a strenuous trip!

Oh dear…

Well, after Barcelona we would make shorter trips, travelling over night to Saint-Tropez, where we would spend two days, then to Porto Cervo, Sardinia, in another overnight trip, where we would remain for another two days. After Sardinia it would be Capri for three days, then one day in Portofino, then off to Monte Carlo for a few nights of gambling, then Antibes for two more days, then Ibiza and lastly Palma de Mallorca. From there, so I was told, we would
fly
to Hamburg on the Gulfstream, I would be provided with any drug I demanded, and Ryan would continue to London.