Billionaire on Board (3 page)

"Let me go!" I shrieked and hammered my fists against his breast. He did, smiled broadly and split the sky in half. 

"What, Poppy Jude, is this not in the script? Won't I get something in return for my instant cooperation? Or do you only open your legs for a cello?"

"You know who I am!" I bellowed, not very ladylike.

"Well, I certainly didn't know who you were at first. I didn't recognise you without a cello or a school uniform. But when I heard your name, it came back to me. What a name for a pretty kitten sitting spreadeagled on stage. Poppy Jude Jansen plays Beethoven. Every male creature present at the St. Cecil's Christmas concerts deeply envied your instrument. Beethoven too."

The lift doors opened. 

The Emperor's suite. 

"Come on."

"Certainly not!" I cried.

"Oh, duh. I won't ravish you. I just want to hear the story of our love."

I hesitated. 

"You owe me that."

I nodded and walked into the suite.

Three

The suite was grand but I had been there before, with a group of Italian travel journalists covering it for a magazine. Everything was kept in midnight blue, pastel yellow and rosewood. 

He led me into the sitting room.

"Please take a seat." He pointed to an armchair with striped coverings and sat himself down on a matching couch, left arm over the back rest, right leg over the left. 

I sat too and folded my hands, trying to give myself a dignified appearance. The guys from candid camera had to show up any minute, Tina and Lilly right behind them, laughing their heads off.

He was not smiling anymore. Instead he observed me calmly.

"Now, Poppy Jude, tell me. Is this a serious case of stalking? Do I have to call my lawyers?" His tongue brushed ever so slightly across his upper lip and I felt a jolt of electricity run right through me.

"No, no, no, no, no, no! Not at all! Absolutely not, it's just a really silly story, gosh, I'm so sorry." I clapped my hands over my eyes.

"Tell me the story."

"Excuse me?"

"Kindly inform me why you have chosen to abuse my name and invent me as your fiancé."

"Oh, no," I hurried to correct, "don't worry, you're not my fiancé, we're not engaged."

"I'm relieved."

"It's all Corinna's fault, you see."

He moved to face me directly, leant forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. His dark eyes bore into me.

"I don't see at all. Why don't you start from the beginning?" 

I swallowed and closed my eyes. I concentrate better that way. My account was halting at first but it got better in time. When I was finished I thought I detected some understanding in his unmoving features.

"Did you have a teenage crush on me back in school?"

I shook my head. "Certainly not, I only saw your for the briefest moment, I had completely forgotten about you. It was only your name that stuck. It's pretty unique." 

I did not intend to tell him how I had been completely blown away by his looks in those fifteen seconds, twelve years ago.

"I see. You never saw me at the Christmas concerts? My mother forced me to go there to do something for the family. It was dreadful."

"No, I was probably too busy worrying about other things."

"What kind of things?"

"I can't remember now, teenage angst, I guess."

"You were looking different. I think there was far more eyeliner involved and lipstick. You actually looked older than you do now."

"I was fifteen," I declared. "We practically bathed in make up back then."

He paused for a moment.

"I gather it's rather inconvenient I've shown up and run into your mother."

"Rather."

His mouth twitched. "I guess it's a perfect example of what the mystics call cosmic ordering. Be careful what you wish for."

"I hadn't wished for you, I can promise you that."

He raised his eyebrows. "What would you have done with me, I mean, how would you have explained my absence from the wedding?"

"You'd have died in a plane crash with your private jet perhaps."

"How enticing."

I grimaced. "Sorry."

"Enlighten me, Poppy Jude, are you in love with this Christian guy?"

"Good God, no. And it's Jude, just Jude. Nobody calls me Poppy Jude. Only my mother." (In German, the word 'pop' has one other, unequivocal connotation apart from the music style, and it has nothing to do with remembering the fallen soldiers, but I did not tell him.)

"Fine. Jude. — But are you certain? You don't want to convince him he's actually your soulmate? You know, like in the Julia Roberts movie? Where this other actress marries her best friend?"

My entire situation seemed to me like an assortment of Julia Roberts movies gone wrong.

"Cameron Diaz, you mean. No. Nothing of the sort."

"Fine. Because I'm not gay."

"That's your private affair."

"Yes, but in the movie, Julia Roberts gets her gay best friend to fake being her lover, doesn't she."

"I believe so."

"Well, I'm not gay."

"What does it matter?"

"Since I'm coming to the wedding as your fake date, I thought you should know."

"You're doing what?" I jolted up. 

"Sit down. Of course I'm coming. I'm stuck here until monday with nothing to do. You come like a gift from heaven. I get to crash a wedding! Cake, booze, eighties dance classics…"

I gazed at him open mouthed.

"I need a tux. Didn't bring one."

I did not get it. Was it a pill of some sort? Then I understood. 

"No, no, you can just wear a normal suit."

"I'll have to outshine the bridegroom, won't I?" 

Well. He'd have no difficulty whatsoever doing that. None at all.

Something buzzed. 

He fumbled in his jacket and brought out a smart phone. 

"How droll…" His eyes flashed. He got up and walked over to the window. "Hola hermana!"

Spanish.
Hello Sister.

All right, the surname
had
suggested something of the sort, hadn't it? Yet I had no idea about his ancestry. Why would I? I had never much cared about his sister. Who cares about people in the lower grades?

Having very sharp ears I could hear some scraps of what she said, something about a party and Sardinia, but I was not sure.

Then he spoke.

I will translate directly and fill in what I could overhear from her side too.

- Guess who I just met?

- … no idea…

- Your old schoolmate Poppy Jude Jansen.

- … German… … … with the French tutor?

- Haha, really? 

- … you sleeping with her?

- Not at the moment. How's our mother?

My blood was boiling. 

Who did he think he was? 

Only because I had chosen his name for my imaginary boyfriend? Who had by no means looked like him? 

Okay, that was untruthful. My fantasy man had looked very much like him. 

He briefly told her something about a guy called Jonathan breaking his leg and that because of it he was forced to stay in Hamburg until monday. Then it was good bye.

He turned back to me. "Did you really get caught with the French teacher?"

"
Quien dice eso, tu hermana
?" My anger at his macho remark about
not sleeping with me at the moment
had returned some of my self-assurance.

"Ah, Spanish. Occupational hazard, I guess, foreign languages."

"I'm surprised Laetitia actually noticed, I thought she was busy giving blow jobs to the local rugby team for cigarettes and weed."

He stared at me, eyes wide open. "I'm sorry?"

"It was an open secret."

He shook his head and sat down again. "The British private school education never fails to amaze me."

"It's highly informative by all means." 

"So," his cool was back. "You got caught sleeping with the French teacher while my sister was— was— uh— "

"— fellating the rugby team?" I helped. 

He nodded. "Wow. That's a good word. Err—yes,  while my sister was busy, uhm, fellating the rugby team."

"No, we only got caught watching French porn."

"French porn should certainly be in the curriculum of any girls' school. It would make the world a better place."

I shrugged. 

He shook his head. "My baby sister… with the rugby team. For dope! I can't believe it."

"Don't shoot the messenger."

"So did you fellate the teacher, too? He taught you French after all, didn't he?"

I rolled my eyes. "Very funny. I think we need not go deeper into this."

He was quiet for a moment, watching me. It made me want to squirm but I kept myself under control. Hardly.

"Now," he suddenly said, "if we are to pose as lovers, we should certainly know a little bit about one another, don't you agree? You work as a tour guide, you play the cello. That's all I know so far. You speak Spanish."

"French, Italian."

"Mandarin? Swahili?"

"No."

"Okay. Do you have a degree?"

"M.A. in history."

"School?"

"Cambridge."

"Hear, hear, so why the tour guiding?"

"It's my mother's business, actually. It's good money and I am quite independent. It took me some time to write my thesis but now I'm in the final throws."

"Ph.d.?

I nodded.

"How old
are
you?" he asked, obviously surprised.

"Twenty-six. Twenty-seven in June."

"You can't be. My sister's twenty-seven and she was a year below you, she just told me."

I didn't say anything.

"Are you a wunderkind or something?"

"No, not really, I just come from a household of academics."

He crossed his arms. "Do you have any hobbies?"

"Riding, skiing, yoga..."

"Sounds as if you could be my girlfriend. I play polo."

"Oh, really…"

"Did you guess?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Well, you're a half English, half South-American millionaire, what else would you be doing?"

"Actually, I'm a bill—" he halted. "My father's from Argentina. They play lots of polo there."

 Even though he had stopped himself I had picked it up. Actually he was a billionaire. He probably thought it was too vulgar pointing it out. I agreed.

"And how old are you?" I asked him.

"Thirty-seven."

"I see." 

"What, would that be too old? Should I rather say thirty-three? Would they believe it?"

Honestly, who cared how old he was when he was so beautiful? Nobody would ever doubt I was absolutely crazy about him.

"No, no, that's fine."

"We met in Cambridge? Last summer?"

"Yes, in a pub. The Silver Bell. I went to England to meet up with my college pals."

"I have to say, you were quite profound in your invention. — And I visited you whenever I could get away? Unfortunately, my father never was a diplomat."

"We'll say I made it up to cover for whatever you really do. Fortunately you're un-google-able."

"You googled me? And I really don't need to call my lawyers? — Never mind, I'm joking.  Actually, I'm paying some people quite a lot of money to keep my name off the internet."

"I see. Did you go to university? I told my parents Harvard."

"Harvard, yes. Correct. I must seem rather predictable."

"I couldn't possibly say."

Silence. 

He coughed politely. "Let's move on. When I visit you here, what would we be doing all day? Apart from you fellating me?" 

He did not smile, he did not laugh. The bastard simply sat there, waiting for my reaction!

The mental image of me doing exactly
that
swam in front of my eyes and for a nanosecond they flew down into his lap.

My breathing was coming harder. "I guess we'd go out? Have dinner? Hire a sailing boat? Meet my friends?"

"Sounds likely."

Right, candid camera would have shown up by now. I needed to come to terms with reality. This was no joke. 

Even more, I needed to get my thoughts away from his groin!

"Now, Ryan," I ventured, armouring myself in sarcasm, "why are you stuck here until monday? Is Jonathan in hospital? Has your private jet crashed? Do you have to lay a jewelled egg?"

"No. We're not related to those Fabergés, sadly. But my grandmother owned an egg."

Yes, he was very wealthy, I had got the message. 

"What happened?"

"I actually came here to pick up Myrtle, but then Jonathan broke a leg yesterday and couldn't come, now I have to wait for Angelo, but he won't be here until sunday night."

"Who are Myrtle, Jonathan and Angelo? They sound like three cross-eyed seagulls from a Disney movie."

For the first time since our little lift escapade, he smiled the sky splitting smile again. It hit me with a million volt. Bam!

"Not far off the mark. Myrtle's my boat and Jonathan's my skipper. He broke a leg in Antigua and Angelo's his replacement. The rest of my crew are staying at the City Inn."

"It can't be Hanseatischer Hof for everyone, eh?"

"Exactly. Well, I partly own some the City Inn chain, they always have to sleep in one of those."

"Is that what you do? Hotels?"

"No, not really."

"Then what do you do?"

"I own things. I'm a silent partner."

"I find you quite talkative."

His face turned serious again. "You'll find I'm a much less talkative partner when I'm doing something I'm thoroughly dedicated to."

I felt a pang. I was obviously not worth his thorough dedication.

"Does Myrtle get her annual check up at the shipyard?" 

"No. She's an old lady. Built in 1951. I bought her three years ago and I spent every free minute restoring her. Few as they were… But there are a few things I can't do myself at home in Antigua. She's here to get state of the art equipment, a new propeller, eco-friendly engines, solar panels for electricity, a little garage and such things."