How to Marry a Billionaire

by Elise Sax

  Cole is walking toward me with Bessie at his side, and Olivia ducks away. My backup hasn’t got my back. I’m backless. My blood pressure is off the charts. I’m ready to blow a gasket. I’m not a religious person, but I send out a prayer that he’s going to pass me by. It must be the wrong prayer because he stops two feet away from me and smiles.

  My knees buckle, but my jeans are so tight that I stay upright. Bessie introduces me.

  “Hello,” he says, his buttery, velvety baritone singing. I open my mouth, but hysteria comes out. I’m a giggling fool. I can’t stop. I sound like a cross between a hyena and a car with bad brakes.

  “Uh oh, I’ve seen this before,” Bessie says. “Beatrice, rev up your small talk. You can do it. Don’t lose it, now. Oh, geez. She’s got it bad. It’s like she’s left for the moon but forgot her rocket. Cole, honey, can you help?”

  “It’s all the fresh air,” he says. “City folk aren’t used to it.”

  He takes my hand, and time stops. I hear Barbra Streisand start to sing, and I glance over at the bandstand to make sure Babs hasn’t made an appearance. Nope. Barbra is just in my head. It’s the effect of Cole’s hand holding mine.

  His touch is Evergreen and The Way We Were all at once.

  “Nice hat,” he says, walking me away from the picnic grounds. In the corner of my eye, I see Olivia and Rosalind in heavy conversation, and I wonder if this was part of their plan.

  “Your hat is nice, too,” I manage to say. I’m not lying. He’s got a whole James Dean look going on. Jeans, boots, white button down shirt, and beautiful hat. Not a glow-in-the-dark rivet to be seen. His hand is large, warm, and dry, and it has some kind of superpower to make my insides do a rollercoaster act. We walk to the outer edges of the crowd, and he lets go of my hand in order to pull out a chair for me to sit.

  With all the strength that I can muster in my poor, suffocated legs, I bend to a sitting position. It’s torture, and I’m sure that I’m getting varicose veins and a terrible infection where I don’t want to get one, but the sight of Cole so close that I can smell his sweet breath soothes the pain.

  “Better?” he asks. I nod, stupidly. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure to meet. I mean, aside from Bessie’s introduction.”

  I urge my brain to start working. Not even in my worst moments am I this stupid, but I blame the Cole effect. It’s making my brain turn to mush. His close proximity is killing off my brain cells. I’ve never been more attracted to a man before. I’ve had a crush on him for a while, but being up close is overwhelming. The idea that he could be attracted to me is utterly ridiculous. He looks at me, giving me direct eye contact, and I wonder if he can read my mind. Because what I’m thinking is: I’d love to see you naked right now. Take me on this table like a wild man. You Tarzan. Me horny girl in tight pants.

  I’m also wondering if I remembered to pluck the long chin hair I found in the mirror this morning. Damn. Pretty sure I didn’t.

  My eyes drift for a split second, and I see Rosalind and Olivia standing at a distance behind Cole. They’re sending me signals, but I don’t know sign language or semi-for, or whatever it is they’re trying to communicate to me. But the presence of my backup bolsters me enough for me to remember my name.

  “I’m Beatrice Hammersmith. I work for you.”

  He arches one of his dark brown eyebrows. “You do? I thought I knew all of my employees. Please forgive me if I’ve overlooked you. I don’t know how that was possible.”

  Smooth. Smoother than pudding.

  Is he flirting with me? Is that even possible? Or maybe he’s making a snotty comment about my outfit. Yes, it’s got to be that. Although, he doesn’t strike me as snotty. But flirting? Can’t be.

  “Not really for you. I work for Extra Platinum Events, the company organizing the gala.”

  “Oh.” He smiles, and I flinch. It’s all I can do not to grab him and shove my tongue down his throat. I’m not exactly an assertive woman, but I don’t know how much more I can take. Besides, my tight jeans are more or less giving me a Pap smear, waking up that general area of my body, and it’s raring to go. I wish I knew the playbook. Rosalind and Olivia didn’t give me all the plans. Now what do I do? I’m not great with witty repartee. Usually, men pick me up and then steal all my belongings. I’m not used to actual flirting.

  “So, I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this week.”

  We will? What did he mean by that? Is he asking me out, or is it another reference to my glow-in-the-dark legs? My brain searches for something clever and flirty to say back, and in the miracle on the level of the splitting of the Red Sea, I find one. It’s the perfect line. It’s a line that will make Cole believe that I’m a sophisticated, sexy woman who he should love forever. But before the line can leave my mouth, a dog walks up and sticks its nose in my crotch.

  “Hello, little mutt,” I say. It’s a pathetic looking creature. Unloved and uncared for. I’ve never had a pet. Throughout my youth, I picked up strays, but my parents never let me keep one. “I think he needs water. Poor thing.”

  Cole smiles slightly, but he doesn’t say a word. I scan the area and find a metal dish and a bottle of water nearby. I creak up and manage to get the dish and put it down next to the dog. The sun hits the dish and blinds me for a second. I put my hand up like a visor and with my other hand pour the bottle of water into the dish.

  “There you go, little one,” I say.

  “That was very nice of you,” Cole comments. My face gets hot, and I touch my chin. Damn. The hair is there. The sun is burning brightly, hitting the metal dish and reflecting back up at me, like I’m the star of a Broadway show.

  “Uh,” I say. What was that witty line I was going to say? It was something about me and him and the rodeo and…Oh, hell. Under Cole’s gaze, my brain has turned to mush, again. To top it off, the dog ignores my friendly gesture and leaves in search of other crotches to sniff. I fiddle with the tablecloth, blocking the glare that’s coming off the metal dish. “That sucker’s hot,” is all I can think to say. Geez, I want to kick myself.

  Please, someone put me out of my misery. Do something. Make me smarter or distract Cole. Doesn’t he have other people to talk to and places to go? Why is he sitting here, watching me in my crazy outfit, fiddling with the tablecloth in order to block the spotlight on my chin hair?

  The universe hears me and dives into action.

  I hear screams, but I figure they’re in my head, along with Barbra Streisand, whose voice has dimmed, considerably. Cole stands and puts his hands out, palms forward. “Just stay calm,” he says, in his ultra-calm voice. Stay calm? Am I that obvious? “Take a step backward.”

  “A step backward?” I ask. Wow, rejection before the first date. He can’t even bear to be near me. I’m the biggest loser. I suck. But I want to know why. “Why?” I ask, throwing my hands up. The tablecloth, it turns out, is hooked on my watch, and it goes flying off the table.

  That’s when I notice the tablecloth is on fire.

  I try to shake it off me, but it’s hooked on good. I swing around like I’m a robot and it’s Danger, Will Robinson time, but the swinging just makes the fire spread until I’m tethered to an inferno.

  “Help,” I squeak, but I’m sure this is the end. I’m going to burn to death by a checkered tablecloth that I’ve set on fire with the power of the sun and a dog bowl that the dog didn’t even want. The only good thing is that the fire will burn my outfit and I won’t be caught dead in it. But burned alive isn’t a good look, even without the glow-in-the-dark pants.

  And burned alive hurts. I mean, I have no personal experience with it, but I’m assuming.

  “Help,” I squeak, again, and I swallow a mouthful of smoke. This is it. The end of the line.

  Just as I’m sure I’m toast—literally—I’m hit with a wave of liquid, which puts the fire out with a splash. I stumble backward a step under the pressure of the wave. I wipe my eyes just in time to see Cole tackle me, taking me down to the g
round, wrapped in another checkered tablecloth.

  I wonder if this is part of the plan.

  Cole wraps his arms around me and takes most of the impact of the fall, but he’s still on top of me, and I make a loud oomph noise when we land. The full length and breadth of me is covered by the most attractive man on the planet, and his face is nearly touching mine.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is deep and rich, throaty and sensual. I so wish I were naked.

  “You smell like beer,” I say.

  “That’s you. I threw a keg of Coors over you to put out the fire.”

  “Domestic beer. Very patriotic of you.”

  He smiles, and I realize that he doesn’t smell like beer. He smells like sex and money and something else I can’t place. “Beatrice Hammersmith,” he says, as if he’s playing with the feel of my name in his mouth. His eyes grow dark and bigger, and it almost seems like he’s going to kiss me.

  Oh, please kiss me.

  I don’t dare take the initiative and kiss him, because maybe I’m reading the situation wrong. After all, the reason he’s on top of me is that he’s saving my life. The reason he’s looking at me like this is because I almost set his ranch on fire.

  And I smell like beer.

  Gently, he gets up, lifting me up with him. He removes the tablecloth from around me and inspects my body for damage. I breathe deeply and try not to jump his bones.

  It’s so hard not to jump his bones.

  I’m drenched with beer, and my hat has fallen off. Cole picks it up and hands it to me with a frown. “I’m sorry the brim got burned.”

  I take it from him, but I don’t put it on my head. Around us, half of the barbecue guests are standing and watching the show. Bessie shakes her head at me, like I’m a bad hairstyle that she can’t do a thing with. I grow embarrassed. Well, more embarrassed than I was already.

  “All’s well that ends well,” Cole announces to the crowd. “There’s more beer where that came from!” The crowd cheers, and two pairs of hands grab me and pull me away.

  My backups have arrived.

  Olivia and Rosalind rush me away from the picnic grounds, each taking one of my arms. “Well, I think that went well,” Rosalind says. “Don’t you think that went well, Olivia?”

  “Yes, very well.”

  “There was a fire,” I say.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t too bad of a fire,” Olivia says.

  “Nothing important burned down,” Rosalind agrees.

  “He threw beer on me.”

  “Interaction with the target,” Rosalind says. “Perfect.”

  “He threw his body on me to put me out.”

  “Oh good. We’re ahead of schedule,” Rosalind says.

  We get to a small car, and Rosalind puts a layer of paper towels down on the backseat. “There you go. Sit on that, Beatrice. I guess we can wash you in tomato juice when we get back to the hotel.”

  “That’s for skunk smell,” I say.

  “What do we do for beer?”

  “I hear beer does wonders for your hair,” Olivia says, trying to put a positive spin on the situation.

  Chapter 5

  Beatrice

  Rosalind steps back a couple of feet and studies me. “I don’t know. More eyelashes?”

  “If she has any more, she’ll look like caterpillars are eating her face,” Olivia says, shaking her head.

  Showered and dressed in a robe, I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror as Rosalind and Olivia argue over my hair and makeup. It’s like they’re preparing the virgin to be sacrificed. I’ve been plucked and pulled and pushed and prodded. A whole lot of P-things.

  Why am I letting myself be tortured? I guess I’m still in shock over the fire. And I would be a lot worse if I hadn’t had the room service hamburger, fries, and a strawberry daiquiri.

  “I guess we can’t do any more,” Rosalind says, obviously disappointed in my face.

  Olivia nods. “It’ll have to do.”

  “All righty then,” I say, trying to ignore the slights on my personal appearance. I plop down on the floor and play Legos with Olivia’s kids. It’s good to distract myself from the fact that I’m due for another round of capture the billionaire in a couple hours at a cocktail my company is throwing.

  The kids are enjoying the suite as much as we are. It’s vast and decked out in every toy imaginable. The suite’s living room is a large, ornate area with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, showing a gorgeous view of meadows and mountains. I’m almost serene as I sit and play with the Legos, but Rosalind and Olivia have second thoughts and hover over me with more brushes and cosmetics.

  “Maybe some more…” Rosalind says, holding a large brush near my face.

  “It’s just a work thing,” I say, shielding my face with my hand. “Nobody cares about my makeup or my eyelashes.” But what I want to say is: “What if next time I set fire to him or electrocute him or cut off an arm?” I’m terrified of getting near him again. Wasn’t once enough? It was like getting trounced at a neighborhood baseball game. Isn’t it time to take our ball and go home? Do I really need more humiliation in my life?

  Olivia’s mother reads my mind. “What if she electrocutes him next time or stabs him with a dinner fork?” she asks from the chaise longue, where she’s watching Judge Judy on the big screen. I never thought about cutlery. I could do a lot of damage with stainless steel. I hope the cocktail party only serves finger foods and not a full meal. I probably can’t hurt anyone with a stuffed mushroom cap.

  “We’ve got it covered, Mom,” Olivia says, still studying me. Fool. She doesn’t understand the danger. I’m like the La Brea Tar Pits of bad relationships. I’m the North Star of dysfunction. If men don’t leave me, I’ll take them out with weapons of mass destruction. Anything so that happiness and love elude me. I’m cursed. Didn’t Olivia get the picture when I almost set Cole on fire today? Nope. She’s happy as a lark. There’s a knock at the door, and she skips to it. “That must be the babysitter,” Olivia announces happily. But it’s not the babysitter. Somehow, Bessie has found me.

  She’s still dressed in her cowgirl outfit, and she walks in like she owns the place. “There you are,” she says, eyeing me. She sits down on the chaise longue next to Diane, and Judge Judy gets her attention. “You tell them, Judy. Those morons…”

  “Right?” Diane says, obviously happy that someone recognizes a good show when they see it. “A contract’s a contract. They need to pay up.”

  “How are you, Bessie?” I say because saying “What the hell are you doing here?” is rude.

  “Just dandy. Just dandy,” she says, turning away from the TV. “I wanted to see if you needed something like aloe or antibiotic ointment.”

  I put the finishing touches on a Lego castle and hand it to Olivia’s oldest. “Thanks, but I didn’t get a scratch on me.”

  “It’s like a Christmas miracle in July,” Diane mutters. “Wish I’d seen it.”

  “It was a sight, all right,” Bessie says. “Are those your babies?”

  “No. Mine,” Olivia says. “I have very active ovaries.”

  Bessie looks from Olivia to Rosalind to me to the kids and then to Diane. “What’s going on here? This isn’t a cult, is it? You on that Sister Wives show or something? I smell a rat.”

  Of course she smells a rat. The room is filled with rats. We’re a rat zoo. We’re where the Pied Piper came to rest. Day one and we’ve been found out. I squirm under Bessie’s gaze. I’m a terrible liar. I bite my lip and flash a look at Rosalind. She’s the best talker, and I wait for her to answer, but she’s biting her lip, too. “We’re family,” Olivia says, finally. “We’re keeping Beatrice company. She doesn’t like to travel alone.”

  She smiles a wooden smile, and Rosalind copies her. They look like they’ve had strokes. Diane rolls her eyes, and I keep biting my lip. Bessie doesn’t seem convinced.

  Diane turns off Judge Judy. It’s the first time the television has been off since I arri
ved. “Beatrice’s hunting a billionaire,” she says, cutting through the crap. “We’re her support crew.”

  Bessie frowns. “Cole? You’re hunting Cole? Well, you’re not the only one. Every woman with duck lips and a pair of silicone floating devices on her chest has been trying to get into his bank account. There’s a parade of skinny women in his wake wherever he goes.”

  “Those tatas are silicone free,” Diane insists, defending me. “I know because I got an eyeful when we were cutting her out of her outfit. I don’t know about her lips, though. Are those yours, Beatrice?”

  They’re mine, but I’m thrilled that she thinks I paid for them.

  “And she’s looking for love,” Rosalind adds, finding her voice. “She wants Cole, and we’re going to help her get him, because we deserve happy endings, damn it.” She points at me. “Beatrice has loved and lost. No! Not lost. She’s loved and that love has been ripped away from her because it wasn’t real love. It was settled love. She settled. And now she’s following her heart. She’s not waiting for love to come to her. She’s going out and proactively, assertively grabbing it. And she deserves it.”

  Out of breath, Rosalind sits down on a chair. It’s a great speech, and even though it was dramatic, it’s true. I thought I was in love, but I thought wrong. I mean, how could I be in love with despicable men? I settled with each man I’ve been with. But there’s no settling with Cole. He’s the top of the line model.

  But Bessie is shaking her head and looking sad.

  “I’ve heard a lot of stories about love,” Bessie says. “When Mavis Stapleton told me that she lost her virginity to a Cabbage Patch doll, I took her at her word. When Johnny Jones said he cut his penis off so he would stop masturbating, I said blech followed closely by okay, Johnny. But Beatrice honey, you just met Cole for five minutes, and half of that time you were on fire. How can you know he’s the one?”

  Every head in the room turns toward me, including the children. I sniff, and a tear rolls down my face. How do I know that Cole Stevens is the one? He writes poetry and saves horses. When I look at him, my heart beats out of my chest. He smells like sex and money and something else I can’t place, but it’s good. So good.