How to Marry a Billionaire

by Elise Sax

  “I don’t know that he’s the one,” I say, finally, and more tears fall down my cheeks. I’m reasonably certain he’s the one. I mean, he would be the one—I’m sure of it--if only he would fall in love with me, but that’s a longshot. Like getting struck by lightning while I’m holding the winning Powerball ticket kind of longshot.

  So this is the end. Bessie is going to rat us out to Cole, and Cole is going to believe her because she was his kindergarten teacher. Then, Cole is going to tell my boss, and I’m going to be fired, fired, fired. Canned. Thrown out on my ear. Unemployed, as well as homeless without even a pot to piss in or a panini maker. I love paninis. I look at Olivia. She feels it, too. Her five-star presidential suite with room service and an on-call babysitter are about to go bye-bye. I feel like a terrible heel.

  Then, another miracle happens. Bessie squints hard at me, as if she’s reading something on my face, and nods. “You do love him,” she says, surprising me. “I can see it in your eyes. I thought so when I saw you look at him, and I was sure of it when you set yourself on fire. But I had to test you, and you’ve passed. I like the idea of you and Cole Stevens. He needs a real woman. A woman with real boobs. And even though you’ve got a Friday the thirteenth stink on you, I think he’s strong enough to handle it, even if you set him on fire or stab him. Who knows? Maybe that’ll be good for him. Everything comes too easy to him, anyhow.”

  It’s like getting the housekeeping seal of approval in a warped, insulting kind of way. I’m not sure how to respond.

  “So sign me up, ladies,” Bessie continues. “I want to be part of the support crew. I want to help with Operation Billionaire.”

  “Are you crazy?” I ask. “Are you off your meds?”

  But everyone else is delighted by this change of events. Olivia applauds, and Rosalind joins her. Diane offers Bessie a piece of her Toblerone, and she accepts it. “I’ve got lots of ideas on how to make this happen. I think this can work.” She slaps her hands together in glee.

  “Good,” Rosalind says. “You’re going to come in handy for logistics and reconnaissance. You’ll be our mole.”

  “Reconnaissance?” I ask, but they’re huddling, deep in conversation and don’t hear me. There’s a knock at the door, and I answer it. The babysitter, a teenage girl with long brown hair and a face covered in freckles, who seems thrilled to take care of four young children, walks in and goes right over to the kids. Unfortunately, time keeps ticking away closer to the cocktail party.

  Olivia introduces herself to the babysitter and gives her a lot of instructions, while Rosalind and Bessie herd me back into the bedroom to dress me for the evening. Thankfully, I wear a little black dress that fits me perfectly with not-too-high heels. I’m almost comfortable, even in my two-pound eyelashes and thick makeup.

  “Do not, under any circumstances, touch your mouth,” Rosalind says. “You’ve got fifteen coats, and those lips have never looked better.”

  “But it’s a cocktail party. That means there will be, you know, cocktails.” Nobody is going to stop me from sucking down a cocktail. Or four. I’m not going another step sober.

  “You can hold one, but don’t drink.” Rosalind furrows her brow. “Don’t give me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “Insubordination. Rebellion. Insurrection. Beatrice, remember that men look at eyes and lips. Those are two tell-tale signs of fertility and eroticism.”

  I never knew that I had tell-tale signs of fertility and eroticism, but I take her word for it. Now that I’m dressed, and my tell-tale signs are covered in the best of what the beauty industry has to offer, I’m given the go-ahead to leave. Bessie accompanies me, even though she’s not invited to the cocktail party. She insists that as a local, she doesn’t need an invitation. I’m glad for her company because my nerves are pulled tight, and my stage fright is back in spades.

  Just as we get to the door, Olivia hands me a tiny ear bud. “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “This way we can warn you if you’re on fire,” she says, holding up an industrial-sized fire extinguisher. “We’ll stay close if you need to be put out.”

  “Okie dokie.” I stick the earbud in my ear. I’m pleased that I have an early detection system in case of impending catastrophe, but I’m going to need a cocktail.

  “What a snooze,” Cindy Graves tells me as soon as I walk in the door. “We’re supposed to be event planners, but whoever among us planned this shindig is going to get tossed on their ear.” She holds up an appetizer. “Shrimp puff, but there’s no shrimp. You know what a shrimp puff is without the shrimp?”

  “A puff?”

  “No. It’s crap.” She tosses it over her shoulder and throws back the rest of her drink. We’re five minutes into the party, and she’s blotto. She’s rocking on her feet, and I’m slightly seasick watching her.

  “I’m Bessie.” Bessie shakes Cindy’s hand, pumping like she’s thirsty and is expecting water to flow from Cindy’s mouth. Cindy nods, yanks her hand away and walks back into the crowd, weaving and stumbling. “City gal,” Bessie says to me, as if that explains everything about Cindy.

  The party is located on the ground floor of a building structure near the equestrian center. Like our hotel room, it has floor-to-ceiling windows, and we’re being treated to the end of a magnificent sunset. The room is lit with twinkly white lights and candles. There are about fifty guests, in addition to my colleagues, who are schmoozing.

  “I have to meet and greet,” I tell Bessie.

  She takes my hand and pats it. “That’s why I’m here, honey. I’m your cover. It’ll look like you’re working on me until we eye the target.” She giggles. “Oh, I feel just like John Wayne.” She does a terrible John Wayne impression and walks into the room, as if she’s riding a horse.

  “Testing, one, two, three,” I hear in my ear bud, scaring me half to death.

  “You’re doing it wrong.”

  “I’m pushing the button, like it says in the manual. Can you hear me, Beatrice? Roger. Over.”

  “Yes, I can hear you,” I say.

  “What?” Bessie asks. I point to my ear.

  “Can you hear me? Can you hear me? This is Rosalind. Oh, shit, Olivia. It’s not working.”

  “Maybe you’re not talking loud enough. Beatrice! Beatrice! Can you hear me?! Roger! Over!”

  I clutch my head in pain and stumble over to the wall. “I can hear you,” I screech, drawing some stares. I lower my voice. “Be quiet. I can hear you.”

  “Nothing, Rosalind. I think we got a bum microphone.”

  “Those bastards at Best Buy. They told me…Oh, hold on. Of course. Duh. Beatrice doesn’t have a microphone. Beatrice, if you can hear us, go to the window near the chocolate fountain and give us the thumbs up.”

  “They’re checking my ear bud,” I tell Bessie, and we walk over to the chocolate fountain. A server with a tray of champagne flutes walks by, and I grab a glass.

  “No, you don’t,” Rosalind says in my ear. “We’re watching you.”

  I squint against the glass. There’s a car across the street, and I see a glint of something inside. They must be watching me through binoculars. I wave.

  “Don’t be obvious,” Olivia instructs. “Pretend we’re not here. Be yourself. Roger. Over.”

  “Except be sexy and sophisticated,” Rosalind adds.

  “Yes. Do that. Roger. Over.”

  I’m so distracted by the voices in my ear, that I’m oblivious to the sounds around me. Strong hands clap my upper arms and turn me around, making me gasp in surprise. I look up—way up—into Cole Stevens’ eyes. He’s taller than I remember, even though he’s not wearing a hat, now. He’s got on a perfectly tailored black suit, and he looks like he popped off of a GQ cover, in order to eat appetizers with Idaho’s upper crust.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “There he is. That’s Cole. Roger. Over.”

  “She knows that, Olivia. Who else would it be?”

  “Act cool, Beatrice. T
hink Angelina Jolie in Mr. And Mrs. Smith…but without guns. Roger. Over.”

  “Did you hear me?” Cole asks. I rub my ear. As soon as Cole has his head turned, I’m going to rip the bud out my head.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Hey there, Cole,” Bessie says, interrupting. Her lips are outlined in chocolate, and she’s holding a chocolate-covered marshmallow. Cole raises an eyebrow, as if he’s confused by her presence. “You remember Beatrice,” she continues. “I already told her that I was your kindergarten teacher.”

  Cole smiles. “Did you? Yes, Bessie was a wonderful kindergarten teacher,” he tells me. “She taught me everything I know about finger paints. I looked for you this afternoon,” he says, changing the subject. “I couldn’t find you. I was worried.”

  Bessie pops the marshmallow in her mouth. “Not a scratch on her. Amazing, right?”

  He looks me up and down, and I squirm under his gaze. “Beatrice Hammersmith.” When he says my name, a warm, oozy sexy feeling covers me, like I’ve been dipped in Cole cooties.

  The yummiest cooties on the planet.

  “Oh,” I manage.

  “Is your nose running, or are you drooling? Roger. Over,” Olivia asks. I surreptitiously wipe my chin. “Don’t be afraid of him. He’s just a man. Or maybe not. Rosalind, do you think he’s been genetically modified like soy beans? I mean, how else do you explain it? He’s like a Ken doll but with all the parts. Roger. Over.”

  “Like a GI Joe doll,” Rosalind says.

  I’m desperate to throw away the ear bud. Cole’s lips are moving, but I haven’t heard a word he’s said. I nod and smile, anyway. He raises an eyebrow and smiles back at me.

  “Bessie, may I steal Beatrice for a moment?” he asks.

  “Yeah, sure, honey. Have a good time.” She double-winks at me and turns back to the chocolate fountain. I down my champagne and put the glass down on the table.

  “You left half of your mouth on the champagne flute,” Rosalind complains. “All that work, and now you look like you don’t know how to color in the lines.”

  I reach for a napkin to clean up my mouth. I give it a couple dabs. Cole gives me his elbow, and I slip my arm through his. I’m touching him. He’s touching me. There’s touching happening! I check to make sure I’m not on fire. Nope. No flames. Huh, that’s funny. I feel like I should have flames shooting out of my pores. At the very least, my liver has melted. But the fact that he’s touching me for reasons not associated to dousing a fire is a definite step upward in Operation Billionaire. Yay!

  Pretending to sneeze, I turn my head and give a thumb’s up toward the window and smile at my backup. There’s a scream in my ear.

  “Don’t panic,” Olivia says. “It will be fine. Just excuse yourself for a moment and get to the bathroom. Roger. Over.”

  What is she talking about? This is the moment I’ve been waiting for ever since Shlomo Kurtz dumped me at eighth grade summer camp and stole my Samsonite weekender bag.

  “Are you crazy, Olivia? She looks like Bozo got drunk and attacked her. It looks like the French flag and Irish flag are screwing her up her nose. She looks like a walking advertisement for every episode of Botched, combined. Listen, Beatrice. Panic, now. The shit is hitting the fan. I repeat, the shit is hitting the fan. This is an amber alert, terrorist warning, five-alarm fire situation. I told you not to drink. Get to the ladies room pronto. Sonofabitch, I don’t think she hears me. Is this thing on?”

  There’s a loud banging in my ear, and I slap at my head to dull the pain. I’m still arm in arm with Cole, and he doesn’t seem to be at all freaked out by my face. Could Rosalind and Olivia be exaggerating, slightly? Do I break this magical moment with the man of my dreams in order to check my face in the bathroom?

  No.

  A Cole in the hand is worth ten in the bush. Bush…the double-entendre makes me blush and I forget completely what Rosalind and Olivia told me to do. Oh, well.

  There’s static and crackling in the ear bud, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m thrilled that we’re walking out of range, and I try to ignore the static and focus only on Cole. We walk out of the room and down a dark, empty hallway. He gently pushes me up against the wall and puts his finger under my chin, tilting my head up.

  “Do you know me?” he asks.

  “Do I what?” His face is granite, chiseled from beautiful stone. His eyes are dark, and he has nicer eyelashes than mine. “You’re Cole Stevens. You’re the Aerospace King.”

  “But we’ve met before?”

  For a moment, I’m sure that he knows I’ve been cyber stalking him for the past six months, but I’ve been careful, and there’s no way he could know that I’ve been watching his houses on Google Maps. I even taped over my video cam in case he had some kind of reverse hacking technology attached to Google.

  “No, but like I said, you’re my client,” I say. “Well, the client of the company I work for.” He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes my face. “Am I?...Was I?...Was it?...Did it look like two flags were doing something bad to my nose?”

  He smiles, folds his handkerchief, and puts it back in his pocket. “Pity to cover your lips with lipstick,” he says. Nora Roberts couldn’t have written it better. He stares at my mouth, and my insides throb and melt just like in a romance novel.

  If he would only wear a kilt, this scenario would be perfect.

  “You…” I start.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “You’re nicer than I thought you’d be.”

  “You mean for the Aerospace King? For a titan of industry and the one percent of the one percent?”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Yes, you did. So, how nice am I? Mickey Mouse nice?” He puts his palm on the wall above my head and leans in until his jacket’s lapels graze my chest. Something tells me that he’s not Mickey Mouse nice.

  “Maybe not,” I croak. My mouth is a desert. A giant cotton ball. I couldn’t find saliva in a lake of it. It’s not a mystery. All my fluid is settling down lower away from my mouth, as if it’s preparing for him. I have a vagina scout. Always prepared.

  “I’m going to kiss you, now, Beatrice Hammersmith,” he informs me, leaning in even closer. I nod with my mouth agape. I hope he’s a man of his word. He is. He’s all kinds of man, and his all kinds of manhood is pressing against my belly through our clothes.

  Oh, my.

  Chapter 6

  Beatrice

  Maybe Cole is crazy. Or maybe he hit his head when he tackled me to put the fire out. Or maybe he’s got night blindness. Or maybe he just has really bad judgment.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  His beautiful lips are almost touching mine. “Yes, I’m reasonably sure I’m going to kiss you.”

  I scan the empty hallway. “You might have me confused for someone else. I’m Beatrice Hammersmith from L.A. People mistake me for others all the time. See? I have a very common forehead.”

  He pulls his head back. “From L.A.? Oh, damn. I thought you were Beatrice Hammersmith from Arkansas. Phew. That was close. I almost kissed the wrong woman.”

  That’s what I figured. I mean, look at him. He’s blindingly good-looking, even in the dark hallway. He could signal ships at sea with his good looks. And since we’re in a landlocked state, that’s saying something. Meanwhile, I’m a reject. A five-time reject. He can’t possibly want to kiss me.

  Cole smiles.

  “You’re like a cold wind,” he says, leaning back in.

  “A cold wind?”

  “A wind in the heart of winter that blows so strong and cold that it seeps into your bones, and you can’t get it out. Right in my bones, pretty wind.”

  “Oh,” I breathe, just as he captures my mouth with his. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulls me tight. My head spins round and round, and even though I may be a cold wind, I’m a thousand degrees, lava hot, and about to blow.

  The ear bud crackles. “Can you see her at all? Roger.
Over.” Olivia asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Maybe that’s a good sign. We would see her if she set another fire. Roger. Over.”

  “Beatrice! Beatrice!” Rosalind yells into my ear. “Make a sign if you hear me!”

  “We’ve got to get in there. Our mole is busy with the appetizers. We can’t just leave Beatrice on her own. Roger. Over.”

  “Beatrice! Make a sign!”

  Cole steps back, breaking our kiss. I open my eyes, but my head is still spinning. I paw at his chest. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I was hearing voices,” he says, looking around.

  “Maybe you got mice in here,” I say. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, I pull him in for another kiss. It’s a doozy. He’s a really good kisser.

  Our tongues touch again, and somehow my dress inches up around my hips, my knee rises, and our pelvises lock together. It’s a good thing I practiced with Legos earlier.

  But all good things come to an end, and after about ten minutes of the best Happy Days Inspiration Point necking I’ve ever experienced, Cole steps back and takes my hand.

  “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  Interesting? I pucker up again, but his lips are gone. I guess interesting means it’s over. Kiss and goodbye.

  Interesting.

  He grins and wipes my mouth with his handkerchief, again. I take it from him and wipe his face, too. The entire lower half of his face is three shades of red. Rosalind is going to be so pissed. The ear bud crackles loudly.

  “It’s getting late. May I walk you home?” he asks. Ohhh…Relief washes over me. Interesting doesn’t mean goodbye. Interesting means that he wants to move the party elsewhere. I don’t think about the logistics of taking him back to our suite. I’m still in the cloud of happy from his lips, and I imagine that his lips could make my happy cloud even bigger.

  I accept his offer to “walk me home” with a nod because my vocal chords don’t want to work. He bends down and picks up my left shoe, which was flung halfway down the hallway while we were kissing. While his back is turned, I rip the earbud out of my ear and toss it behind me. Kneeling, he holds out my shoe. I hold onto his shoulder for support and slip my foot into the shoe just like Cinderella. His hand gently caresses the top of my foot and lets it down onto the floor.