Second Chance with Her Billionaire

by Therese Beharrie

  The September suppers the agency held had been a godsend for Marie. Psychologists, social workers and education specialists were all on hand to discuss problems and develop strategies. Without them, the pressure of the new school year might have swallowed Marie up and left her too isolated and anxious to have succeeded in her classes.

  Now she was going to be part of creating those dinners that had meant so much to her. As an adult, she had long accepted the fact that she would never be part of a typical family. But by working at the agency she was in some small way making other orphans feel that somebody cared about them. In that, she felt great pride and satisfaction.

  “There’s a note on my list to check the budget after the gala,” Marie reported to Felice.

  “We’ll have to see what funding the gala brings in, in order to determine how much money we can spend on the September suppers and how many of them we can offer throughout the country.”

  “Of course.”

  As a teen, it had never occurred to Marie how programs the APCF provided were financed. Only that they were able to help with the extra services people might not be able to afford. Orphaned children sometimes had mental health issues such as depression or post-traumatic stress disorder. Others had learning disabilities or physical conditions. And, maybe most important, once they reached adulthood there was often no place for them to turn for transitional help into higher education or the workforce. The APCF did as much as it could for as many as it could.

  Once she started working for the organization, Marie understood that any money it spent on its programs came from outside donations. She glanced up from her powwow with Felice and thanked the air surrounding her that this agency existed and that she was brought into it by one of her few schoolteachers who cared. A quick wince reminded her of some who didn’t.

  “I need to return a call.” Felice looked up from her phone to Marie. “Why don’t you continue to match up your notes and see how much information you have?”

  “Okay.”

  “Zander has all of the data for the gala on his own computer. He’s very specific about what he wants. He’ll go over that with you. We’re lucky to have him chairing the event this year, so let’s make every effort to facilitate his plans.”

  “Who’s Zander?” Marie realized that Felice hadn’t answered when she’d asked the first time.

  “Felice!” a shrill voice called out from the main office space.

  “Let me go deal with that—” Felice stood up “—and let’s touch base at the end of the day. After Zander comes.”

  As the director charged out the door, Marie asked yet again, this time to the back of her jacket, “Who is Zander?”

  * * *

  What a difference a year made.

  Zander de Nellay surveyed the sweeping view of the Cannes shoreline through the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors of his posh penthouse. The palm-tree-lined promenade of La Croisette followed the crescent-shaped curve of the sparkling Gulf of Napoule and its white-sand beaches. It was a sight to behold, indeed.

  Little, if nothing, of the vista appeared any different from how it had last spring. Although then, as he had in years past, Zander had stayed in an elegant suite at one of the grand dame hotels on the promenade. And had partied every night with Hollywood film producers and the glamorati who flocked to Cannes from all over the world.

  This season, he’d instead be ensconced in a penthouse apartment that kept the town’s constant revelry at arm’s length.

  Gliding one of the doors open, he stepped out onto the terrace. The sun was bright but the air was crisp, a combination he’d always enjoyed. Cannes in late spring was a marvelous place to be.

  Fortunately, to Zander’s precise specifications, the rental agent was able to find him a suitable penthouse with a terrace that was walled-in cement rather than the typical iron balcony railing, which he wouldn’t have trusted was safe enough for eighteen-month-old Abella, even though he knew she would never be outside on her own. But securely enclosed, Zander could create a little play area out here for her so that she could get plenty of the fresh sea air. He’d just need a patio umbrella or other covering to shelter her from the strength of the sun.

  He shook his head to himself. A year ago Zander was an unattached bachelor, much to his mother’s chagrin, with thoughts only of what suited him. He rotated his life between time spent in his native Charlegin, his apartment in Paris’s tony Sixth Arrondissement and his travels throughout the world on behalf of his charitable endeavors.

  Now his mind was on baby-safe balconies.

  Stepping back into the penthouse’s sitting room, he watched the deliveries arriving. Movers carried in the petal-pink upholstered rocking chair he’d had sent from his apartment in Paris. Rather than buying one here in Cannes, he wanted the exact chair that Abella had become comfortable with. Truth be told, he was accustomed to it, too. He loved quietly sitting in that chair with her.

  Yes, one of the most eligible playboys in Europe now found himself preferring to rock baby Abella in his arms than cavorting with the high society he’d always been surrounded by. And Zander was keenly aware of the realness exchanged between them in those moments.

  Heading toward the master bedroom suite, he saw Iris, a compact woman in her sixties who had been Abella’s nanny since the day she was born. “Is she asleep?”

  “She’s just starting to rouse.”

  There went that funny tap in the center of Zander’s chest. It was a sensation that had arrived around a year ago. The mere thought of seeing Abella pulled at his heart. Her cherubic pink cheeks and that cute way she stretched her back after a nap as if she’d been farming in the fields all day.

  “The wardrobe is here,” one of his assistants announced as Zander entered the master suite. “I believe you wanted to go over it.”

  Zander didn’t really envision himself as fussy when it came to clothes. But with all the charitable organizations he endorsed and all of the fund-raising benefits and balls he attended, his wardrobe had to be appropriate. He’d come to Cannes for the spring social season and would be attending a dozen formal events and countless others that called for business attire. Even the black slacks and black shirt he wore at the moment were bespoke from the finest tailor in London.

  “Create a file for me of what I’m wearing from head to toe for each event so that I don’t have to think about it on that given day,” he instructed the assistant. With Abella’s care always on his mind, it was more important than ever that he simplify everything else. Plus, while in Cannes he planned to devote himself to chairing the APCF gala and making it the event of the season, and he needed as much time as possible to do so.

  In fact, he’d be leaving the penthouse soon to go to the APCF office to meet with the event manager there. The agency’s director, Felice, had informed him that the previous manager had suddenly left. Zander hoped his replacement would be up to the task of creating the kind of spectacular evening he had in mind.

  If there was one thing Zander knew about, it was raising money. He made a great deal of public appearances to support good works all over the world. He gave his time and his notability freely, making it his life’s work in fact. Now it was payback time. He expected many of his wealthy friends and acquaintances to donate generously to the APCF gala.

  “I’ll wear the white-jacketed tux for the Clean Water for Africa fund-raiser,” he began. Most of the tuxedos were all black. One had traditional notch lapels, another a thin shawl collar that gave it a retro look. “This one for the cocktail reception with the film festival judges.”

  Another was made of velvet, a fabric that was considered very chic right now although Zander wasn’t convinced it suited him. He didn’t assign that one to an evening. There was the two-button he’d wear with a black shirt. Then the charcoal with the double-breasted jacket, the navy with the black lapels that he quite liked, the all-navy one an
d the peak-lapel gunmetal gray.

  “White shirt with everything but the two-button.”

  Finally, he inspected the unusual tuxedo for the Mexican-themed gala that his stylist had ordered. With heavy black embroidery atop the shinier black fabric of the jacket’s lapels, it was a unique piece that would fit well with the evening.

  After rattling off instructions for everything from cuff links to socks, Zander turned to the second closet. There were a dozen suits with coordinating shirts, ties and shoes. Casual clothes suitable for boating or country drives. Golf and tennis wear. Beach attire. Everything was in order.

  Except his mind. Thoughts of the constant socializing and the superficial women who gravitated toward him, who cared only about what they could get from him, all felt so stale. Maybe it was the baby, but a longing was starting to grow in him. For something different. Something new.

  He’d RSVP’d for all the season’s events as a party of two, not willing to face the firing squad alone, but really having no idea whom he’d bring along as his plus one. He’d planned to think of a platonic friend he could make easy chitchat with. Who wouldn’t immediately misread his invitation to accompany him as a proposal into his world.

  Misjudging a woman’s intentions had only too recently stung him hard.

  Frankly, he couldn’t think of a woman who would fit the bill, but he’d deal with that later.

  Zander left his bedroom suite. Although he told himself he’d only poke his head in to see if she was fully awake, he instead gently pushed open the door and slipped into baby Abella’s bedroom.

  “Well, look at you, Bell-bell.” She was sitting upright in her crib, her curly blond hair tousled this way and that. “You’re all the way awake already.”

  “Up time,” she said, having only recently begun attempts at true conversation. “Up.”

  “Yes, Bell-bell. Up.”

  No further prompting was required. Zander hurried to the side of her crib to reach in, put each of his hands under the baby’s arms and lift her out. He brought her against his left shoulder, as had become his routine after Iris had taught him the proper way to securely hold a baby. Zander could never figure out what the gaga noise Abella made was meant to signify, but she always did it when he picked her up.

  She twisted herself sideways a bit to stare at Zander’s face.

  His eyes met hers. It was like looking in a mirror. Those dark brown, almost black, almond-shaped eyes that they had in common. The same almond eyes that his sister, Elise, had had. He could never look at Abella without thinking of his sister, his heart shattering at missing her so. Wishing he could rewrite the past so that Elise could be here right now and see how much Abella was growing and developing.

  Zander and Abella continued the eye lock that they did frequently. Which he took as some kind of unspoken declaration of mutual love.

  “Da,” Abella said.

  Da. As in Daddy.

  “No, Bell-bell. Uncle Zander. Can you say Zander?”

  “Da.”

  “Zan. How about you say Zan?”

  “Da.”

  Each time she uttered that syllable it was with more determination and certainty than the time before, despite his protests. The word filled Zander with confusion about the decisions that were going to have to be made. Maybe not today, but soon.

  He held the baby closer, inhaling the lovely smell of that fruity, organic and toxin-free shampoo Iris used on her hair.

  As Zander carried Abella into the living room, a grocer arrived with food. Iris came toward him to take Abella if that was what he so desired.

  Not ready to let go just yet he said, “I’ll hold her for a while.”

  With all the comings and goings, the front door was left open. Three quick knocks against the doorjamb brought Zander’s attention. It was the penthouse’s rental agent, who upon spotting Zander, folded one arm rigidly across his waist and bowed forward. He sputtered in a nervous voice, “Is everything to your liking, Your Highness?”

  * * *

  Four hours passed before Marie looked up from her laptop. Having combed through every single file her predecessor, Jic, had left, she finally had a grasp of what information there was and what more was required for her to move forward with the APCF events calendar.

  She hadn’t been privy to why Jic abruptly up and left his position, only that he’d had some personal problems to attend to. The fact that some of the files were in decent shape and others were an indecipherable hodgepodge told her that Jic’s departure had been hasty and unplanned. He hadn’t left clear instructions for whoever was to take over. Marie had made as many notes as she could and jotted down questions to ask Felice at the end of the day.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something dark beyond the glass separating her office from the main work floor. As she lifted her face from the computer screen, what met her gaze was quite a surprise.

  A man had his arm up, hand making a fist as if he was just about to knock on the glass to get her attention. But it wasn’t just any man. It was, without question, the most attractive man Marie had ever seen in her life. At least six feet three inches tall, he wore a black shirt tucked into black pants with a brown belt, topped by a brown jacket. She thought the combination of the black and brown was impossibly tasteful.

  The color palette didn’t stop with the clothes. His unusually shaped eyes were the darkest of browns, practically black, with his defined bone structure forming an unforgettable face. The crowning touch was a full head of thick, straight blond hair, expertly cut so that some fell forward from his forehead and the rest stayed put around his ears. Marie was sure there was never a hair out of place on the man’s head.

  Because he had frozen midknock, it was as if she was looking at a still photo. So she jolted when he moved to lower his arm and flash her a megawatt smile. His perfectly white teeth all but glistened in the office’s harsh overhead lighting. Marie smiled back, no idea who he was or why he was in her doorway. But it wasn’t often—okay, never—that an elegant and gorgeous man was grinning at her. She’d be crazy not to smile back.

  While it was difficult to do anything but sit there and stare at the magnificent specimen of the human race, it occurred to Marie that she should get up and open the door to see who he was. Standing and moving toward him, she hoped her pants weren’t too creased from sitting at the computer for so long. She hadn’t checked her hair in hours, either, and knew that it could be an absolute mop at this point. Her lipstick had faded ages ago.

  There was nothing she could do about any of that.

  “Can I help you?” Marie asked after opening her door.

  “Are you Marie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Felice suggested I see you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m Zander de Nellay.”

  Oh. The gala’s chairperson. Marie had been reading about him in the files.

  Jic had noted three facts about Zander. Wants what he wants. Insists everything be of top-notch quality. Offering to pay the difference if anything goes over budget.

  That seemed fair enough to Marie. On the private handwritten notes, Jic had doodled a little crown above Zander’s name. Marie wondered if Jic was indicating that he was kind of a diva, or thought he was a king, or that he was formal and fussy.

  “Marie Paquet.” She thrust out her hand for a handshake. His joined hers in what she figured would be a traditional business greeting between two people who had never met.

  The last thing she was expecting was for his hand to be big and strong and to convey friendliness rather than protocol. She surely wasn’t prepared for the affection coming from the center of his palm to slide up her arm and down the entire right side of her body, so robust it actually made her torso bend toward it.

  Once she was able to stand up straight again, she gestured for him to enter her office and closed t
he door behind them.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just started today so I haven’t had a chance to set up,” Marie felt compelled to explain. She didn’t want him thinking she was some kind of slob with the boxes and stacks of paper everywhere cluttering up such a nice office. That was a sore spot with her because once people learned about her troubled upbringing, they assumed she was somehow unorganized or nonfunctional. It was always an uphill battle to prove them wrong.

  “That’s fine,” Zander dismissed her concern. “This was Jic’s office up until a couple of days ago and it was in the same condition then.”

  “Do you know why he left so suddenly?”

  “I was expecting you to have the answer to that question.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t.”

  Marie brushed her bangs to the side and tamped down her hair. She didn’t know why she was nervous around this man, other than that he was the gala chair. It wasn’t just that he was good-looking. Maybe it was that he had an undeniable air of style and class about him. Which was something Marie always admired in people. Traits that she surely knew nothing about, having grown up in whatever was the opposite of grace and refinement.

  Wow, Zander de Nellay was tall. Fairly petite herself, Marie had to lean her head back to see his eyes. Although she didn’t like his expression when he looked down at her. Because she imagined he was looking down at her.

  And she’d sure as heck had enough of that in her life.

  Marie reminded herself that she was projecting that onto Zander. She didn’t know him well enough to be able to read his thoughts on anything, and he didn’t know anything about her. A man like him, chair of a huge charity event, wearer of fine clothes, possessor of a splendid face, probably wasn’t even thinking about how inexpensive Marie’s trousers were or that she needed a haircut.