Return Billionaire to Sender

by Annika Martin

  He takes a sip and sets down his glass. “Because it shows what an excellent executive coach you are. You should give yourself a little credit. And that observation you made the other day after that negotiation session—you said, ‘He wants his son to see the beauty in what he built. To see the human value in it instead of looking at it coldly as a commodity.’ It was a good point, though I didn’t know how to act on it until the dog anecdote. You really are brilliant, you know.”

  I frown. I meant that about our building, I want him to see the beauty in our building, in our community.

  “You are really very good. It’s as if you can’t help but be insightful and helpful, even though you were sent to torture and punish me—and not to worry, you are doing a fine job of it, what with the videos—you nevertheless helped me to get a little bit closer to attaining one of my most vital business objectives of this year. Never in my wildest dreams—”

  “I told you, I’m not here to punish you.” I swig a full half of my drink and put it down. Francine always says not to swig the bubbly, but I don’t care. “My goal as your coach is for you to have empathy. To see people as humans with hopes and dreams just like you. Trying to do the best that they can and—”

  “That part is an especially good touch,” he says. “Here to turn the devil good! To bring heart to the heartless.”

  Miserably, I rotate my glass. Am I making everything worse? I didn’t come here to make everything worse.

  “You’re not the devil,” I inform him. “And you’re not heartless. And that’s final.”

  Malcolm wears a ghost of a smile, meaning his lips don’t actually smile, but his eyes twinkle and his cheekbones become more gorgeously defined. The ghost-of-a-smile look is unbelievably hot on him. But then, most looks are unbelievably hot on him, being that he himself is unbelievably hot.

  And the fact that he thinks he’s heartless makes him even hotter. He’s forlorn and dangerous at the same time, a beautiful wounded beast.

  Sometimes I have this crazy impulse to put my hand to his chest just to feel his heartbeat, to let him see in my eyes that I feel his heart beating the same as anybody’s heart.

  And then I would draw my lips to his ear and whisper that he is not the devil.

  And maybe I would kiss him.

  Gah. What is wrong with me?

  I straighten up. “Also,” I continue, “wanting you to have empathy is not a touch.” I glance down at my phone as my mind crowds with images of pressing my palm to his heart. And maybe I would close my fist and grab up a bit of his shirt and maybe I would twist a little bit. Maybe I would pull him to me.

  It’s as if the grumbly gravity of Malcolm and his tragic dark thoughts about himself are turning me into a freak of lust. A predator in my own right.

  I ball my non-phone hand into a fist, as if that will keep my libido bottled up inside me. “Seven twenty-two. I hope you don’t think our session has officially begun. Because it hasn’t.”

  “Do you like seafood?” he asks. “They have some of the best here.”

  “I like seafood,” I say. “Unfortunately, I’m not here for dinner.”

  “That is unfortunate, being that a delicious dinner is on the way.”

  Right then, the waiter comes with a steaming plate of fried calamari and something that looks like raw tuna encrusted in sesame seeds, plus a plate of bruschetta with red sauce and shaved manchego.

  “Your favorite food,” I observe.

  “If I recall, it’s one of your favorites too,” he says.

  I sigh. It does look delicious. And I am hungry. I force myself to picture my friends back home, counting on me to save the building. But the food looks and smells delicious. And Malcolm is wearing his ghost of a smile again, beautiful in the candlelight.

  I press the starched-white napkin into my lap.

  18

  Malcolm

  * * *

  I like people to make sense. Everything I do in life is based on my ability to understand what drives people and to turn that knowledge to my advantage.

  But I still can’t make sense of Elle.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really is invested in the empathy thing, but that doesn’t add up. The kind of person who takes money from Corman to torture me is not the same kind of person who cares whether I have empathy or not. And the person who cares about my having empathy doesn’t force me to watch an endless documentary about some building.

  And then there was that kiss in the limo. Stunningly, mind-blowingly sexy. Elle is mind-blowingly sexy. How the hell does this country mouse have me seeing stars?

  “What?” she asks.

  Was I staring at her? “Dig in. The video’s not going anywhere,” I say.

  “Though we are on a schedule,” she reminds me primly.

  “Have you eaten?” I ask.

  “No,” she says.

  “You’re going to need to keep up your strength if you’re going to be battling the dark forces for my sorry soul.” I pass a plate. “Bruschetta?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “No?” I ask.

  She hesitates, then takes one. She’s excited about the food, though she struggles valiantly to hide that fact.

  I pretend not to watch—my country mouse doesn’t like to be onstage. She takes a bite and chews briefly. Her eyes flare, a private little reaction that sends a strange ripple through my chest. She finishes it, eyes unfocused, lost in pleasure.

  I’m more thrilled by this than I should be.

  “Calamari?” I ask. She nods. I put a few of the plumpest rings of calamari on the plate in front of her, and pass over the sauces.

  I focus on my food, barely tasting it—that’s how hard I’m monitoring her pleasure. “The bruschetta really is one of the perfect foods, don’t you think?” I say. “A tiny pizza, except with more artistry.”

  She nods. “Or a really amazing sandwich without all the bread.”

  “Yes, exactly,” I say. “A sandwich is slapping paint on the side of a barn, whereas the bruschetta is a perfectly crafted miniature.”

  She grins. “And a pizza is a mass mail circular, whereas a bruschetta is a carefully chosen and thoughtfully written postcard to a specific person.”

  “I’ve always wondered,” I say, “do letter carriers read the postcards?”

  “Never,” she says. “We would never read somebody’s private mail.”

  “Not ever?” I ask.

  “It’s the mail,” she says. “It’s private. That would be—” She shakes her head as though she can barely contemplate such a thing. It’s so her. I love it.

  We fall into a comfortable silence, enjoying the food. Since when is silence so comfortable with her?

  “I really am curious, though,” I say. “If you really were concerned with me developing empathy and/or saving my soul, how do those videos fit in?” I say. “What exactly is the methodology?”

  She blinks, looking caught out. She doesn’t answer for a long time—long enough that I think she might not answer at all. Then she says, “My methodology is proprietary.”

  My heart races. She is so perfectly maddening!

  “In fact, we should get to it,” she says.

  “No,” I say.

  “No?” she asks.

  “I’m done with the video,” I say. “It’s ridiculous. I’m done with it, Elle.”

  She stiffens. “What do you mean? You have fifteen hours left…”

  “Let’s stop this. No more games.”

  It’s time.

  I throw my napkin onto my empty plate and pick up my water. Elle has a bottom line just like anybody. A price just like anybody. It’s simply a matter of finding it.

  “A hundred thousand,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “What? What do you mean…”

  “You know what I mean. A hundred thousand for me to watch the video in my own way on my own time,” I say. “We’ll enjoy the rest of the dinner and I’ll watch the video in my room.”

  She
blinks. “A hundred thousand? You’re telling me you’d pay me a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “For me to manage the video portion of the lesson myself. You’d have full deniability.”

  “A hundred thousand, and you’ll play it with the picture and sound off while you shave or something.”

  “The video will be playing with me right there in the vicinity. Surely that meets whatever job description you’ve been given. You will still be making me watch the video, in a sense. Postal anecdotes and conversation, fine, but the video. No more video. Enough.”

  “I can’t do that,” she says.

  I say, “I’m being serious.”

  “I know,” she says. “Still.”

  I’m stunned. She’s turning down a hundred thousand? “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because you have to watch it,” she says. “In fact, we should get to it.” She’s setting it up.

  I sit up. Did she really just turn that much money down? “Two,” I say. “Double. Two hundred.”

  “No, thank you,” she says, not as quickly, though. She’s fast-forwarding the thing, locating the spot where we left off.

  A chill comes over me. What does it mean that she’s turning down this kind of money? Suddenly I can’t stop. I need to know her price. “Three.”

  “No.”

  “Five.”

  She frowns. “Do I have to give you an X for today?” she asks.

  “Are you not taking me seriously here? Because I assure you, I’m being serious,” I say. “You understand that, right?”

  “I’m just not interested,” she says. “Not everybody is interested in money.”

  I narrow my eyes. She’s not unaffected—that I can tell. “This offer won’t keep getting better. It may start going away.”

  “Good,” she says. “I want your offer to go away. It’s bribery. It’s illegal. It’s wrong.” She looks around the room, gazes through the open doorway. You can see clear through to the plate glass window in the main room, and the lights of the city street beyond it. There’s a couple in the far corner in the main room, heads bent over their meals. “Is it okay that we’re doing this in here?”

  Really? That’s her concern? “This restaurant doesn’t close for hours and there’s nobody in this entire section. Nobody would hear it. I think they’re fine with us sitting here.”

  She adjusts the angle of the screen.

  “That was five hundred thousand,” I say. “Dollars. Just so we’re clear. Cash, silently appearing inside whatever bank account you name. It wouldn’t go through Bexley or the lawyers. Nobody would know.”

  “I don’t want it.” With that she hits play.

  I stare, dumbfounded as the screen fills with images of people on the street outside 341, some with bikes. They’re rambling on about bike racks, and the perils of locking their bikes up to street signs.

  “Did you sign something swearing you wouldn’t take money from me?” I ask.

  “No. And that’s the last question you get. You’ll save your questions until the end of the presentation.”

  My mind is spinning.

  Why won’t she take the money? And if it’s not money, what does she want?

  “You could do a lot of good with that kind of money,” I try.

  “Shhh.”

  “It wasn’t a question; it was an observation.”

  She gives me a dark look, monitoring me until I pretend to be watching. She is not a wealthy woman. I know where she lives. I know where she came from.

  The video rolls on.

  What am I not seeing? Nobody is incorruptible—not even her. I was there in the limo when she gave in to that kiss, kissing me back, breathlessly indulging herself. She wanted the kiss every bit as much as I did—of that I am sure. She crossed a line then. Why the hell not cross this one?

  “Are you even watching?” she asks.

  “My eyes are pointed that way, so I’m technically watching, but really I’m thinking about something else.”

  “Do I have to start it over?”

  “God, no,” I say.

  “Then you’d better watch or you won’t get your check mark for the day,” she says.

  “But my thoughts are so much more interesting.”

  She backs up a few minutes and makes me watch it over. A discussion about bike racks.

  “Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking?”

  The way she blushes gives me a good idea of what she thinks I’m thinking. She’s pretending to watch the video, but I think she’s not. I can see the drumbeat of her pulse banging in her neck.

  “Elle,” I pursue. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Quit interrupting or we’ll start the hour over.”

  “What do you want? Tell me that.”

  “I’m gonna delete yesterday’s check mark if you don’t pay attention.”

  My blood races. What I’m about to do is crazy, even for me. But I have to know—can she truly not be bought? Is it possible? “A million dollars.”

  She hits pause and turns to me, pretty lips parted. “Excuse me?”

  “A million. All for you. Set for life.”

  She frowns, bewildered. “You would pay me a million dollars to stop making you watch these videos? You hate them that much?”

  “Yes, I hate them that much. And I’m offering you a million dollars to make it stop.”

  “Is it because you feel bad that these people are going to lose their homes?” she asks.

  “What?! Why does it matter?” I say. “The point is, I’d watch them as discussed, and you can report back with a clear conscience. You’d be able to report back that you forced me to watch them.”

  She shakes her head. “That doesn’t work.”

  “What do you mean, that doesn’t work?” A million dollars doesn’t work for her?

  “It just doesn’t,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to do the program that I have created.”

  I laugh. “Is this a joke? A million, Elle. Come on. It won’t be on the table forever.”

  “Good,” she says. “How about we get it off the table right now?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Do you want an X?” she asks.

  “What exactly is your deal with Corman?” I ask, mystified. “Does he have some kind of leverage over you? Are you in legal trouble or something?”

  “Is it so stunning to you that somebody would care about something more than money?” she asks.

  “In a word? Yes,” I say. “And if you care about those people so much, I just offered you a million dollars. You could buy the residents of the building their own condos.”

  “There are forty apartments in there. A million divided by forty is twenty-five thousand dollars per unit—maybe half that per person. That’s moving expenses, a down payment and a few months’ rent. They’d still lose their beloved homes.”

  “Out of curiosity, is there any price that would work?”

  A strange look comes over her face. She picks up her glass and contemplates the bubbles rising lazily up through the bright amber liquid. Then she turns her attention to me. “What would it cost to buy the building?” she asks.

  “The building’s not for sale.”

  “I thought everything was for sale,” she says.

  “Well, there is a price but I won’t pay you that.”

  “How about just to stop the project,” she says. “You keep the building as a landlord, and you let the people have their homes.”

  “Why do you care what I do with this building?”

  “You asked my price and I told it to you.”

  “Is there a hidden camera somewhere here?” I joke.

  She glares.

  “The project cannot and will not be stopped,” I tell her. “People have offered to buy the building and I’ve already said no. Think of something else.”

  “Why can’t you stop the project, or at least, redesign it, sparing the building?”

  “Wh
y do you care?”

  She sits up straight. “That is the program that I created,” she says. “You were mandated to undergo a program designed by an accredited coach—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say. “So if I promise to not knock down the building, you’ll graduate me? You’ll tick off all of the boxes on the form? No more video?”

  She stills right here, seems to consider her words carefully. “Yes. If you spare the building, I would consider you to have completed the course successfully.”

  “What kind of program outcome is that?”

  “My program is for you to have empathy. Saving the building would demonstrate to me that you have empathy for those people in the video, and that would be a…sufficient leveling up of emotional intelligence. I don’t see what’s so stunning about it all. This is the outcome I have set my mind to.”

  “But what if I spared the building because I hate the videos?” I say. “What do you want more? The empathy or the building?”

  She frowns. “You need to stop asking questions about my methodology. I just told you how you graduate from my program.”

  “Why ask for something impossible?”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” she says.

  “This ask of yours is impossible,” I say. “The 341 building is coming down. I own most of the block that’s bordered by Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Streets and Eighth and Ninth Avenues. I’m planning a massive redevelopment and 341 sits right at the center. If we didn’t knock it down, we’d have to redesign the complex to curl around the building on three sides, creating a chockablock look, and the hotel would have to be entirely redesigned and expanded on the side.”

  “So you could design around it,” Elle says, “but you’d rather not redesign the complex.”

  “I could redesign it, yes. I could also get a Hello Kitty facial tattoo as well. Neither thing will be happening. The redesign you’re proposing would be wrong on every level. It would be excruciatingly wrong.”

  “It’s their home, Malcolm,” she says.

  “Things need to die for new life to appear,” I say. “It’s the circle of life.”

  “It’s not my circle of life,” she says hotly.

  I lean in. “It’s called progress. It’s why New York City isn’t full of rickety, three-story death traps. When you really think about it, I’m the one with empathy, and you are truly without pity.”