Billionaire on Board

by Dasha G. Logan

  He awaited me in the lobby, beaming with gratitude, so glad I had been able to make time for the last three hours (which gained me a salary of 200 euros and a 50 dollar tip). Would I not like to join him for a nice glass of champagne or a hot coffee and something to nibble? A plate of avocado tuna saffron sushi crisps and sautéd lobster chops perhaps?

  Of course I would.

  So the marketing director, his PA, his PA's PA and I jaunted into the hotel's own snug little deli where our snack was charmingly laid out.

  It was teatime and the place was bustling with hotel guests and upperclass Hamburgers who had come in for a a cup of tea after their holiday's walk around the lakes. The two utterly delightful barmaids were busily - but ever so happily - taking orders, serving cake and collecting payment. I greedily munched the sautéd lobster chops and slurped my champagne.

  My group was just discussing with some schadenfreude the latest delay to our new concert hall's opening, when one of the barmaids said something behind me that nearly made me bite into my glass.

  "Thank you, Mr. Corvera-Fabergé."

  I turned around and stared.

  Ryan Corvera-Fabergé existed!

  Well, of course he existed, I knew he existed because I had seen him once for approximately fifteen seconds in my boarding school's driveway on the first day of term. He had given a lift to his sister Laetitia Corvera-Fabergé, who had been one year below me and with whom I had never spoken a word in two years of school. I had only heard her say "Bye, Ryan" when she had got out of his Mercedes convertible, twelve years ago.

  He had been the most beautiful creature I ever beheld… and here he was. Right in front of me.

  Was this a sign? Was here my salvation?

  Or was here the taunt for my hubris? For claiming he was my boyfriend although in truth he did not even know of my existence?

  I knew nothing about him either. He was fantastically good-looking, obviously wealthy and had a sister called Laetitia. The story about him being a diplomat's son was a complete invention though. I had merely used his name because it had sounded so utterly, filthily jet set! I had tried to google him after I had so carelessly recruited him - in an onslaught of wishful thinking - but I had found nothing, except some old regatta results.

  "Do I know you?" he drawled in a crisp English, fresh from the royal polo fields.

  "Ah, Mr. Corvera-Fabergé!" The marketing director eased in genially as his profession demanded. "Miss Jansen here is your bet if you're looking for an excellent city guide. I hope our espresso was to your satisfaction, it's made of Blue Mountain semi-fermented beans from Java, roasted in our own little roasting facility."

  "Aha. How very interesting, Mr…?"

  "Schiedemöller, I'm the marketing director."

  "Ah yes." He nodded and turned away.

  "Ich glaube, ich spinne!" I yapped. It is best translated with 'I think, I'm going crazy'.

  Ryan Corvera-Fabergé turned around again, a slight frown marring his perfect brows.

  They were not the only parts of him being perfect.

  He had bronzed skin and dark, shiny hair, parted sideways and elegantly swiped back like you can see it on the male models in fashion magazines. Rudolph Valentino or Cary Grant style, but not greasy at all. His face was aristocratic, with high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, a very clean cut and immaculately shaved jaw, an elegant mouth and very dark eyes, now narrowing to slits. He was tall and lean, his legs were long and his shoulders were broad. He was coming directly from a Giorgio Armani fantasy. Fittingly, his clothes were exquisite too. Not of English, but of Italian tailoring, I guessed. Probably Ferragamo or Ermenegildo Zegna (those were the only names I knew.) He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt, a bronze coloured tie and brown shoes. You know, the ones these types always wear. The ones with the holes.

  He snarled. "I beg your pardon?"

  "No-nothing…" I whispered, dazed, still unable to turn away.

  "Are you ill or something?"

  "Miss Janson?" The marketing director was obviously embarrassed.

  But I was still suffering from shock at this epiphany.

  The epiphany's face changed from frowning to questioning and for the first time he really looked at me. He leaned forward. "Good God, have we had sex and I don't remember you?"

  My insides clenched. I managed to shake my head and utter something that sounded similar to the word "no."

  "I didn't think so."

  And thank you for that!

  I had, despite my confusion, been momentarily flattered he had taken the option into account.

  Well, what could he think of me? I was dressed conservatively in a navy blue polo neck and fitting trousers with matching loafers and a little red and blue scarf sporting the Hamburg coat of arms, identifying me as an official city guide. I wore hardly any make up and my hair was pulled back in an innocent pony tail. It was one of my regular working outfits. Neat, with a touch of the seaside as befitted a maritime city, not at all sexy. In fact, I looked absolutely boring.

  "Sorry, I thought you were someone else," I finally managed to say.

  "Oh, did you? Well, from the way you speak one might assume we could know one another."

  "Ah."

  He was talking about my English accent, of course. I was generally accused of sounding posh, but what could I do with a mother from Oxford?

  He began to speak again. "Anyway, I think I've seen—"

  "Your receipt, Mr. Corvera-Fabergé." The barmaid held out a little piece of paper.

  Then - it must have been one of those days when all the planets were aligned - something far less serendipitous, but far more inconvenient happened. It was as if God and his angels were having a field day making mischief.

  "For Christ sake! Poppy Jude!" My mother's voice rang out right next to me. "There you are and here's Ryan and you haven't even bothered telling me he's already here! How do you do, I'm Poppy Jude's mother, Imogen Jansen."

  "Oh, please mother, don't call me that," I pleaded in a reflex, before the enormity of the situation had been completely processed by my brain.

  "Well, it is your name, darling, I think neither your grandmother nor Paul McCartney deserve the slight. He's a regular in this hotel, by the way."

  "Had I not known, I should have guessed. The similarity is unmistakable. How do you do, Mrs. Jansen," Ryan Corvera-Fabergé said without any inflection in his voice and took my mother's hand.

  I glanced around. Where were the hidden cameras?

  "Oh, do call me Mo. Are you staying here? Or have you just come to pick her up after work? That was my reason for coming, I thought perhaps Mr. Schiedemöller had a bit of shampoo up his sleeve."

  "I'm staying here."

  "Fancy that…" My mother's elbow nudged me stealthily. "I'm afraid the wedding location won't be quite so elegant. But Corinna's family is not… well, that's not polite to say. It's actually my friend Sybille's husband, the groom's father, who has to pay for the wedding. But I'm sure Poppy Jude told you all about it. Anyway, how nice to finally meet you."

  "Oh, ditto," the handsome creature next to me purred, strangely pleased. "I really can't wait to waltz Poppy Jude around the room. In fact, we were just about to waltz up to my suite. But now you're here, I think we can't, can we, sweetheart?"

  Sweetheart?

  What can I say, I was bereft of words, breath, thought and temporarily even eyesight.

  "No, no, never mind me," my mother protested gleefully. "I have another appointment in ten minutes, I was just hopping in for a cuppa. Don't let me keep you, we'll have plenty of time to talk on saturday, the rest of the company will be boring enough."

  Mr. Schiedemöller, who had silently and professionally watched the developments, had come to his own conclusion about our situation.

  "Hallo, Mrs. Jansen. Ha, I think not even your daughter knew her fiancé had already arrived, she was quite stunned to see him here."

  "Oh, a surprise! How sweet."

  Ryan Corvera-Faberg�
� smiled courteously. "Yes, that's me. What I won't do for my Poppy Jude… Shall we go up, hon?"

  He took me by the arm and manhandled me out of the deli towards the lift, while my mother and Mr. Schiedemöller waved and smiled suggestively.

  The lift doors closed.

  "Well, Poppy Jude…"

  "I—"

  I didn't manage to say another thing because he had taken a step towards me and without further ado scooped me up against the wall. He had one hand under my chin and lifted my face.

  "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 ret
urned 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."