I nodded. Just the thought of the interview was already making me nervous, even though it was likely to be months and months away.
"You'll probably be expected to describe the features, layout, and décor of this place," he said. "But that shouldn't be too difficult after a while. When it comes to those sorts of questions, make sure to be accurate, but not too thorough. You don't want to sound rehearsed."
"Jesus," I said, more to myself than him.
He looked up, mildly startled. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
"No, no." I played with the hem of my new shirt. "It's just…it's a lot, is all."
"You'll do fine." He touched my shoulder, rested his hand there for a moment, and then pulled it away abruptly. His eyes flicked back down to his notepad. "Your birthday…May 16th, 1986. Yes?"
I nodded.
"Mine is November 7th, 1982. Memorize it." He turned the page. "What were some of the first things we talked about, when our relationship became personal? What did we have in common?"
"Are you asking me to make something up right now?"
"If we discuss these things, we'll both be more likely to remember."
"All right, so…Woody Allen movies?"
He blinked. "Sorry?"
"That's what we had in common. We both liked Woody Allen movies and we started talking about it."
His brow was just slightly furrowed.
I sighed. "Fine, what's your idea, then?"
"I don't know."
"But you don't like mine."
"It just…sounds made up."
"Those are some awfully judgmental words coming from a man with no ideas."
"Fine." He scribbled on the notepad. "We'll put it down as a temporary answer and we can revise it later if I think of something better."
"I don't think that's a good idea. If we keep changing things, we're going to get confused. We need to pick something and stick with it. Don't you think?"
He exhaled. "All right. We both liked Woody Allen. What about our first meeting? Can you describe it?"
"In real life, or are we coming up with an alternate reality for this too?"
"In real life. Everyone knows you work for me, so that's obviously when we met."
I crossed my arms, thinking. "I'm not sure we ever really did 'meet.' I saw you, obviously. But I don't know if we were ever formally introduced until you called me into your office to…discuss the special project."
"About that." He cleared this throat. "You found out later that there was, in fact, no special project. I only called you into my office because I wanted to talk to you. I'd become smitten from a distance. I wanted an excuse to have a conversation with you, and get to know you better. Or at all. That's when we discovered that we both liked Woody Allen. Over the next few days, I kept calling you to my office for more 'meetings.' Things became…physical, very quickly. We both kept it a secret, due to the conflict of interest. But then, I finally decided I didn't want to keep our love hidden anymore. So I asked you out to dinner with me. Shortly after that, you quit your job and moved into my apartment." He looked up, smiling slightly. "So, that's the story of us."
"Your alternate universe doppelganger is very aggressive," I said. "Did I have any say in the matter at all?"
He looked mildly offended. "Of course," he said. "What kind of fictional man do you think I am?"
I had to laugh. "All right, okay. What if the ask me if I knew about your…you know, predicament?"
"Of course I told you, because I didn't want you to think I was only marrying you for that. You were skeptical at first, of course, but as time went on, you realized that I genuinely loved you."
"That's very touching. Do you think they'll fall for it?"
"There's no law against marrying someone if you're at risk of being deported. What's illegal is marrying someone because you're at risk of being deported. It's all right for them to be suspicious that we might have rushed into things because of my situation, as long as they can't prove that was the only reason we got married."
"That sounds incredibly dodgy, just so you know. If I worked for the INS I'd be driving you across the border myself."
"Your vote of confidence is much appreciated," he said dryly, flipping the page in his notebook. "But I told you, I have inside help. I have to go through the formalities, and I have to not trip over my own feet while doing so. They're even going to make a special exception for me. Normally, it would take two years of marriage before I could apply for a permanent visa, but they've reduced it to one."
"Thank God," I said out loud, without thinking.
He raised an eyebrow at me. "I realize you have no way of knowing this, but I promise being married to me won't be an actual nightmare."
I could feel my face turning bright red. "I know," I said, hastily. "I didn't mean…it's just, you know, a year of my life. That's scary enough to think about."
"Relax. I'm teasing you." He glanced down at his notepad again. "We need to pick a favorite sexual position."
I stared. "Is that a comment, or a question?"
"Just pick one," he said, still looking down at the paper.
"Uh, fine," I said. "Doggystyle? Is there like…a scientific term for that? Or something classier?"
"I don't think so," he muttered, scribbling something down.
"I hope you're actually writing down 'doggystyle' then," I said, willing myself to stop blushing furiously, even if there appeared to be no imminent danger of him raising his head.
I was wrong - he looked up at me then, frowning. "I'm not writing any of this down," he said, sharply. "And neither will you."
"Jesus." I raised both of my hands. "Do you see me taking notes?"
"I'm sorry." He toyed with his own pen for a moment. "I just…I can't emphasize how important it is that we don't have a written record of any of this. I'm taking notes that will help remind me of what we decide here, but no one else would be able to interpret them. Even so, I won't let this notebook out of my sight."
"I know," I said. "Believe me, I don't want to end up in prison for criminal conspiracy."
He chuckled. "Someone's been researching."
"I just wanted to know what the worst case scenario was. It's comforting."
"Let's not borrow trouble. It won't come to that if we're careful." He cleared his throat. "All right. They're very likely to ask about what kind of birth control we use, are you on anything I should know about?"
I shook my head. None of my relationships had lasted long enough for me to think about getting on anything long-term.
"Condoms, then," he said. "What kind?"
I snorted. "What kind of condoms?"
"That's exactly the kind of details they're going to ask about," he said, patiently. "Simple to answer if you're being honest, but very difficult if you're lying."
"Fine. I don't care. Whatever you normally use."
He hesitated. "Maybe it would be better if we said we were planning on having children as soon as possible."
"You don't think that's laying it on a little too thick?"
He was chewing on the side of his thumbnail. "Better they should think we're disgustingly in love, and wildly irresponsible, than faking it."
"Fine."
He flipped back through the pages of his notepad. "I think that's everything we need to go over. We'll review it from time to time. We shouldn't be called up for an interview until I submit some of my paperwork, but it's best to be prepared."
"Sure," I said.
He stood, tucking the notepad into his pocket. "Would you prefer to wait until after we're married to move in?"
I gaped at him for a moment before I spoke. "Uh, yes. Please." I hadn't even considered that he might suggest otherwise, and the idea of sharing such close quarters with him gave me goose bumps. All right, so it was a big apartment. But it was still an apartment. An apartment where I'd shortly be living with him, for an entire year.
He looked slightly taken aback.
"I just
need some more time," I said, quickly. "To get everything settled. You know. My lease - and everything."
He was frowning. "I'll pay it off," he said. "If that's a problem."
"I'm not ready," I said, a little more forcefully than I meant to. "If I have another problem that can be solved with money, trust me, you'll be the first to know."
Daniel stepped back. "Of course," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry."
I watched him as he disappeared up the staircase into his loft bedroom, leaving me alone on the sofa with my thoughts.
I felt vaguely sick to my stomach, sad and unsettled. I didn't like hurting his feelings, but he had to make more of an effort to understand how strange this whole situation was going to be for me. All that mattered to him was the end goal; with his eyes fixed on the prize, he seemed to be losing sight of the fact that he was asking me to give up my entire life.
The minutes ticked by, marked by the ultra-modern clock above the mantelpiece. Finally, I stood up and headed towards the staircase, because I didn't know what else to do.
The journey seemed to take forever, and I was acutely aware of the sound of every footfall. When I finally reached the top, I let my eyes drift over to the small sitting-area in the open part of the loft, two love seats facing each other with a little coffee table between. Finally I looked over to his bedroom door, which was hanging open.
He was sitting on the edge of a massive four-posted bed, so high off the floor that his feet dangled. He lifted his head when I walked in, and for the first time, I noticed the stress and exhaustion that was etched all over his face. Or maybe this was the first time he'd allowed me to see it.
I hoisted myself up on the mattress next to him.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But this is weird."
He nodded, sighing, as he dragged his fingers through his hair. Right now, he was a million miles away from the perfectly-groomed businessman I knew at work, the one whose hand I'd shaken to cement our strange agreement.
"I don't want to pressure you into anything that makes you uncomfortable," he said, finally. "You know that, don't you? Just because I'm paying you…what I'm trying to say is, you shouldn't feel obligated."
"Okay," I said, laughing a little. I couldn't help it.
"What?"
"You know that's impossible, right?" I met his eyes. He genuinely didn't seem to understand what I was driving at. "With the amount of money you're giving me, how can I possibly not feel obligated?"
He shook his head. "You've got to stop thinking in those terms. I know it's…I know it's hard. The nature of what we're doing is so, so uh…if I thought there was another way, trust me, I'd do it. But we won't be able to pass as a genuine couple if we don't live as one. And because of that, I think things have the tendency to get…muddled."
He was struggling to find the right words. "It's like what we talked about before," I said. "About not letting things get too personal."
He shot me a tired smile. "But that's not really possible, is it? I think we're both learning that."
"Hey, I believe in us." I laid my hand on his shoulder, and felt his muscles tense under my hand. The gesture surprised even me, but at the same time, it felt right. "Here's to being as impersonal and robotic as possible while we pretend to be madly in love."
Daniel chuckled, and I pulled my hand away, slowly.
"I'm sure we can come out of this intact," I said. "We probably won't kill each other. Hey, maybe we'll even stay friends."
I hadn't meant for that to come out sounding so sincere. He looked away, a smile playing on his lips. "Why on earth would you want to be friends with me?" The question was addressed more to himself than it was to me, but I couldn't ignore it.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I prodded, jostling against him gently with my shoulder. I wasn't normally this into physical contact with near-strangers, but at this point I figured I might as well get used to touching him.
He was still looking at the carpet. "Maddy, if you ever need a favor, of course I'll help you. I don't expect a phone call on my birthday in exchange for that."
I didn't know what to say. This wasn't a side of him I'd ever expected to see. No wonder he'd been so bothered by what I'd said down in the living room. There was actually a part of him that thought his bank account was his only asset as a person.
"Don't be ridiculous," was what I finally managed to say. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the electricity crackling in the space between us. We were sitting on a bed. It would be easy - so easy - to just lean over to him press my lips against his, and I was almost sure he wouldn't resist me. I could have what I wanted, if I could only find the courage to take it.
But what if he did resist?
What if he pushed back, saying no, no, Maddy, I don't think this is a good idea. Because it wasn't. But a part of me would always believe it was because I wasn't good enough for him. My ego was a fragile thing. I couldn't risk it.
But what if he didn't?
I could press him down into the fluffy, ridiculously luxurious bedclothes, and that's when he would resist, but not because he didn't want me. No, he liked to be in charge. About that, I was certain. He'd flip me over and hold me down by my wrists, growling in my ear, but when he loomed over me I'd see the wicked smile on his face. He'd kiss me until he forgot he was trying to restrain my arms and he'd let go then, his hands wandering all over my body, sliding under the light fabric of my blouse and pushing it up past my breasts. I'd lift my arms for him then, obediently, feeling the urgent twitch of him against my thigh. He'd pull the blouse over my head and toss it aside. I would bite my lip. My nipples would be so stiff he'd be able to tell how much I wanted him, even through the fabric of my bra. His lips would travel down my neck, his hot breaths sending little shivers down my expanse of bare skin…
I came back to reality with a start. I was staring at him, my mouth hanging open slightly. Luckily he didn't seem to be paying attention. Oh, my God. I had to stop doing this. I was going to drive myself crazy. I swallowed with difficulty; my throat had gone completely dry, and my heartbeat seemed to have relocated itself to somewhere between my legs.
I felt fuzzy and lightheaded, just like last night, but without the wine. Clearly, I didn't need alcohol to go completely stupid for Daniel.
He spoke, finally, still not looking at me. "Did you want to go home?"
"Yes," I managed. I stood up quickly, walking hurriedly down the stairs and gathering up my dress and jewelry. Daniel came down a few minutes later.
"The car will be waiting for you at the curb, whenever you're ready," he said. "No rush."
"Thanks for breakfast," I said, unable to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds. "And for last night."
"Of course," he said. "I'll…I'll call you." He looked almost as distracted as I felt. I gave him a little half-wave and hurried towards the door.
"Maddy, wait a minute." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny key, looking like it was fresh from the locksmith. "I had this made for you."
"Okay," I said, walking back to him with leaden feet and taking it.
"Trust me," he said. "It'll look odd if you don't have it. You'd better get used to carrying it now."
The ride home seemed to take ages. I answered the driver's questions perfunctorily; yes, the date was very nice, yes, the food was excellent. Yes, the Inn had a lovely atmosphere. Yes, Mr. Thorne's apartment was gorgeous.
Just being back at home was a relief in and of itself, but I didn't truly relax until after I'd stripped out of the unfamiliar clothes and spent a little quality time with my removable massaging shower head. It was one of the few luxuries I allowed myself in life, and once I was finally sated, leaning against the shower wall with cheeks flushed and my legs turned to jelly, I prayed it would act as a sort of exorcism for my inconvenient desires. I'd been afraid to give in, even in this small way, but after this morning it was clear there was no turning back.
Once I was dr
ied off and wearing my own clothes again, I spread the dress out on my bed and smoothed the wrinkles. It would probably need to be dry-cleaned. I laid the necklace and earrings next to it, straightening each little strand until they looked ready for a photo shoot.
They were beautiful things, to be sure, but they still didn’t feel like mine. I wasn’t sure I could ever truly immerse myself in a lifestyle where buying things like this was commonplace. It was so incredibly strange to me. The idea of money being some constantly renewable resource; technically finite, but the idea of spending all of it was incomprehensible. You'd have to buy a fleet of space shuttles, or an actual planet, to even begin spending it all.
I had to smile a little to myself at the idea of Daniel going to NASA and picking out shuttles as casually as if he were in a grocery store.
It was strange, though. For someone who'd been rich for as long as he had, he didn't seem to wear it too comfortably. It was rather curious, wasn’t it?
But I couldn't worry about that now. Now, I had to focus on how on earth I was going to survive living with the 24/7 temptation that would be life with Daniel.
Chapter Six
It became normal for me and Daniel to eat lunch together at work. It reached the point where he longer had to call me; I'd habitually get up and walk to his office every day at eleven-thirty, and a subtly scowling Alice would take our orders. He must have eaten at every place in a ten-mile radius. He always had recommendations, and they were always good. Before long, he would greet me with a kiss on the cheek, right in front of Alice. I could practically feel her trying to strangle me with her mind. Oddly enough, all I felt was triumph.
"You know," I said to him one day, over a plate of falafel and shawarma, "all the women in the office absolutely hate me now." He looked up. "And some of the men."
He just laughed. "Well, that's not very charitable of them."
"I can't wait for the reactions once we get…engaged." I still had a hard time spitting the word out. "I'm going to need a police escort just to get to the copy machine."
"Eye daggers aren't actually deadly, you know." He tore off a piece of pita bread and dipped it into a little pool of hummus. "No matter how sharp."
I Married a Billionaire Page 5
