The Malibu Billionaire 1: A Sexy New Adult Military Romance Serial (Billionaire War Hero)

by Asher, Adele

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  MY MALIBU BILLIONAIRE

  BILLIONAIRE WAR HERO PART ONE

  A MILITARY ROMANCE SERIAL

  Copyright Adele Asher 2014

  Chapter One

  Things weren’t going to plan.

  I’d been in L.A nearly six months, the dead-cert acting job I’d moved from London for had come to nothing, just a lot of run-around’s from sleazy agents, sleazier producers and backers looking to score a hot and desperate actress for their Hollywood Hills pad. No actual acting jobs, just a lot of offers of sex for allowances or other ‘Benefits.’

  I was down on my luck. My savings almost gone. With three-thousand bucks a month rent to pay for my modest home near Venice Beach, I was struggling to make ends meet. Endless rounds of auditions and too many we’ll let you know’s.

  It was decision time. Go back to London with my tail between my legs, crash at my parents while I did the rounds of shampoo commercials and corporate videos, waiting for that equity rate job in some low-budget, but critically-acclaimed, BBC drama, or get a make-do job in L.A, and hope my sleaze-ball agent came good with something that would get me out of the C list and onto the A list. Hell, I’d have settled for the B list. Right now an advert for a late night infomercial would seem good.

  I spent a few days poring over CraigsList job postings, but it was the usual gig. Jobs wanting girls for photoshoots - clothes not required, girls for bars…clothes not required…girls for anything. Clothes not required.

  For a city full of beautiful young things, L.A sure was a bed of sexual frustration. I guess that was the freeway system. In London you could just take a bus or a train ride and hook up with some cute guy, or gal, if that was your thing. Here in LA everyone rode round in their Prius (Should the plural of that be Prii? I never figured that out…), the only people who rode the public transport system were DUI cases and crackheads.

  I would soon be joining them, with the lease on my Mini Cooper now 2 months behind, my next starring part would probably be in one of those Discovery Channel Repo Guys docu-soaps.

  As I went over the small ads for casual acting gigs in the back of Variety at a small cafe on Venice Boardwalk, my Blackberry rang.

  “Natasha?”

  “This is she,” I replied, in my best Queen’s English cut-glass accent. About the best marketing USP I had in a city where they always needed some Limey to play the villainess or mistress in a love triangle. Some sort of stereotype that the Yank producers figured only Europeans ever steal husbands. Complete bullshit based on the divorce filings from most of Beverly Hills; husband stealing in LA was an occupation in itself. I’m pretty sure they had a program at UCLA for it.

  “It’s Marco babes, How ya’ doin’?” My Agent, Marco, asked.

  “I’d be doing a lot better if you got me a decent script to read Marco. I didn’t go to RADA so I could fall out of my bra in some Zombie flick or get butt-raped by Kevin Bacon in another bloody slasher flick.”

  “Yeah…I hear you babes. It’s tough at the moment you know? You’re brunette…they want blondes….You’re five-six….they want five-nine….you’re British….they want French.”

  “You’re meant to cheer me up Marco, you’re my agent. Bullshit is your job. If I wanted the truth I’d get a therapist.”

  “Don’t worry babes. I’m sure we’re gonna land you something big real soon. I mean real soon. You know what tinsel town is like. It’s about connections. You need to get out more, meet the right people. Go hang at the Ivy and Nobu.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that without a pay-check?”

  “Do what all the the starlets do babes. Hook up with some Jewish entertainment lawyer from Century City with a rolodex full of Studio Exec’s numbers.”

  “I’m Catholic.”

  “They don’t mind babes.”

  “I’ve been fucked by enough lawyers over contracts, I’m not adding a physical fucking to the list.”

  “Okay…your call babes. But you’d make my life easier if you got out on the scene and made some useful connections. People don’t know you here yet. Have you considered doing some charity work? PETA is hot right now. Or do some environmental shit….get your picture taken saving some dolphins with Harrison or Mel. You know.”

  “Charity begins at home Marco. Right now I can’t afford to give my time away, and I’ve got rent to pay. I’m not about to start selling my pilates-toned arse on Sunset Boulevard, and I’m not having some out of towners slobbering over me on a pole up on Hollywood. I need a job Marco, a respectable, paying, job that won’t upset my Irish Catholic mother.”

  “I hear you babes. Well this is your lucky day I guess. You’ve got a fan.”

  “Just the one? I would have hoped I’d done better than that by now.”

  “No…I mean a real fan.”

  “He’s not living in his mommy’s basement is he?”

  “No babes….try a twenty million dollar pad up on Malibu Road next to Mel, Kevin and Harrison for size. Have you any idea how much the property taxes are on that kind of place? Must be two-hundred G’s a year MINIMUM. I mean you have to see this place Nats, designed by that big post-modernist Cali architect. Took 3 adjacent lots and knocked it all into this Scandinavian-looking concrete, steel and glass pad. Looks like a goddamn art gallery. And the best bit…One hundred and eighty feet of private prime Malibu beach.”

  “This is lovely Marco. Are you still actually working as a Talent Agent for ICM or have you given that up now and joined a Realtor firm, because if you have I don’t have twenty bucks to spend on a Malibu Beach house let alone twenty bloody million…”

  “No babes..he’s not selling the place. Rumour is that that he paid the owner more than seven million premium just to buy it because it was the only place he wanted. A guy who knows a guy reckons he won’t even consider marriage because he doesn’t want to lose it in a divorce settlement. Bona-Fide trophy home babes.”

  “As fascinating as your conversational-realty-masterbation is Marco, are we getting closer to the point? My battery is nearly flat.”

  “Yeah, the point. He’s a fan…Natasha. Of you. How cool is that?”

  “So? What does he want? Send him an autographed picture. God knows you must have plenty of them left. I’m not exactly front page of Time right now am I?”

  “It’s better than that babes…”

  “Is this going down that whole, rich dude picks out his favourite actress from a catalogue and you make 20 percent kind of sideline marriage agency for clients to hook-up with desperate actress line?”

  “No babes. But seriously if you are looking for a husband you just have to call me and I’ll fix you up by the weekend…”

  “No Marco. I’m not marrying for money. That’s what failed girls from Nebraska do. I went to Rada. I spent years learning my craft and I’m not winding up arm-furniture for some orange-super-tanned dude up on Beverly Park in a Neo-Italianate McMansion monstrosity.”

  “Okay babes…no need to get defensive. I’m not trying to pimp you. I’m just trying to hook you up for a few months to give you some breathing space until we get you a decent shoe-in role for an Oscar nomination. You do remember I work on commission babes? I don’t get paid until you get paid.”

  “The difference being Marco, you are riding around in a Lamborghini convertible hoovering Colombian Sherbet th
rough thousand dollar bills whilst I’m wondering what dinner I can get for under ten bucks.”

  “Subway? They do a seven buck meal deal? Anyway. Where were we?”

  “You were telling me about my fan and his beach house.”

  “It’s more than a beach house Nats. It’s like the Guggenheimer on the beach. So, no. Honestly I think he has a crush on you, maybe, but he’s not looking to hook up with you. We were just talking down at the Beverly Hills Ferrari showroom. He’s a big gear-head by the way. Likes his exotics. He heard I was repping you out here, was interested to know how you were getting on and when your next film was coming out…yada yada, and well I said you were, you know….”

  “No I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

  “On your ass babes.”

  “Thanks Marco. With you as my agent I can’t fail to get a decent rate on my next film.”

  “Anyhoo, he’s looking for someone. Like a PA. I don’t know. Housekeeper.”

  “Is that a euphemism?”

  “No babes. Seriously. This guy has women literally throwing their bikini-clad asses’ at him 24-7. Patti S offered him a cool seven figures just to show up on Millionaire, he’s shy though. Doesn’t like the spotlight. Anyway, if he wanted ass babes he wouldn’t have to chase down your difficult-to-manage little tush.”

  “Are you deliberately trying to reduce my self-worth Marco?”

  “You know what I mean babes. Look at the beach. The place is carpeted with Playboy bunnies. Any dude with that kind of bankroll could have a 365 day orgy of tail and not run out until he was sixty. So my point is he’s not after that. At least I think not. He’s one of those don’t talk much moody types.”

  “So what does he want?”

  “You know what babes? I think he needs a mom.”

  “That’s perverted.”

  “No. Not put him in a nappy and breastfeed him like you see on Tube8 mom, I mean someone to take care of him. Make sure his Amex gets paid and they don’t cut the cable off. Those rich guys are usually stupidly disorganised. I guess he just needs a girl around the place to give it the woman’s touch. And, well, you’re an organised kind of girl.”

  “Surely he can just get some minimum wage Mexican cleaner to shove in his basement?”

  “No babes. You know something. You’ve got that whole Moneypenny vibe going on. I think that’s what he wants. Like a Moneypenny. Yeah that’s it. Dude drives an Aston. Probably want’s to live like James Bond. Some posh English Babe to answer his phone and serve him Earl Grey with a copy of the Times. All that good English shit you’re into.”

  “He’s English?”

  “Yeah babes. Full on limey dude.”

  “Well that’s something at least. All the guys in LA are about as manly as drag queen. Too obsessed with chest waxing and detox to actually be Alpha. No offence Marco.”

  “None taken babes, I have my balls waxed twice a week down at the Spa. Sharpens the mind.”

  “Too much information Marco.”

  “So how about it babes? You game for taking on Moneypenny?”

  “I don’t know. Did you talk money? You are my agent after all.”

  “No babes, but I’ve got the feeling he’ll give you whatever you ask for. Listen, I’ve got his address and number. He said you can go down any day between two and four. That’s when he has his afternoon nap.”

  “Afternoon Nap? What the fuck Marco? Is he like six?”

  “No Babes. He’s a pro poker dude. Plays all that tournament stuff when he’s not midnight racing his stable on the P.C.H. So just stop in. Drink some tea. See what you think about him. Look. What’s the worst outcome? You go and spend the summer in Malibu, live rent free while you earn some cash buttering his crumpets and making his pots of tea, you get a nice tan on the beach and then you get back on your feet and we find you a nice Sundance winner. Sound good?”

  “Well, I suppose. I haven’t got much choice have I?”

  “Babes, try and sound excited. It’s not every day you get to meet a genuine billionaire. I mean seriously. These sort of guys have a invite-list that is harder to get into than the Pope’s underpants.”

  “Billionaire?”

  “Yes babes. Check your Times Rich list. Best estimate is a cool twenty-nine billion of your British pounds in net worth. And the guy is thirty-four. God I hate that dude.”

  “Okay then. I’ll go, just to keep you happy Marco.”

  “No problem babes. Just leave the money part to me. I’ll make sure he pays your worth and then some. You want any riders?”

  “No sex and I’m not cleaning the toilets.”

  “Sure babe. Not cleaning the toilets. Will write that down.”

  “And what about the sex?”

  “Wait until you meet him babes. You might change your mind.”

  “Well I might, but I’m not having it in my contract, and you aren’t getting ten percent. Your pimping is strictly limited to professional actors guild assignments and not pay for play. Understood?”

  “Understood babes.”

  “Alright. Give me the address.”

  “1387 Malibu Road. You can’t miss the place. Looks like some sort of steel bunker from the street. But trust me. The view of it from the beach? Something else…”

  “Alright Marco. I’ll go down this afternoon.”

  “Good call babes. Will ring you later if you don’t speak to me before. Have a good one.”

  I hung up the call and put my Blackberry down. It wasn’t exactly the sort of gig I had been hoping for, but I had to admit Marco had me curious. If nothing else it would be nice to speak to someone British. The Cali crowd could become incredibly annoying after a while and I missed the dry sense of character that came with being British.

  I checked my watch, it was a little before 11:30am. Traffic being L.A traffic meant it would take more than a hour and a half to get through Santa Monica down P.C.H to Malibu so if was going to catch this guy during his siesta then I’d have to be quick smart about it.

  It suddenly occurred to me I forgot to ask his name.

  Going to a completely strange guy’s house and I didn’t know his name. I had a sudden bout of nerves. I guess this is what call girls felt like, but then I wasn’t intending on putting out anything and it would be strictly professional or he’d be on the wrong end of my taser and rape-spray.

  I got up and made the short walk back to my small townhouse off the boardwalk at Venice, headed up to my bedroom, opened my wardrobe and tried to figure out what to wear. It wasn’t a casting, but then it was a job interview. What the hell kind of outfit do you wear for some kind of gig for a beach-dwelling reclusive billionaire looking for a Moneypenny/mother replacement?

  He was 34. I remembered that much from the convo with Marco, so at least he wasn’t some old dude. That would narrow my choice of attire down. And he lived on the beach, so he was hardly a suit and polished shoes type. I didn’t want to dress down too much, but then I didn’t want to over-do it.

  First stop was a shower. I opted for no makeup apart from a light nude lipstick. My slightly freckled olive-tanned complexion looked better without makeup, especially at this time of the day, especially at the beach.

  The beach.

  When in Malibu…I figured.

  There really was only one choice. I grabbed my white thong Bikini, finished towel drying, then cupped my silicone enhanced 34D’s into their underwired cups.

  I’d always been a boob girl. If I was a guy I’d definitely be a boob guy, unfortunately my elfin skinny build had left me as flat as a pancake, my first commercial pay check had been invested on an upgrade that had done my younger modelling career the power of good.

  I pulled my thong on, thankful that I had mowed the lawn. Whilst I didn’t intend putting it on show I just felt more self-confident for being nicely trimmed downstairs, for my own personal benefit, because I don’t actually remember the last time a man had clapped eyes on my privates, not having had sex for more years than a presidential term. Too
busy with my career. Too focused on my art, and lately in L.A, not at all impressed with the complete opposite of Alpha too-gay-to-be-straight heterosexual singles who spent more time preening themselves in their convertible’s rear view mirrors than they did hitting on you.

  What to put on over the top?

  The perfect choice, a loose flowing lightweight pair of white cotton DKNY trousers, just translucent enough to offer a glimpse of my tanned and toned body underneath, and a hint of the outline of my bikini thong, but not so much on show I’d give enough to fulfil a jerk-off memory. Over the top, a tightly fitted black Gucci blouse, unbuttoned to the cleavage. I admired my ensemble in the mirror.

  Perfect.

  I pulled my dark espresso brown hair back tight into a ponytail, more business-like I figured to offset the slightly sexed-up bikini-showing outfit.

  Shoes?

  Only one choice for Malibu. A pair of Oakley tan leather flip-flops.

  A final admiring glance in the mirror.

  Perfect. Beverly Hills Surfer girl chic.

  No handbag, just car keys, Blackberry, Ray-ban Aviators. The standard dress-down everyday girl about beach-town.

  I checked my watch. Nearly 1pm. Time to hustle.

  I picked up my stuff and dashed down to the small garage lot where my Mini Cooper was tucked away, fired it up and pulled out into the long line of traffic crawling down towards Santa Monica on a typically hot Sunny L.A afternoon.

  Chapter Two

  Malibu Road was a real pain to get into. You had to cut off the double-laned fast moving highway into a one way entrance, and exit by a different route across a junction by the Malibu shopping Mall. The narrow, badly paved and sand-covered road was lined with construction trucks and cones as hedge-fund sorts and movie stars tore down the quaint old wooden Malibu beach houses to be replaced with glass and steel Bauhaus modernity - with the obligatory lines of double garages to hide their expensive exotic toys.