The French Billionaire
Billionaire Romance
By: Lisa Cartwright
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Copyright 2015 by Lisa Cartwright - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
Chapter One
Emily Goodson’s journey into French culture started with a phone call from her sister, Lynette. After the usual pleasantries, Lynette said, “Something came up which helps both of us. You need work in your area. I need someone inside a certain business. Someone with your talents and equipment fits exactly. It shouldn’t be dangerous, but I’d keep my head up if I were you.”
Emily took down the information. She was going to be applying for a job with a small company that dealt in paintings.
As she gets ready for her interview, she realizes she has to take the mirror out of the closet. It wasn’t easy for her. She gathered her courage and retrieved the full length mirror and set it against a wall.
Facing away from the mirror, Emily prepared herself like a knight putting on armor. First, her pretty panties from Victoria’s Secret. They were a lovely shade of blue and cut like a bikini. She’d never had that kind of panty before. She’d always used the full variety.
She held her breath and turned around. There she was and the sight didn’t make her want to cry. She turned from side to side and smiled. She turned all the way around and looked over her shoulder and smiled. No cellulite, no flab, not mottled or discolor skin. Her body looked fantastic’ curvaceous and full.
She moved her eyes above her waist. Her breasts had always pleased her. Even when she was so heavy, they never drooped or fell. Always buoyant, always shaped as if they belonged in a man’s hand. She knew they were her best feature. She’d shopped online for just the right bra and found a demi bra from a French company that fit perfectly. It pushed her breasts up just the right amount to give her some fullness in a top with a low neckline without making her look cheap.
She slipped into the skirt and a top with a scoop neckline. She turned around and smiled again.
In the previous year, Emily lost over a hundred pounds. Her new body was round and firm. Her brother told her that her body was perfect for a man who liked to grab something and hold on.
The address took her to a long empty street in the hills above Malibu. The street ended in a cul-de-sac with one building. She parked, got out of the car and stared. It was a Queen Anne mansion that stretched for two hundred feet in front of her. Four separate towers lifted off the main building. Each roof had a weather vane of a different style.
She climbed the stairs and rang the bell. The man who answered the door appeared out of breath, as if he had been somewhere far away from the door. He said, “Good morning. May I help you?” Emily had never heard a butler speak with a French accent. In his mouth, it sounded foreign, not to the country but to the job, as if a poet were working a road crew.
Emily said, “Yes. I’m Emily Goodson. I’m applying for the job of curator. I’m supposed to talk with Mr. Latrec.”
“Please follow me.”
The man was tall and stocky. He wore a black suit and tie and looked perfect for the role of butler. As Emily walked behind him she glanced in each room they passed. Paintings by artists she revered hung in every room. She hoped they were all fakes. Any house with as many perfect paintings as this would be a prime target for thieves.
The man led her into a kitchen. He took off his coat and got a clean apron from a hook on the wall. Another man stood at a stove big enough to service a restaurant. The man she followed said, “I am back now. You may stop stirring.” He took the spoon away from the other man and examined whatever was cooking with a practiced eye. “Bon. You did a good job this time. The béchamel is perfectly blended. Bon.”
The man stepped away from the stove and turned to Emily. He said, “Good morning. I am Reynard Latrec. This is my home and my office. I’m guessing my chef didn’t introduce himself. His name is Alain Lefevre. Say hello, Alain.” Alain didn’t look up from the sauce. He lifted his hand in the air and waved two fingers. Reynard continued, “Please have a seat at the table. Have you eaten?”
Emily smelled the wonderful aroma of a perfectly cooked sauce. “No. I haven’t.”
“We’ll be eating in a few minutes. Please stay with us for lunch.” Emily saw a rather naughty smile light up Reynard’s face. He turned to Alain and said, “Would it be too much trouble to add one more for lunch, mon ami?”
Alain and Reynard had played this game before. Alain turned, not to Reynard, but to Emily. “For a woman of such obvious beauty and culture, it is always a pleasure to add another setting to the table.” He turned to Reynard and sniffed. Reynard raised one eyebrow in response. He turned to Emily. “Do you have any questions about the job?”
Emily looked at Reynard for the first time with nothing else to distract her. She saw a man six feet tall, husky without fat, and handsome in the way of Frenchmen; perfect features arranged with a casual hand and lively. Somewhere deep inside her, something stirred. She said, “If I understand the job listing, you want a curator to handle a moderate collection of paintings. The collection will be constantly revised with new additions and deletions and must be kept current and accurate.”
“Exactly right. I live by buying and selling art. I am always finding something I believe is undervalued and selling it for a profit. The paperwork and provenance must be accurate and up-to-date.”
A new voice came from behind Emily. A woman said, “Finally, you hire someone to do the housekeeping for the paintings. I am sick of doing it. My own work suffers. Who is this new addition?” The owner of the voice walked over to the table. She was pretty, thin with a sharp nose and angry blue eyes. She looked like she’d smelled spoiled milk a week earlier, and it stayed with her. She looked at Emily without extending her hand for a greeting. “You look like you can do the job. Stand up. Let me look at you.”
Reynard said, in reproach, “Mignon. This is unseemly.”
Mignon didn’t look at Reynard, instead she waited for Alain to say something. He tended to his sauce.
Emily stood up. She remembered not to smooth her clothes or fidget. Mignon looked her up and down then cast a glance at Alain again. He continued with the sauce. Mignon said, “You have a body made for men to hold. I approve. However, you should know that Mr. Latrec is completely off limits. He is your employer.”
Reynard stood up. “Mignon. That crosses the line of good behavior. Stop it.”
Mignon looked tragic and lonely. She snarled, “I will not have women come into this home and office making the plays for your attention. It is distracting and wrong.” She folded her arms. “There. I have said my pieces and I have done. Do what you will.”
Alain didn’t look up from the sauce. He said, “’Piece’, mon petit chou chou (my little cabbage, a term of endearment). You say ‘I have said my piece’ not ‘pieces’.”
Mignon raised her nose in the air. “The cook corrects my English yet again. Very well. I am capable of chang
e.” She huffed. “In any events, I have made my say. I will get back to work.” She turned to Emily. “Welcome to the family.” She caught sight of Alain’s upraised finger. “What is it, mon petit cuire (my little cook)? Have I said the wrong again?”
Alain moved the pot off the burner. He turned to look at Mignon.
Emily gasped. She hadn’t looked at him before with clear eyes. He must have been six foot six inches tall, thick and well muscled. His voice was low and cultured. He said, “Why must you behave so, Mignon? With all of the drama?”
Mignon had been simmering before, just below the boil so that she bubbled enough to shake the lid on her pot. Now, she exploded into face-reddening fury. She sputtered, “You… You cook. You correct me so often and never tell me when I say it right. You treat me as if I were a piece of furniture. It is maddening to have a man such as you around. I will stand it no longer. I will work from my room for the rest of the day. I have spoken.” She stomped over to the door and opened it.
Alain said, “Lunch is ready. We have Bouchée à la Reine. The sauce is perfect.”
Mignon didn’t turn around. “Did you increase the onion and make less on the nutmeg?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. I will eat then I go to my room to wall myself off from the rest of you.” She sat at the table.
Reynard brought Emily back to the conversation. “Miss Mignon Budreau is our technician. She repairs the damage time has done to our works of art. Now, tell me about your qualifications.”
Emily listed them in order of importance. She’d done it before, and it worked.
Reynard nodded. “Excellent. The job pays…” He listed a figure a third again higher than any job Emily had heard of in her field. He continued, “It comes with full benefits and vacation. Will you take it?”
Emily had sense enough not to stand on the table and shout, “By damn, you bet your sweet ass I’ll take it.” She nodded. “I’d love to.”
Reynard said, “Excellent. You can start tomorrow if that is convenient.” He turned to Alain. “Tell any other applicants that the job is filled.”
Mignon said to Emily, in a voice that demanded an answer, “What do you know of law enforcement and security?”
Emily froze for a second or two. They weren’t supposed to know who she was.
Both men said, “Mignon.” She held up her hand. “No. I will not be quiet on this point. We have paintings worth millions in a house that boasts a security system a full six decades old. We are an excellent target. Should I withhold my comments and feel sorrow at your graves that I didn’t raise my voice? No.” She glanced at Emily with suspicion. “Miss Goodson has qualifications that cover her field. That is good. But if we are broken into, will she be of value.”
Emily breathed a sigh of relief. She could simply tell the truth, about this, at least. She said, “I did an internship on security and security systems with the L.A. County Art Museum. My real qualification comes from my father who is a policeman and my two brothers and one sister who are policemen and the many discussions I have listened to growing up in a house full of cops. Also, I am certified to carry a concealed weapon and have qualified with the pistol in the LAPD reserve force. I will be happy to come to my job armed, if you wish.”
Mignon nodded. “That is good. For myself, yes, bring the pistol with you every day. Someone should be able to keep me alive in case of trouble.”
Reynard said, “You should have listed that on your resume.”
“Yes, I should.”
Alain said, “Lunch is served. Prepare yourselves.” He placed four individual plates in front of Reynard, Emily and Mignon and the empty chair. He announced, “Bouchée à la Reine. Chicken breasts with morel mushrooms and onions. We will eat it with white wine and the béchamel sauce I prepared.” He placed four dishes with a simple salad and bottles of oil and vinegar in the center of the table.
Conversation stopped as they concentrated on the food. In fifteen minutes, it was gone and all sat back and wiped their mouths on the linen napkins by their plates.
Emily said, “That was magnificent. Alain, you are a wizard.” She happened to glance at Mignon when she said the words. Mignon glowed with pride.
Chapter Two
Emily signed some documents and left the incredible mansion. She drove past a car parked down the road a hundred yards. It demanded attention. Even in Los Angeles, a city known for conspicuous consumption, a Lamborghini Sesto Elemento stands out. Lamborghini extended itself for the Sesto Elemento. Built mainly of carbon fiber, the Sesto Elemento weighs only 2,200 pounds, no more than a small Volkswagon, and sports a V10 engine of 570 horsepower. It uses Prosaic heatproof glass to form the exhaust system and can run from zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds. It costs $2.2 million. It looks like someone put good aerodynamics on a shark.
Emily saw the driver of the car standing in the six foot high underbrush, looking back at the house with binoculars. She took a quick image with her phone and drove home.
The next day, Reynard showed Emily her desk and computer and the rooms in which the paintings were hung.
As they toured the huge home, Reynard said, “Are you from Los Angeles?”
“Yes. I was born in Hollywood and raised in the valley. You’re French obviously. Your English is excellent. When did you arrive in the United States?”
Reynard opened his mouth to speak and paused.
She knew when someone was lying because it had been discussed over dinner. People telling the truth don’t have to prepare beforehand. They simply go into a description of the event. It doesn’t flow smoothly. When they lie, they’ve prepared their statements before they say them. It flows without error and sounds like a speech.
Reynard said, in words that came out without hesitation, “I came here when I was seventeen. I attended school in New York and graduated from NYU. My family has been in art for six generations. They’re in New York City. I have three brothers and a sister.” As an afterthought, he added, “I wish I could see them more often.
Emily asked, “Do you know anyone who drives a Lamborghini Sesta Elemento?”
Reynard looked down and shook his head. “No. I wish I did. I’d ask to borrow it.” He rushed along to get to the next room.
Twenty minutes later, Reynard asked Emily to sit at her computer while he showed her the software for processing acquisitions. Emily noticed that Reynard hovered near her. She’s worn a very expensive fragrance that day in case he got close enough to smell her. She could feel his breath on her neck.
She, very carefully, turned her head to ask him a question about the software. He, just as carefully, turned toward her. Their lips were within an inch of each other. She glanced down at his lips. He began to lean toward her then, at the last second, turned his head toward the screen.
They played this game for a month. Emily did her job with admirable skill and dedication and tried to get as close to Reynard as possible. Reynard obviously enjoyed the game. But they never actually touched.
Chapter Three
Mignon and Alain continued mostly ignoring each other except when Mignon had a tantrum and Alain intervened
It all changed on a rare Saturday when Emily had to work.
She was walking down a stairway when she looked out a window and saw Reynard and the suspicious man who drove the expensive Lamborghini talking in the back yard. She snapped an image on her cell phone.
At three in the afternoon, Mignon finally got what she had been asking for all along. Everyone was feeling a little hungry and out of sorts because dinner was still hours away.
Mignon said, very bluntly, “I quit. I can not work this way. I am never paid the attentions. I am always pushed off to the side in favor of Emily. I will leave tonight. It must be done. My life can’t be lived under these condition.” She’d started her speech speaking shrilly and ended it in a full screech.
Reynard said, “No, my sweet. This office is more a home than it is a workplace. You will not leave. You are a member of the
family.” He opened his arms and Mignon glided into them for a hug.
She left his arms and glared at Alain. She sputtered, “Here is a man. He takes me in his arms and tends to my feelings. Thank the Good God there is one man in the room.”
Alain threw his kitchen gloves on the table and turned around. He said, “Enough.” His voice was soft and the tone firm. He advanced on Mignon.
Mignon looked at him with concern as he towered over her. She said, “Alain? What are you going to do? Whatever it is, you can’t do it. I must have my dignities. You can not take those away from me.”
He didn’t answer. He grabbed her left hand out of the air and pulled. He bent over to catch her on his shoulder as she fell forward. He walked to his bedroom with Mignon limp, hanging down his back. She said angry things in French at the top of her lungs. He held her in place with his arm over the back of her legs, under her skirt.
Reynard called after them, “Bon Chance, mon ami. Bon Chance.”
Alain didn’t answer or turn around. He waved two fingers over his head. Reynard and Emily noticed that Mignon was pounding on his back and demanding to be put down.
Chapter Four
Alain placed an incensed Mignon on her feet by his bed. She sputtered, “What do you think you are doing to me? Why have you carried me off in such a way? Over your shoulder with my legs showing and my skirt up to my rear end.” She glanced down at his hands. “What are you doing now?”
Alain was undoing the buttons on her blouse. “I will not live with you the way you are, and I will not let you go.”
“And do you think taking my clothes off will make me pleasant and calm like some fat Provence housewife on a farm?”
“That and my touch on your skin. No man is touching you. No one is giving you good feelings. I think that is the cause of this constant temper” He opened her blouse and pulled it from her skirt. He pushed it off her shoulders. His hands moved slowly and carefully. He paused to study her lovely, lace bra and the breasts it contained.
ROMANCE: The French Billionaire (A Dark New Adult Billionaire Romance) (Billionaire Romance,Contemporary Romance,Untamed Billionaire,Short Stories) Page 1
