BILLIONAIRE (Part 7) Read online

  She’d been mad at me this morning, cooing little complaints about the fact that she wasn’t CEO of my empire yet, or something. The thing was, I wanted to take her on. Mainly because she was smart. The few times we’d discussed the publishing business, she’d brought up some interesting ideas I knew I could use. Behind all those plush, perfect curves and those irresistible lips was a bright, educated mind. And a sweetness that blew my mind. A purity not just of body but of soul. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone who was so naturally devoid of malice. Sure, she had her moments of feminine contrariness like every woman is entitled to, but underneath the light stubbornness that was nothing compared to my own, Lila was all about a shining beautifulness that just about brought me to my knees every time I saw her.

  But the problem was those plush, perfect curves and those irresistible lips. That complete, incredible package that was Lila. As fucking disciplined as I might have been, I had no idea how I was expected to think straight with all that walking around my office as I tried to negotiate deals and manage staff. Even worse, how was I supposed to concentrate when she left? When she went out to lunch meetings with lecherous editors or horny writers? I could picture myself pacing around and moodily pining like some goddamn lovestruck teenager as soon as she vacated the premises, disappearing to God knows where with God knows fucking who.

  Even this morning, when she’d talked about going out shopping and meeting up with the friend she hadn’t seen for weeks got me all hot and bothered. Which pissed me off to no fucking end. I didn’t want to behave this way. I knew it was irrational and overblown. I knew I was pushing the boundaries of what she would tolerate. But I couldn’t seem to get myself to calm the fuck down.

  She just seemed so vulnerable. So soft. So defenseless.

  The thought of what she’d endured as a child was enough to practically see me hunting the redneck lunatic fucker down and wasting him. She hadn’t given me all the details but she didn’t need to. Knowing that I’d never find him, that he’d be long gone and that she’d never even told me his name didn’t make my desire to fuck him up any less vehement. I could practically taste my revenge and it was sweet. Too sweet. And too crazy. Dwelling and plotting would get me nowhere and it would only cause Lila pain. She didn’t want to rehash all that shit and neither did I. It was more important to focus on the future. She was here and I would do everything I could to protect her with everything I had.

  I stood for a minute on the glass-walled landing outside the door of my apartment, looking out over the view of the city. The day was overcast, with gathering dark clouds. It looked like a storm was brewing.

  I took a deep breath, letting the fury in me dissipate. I didn’t want to burst in there with a raging hard-on and a wild, provoked temper. I’d be gentle with her, and listen to her girlish grievances. She might still be pissed off because I’d left her, to meet with Jake and sort through the bullshit and the emails, even after I’d told her she could join me and help me work, which was the very last thing I wanted her to do today. It wasn’t that I didn’t think she was capable. It was more to do with the fact that I’d get the work done faster without her there. Without the beckoning distraction of her innocent yet sultry face. Her pouty lips. Her silky, gossamer hair. Not to mention other parts of her that were too damn inviting to disengage from in any way whatsoever. I simply couldn’t get enough. As soon as I was finished I wanted to start all over again, and get deeper, and closer. Orgasms with Lila weren’t like endings, as with other women. They were like the first taste of a new addiction, each and every fucking time. I wanted more, and more. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to get any work done if we were at it on the desk every five minutes. All I’d needed was a few hours of distance so I could concentrate. I’d worn her out and left her to sleep. Where she’d be safe and secure. Warm. Satiated in every way I could think of.

  I’d make it up to her. Anyway she wanted. Anything she wanted.

  A kiss. Slow and supplicating. She could take out her kittenish wrath on me. On my mouth. She could bite me and hold me down. She’d be a little wild. Surly. She might straddle me. Take me into that slick, tight sheath, squeezing and softly gripping me with petulant little clenches as she slid herself along my rampant, starstruck length.

  Fuck. Just thinking about her was too much. My cock was so hard it was pressed uncomfortably against the cold zipper of my jeans. I could arrive without the wild temper but the hard-on was here to stay.

  I opened the door.

  Something felt wrong. The emptiness sort of echoed through my soul in a weird, drafty instinct. But nothing was out of place. A radio played in the kitchen. Claude was probably here, cleaning. Or whatever it was that Claude did. He’d been working for me for around five years as a housekeeper and sometimes-chef.

  But I wasn’t interested in what Claude was doing. I ran up the curving staircase, taking the steps in threes. Odd whitenoise crackled somewhere behind my brain when I saw that the bedroom door was wide open. A bottle of champagne sat on a small table outside the bedroom. Two glasses. One still had a finger of champagne left in it. On the other, a phone had been neatly balanced.

  Lila’s phone.

  I knew she was gone even before I reached the bedroom door. But I ran in and looked around for her anyway, in a kind of frenzy that was uncharacteristic even for me. I ripped the sheets off the bed, as though that might fix something, or ease it. It did neither. I looked in the bathroom. She’d had a shower and had dropped the towel on the floor. That was unusual. Lila was tidy; she liked her things arranged neatly. Even when I told her she didn’t have to worry about stuff like that, that housekeepers could clean up, she said she liked doing it. She liked trying to make order of the chaos that was her life. That’s how she’d put it.

  Her clothes were still here, and all her other belongings. Her bag. Her keys.

  Lila’s coat was gone, though. Her favorite, the one I’d bought her that first time I’d taken her shopping at Barneys. She’d been so thrilled with that coat. She’d said it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn. She’d even cried a little, a single tear making a shiny line down her youthful, lightly-freckled cheek. I’d kissed her and told her how beautiful she looked, with her golden hair long and loose, illuminated by that inner glow she seemed to radiate.

  My Lila was gone.

  I had to find her.

  $

  I felt manic. Crazy. Out of control. Like I was capable of doing absolutely anything it took to find her and get her back.

  Anything.

  My brain fizzed with panic, with a sort of hyperalert commitment, and most of all, with acute, cutting desperation. She was mine. Mine. And she was out there, alone and unguarded. She would attract all kinds of unwanted attention, looking like she did. Just being like she was. Fucking hell. I touched my fingers along a few pieces of her clothes like a pathetic wretch. What was she wearing? Was she warm enough? Was her hair still wet from her shower? She’d drunk a third of the champagne; she’d be a little tipsy. Her defenses would be down.

  And she’d be upset, about whatever it was I’d done. What had I done, that was so fucking bad she’d had to run away? Yeah, I’d gone to my office for a while, but so what? She knew there was stuff I’d had to take care of. I’d told her she could start work on Monday. I’d given her every assurance she’d asked for. I’d talked to her and fed her and protected her in every way I could think of. I thought she’d been appeased by all that, not to mention the handful of orgasms I’d given her by … ah, fuck. I couldn’t even think about that. I was going to go fucking insane. I was going to lose my shit completely if I didn’t find my Lila.

  That’s all I wanted to do: just find her.

  Before someone else did.

  I ran down the stairs, almost breaking my neck in the process. I ran into the kitchen to find Claude listening to some inane music station and baking something like a fucking idiot. Usually I didn’t mind Claude’s presence. He was a benign character who fit into his surro
undings with a shadow-like unobtrusiveness. I’d hired him about five years ago at the recommendation of a colleague of mine who’d taken a job in Hong Kong. Claude was looking for work and I’d just bought the penthouse apartment that adjoined my office. I’d taken him on, a couple days a week. He kept the place clean, the food was good and we barely saw each other, which worked just fine for me. I needed a housekeeper and a cook, and one that stayed the fuck out of my way. And Claude was good at doing that. He was artfully, meekly gay, like he’d been raised as the youngest runt son of a big family of burly farming Midwesterners and still felt the compulsion to hide his sexuality like it was a defect. He’d loosened up on that front over the course of his six or so years in Manhattan and was borderline flamboyant at times, wearing weird outfits and becoming increasingly effeminate in the presentation of the dishes he prepared. Like now: he was making frosted fucking cupcakes. I didn’t give a fuck either way. I’d never asked him about his past and didn’t plan to. What I did plan on fucking asking him was why the fuck he’d allowed Lila to waltz out of my apartment without fucking calling me.

  I grabbed the front of his shirt with my fist. “Where is she?”

  Claude’s watery eyes rounded with fear. His hair was thin and straight and so blond it was almost white. Everything about him suddenly annoyed the fuck out of me. “Miss Lila?” he gasped with a southern lilt to his accent I’d never noticed before. Not that I’d spent much time analyzing these things. Maybe he wasn’t from the Midwest. Maybe he was a choirboy from East Buttfuck, Alabama. Who gave a fuck?

  “Yes. Where is she?” I repeated, my aggression gaining momentum. “Did you unlock my door? Did you let her out?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” he said. “She asked for some champagne. I –”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No, sir. I – I thought she was waiting for you in your bedroom, sir.”

  “She’s not in my fucking bedroom. She’s gone. Did she say where she was going?”

  “N-no, sir. I was in the kitchen. I didn’t hear her leave.”

  “You didn’t think to fucking call me?” Even as I said it, I knew I was not only being an asshole but a complete goddamn psycho. I’d not only locked my girlfriend in my bedroom but was now going ballistic all over my cook because she wasn’t still locked up. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself, or to care. All I cared about was finding Lila.

  “She asked me not to, sir,” Claude said. “She begged me not to.”

  This piece of information hit me right in the middle of my goddamn gut. Or maybe it was my heart. If I even had one. “She begged you not to call me?” I repeated stupidly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I found myself glaring at Claude for several seconds. My fist was still clenched around the bunched-up fabric of his shirt at his neck. I released him so suddenly he stumbled.

  I grabbed a fistful of my hair. Fuck fuck fuck. Lila was gone and it was my fault. I’d driven her away by behaving like the lunatic that I was. “Why?” I asked. Like fucking Claude could answer that question.

  Claude’s fear took on the slightest edge of compassion, which pissed me off even more. That was some twisted shit: this little imp getting some element of this clusterfuck. The element I’d missed. “She seemed very agitated,” Claude said. “She was extremely … relieved when I opened the door.” He spoke like he was wary of me, which I guess he had a right to be at this point. I could not only pummel him into next week but also fire him. Or both. If I hadn’t felt so fucking crazed I might have almost admired his nerve and his honesty when he admitted the next part. “She’d been … pounding on the door. Trying to get out. It was the lock, I think. She seemed very upset by it … like she couldn’t handle being trapped like that.”

  Lila had told me about her past. She’d carefully shared a few of the most painful memories. Her words burned inside my chest like they’d been branded there. He used to come into my room. Every night. It was relentless. And it made me feel so dirty. The pain of it all was … just so awful.

  Something had set Lila off. I knew all about triggers. I understood because my own brother carried the same scars and so did I, by association, through his memories and his vulnerabilities.

  There had been times when I’d convinced myself that I didn’t remember all the details of that scene. But I did. It was etched there, devil-clear. I’d nearly killed our uncle after I’d walked in on it. And Jake had never been quite the same. Things would set him off. Random things that would evoke recollected anguish. We never talked about the memories but they swarmed around us both, tainting everything. Abuse is like that: it colors your entire world, even when you try to paint over it. I did my best to calm Jake down and mostly succeeded. The days got easier. But the nights were jagged, broken by routine nightmares. Sweat-soaked and screaming. For years and years and years. Even now Jake takes on a haunted look from time to time, when things bubble up.

  And I suddenly didn’t feel like beating up Claude, or anyone else. I just felt like finding Lila and holding her close to me until she forgave me. Until she wasn’t afraid anymore. Until her sweet face smiled at me. I’d almost forgotten that Claude was still standing there until his voice broke through my haze of regrets.

  “Go find her, Alexander. I’ll wait here and if she turns up, I’ll call you immediately.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I left without a backwards glance, pulling my phone out my pocket as I took the stairs down to the street. I’d keep Claude – if he didn’t quit – and give him a raise, maybe, if I ever returned to this apartment, or this company, or this life. I didn’t fucking care about any of it. I felt strangely, entirely numb. My rage had settled into an eerie, awful sense of desolation. I didn’t care about anything at all, save one shining, damaged beacon in the dark daylight.

  Lila.

  I wanted her so badly it almost scared me. Here I was, a billionaire with a ten-fucking-million dollar penthouse and a goddamn publishing empire. A gargantuan investment portfolio that was bullet-proof, recession-proof and practically tax exempt. Two Maseratis, a limo, a Maybach, a Ferrari, a Ducati, two Lamborghinis and a Gulfstream. A hotel in Paris, a house in the Hamptons, an island in Maine, a studio apartment in Key West, a city block in Houston, a bungalow in Malibu with a vineyard and a view of the ocean. A yacht christened “Honey”: a coincidence that occurred to me only now and that just about broke my fucking jaded heart at the realization of what I’d let slip through my fingers.

  None of it mattered. I’d have given it all to the first beggar on the street for a glimpse of her. A touch of that silken hair. A kiss from those pink, candied lips. A chance to tell her I was sorry.

  Had it been something she’d told me about? That I’d forgotten about or overlooked? Goddamn it all to hell. This was all my fault. I’d done this. I’d driven her away with my obsession. It was me who’d scared her and trapped her and tightened the noose of my own obsession until she’d broken.

  It was me she was now trying to escape from. Hiding from. Going to dangerous lengths to try to avoid. Where would she go? Who would she run to? My mind whirled with the painful possibilities. I’d check out the friend – what was her name? Eve, or Eva. But Lila was smarter than that: if she was running from me, she’d go somewhere I wouldn’t think to look. Did she have anywhere to go? Old friends or acquaintances she hadn’t mentioned to me? Ex-boyfriends? My stomach curled grimly at the thought. She hadn’t had many boyfriends before me, she’d said. None that she’d felt any real connection to. None that she’d wanted to give herself to, as she’d given herself to me.

  So incredibly sweetly. So beautifully. Oh, fuck. So irresistibly.

  God, I needed her. More than I’d ever needed anyone or anything in my entire miserable fucking life.

  I’d blown it. I’d fucked everything up. I had to find her. I had to. Or I would lose my fucking fucked-up mind.

  I could’ve taken one of the cars, parked in a locked fortress-like garage in the basement of my building. I could have walke
d the streets or called the police. Greased fingers. Scoured every inch of this crowded, lonely island. But no. I needed to think of Lila. I didn’t want to hunt her down like some criminal or teenage runaway. I wanted her to trust me. And want me. I needed to earn her trust by thinking of her, of what she might have wanted me to do.

  I needed to get my shit together and act like the man she’d want. I was going to win her back if it was last driving ambition I had. I’d take the limo. That way, if I found her – when I found her – I could offer to take her wherever she wanted to go. She’d have every choice, every freedom. I wouldn’t push her. I’d listen until I understood everything about her. Every fear, every trigger. I’d fix her and heal her and comfort her. I’d make the deal so sweet and so complete she’d wouldn’t be able to resist.

  My driver pulled up in front of my building and I gave him a few addresses. A place to start.

  The streets were crowded. It was the hour before dusk on a Saturday. Early October. These details seemed arbitrary, strangely unimportant. I poured myself a drink, hoping it might take the edge off, and scanned the crowds as the silence of the cab throbbed with emptiness.

  Please, Lila. Please don’t disappear on me. Please let me find you. Please.

  Lila

  I couldn’t see, or think. My awareness was enveloped in a thick, invisible fog.

  From somewhere far outside the buffering layer of my unconsciousness, I could hear vague sounds. And I could feel.

  Hands on my body.

  Warm, strong hands against my wet, frozen skin.

  Touching me.

  “Lila, I’m going to take these wet clothes off you, okay?” A man’s voice was speaking to me. “I’m going to wrap you in a warm robe, and blanket.” I recognized this voice. It was familiar to me yet not the voice I craved. “You need to get warm.”

  Jake.

  Jake Wolfe, Alexander’s brother.