Boxed Set: A Possessive Billionaire - Vol. 1-3: His, Body and Soul Page 2

  My head bumps right up against a man’s torso, I put my hand against it to steady myself. Two weeks without seeing a living soul around here and this morning, a torso suddenly appears in front of me! Nothing seems to make sense around here. I look up. A man, a very manly man, looks at me with a curious expression, as if I was a little lost cat. Tiny dimples frame his dark black eyes. He’s got the kind of look I would gladly linger over if only I wasn’t in a hurry! I quickly disentangle myself from the stranger and race away like a thief.

  “Mrs. Granchamps is ill today,” they tell me when I get to school. Looks like I’m in for a full day at the library! I can’t wrap my mind around it. First, my teacher stands me up, then this mysterious encounter. I can’t stop talking about it to Manon over our daily feast of brown meat.

  “Maybe it was the landlord. What’s his name again?”

  “Delmonte? That’d be a surprise. The guy I saw this morning was around thirty years old, he didn’t seem like a retiree…maybe it was his son?”

  “Did he look rich?”

  “I don’t know…he was wearing a suit.”

  “There are suits and then there are suits! How was it tailored? What kind of material? How many buttons did he have on his jacket? The shirt?”

  “He was wearing a…black suit with a grey shirt.”

  “You’re killing me here. And his shoes?”

  “Yeah, he was wearing shoes.”

  “Thanks. I think I have all the information I need to determine where this person comes from.”

  “Really?”

  “Emma! No, I was joking. Anyway, was he cute?”

  “Sure, I think so. Tall, brown haired, seemed interesting…”

  “Are you going to go for him?”

  “Given that I don’t know who he is, that I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, that he’s probably the son of my landlord and that, moreover, I came here to Paris to study and that I don’t have the time nor the desire to become infatuated with someone, I’d say no.”

  “What does that matter, we’ve been talking about him for an hour…”

  “You’re the one talking about him! Anyway, what do you expect, it’s close to the only thing that’s happened to me since I got to Paris.”

  That’s no lie. It’s true that the stranger made more of an impression upon me than I’d like to admit. But who knows, really. It all happened in less than a minute, which makes the experience seem even more interesting.

  It’s as if my body retained the memory of the instant when our two bodies collided. I barely remember what he looks like, and thinking about our bodies touching brings back the sudden sensation of heat that rushed through me.

  But I’m completely devoted to my studies. I didn’t come here for that kind of stuff. That’s all there is to say.

  My wish has been granted, I resume my routine even more enthusiastically. The weather is starting to turn cold in Paris and it gets darker earlier every evening. I read in my room at night. I thought I heard voices come out of Delmonte’s apartment that night. In the morning everything is calm, I must have been dreaming.

  4. Him again

  My analysis is too short. I’m full of preconceived notions. I’m gluing old concepts onto ready-made ideas.

  I’ve never received such harsh criticism before. Mrs. Granchamps pulled no punches. I leave her office defeated. I’m good for nothing. In any case, not for research. I don’t want to be the kind of person to act this way, but I run to the bathroom to cry. It’s too much. Two months of intense studying and meat in brown sauce far away from home and the people I love, for what? To be treated like a superficial idiot? I want to disappear.

  Instead of disappearing, I decide to pick up something at McDonald’s and go eat in my little room while watching a movie on my computer. I deserve a little comfort this evening.

  I come home with puffy eyes, carrying an enormous paper bag reeking of fast food and enter the building…and again I come face to face with the stranger who, this time, seems to be leaving. I want to crawl under the floor. He looks at me, not at all like the first time. I feel like I’m an old incontinent cat. At least that’s what I get from his disgusted and slightly scornful grimace. I manage to croak out a 'bonsoir'. He sizes me up for a little while and then grants me a polite 'Mademoiselle' before disappearing into a sedan whose back door opens like magic.

  Well, who does this guy think he is? I fume while eating my fries on my bed. What does he think? That everyone eats caviar for dinner? I’d like to see this punk at the university cafeteria! He's probably never set foot on a college campus, he probably never even studied. He must be the kind of rich kid who goes from golf games to cocktail parties without asking any questions. The gentleman was born rich and handsome and despises all those who aren’t like him! What a despicable guy…

  But still handsome. That can’t be denied. A natural kind of handsome, almost wild. I’d like to say he seemed artificial, wore too much cologne or too much hair gel, but he didn’t. He emanates something animal and deeply masculine. A force, an energy…something indefinable. His eyes are a dark black, bewitching, and his fleshy mouth seems ready to bite or kiss something. His body is enormous. Athletic. He’s handsome, yes. Which makes him even more revolting.

  It’s not worth thinking about anymore. Actually I should go and pay my respects to his father if I don’t want to come across as a freeloader.

  I spend the evening with Marceline Desbordes Valmore, Mrs. Granchamps’ prescription to, as she put it, relax my judgment. It’s poetry. In French, moreover. I have to admit that it’s not my favorite. But it is fascinating. Her way of painting passion, forgetting one’s self…it’s deeply moving…and very exotic.

  My dreams are tormented and disturbing. I’m running naked down the staircase, which never end. At the bottom I can see the stranger, who keeps moving towards the door of the waiting sedan. I wake up sweating, incredibly anxious. I decide to stop with all this romantic poetry and chance encouters in the foyer.

  This evening I’m going to meet the famous Delmonte. I decide to keep my schoolbooks with me to show him what a serious student I am. I started looking into housing options in this city and it seems pretty much impossible to find a place at a reasonable price. It would really be ideal if I could stay here for a few more months. I put on the outfit I use for my professors. Perfect ponytail, which makes me look like a dynamic and healthy young woman, jeans, white blouse and navy blue ballerina shoes. It’d be impossible not to take me seriously.

  I ring the doorbell, wearing my most sincere smile. The door opens and I direct my smile towards the other person. He looks at me curiously.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Delmonte…”

  “Evidently,” he says, opening the door. “Come on in.”

  He leads me through the solemn front hall. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m standing in the middle of the living room. I’m not in my element here. I feel like I’m one of those girls from the makeover shows who are scrutinized by passers-by. He looks right at me. He enjoys my discomfort. He, however, could fit right in anywhere he went.

  “Is your father here?”

  “You can find him at Père Lachaise.”

  “Maybe tomorrow would be a better day?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The conversation isn’t off to a great start. Yet I feel I have to go on.

  “When can I come see him?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not possible.”

  For crying out loud! Why do I have to deal with this guy? Is he dumb or does he just want to make me feel uncomfortable?

  “Maybe he’ll…”

  “He’s dead, Mademoiselle. He’s been buried in the Père Lachaise cemetery for over ten years.”

  I’m embarrassed. And full of hatred for him. I don’t know which feeling is stronger. He’s obviously enjoying this. He keeps looking at me, as if he finds my embaras
sement even more delightful. I’m completely red, no doubt about it. I want to explode. How can he be so cruel? I want to leave, it’s too much. I turn, furious, when he places his hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. You are so amusing when you play the role of the model student….I didn’t introduce myself. Charles Delmonte.”

  He holds out his hand, confident, and I stare at it stupidly as it takes my own. I look at him, surprised. So he’s my landlord. The multimillionaire that everyone speaks of so reverently. He asks me to sit down on a red velvet chaise lounge. I stammer:

  “I’m Emma, Lexie’s cousin, I’m a student…”

  “I know, Mademoiselle Maugham. I was wondering when you were going to come visit me. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Yes…”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m still very embarssed and strangely troubled. It’s all this red…and this man. His quaint manners and his way of acting like he was twenty years older than me. He hands me a glass that looks like white wine and sits down next to me. I’ve almost calmed down. At least, I no longer have to deal with him looking at me.

  But he looms near me, our bodies don’t touch but we’re close enough that I can feel his warmth. I can’t concentrate, it’s too hot. And I’m thirsty. I swallow down the entire glass. It’s too sweet to be truly refreshing, but not bad.

  Oh no, I think he’s choking. I whack him on the back with all of my might. He’s coughing, unable to breathe…how terrible, I’m killing my multimillionaire landlord!

  “Stop, Emma, please! Stop hitting me, I’m not that kind of guy!”

  I misunderstood. He was choking alright, but with laughter. I watch as he catches his breath.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t know that I was dealing with someone who loves Château d'Yquem so much.”

  Note for later: Google this famous Château. In the meantime, I decide to laugh politely. Let’s get back to our objective: make a good impression on the landlord, however old and seductive he seems.

  “So you’re a student? What are you studying?”

  “Sociology. I’m working on a thesis on feminism. Actually on feminisms. I’d like to study the differences between feminist perspectives in the US and France.”

  “That’s fascinating,” he says, without a drop of irony.

  I’m dreaming: he really finds this interesting! Or he’s so used to high society that he acts like he’s interested in everything? I opt for the first explanation, which helps me unclench my jaw a little. I enjoy the fact that I’m next to such an incredibly handsome and rich man who thinks my research is interesting. Really, it’s not that crazy after all.

  “But what about you, Emma, do you consider yourself a feminist?”

  He has something else to say about it! If he didn’t care at all, he would have stopped at 'fascinating', but he clearly wants to talk about it more. Perhaps he’s not the uneducated rich kid I had assumed he was. I decide to turn towards him a little. Our knees brush. It’s slightly awkward, but I really have no choice if I want to look at him while I speak. It just seems like the right thing to do.

  “Maybe it seems a little outdated to you, but yes, I’m a feminist. I’d consider myself to be devoutely feminist.”

  I put all of the confidence I can muster into this little sentence. Our knees are touching now. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the pleasure of discussing a subject that I’m so dedicated to, but I am on fire. His eyes hypnotize me. I press my knee against his. I look at his lips. I think, at that very moment, that I could kiss him. But he goes on:

  “Would you say that it’s because of your feminist leanings that you dress yourself in potato sacks?”

  5. Disillusionment

  What a jerk! What an idiot! How could I have thought for a single moment that this arrogant beefcake would be interested in anything but his hairdo? I really have lost my mind. And to think that I was even considering kissing him! I’m going to have seriously pull myself together here. I came to Paris to study, not to flirt with guys and especially not to play the fool for some jaded millionaire. He started messing with my mind the moment I stepped foot into his apartment. First with his deceased father, then with the wine…and for that matter, what does Google have to say about this Château?

  No way, it can’t be! But that’s the name he mentioned: Château d'Yquem. Apparently, this white wine, which I thought was too sweet, is considered by connoisseurs to be one of the greatest wines in the world. I must be dreaming! One bottle costs from 200 to several thousand Euro! I understand now why he laughed after seeing me gulp the glass down, like some kind of soda. At the same time, it serves him right! That should teach him to make fun of me.

  I can’t calm down after I leave his house. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. He is who he is, but he’s still my landlord. An accommodating landlord who doesn’t make me pay rent…I feel awful. I’ll start looking for a room on Monday. Or maybe I could apologize, just to buy a little time…oh no way, that must be the white wine talking! I can’t believe I was just thinking about apologizing! After being humiliated in such a horrible way! I’m sure he was thinking about making some sort of snide remark from the get-go. And there I was, naively thinking that he wanted to know more about my studies. What an idiot! And his little smirk, when he said that! He was proud of himself, you could tell! I could have slapped him, I think. Reduce my entire life’s work to my choice of wardrobe. First of all, clothes have nothing to do with it. And besides, what did he mean? Dress myself in potato sacks? Why, because I don’t wear Chanel suits to school? Big deal! I don’t know what world he lives in, but I’ve never seen anyone get dressed up to go to the university cafeteria. Except for Manon, of course. But she’s an extraterrestrial. For real! What do I care if he doesn’t like my clothes? After all, I’m worth more than that. I’m not superficial like the women who he usually meets, that’s what it really comes down to…

  I’ll sleep on it, I’ll see things more clearly tomorrow.

  I don’t want to leave the house. I've bought enough food to stay inside for the entire weekend, but I’ll have to poke my nose outside on Monday. I’ll leave early to make sure I don’t run into him. In the meantime, I better get to work! Finally, a good opportunity to dive into my books. It’s perfect. Except I can’t stop thinking about that humiliating moment…when I’m not dreaming of it. My Parisian life must really be boring if I’m obsessing like this over a fifteen minute conversation.

  But it sounds like he's having a party at his house. That night, while doing the dishes, I hear women laughing and the clinks of crystal glassware. The gentleman is hosting a little get-together. He must be entertaining the bimbos with his stories about his badly dressed neighbor. I hate them all. I have a hard time falling asleep with a pillow over my head.

  6. An apparition

  Monday, 5:45 am. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten up this early since I came to Paris. I even wonder if there’s a law prohibiting people from getting up early in the capital, since the city doesn’t seem to wake up until after 9:30 am. A hasty ponytail, my “potato sack” uniform, my books and there I am in the corridor. While frantically digging through my bag looking for my keys, a warm voice greets me.

  “Bonjour.”

  I turn around, ready to attack whoever is ruining my perfect plan for morning solitude. I can’t. I'm petrified with admiration. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful woman. It’s the type of person I’d like to be when I ‘grow up’. A cross between Rita Hayworth from Gilda and Catherine Zeta-Jones from Intolerable Cruelty. She’s wearing a red evening dress and high heels, yet looks so natural that it makes me doubt for a moment what time it is. She smiles at me kindly.

  I’m fascinated by her hair, which falls in sultry curls over her nude shoulders. Voluptuous. That’s what it is, this woman emanates voluptuousness. Sex. She’s leaving my neighbor’s house. We wait for the elevator, side by side. It’s a ridic
ulous picture. My sneakers and her high heels, my head only reaches the height of her armpits. I would laugh if I wasn’t so mortified and disturbed. After what seemed like an endless descent, she disappears in a split second and leaves a trail of perfume in her wake. I stand dazed on the sidewalk.

  “She’s a prostitute!”

  Manon announces her final verdict after hearing my description.

  “No, she had a really classy vibe to her. Not the type to be a prostitute, in my opinion.”

  “You know, there are high-class prostitutes in Paris, you just need to be able to afford them.”

  I wonder how she knows about the economics of the sex industry, but I refrain from asking.

  “No, really, I don’t think so.”

  “It bothers you that your billionaire uses prostitutes, doesn’t it?”

  “He can do what he wants, I don’t care! It’s just that I don’t think that’s his type and I really didn’t get that kind of impression from her.”

  “In any case, he must have screwed this Rita, right?”

  “You can be so vulgar! But whatever, sure, I can’t see why he wouldn’t have.”

  “Ah, he gets bored, the pig! On Friday, he does this knee thing. On Saturday, he has a party and on Sunday, he spends the night with Rita the crypto-prostitute…”