How to Marry a Billionaire

by Elise Sax

  “The hospital?” Cole had promised me that he didn’t hurt Rock. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. He dislocated his shoulder trying to get untied and then he knocked his head on a shovel in the shed, and he’s got a black eye and a slight concussion.”

  “Holy cow.”

  “Olivia’s with him now,” Rosalind continues. “Diane made her take condoms, just in case. I warned Olivia not to get involved. I mean, this is Operation Billionaire, not Operation Hottie. Am I right?”

  “I get the impression that Rock is at least Operation Millionaire level,” I tell her. I give her the rundown on his Aston Martin and his story about competing with Cole. Rosalind seems interested, but doubtful.

  “I’ll work on the background check on him,” she says. “Meanwhile, where are you? Did you seal the deal?”

  “We did a lot of sealing, but the deal isn’t done. He bought me clothes. Oh, and I’m in the crapper in his plane in Hawaii.”

  “Not bad. Not bad,” Rosalind says.

  “What’s she saying? What’s she saying?” Bessie yells.

  “She’s in Hawaii. He bought her clothes.”

  “Is that what young people buy instead of an engagement ring these days?” Bessie asks

  “She hasn’t sealed the deal, yet,” Rosalind tells her.

  “Explain to Bessie that I’m on my first date with him. That’s all,” I tell her.

  “Oh, come on, Beatrice,” Rosalind says. “You’re all kinds of familiar with his penis by now, and the man flew you out to Hawaii in his private plane. That’s equivalent to twelve dates for normal people.”

  That’s totally true.

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “Beatrice, are you all right in there?” Cole calls.

  “I gotta go,” I say softly into the phone. “He probably thinks I have an intestinal blockage or something.”

  I hang up and get dressed on the double. I wash my face and tie my hair back. Rosalind and Bessie will kill me if they find out that I’m going to out with Cole with a naked face, but I decide to keep it secret.

  With the time difference, it’s only ten at night. My new sandals are way more comfortable than my heels. I step out of the plane to a balmy night in paradise.

  “I can smell the ocean,” I say, excited. “Where’re the hula girls? Where’s the pineapple? Do we have a hotel with one of those twisty-turny slides? I’ve always wanted to go down one of those.” I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m intelligent inside my brain but once my mouth gets involved, I’m a moron. The whole flying to Hawaii with a gorgeous billionaire in his private plane has got me turned upside down. I feel like I’m living an alternate reality. I’m disoriented, and it’s making me stupid. But Cole doesn’t seem upset about my lack of cool. He’s smiling at me, and he takes my hand and brings it to his lips and kisses it.

  “The turniest, twistiest slide for you, Beatrice. But first I have a little surprise for you.”

  “I already saw your surprise,” I say. “It came in a nice package.” Cole smiles again and gives me another fancy hand kiss. “Do you always take your week-women to Hawaii? Is that the playbook?”

  “No. Given a choice, ninety-five-percent of my week-women shoot for Paris.”

  Paris. I should have thought of Paris. “Was Paris really an option?” I ask, picturing the Eiffel Tower and croissants. True, there’s a sad luck of turny-twisty slides in Paris, but it has a lot of croissants. At least it does in the movies. I’ve never actually been there. I’ve never been to Hawaii, either. But I’m in Hawaii now, and I’d be happy to exchange a dozen Parisian croissants for one Blue Hawaii drink.

  “Everything’s an option with you,” he says, locking eyes with me. Oh. He has nice eyes. “And I don’t want to say, ‘your wish is my command,’ but it pretty much is.” Oh. He talks so good.

  “Have you flown a lot of your week-women wherever they want?” I ask and cross my fingers behind my back, hoping for a good answer.

  “I have once or twice.”

  Wrong answer. I uncross my fingers.

  Again, I’m conflicted. Where is this thing going? Should I hold out for commitment or be happy with six more days?

  A man wearing safari gear and sunglasses approaches and tells Cole that he’s ready for us. Cole nods, and we follow the man across the airport’s tarmac.

  “Are we going on safari?” I whisper to Cole.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Do they have safaris in Hawaii?” I’m not sure I want to go on a safari. Safaris aren’t known for their bathrooms.

  “It’s a surprise,” Cole repeats, as we follow the safari man. It doesn’t take long to figure out where he’s taking us.

  “A helicopter,” I say, looking at the chopper. It’s a fancy kind, bigger than the one on Magnum P.I., and it has a Hawaii rainbow painted on the side.

  “The volcano is active tonight, and with the moonless night, we’re going to get a great view of it,” the safari man says.

  Cole flashes me a ta da! look and waits for my response. I smile. “Volcano,” I say. “Helicopter.”

  Flying over a volcano doesn’t sound wise to me. I mean there’s a large metal object in the air and then there’s a volcano shooting up hot lava underneath. Is it just me, or does this scenario spell disaster? But Cole is beaming at me, like a proud farmer displaying a giant squash at the county fair.

  “A volcano,” I say with enthusiasm. “A helicopter. Well, this is very exciting.”

  It turns out that the safari man isn’t the pilot. He’s the guide, the man who’s going to point out where the volcano is, which is ironic since he’s wearing dark sunglasses on a moonless night. What’s more surprising is that Cole turns out to be the helicopter pilot.

  He opens the back door of the helicopter for me and helps to belt me in. “You’re licensed, right?” I ask him.

  He snaps his fingers. “Oh, damn. I knew I forgot something.” He’s smiling, enjoying my obvious nervousness.

  We put on headphones, and the helicopter roars to life. Within a few seconds, we’re up in the air. It’s not as bad as I thought. A lot less like a rollercoaster and more like a luxury, top-of-the-line flying carpet.

  “Is this the thingy that makes the helicopter move?” Cole asks and laughs. He takes a sharp left, and below it’s dark except for the lights of some hotels.

  “Dormant lava fields,” the safari man explains and then launches into the entire history of the Big Island and how volcanoes work.

  It’s very interesting, especially about the Madame Pele, and with Cole’s expert flying, I’m enjoying the ride.

  Although, I wouldn’t mind a croissant.

  Then, we see the volcano, and I’m overcome with awe in the face of the power of nature. The volcano spits out the lava, and it rolls down until it hits the ocean in a cloud of steam. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I never thought I would get to experience this amazing sight at this vantage point. The safari man is talking, but I’m too distracted by the beauty of the volcano and glowing lava to pay attention to him. We stay up in the air for about fifteen minutes, circling the volcano, hovering, and going to out sea to view the lava from there.

  “That was incredible,” I say, as Cole turns the helicopter away. After a few minutes, we land in the middle of nowhere. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem with the helicopter?”

  “I’m going to take you out onto a new shelf,” the safari man tells me.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “A shelf made by the new lava,” he says.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Cole says, and I want to kiss him.

  “Mr. Stevens, I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, and I haven’t lost anyone, yet,” the safari man says.

  I don’t want to be a wimp. Cole is a world-renowned adventurer. He’s climbed Everest without oxygen and Half Dome without ropes. He’s visited the Mariana Trench and the Titanic in a two-man submarine. Not to mention he’s a gourm
et chef and a horse whisperer.

  So, I’m not going to balk at newly formed lava shelves. Lava shava. I’m going to walk on the lava with the safari man and afterward, I’m going to be wined and dined by a billionaire who likes my boobs.

  What can go wrong?

  Chapter 14

  Beatrice

  “Can he see where he’s going?” I whisper to Cole as we follow the safari man over the lava shelf. The safari man is still wearing his dark sunglasses, and the only sliver of light anywhere is from the stars, and the hot lava in the distance.

  Cole squeezes my hand. “I think he’s going by his sense of smell, like a bloodhound.”

  The safari man is walking like he’s tracking big game over the African savannah. It occurs to me that he’s dressed for the activity, and I’m dressed to go to a luau on the beach. “You have nice boots,” I tell the safari man. “Are those special for walking on lava shelves?”

  “Yep, you see…” He embarks on a long explanation about the lava-deflecting superpowers of his boots and the exact temperature of lava and the melting point of rubber versus toxic chemical manmade materials.

  “How about strappy sandals?” I ask him. “How are those at deflecting lava?”

  The safari man laughs and says something that sounds like pishaw. “Where we’re going, you could walk barefoot, miss. Nothing to worry about at all.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about at all,” Cole repeats and squeezes my hand again.

  I quietly remind myself that I’m not a wimp. And really, I’m not. I was a Girl Scout. I’ve gone camping…twice, and yes sure the paramedics had to save me when I tree’d myself, accidentally, but I braved the outside where bears and cougars could have eaten me at any point. I was also on the JV swim team in middle school until I got chlorine poisoning…long story…so I’m pretty cool. I’m not worried at all about stepping into a pool of hot lava and burning my feet off up to my ankles.

  Wow, that would really hurt.

  Now, I’m worried about stepping into a pool of hot lava and burning my feet off up to my ankles.

  “Here we are,” the safari man says, turning around.

  My very cool, non-wimp self feels an anxiety attack coming on, like I know something bad’s going to happen, but I don’t know exactly what, and I don’t know who it’s going to take down.

  The safari man is giving an Attenborough PBS Special lecture on lava shelves, but I’m only focusing on the hair on the back of my neck, which is standing up, and my pores, which are sprouting goosebumps. I don’t know why I’m so anxious. The lava shelf seems fine and perfectly safe, but…

  “What’s that sound?” Cole asks.

  “I want a pair of lava-deflecting superpower boots,” I tell Cole, clutching his shirt. “Now. And a Blue Hawaii. And a croissant.”

  “That sound is totally normal,” the safari man says, as the sound gets louder. I don’t know what the lava shelf breaking apart would sound like, but this sound sounds exactly how I imagine the sound of the lava shelf breaking apart would sound.

  And what do you know, it is.

  The safari man screams in an ungodly way. I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s a mixture of a shriek and an air raid siren, and I’m assuming it’s the sound you make when you know you’re about to fall into a lava pit.

  I don’t think his boots are going to help him.

  Cole looks from me to the safari man and back again. He nods quickly and lifts me up onto one of his shoulders and runs toward the safari man and the lava shelf that’s breaking.

  “You’re running the wrong way! You’re running the wrong way!” I shout.

  Cole ignores me and manages to grab the safari man just as one of his special boots falls through the shelf. With a powerful yank, Cole pulls him to safety, and then we’re finally running in the right direction. Actually, only Cole and the safari man are running. I’m lying over Cole’s shoulder, clutching on to his buns for balance.

  Behind us, it’s all going to hell. Madame Pele is royally pissed.

  “Run faster!” I yell. “Bad volcano! Bad volcano!”

  The safari man is screaming too, but it’s just a lot of little girl sounds, like he has helium-infused vocal chords, and he’s hopping when he runs, like he’s afraid to touch the lava shelf.

  “Almost there,” Cole announces.

  “Run faster!” I yell. It’s not going to work. We’re not going to make it to the helicopter and fly away in time. We’re all going to die right here and now.

  At least I’ll die while holding onto Cole’s ass.

  Fun fact: The presidential suite at the Big Island Paradise Resort comes with an on-call butler, who is more than happy to provide a never-ending supply of Blue Hawaiians and toffee peanuts.

  He’s brought me three cocktails and a pound of nuts so far.

  I’m sitting on the cushy leather couch with my feet on the coffee table. Cole is sitting next to me with his arm around my shoulders.

  “I’ve saved you three times,” he says, as we watch Hart to Hart reruns on TV. “I think that’s more times than Mr. Hart saved Mrs. Hart during three full seasons.”

  “It was a close one this time. I was almost turned into a French fry.”

  “More like a churro,” Cole says. “Sweet on the outside. Doughy goodness on the inside.”

  I’m not sure I like my insides described as “doughy goodness,” but sweet is good so I let it slide. “That poor safari guy. Do you think he’ll be in the psych ward for long?”

  “He’s on a seventy-two hour watch, and last I saw, they were hooking him up to the happy juice.”

  I feel bad for the safari guy. It was a terrible end to his day. I wouldn’t want to be in his place. I prefer my happy juice in a cocktail glass with a paper umbrella in it. “It was a good thing he was wearing those fancy boots, or he wouldn’t have a foot right now. I hope he gets better soon, but I sort of hope that he doesn’t take anybody else out there.”

  “Last time I ever hire a Nobel Prize-winning volcanologist for anything,” Cole says under his breath.

  Geez, Cole has a lot of money. He can literally buy Nobel Prize winners.

  “You probably have all kinds of appliances,” I say, thinking about his wealth. “Probably the stainless steel kind with digital touch technology.”

  “I’ve got five houses with six kitchens, and they’re packed with appliances. Why? Does that turn you on?” He kisses me lightly and steals the remote. He flips the channels until he lands on Rambo. “Oh, classic,” he says, happily. “You didn’t answer me. Do appliances turn you on?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been too long since I had anything that plugged in. My last boyfriend stole all of mine.”

  “Are you serious? He stole your coffee maker?”

  I nod. “A Keurig. I miss my hazelnut coffee in the morning.”

  “Your blender? Your food processor?”

  “Yep, he took those, too,” I say. “And my waffle maker, panini press, and bread machine. Well, you get the picture.”

  “I get the picture. You had the worst boyfriend in the history of boyfriends.”

  “Actually, he was only number three on my list of my worst boyfriends,” I explain. “I’ve had a bad run.”

  “Good thing your run has changed for the better,” he says, making my heart skip a beat. I mean, really skip a beat, and now it’s beating a mile a minute. What’s that called? Heart palpitations? A stroke? Oh, God. I’m about to have a heart attack just as my run has changed for the better.

  “Are you my run?” I ask. Oh, please, please, please be my run.

  “You have to admit I’m better than the guy who stole your bread machine. I would never steal any plug-in appliances from you, Beatrice. Maybe a wire whisk or a slotted spoon, but never anything like a coffeemaker. I have a heart.”

  I lean against him. He smells so good. “You have a heart,” I repeat because I’m pretty sure it’s true.

  “Seriously, though, do you want me to beat
him up? The ex-boyfriend, I mean.”

  “Yes!” I say. I visualize Cole beating up my ex-boyfriend, and it makes me very happy, until I visualize the blood and broken bones. “Well, no. I’m not a violent person. So, I do want you to beat him up, but please don’t beat him up.”

  “Okay. I’ll just wait to save you for the fourth time. It’s inevitable. Saving Beatrice is part of being in close proximity to Beatrice.”

  “Maybe you’re bad luck, did you ever think of that?” I ask. “Maybe you’re dangerous to my health, and that’s why I’ve needed saving.”

  “That’s probably it,” he says and lies with his head on my lap. I run my fingers through his thick hair. “That feels good,” he says, softly. “I like saving you, Beatrice Hammersmith.”

  “You do? Why? It feeds your ego? Makes you feel manly?” He’s so manly. I’ve been intimate with his manly, and it’s very manly.

  “I like to know that you’re safe,” he says softly. “Feel you in my arms. For that moment, you’re mine. I like that.”

  Cole’s words replay in my head like a broken record or a 1990s DJ. “You’re mine. I like that. You’re mine. I like that.” It replays in my head over and over, and yet my brain is having a hard time understanding it. It’s eighth grade Spanish class all over, again, and Senor Gonzalez is asking me if esta calor en la clase. But I don’t know what calor means!

  And I sure as hell don’t know what Cole means when he says, “You’re mine. I like that.” I mean, what’s going on here? Could Operation Billionaire really be working? Has Cole graduated from having the hots for me to liking me?

  Or more than liking me?

  I continue to comb my fingers through Cole’s hair while he rests his head on my lap. On TV, Sylvester Stallone is spitting while he yells something unintelligible at some men who want to kill him. The suite is lit with candlelight, and there must be some kind of aromatherapy thing happening, because I smell gardenias. My bowl of peanuts is on the couch arm next to me, and the three empty Blue Hawaiian glasses are on the coffee table next to my feet. Cole and I are both wearing the thick terrycloth robes that came with the hotel room, since our clothes smell like brimstone and fire.