The Billionaire’s CamGirl

by Wylder, Penny

  “This is a new acquisition, actually,” I tell her. “He’s lived here for just a few years. I actually don’t think more than two bedrooms have even been slept in. One for Grandad and one for Sandrine, his…I guess his nurse. When I visit, I go back to Paris at night. Alexandre Beliem is good in small doses, so don’t get too comfortable, okay Weaver? Quick trip and then we have dinner reservations at Kate’s.”

  The car pulls up around the circular driveway and stops in front the oversized door, flanked by pillars with lions’ heads on top. The driver opens our door and I take Weaver’s hand and lead her up the stairs. She smiles so sweetly at me. It makes me want to turn around and put her back in the car, send her back to the hotel. I’m second-guessing why I even brought her here. Probably in part because of pride. I’d spent so many months pining for her, longing for her, now that she felt like mine, I wanted the world to know it. But it suddenly feels like I’m offering her up to the lions.

  The large door opens before I can turn around. “Christopher, welcome home.” It’s Sandrine, Grandad’s nurse/maid/companion. No one in the family is completely clear on this arrangement, and frankly, we’re better off without the details. But I like Sandrine, and my mother can sleep easier at night knowing there’s someone by her father’s side in case of emergencies. “Alexandre is in his study. He’s been expecting you.”

  “Thank you, Sandrine,” I say, offering her my coat and helping Weaver out of her own. “I’d like you to meet my friend from New York, Weaver.”

  “Pleasure to meet you Weaver,” she says kindly. Weaver for her part is standing in the foyer with her mouth agape. Adorably agape, but I still prod her gently in the side. “Oh, yes, nice to meet you too,” she says, blushing.

  We walk down the cavernous hallway to the back of the house to his study, where grandad spends most of his time. We find the old man there, sitting by a fire, a stack of newspapers and a cigar burning in a heavy crystal ashtray by his side. The doctors have told him over and over not to smoke, but he won’t listen.

  “Grandad,” I say loudly, leading Weaver in ahead of me. He begins to rise but I rest a hand on his shoulder to stop him and kiss his cheeks. “Why get up when we’re just going to sit down?” I say, saving the old man face. “Meet my friend, Weaver. She’s come from New York with me.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Beliem. Your home is beautiful. Thank you for inviting me,” she says, so generously it breaks my heart when my grandfather speaks next.

  “You know his trust fund is restricted to the terms of his employment, don’t you?” he asks. “It’s not my intention to have grandchildren who suck from the teat of my fortune. If they want it, they need to earn it. Right Christopher?”

  Weaver looks shocked, but she rolls with the punches and before I can rebuke him, she says, “That’s good thinking, sir. I guess Chris gets his smarts from you.” She sits down on a leather couch by his side, and despite my grandfather’s abruptness, she looks completely at ease again. How many different ways can this woman amaze me?

  Sandrine wheels in a silver tray with drinks. “Who’s in the mood for some mulled wine?” she asks in her sing-song voice. She hands us our cups and Weaver takes a sip. She closes her eyes and nods. “Did you prepare this, Sandrine? It’s delicious. What did you use, a Malbec? And there’s sherry in here, isn’t there? That’s always the best.”

  Sandrine looks pleased and smiles down at Weaver. “You have a sharp palette. I’m impressed.”

  “Weaver went to school for hospitality and hotel management. She knows a lot about food and wine,” I say, grateful for this benign, even pleasant, conversation.

  “You don’t want to marry a souse, Chris,” Grandad says gruffly. “Women who drink can be fun in the sack but they’re—” luckily for him his next words are swallowed up in a coughing fit. Sandrine hands him a handkerchief and he wipes his mouth. “Weaver,” Sandrine says, “can I give you a little tour so these two can discuss business. It’s not too cold outside to walk around the garden.” Weaver agrees that it sounds like a great idea, and as she and Sandrine take their drinks and head to the door, I mouth a silent thank you to her.

  Now that we are alone, I want to get right to this urgent business and get out of here. “What can I do for you? What was so important that I had to leave New York and come to Paris immediately?”

  “Her,” he says curtly, pointing toward the door. “We need to talk about the girl.”

  “How on earth did you even know about Weaver and what could we possibly have to discuss?” Then it clicks: Ryan.

  “Your brother’s concerned about you. He said there’s a floozy hanging around you—”

  “Not a floozy,” I correct, but he doesn’t pause.

  “He says she has no job, just suddenly showed up and now she’s by your side. Ryan says she’s after your money and that he thinks she may even be—” he drops his voice an octave and looks toward the door— “a whore.”

  The way he spits out that word has me on my feet and pacing. “Watch your mouth, Grandad,” I warn him, raising my voice. “That’s no way to speak about my girlfriend. Ryan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t you find it strange that he called you?”

  “He’s looking out for you,” he coughs out. “Like a good brother should.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” I yell. “He’s manipulating you because he knows he can; because he knows that once you get an idea in your head, you’ll latch on to it, and you won’t let it go.”

  He stands unsteadily and his face is red. I’ve seen him angry before, and on a scale of one to ten, this is a ten.

  “I can’t be manipulated,” he says, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “You kids thinks you’re so smart, so…so…” He slumps back into his seat, clutching his chest, and I’m by his side in an instant.

  “Take a deep breath,” I say, placing my hand on his back. “Calm down, now. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Call Sandrine,” he says in a strangled voice, and I run down the hall to find her.

  The ambulance arrived quickly and had Grandad speeding away within ten minutes of his heart attack. The doctors say it was minor, and Sandrine said it was probably the third in a series of small ones this year. His health is declining rapidly, she tells me, and he refuses to take any measures to get healthier.

  I’ve been pacing for the past hour, and poor Weaver is on the phone with Kate, explaining the situation and canceling our dinner reservation at her restaurant. I can’t think straight. One minute I’m angry at Grandad for being so cruel about Weaver. Then I’m angry at Ryan for using him like that to get at me. Mostly I’m angry at myself, for losing my temper. It had been a long time coming. He’s always felt very free to speak his mind, no matter if it hurt those around him or not. But I should have seen he was vulnerable. I should have been the better man.

  The elevator doors beyond the waiting room open, and my mother and Ryan come out in a flurry. I didn’t even know they were back in France.

  “Christopher,” my mother calls to me, her voice tinged with worry. “What on earth happened? Where is he?”

  “Mom, it’s okay,” I reassure her immediately. “He’s in a room and he’s stable. There’s no immediate danger.”

  “But what happened?” Ryan pries. “Sandrine said you were fighting with him. Is that true?”

  My mother looks at me pleadingly, probably assuming I’ll deny it. But I won’t.

  “It’s true,” I say. “We were arguing, and I lost my temper.” I turn to my mother. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize his health was so fragile.”

  There’s hurt behind my mother’s eyes, but she catches sight of a nurse walking down the hall, so she just says, “Hold on, dear,” and turns quickly to follow her.

  “What ever could you have been arguing about, Christopher?” Ryan says, taunting. He laughs low in his throat. “Golden child my ass. You are so fucking screwed.”

  For the first time I realize how irred
eemable my brother really is. For all I complain about my grandfather, seeing him clutch his chest and struggle to breathe scared me. But Ryan is standing here, so cavalier, and it’s all a fucking game to him. I ball up my fist, I want to punch him, I want to send him careening down the hallway, but then I there’s someone by my side.

  “Mr. Beliem,” the nurse says. “Your mother says you can visit your grandfather now. He’s sedated, but stable.”

  Weaver hastily tells Kate she’ll call her later and joins me as I walk down the hall to his hospital room. Just as we arrive to the door, my mother is coming out with Sandrine. They’re holding hands and their heads are close to each other speaking quietly.

  “Go in, Christopher,” Sandrine says. “You looked so frightened when I came to the study. You need to see him. He’s going to be okay. I promise you.” My mother nods in agreement and I walk in the room. Grandad, who dominates my schedule, controls my life, is lying in the hospital bed like a shell of man. He’s connected to wires and beeping machines, and I find it hard to imagine that this man has ever been intimidating to me.

  I feel Weaver’s hands rubbing up my back and settling on my shoulders. She’s on her tiptoes so she can whisper in my ear.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “I feel like a fucking monster, honestly,” I say with a sad little laugh.

  “There’s a dirty joke in there but I’ll save it for later,” she says, squeezing me tightly from behind. “What I will say is that you’re not a monster. You don’t have a mean bone in your body. I don’t know exactly what happened back there, but I know you. Whatever happened, whatever you said, I know you were provoked. And I know you’ll make it right, Chris. You’re the best man I know.” She’s standing in front of me now, my face in her hands, and looking at me so earnestly I believe her. My guilt abates, a bit, and I lean down to kiss her.

  We’re interrupted by my grandfather’s hoarse voice, “Jesus Christ, get a room.”

  Weaver lets out the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard, then throws her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide open in shock. I look over her head at Grandad in the bed, and he’s waving me over.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell Weaver. She nods with a smile and squeezes my hands before she turns to leave the room.

  “Hey, Grandad, it’s good to hear your voice,” I say, settling into the chair beside his bed. “You scared me.”

  “Ahhh stop it,” he grumbles. “Nothing keeps me down for too long. And maybe you all need to hear a little less of my voice.”

  “I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” I counter. “But you’re right; those things you were saying about Weaver, I just lost it. Because if you knew her…”

  “I see her, Chris. I see her standing by your side at your old crotchety grandfather’s bed, supporting you, trying to make you laugh, encouraging you to be a good man. I saw it Chris,” his voice trails off. “Do me a favor because I need a rest. Send everyone away. Tell your mother not to worry. I’ll see her in the morning.” He pats my hand as his eyes flutter closed, and just like that, Alexandre Beliem surprises me again.

  I rise silently from the old vinyl hospital chair and open the door softly, slipping out into the fluorescent lit hallway. Everyone is there, staring at me.

  “He’s resting now, and he says he’ll see everyone tomorrow,” I say, and it’s like a weight lifts off my mother’s shoulders, but I see it settle on Ryan’s.

  “What else did he say, huh?” he asks aggressively, quirking his eyebrow at me, an infuriating smirk on his face.

  “Yes, there was one other thing,” I tell him. Then I turn to Weaver and tell her, “He said it was a pleasure to meet you and he looks forward to the next time.”

  Ryan turns three shade of red, but I don’t even care. All I can see is Weaver’s smile, her curt little nod and her hand reaching out to mine. I kiss my mother and Sandrine goodbye, and Weaver and I leave the hospital, to the waiting town car out front. We still have sixteen hours before our flight, and I’m not done romancing her yet.

  16

  Weaver

  I’m finally over my jetlag and unpacking, a week after we landed in New York. The last week was spent in a haze, not just from the change in time zone, but replaying every detail of our trip to Paris. The candlelit dinners, sharing a warm baguette as we walked along the Seine, the hotel bed, the sex, the sex, the sex. I feel an ache between my legs remembering those times we spent in bed. If we’d have been in another city, I’m not sure we would have ever made it outside. It was a hard choice some mornings though, giving up the hours of exploring each other’s bodies for going to Versailles or Musée D’Orsay. It was worth it, though. Chris took me an hour outside of Paris one morning, before the sun had even risen, and we hiked for miles through hamlets and towns. I’d never seen that side of him. He could name every bird overhead and every tree along the path. The memories make me smile and I have a feeling there’s a lot we can still learn about each other.

  He told me all about his plans to relocate from London to his family’s apartment in the city, and silly me, I realized I was never exactly sure where his home was. He laughed when I told him that because he said he’s never considered his London apartment a home, more like a hotel suite where he was allowed to leave his toothbrush behind. I guess my boyfriend is kind of a nomad, but Chris made it clear that now that there’s something worth sticking around for, he’s looking forward to having a real home. He’ll be at the Plaza for another week, but then he’ll move into an apartment that’s just a ten-minute cab ride from mine.

  We’ll have two separate real homes, though, for the time being. I have a lot of stuff to figure out and seven months left on this lease. Cam-girling was supposed to be a temporary fix, and it did bring me a lot of money, money which I won’t be returning to Chris or feel guilty over. He wanted to play that game, well that was the price. My nest egg won’t last me long, though, especially if I want to lease a space to start a business next year. One of the first things I did when I got home was call my uncle in Brooklyn. I’m not looking forward to picking up regular shifts at his bar, but I have to pay my bills, on my own. There’s also an opportunity to do some marketing work for him, but I have to sweeten him up to the idea of welcoming hipsters into his bar of typical blue-collar workers.

  Chris has been gone for most of the week, flown back to London to pick up his toothbrush (and other things, he assures me) and take care of a couple of business dealings. He’s flying back in tonight and I’ve promised myself I’ll have this apartment clean and welcoming for when he walks through the door. Although I don’t plan for him to spend time in rooms other than my bedroom after being apart for days.

  I’m folding the last of my clean laundry when I hear my laptop chime. It’s the Sugar Girl window and I see that familiar name: WildCaptain. That’s odd. I accept the call.

  Fancy seeing you here, Captain. What’s up?

  The conversation bubbles appear and then disappear. I go back to folding my laundry assuming it was just a mistake. Then I hear a notification.

  I can’t stop thinking about you. Let me see you. It’s been too long.

  It’s good to know he feels the same way I do, because I completely agree. It’s been way too long.

  You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, I type.

  No can do. I’m sitting in a cab heading to the hotel. Just give me a little taste.

  I look myself over and I’m not exactly a cam-girl dream, but the idea of Chris in the city, riding in a cab wanting me, thinking of me…it’s too much to resist. I slide the clean laundry off my bed and grab my laptop, positioning it on the bed and sitting behind it. As an afterthought, I whip off my sweatshirt. The tee-shirt underneath isn’t much of a sexy improvement, but it’ll make Chris laugh. He bought it for me in a cheesy giftshop in Paris. It’s a gold pattern and when you look closer, you can tell the pattern is French fries. When Chris saw it, he said I had to have it. “Now this is seriously hot,” he said. I laughed th
e entire time he was purchasing the shirt. He kept telling me how irresistible I’d be covered in fries.

  I hit the camera icon and see my image fill up the screen. I lean in close and say, “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Chris’s response surprises me.

  Take off the shirt.

  It’s brusque and unlike him, and it takes me aback.

  “Now that’s no way to ask your girlfriend, is it?” I tease, trying to hide the annoyance I feel. Maybe he had a bad flight. I let my shoulder slink out of my shirt and show him a little skin, testing the waters to see where this is heading. “I thought you loved this shirt. I thought it made you hot.” I tease him by creeping up the shirt above my bellybutton. If he’s had a hard day, I’m game to make him feel better.

  Just do it. Tits.

  I stare at the screen for a minute, contemplating what’s going on here. Then my phone, set on the nightstand beside me, buzzes. Oddly, I see it’s a text coming in from Chris. I keep my face neutral and tell WildCaptain, “Hold on a minute, babe.”

  I reach for the phone and see the message: Just getting into the city. Should I come to you? I place the phone down and go back to the screen, to whomever is trying to trick me and impersonate Chris.

  “This would be so much better in person, don’t you think?” I purr. “I’ve missed you. Are you at the hotel yet?”

  I see conversation bubbles appear and disappear at least five times. Whoever’s on the other end hadn’t anticipated I’d write that. Finally, a reply;

  I switched rooms. Room 1216. Just come right up.

  “Can’t wait to see you, baby,” I say, and then log off.

  Five minutes later and I’m in a cab, heading downtown to see what the hell is going on. I text Chris to let him know I’m heading to the Plaza, but he should meet me downstairs in the lobby. I don’t give him any details because I’m pretty sure if it’s who I think it is trying to trick me, he’ll freak out and potentially do something stupid.