Return Billionaire to Sender

by Annika Martin

  “What do you think about a vintage postal carrier bag? There is a market for those out there. Hold on.” She starts sending me links to images. None are right. “I’m confined to vendors who can deliver overnight,” she says.

  “Money is not an object,” I say. “Everybody delivers overnight for a price.”

  “Shit,” she says. “Homemade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Motherfucker. This is going to cost you, but I just sent you a link of a vintage postal carrier bag with a hand-done monogram and stitch flowers.

  I take a look. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about her stuff. You’re matching her stuff.”

  “She wouldn’t want a monogram,” I say. “What are the chances I can get a few hedgehogs on there?”

  “So the job is, overnight the bag to an artisan in San Francisco who will sew or stitch a hedgehog on it and courier it to your hotel by lunchtime.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “It’ll cost you,” she says.

  21

  Noelle

  * * *

  I have just over one hundred fifty bucks in my bank account, and I use it to pay AJ—I buy him the gift certificate with it. I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow. Who knows, maybe I’ll be busted tomorrow, but for today, he’ll stay quiet.

  I buy a soda at the bar and go sit down with the team who is already at dinner. Everybody is still talking about the historic backgrounder. I nab some of their bread.

  The next day’s session feels like it goes on forever, possibly because I had no breakfast and I’m starving.

  After holding out as long as possible, I take one of the almond croissants and I eat it slowly, ripping off small pieces, savoring each and every bite, making it last. It tastes better than usual. I save the most almondy bite for last. I pop it into my mouth and pretty much let it melt, let the goodness suffuse me.

  Then I look up and meet Malcolm’s thunderous gaze and I freeze, because it’s so intense, and it makes me feel so strangely alive. Then somebody asks a question and he looks away to answer it.

  I swallow the last of it and wipe my hands, turning my attention to the PowerPoint, but it’s not long before my attention is back on the pastry tray.

  I torture myself wondering if they throw them all away once the session is over. I toy with saying something about feeding them to the birds, but I can only imagine Malcolm’s dim view of that.

  Malcolm is his usual engaging and personable self, interested in everything, enchanting people into divulging their secrets. I really do think he likes to learn about the people around him. God, if AJ told him who I really am, he’d be so pissed off.

  I need to figure something out about AJ.

  Does somebody need a visit from the fist of Malcolm Blackberg?

  For a short, wickedly indulgent moment, I imagine Malcolm turning his dark power to AJ. Malcolm would be angry to hear that I’m masquerading as his executive coach, but something tells me that he’d be angrier if he knew that AJ was blackmailing me.

  In fact, Malcolm would hunt him down if he knew. Yeah, Malcolm and his fist would so hunt him down. Shivers go over me.

  Malcolm is all about tormenting me, but he would definitely draw the line at allowing AJ to torment me. This is the pathetic direction of my thoughts as I stare at the plate of pastries.

  God, what is happening to me? I get control of myself, turn my full attention back to Gerrold and his son, and I keep it there for the rest of this session.

  Malcolm asks about our coaching session plans on the way back. I decide to make him do another session in writing, in order to have time to collect my thoughts.

  He seems disappointed. “Did you read my answers on yesterday’s quiz? I thought they were very comprehensive.”

  “Not yet,” I mumble, and I escape to my room.

  Am I being a coward? All I want to do is turn off my phone and hide—hide from AJ, hide from my inappropriate feelings for Malcolm, even hide from my girlfriends.

  After all, I’m supposed to be saving our building. And what am I doing? Falling for Malcolm and doing sexy things with him. And now I’m hiding in my room. How many more chances will I have to show him the video?

  But it feels more and more wrong to be posing as his coach. It was easy not to care about him when he was a bad guy with a plan to tear down our building. But up close and personal, there’s something tragic about his ferocity, like he’s lashing out at the world, fumbling toward some kind of solace that he never quite finds. And he’s funny—honestly, he might be the cleverest man I’ve ever met.

  And yes, he’s fierce and even a bit frightening when you don’t know him, but there’s this hidden sweetness to him.

  And I think he really does care about people…in his own compartmentalized way. He wouldn’t see people the way he does if he didn’t care. Why, then, is he so fiercely solitary? Surrounding himself with temporary people, in and out of his life like leaves in the breeze?

  Humans are social animals who need each other; it’s how our hearts are built. Malcolm is no different.

  I flop down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

  I came to force him to see our humanity, instead I’m seeing his.

  What am I going to do?

  I’m not without an exit strategy—I could give Malcolm all of the check marks, declare him to have passed the course, and inform Bexley that I’m going to Estonia. And slip silently back into my real life.

  It would be a completely effective transition—unless people started comparing photographs, and why would they?

  I’d go home and start packing.

  But then I imagine myself standing out there on the sidewalk across the street from our building while the wrecking ball flies. I picture us all crying, stuffing our faces with sad cookies that Lizzie made. And deep in the pit of my stomach, I’d know that I didn’t do everything I could have.

  Nothing’s impossible—I don’t care what Malcolm says.

  There’s a knock on the door. “Room service.”

  I didn’t order room service. Do they have the wrong room? I open up and there’s a uniformed woman with a cart.

  “You must have the wrong room,” I say. “I didn’t order anything.”

  “I know this is the right room.” The woman points to a small envelope on the cart. The envelope reads Elle, room 709. “Are you Elle?”

  “I am,” I say. “But…”

  “Then this is for you.” She pushes the cart into the room.

  There are two of those silver-domed plates and a bottle of sparkling water next to a glass of ice. There’s also a large gift box the size of two or three stacked pizza delivery boxes, and it’s wrapped in silver paper printed with pink hedgehogs.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Wait, let me a…” I turn to scan for my purse.

  “Tip’s taken care of.” With that, she leaves.

  I pull the top off of one of the silver domes. It’s a plate with three almond croissants and two bowls of crackers. Under the other dome are mounds of blackberries and raspberries and an assortment of cheeses.

  Malcolm.

  I take a croissant and bite in. It’s just so incredibly thoughtful, I want to die. But first things first. I finish the croissant and move on to the cheese and crackers, telling myself I need to build up strength to open the present, because it might be amazing, which will complicate things more than they already are.

  It’s not until I’ve made my way through two croissants, the entire wedge of Brie, and most of the crackers, that I bring the gift to the bed and sit down next to it, running my fingers over the bright paper. Hedgehogs. An accident? Or did he notice that, too? I slip off the bow and carefully untape the edges, pulling the paper off and folding it neatly. I remove the lid, part the tissue paper, and gasp.

  It’s a vintage postal bag—a midcentury one, my favorite era for postal bags—and it has little hedgehogs embroidered along the edges of the flap. I run my fingers over the stitchery, pulse racing. I
open the flap and explore the interior. How did he ever find such a thing? It’s a bit beaten up—enough to show that a real letter carrier once used it, which makes me love it more. And the stitched hedgehogs. A sob of gratitude clogs my throat; for a moment, I almost can’t breathe. I’ve never had somebody give me such a gift.

  I stand and swing it over my shoulder and take a look at myself in the mirror. It’s the most fabulous thing I own.

  Not that I can keep it.

  I can’t keep it.

  I hold it a moment longer, then I take it off and nestle it back into the box and replace the lid.

  “I can’t take this,” I say when I get Malcolm on the phone. “It’s sweet—thank you—but I can’t. You have to have room service come back and get it. I can’t accept gifts.” I’m hoping maybe this sounds like an official Bexley Partners policy. I’m sure they have such a policy.

  “It’s for you. So you have to keep it,” he says.

  I argue with him a bit. There’s another knock on the door. Is room service back? I open it.

  It’s him, looking beautiful as usual, elegant jacket unbuttoned, shirt crisp and white over his T-shirt. Is this what he lounges around in his hotel room wearing? Rummaging around in the mini-bar, spinning through the cable channels, always looking like a GQ model?

  He strolls into the room, phone in hand.

  He sits down in my chair and crosses his legs, giving me that piercing brown-eyed gaze. “The bag is custom-embroidered, so I won’t be returning it. You’re going to have to keep it. Or throw it away. Or donate it to a homeless shelter. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he adds with a devilish gleam.

  “Maybe I will,” I say.

  “Come on, at least give it a spin before you donate it.”

  “I have given it a spin.”

  “Have you, though?” He takes it from the box and comes to me. I can feel his body even before he touches me. We’re alone, and I can feel everything about him. He holds the bag up by the strap, as if to measure it against me, then adjusts the strap and hands it back to me.

  I clutch it, pinned by his gaze, breath speeding.

  “You have to take it back,” I whisper, even as I clutch it.

  Again he takes it from me, and this time he puts it over my head, drapes it over my shoulder, cross-wise. “Is that the way a letter carrier would wear it?”

  I switch sides so that it hangs over my left hip and turn to the mirror. “Like this when you’re right-handed.” I pantomime extracting a letter.

  In the mirror I watch him come to me. My skin is all hungry fire, craving for him to touch me. And then he settles his heavy hands over my shoulders, holding my shoulders as if to fix me in place. Our eyes meet in the mirror in front of us.

  I’m struck by how much larger he is than me, easily a head larger, and so much more dramatic. I’m pale pastels and he’s a photograph with the black-and-white contrast pumped up, hair sooty, whiskers thick as night. My pulse whirs as he lowers his chin to my shoulder, sets it there, still holding me, two faces side by side.

  The feel of being held in place by him is confusingly thrilling. I’m a fragile bird in a giant’s grip, and I just want to stay—I want to forget my troubles and be held.

  “What are you doing?” I hear myself ask.

  “This.” Rough whiskers nuzzle against my ear, sending a delicious shudder through me. He kisses my cheek, a brush of a kiss, light as feathers.

  I’m breathing hard, possibly even panting. It’s possible that I might melt from the pleasure of just that kiss. “It’s improper to accept a gift like this.”

  “So improper.” He kisses my neck, sending another shudder of pleasure through me. “Am I going to have to complain to your home office?” he rumbles.

  Alarm shoots through me. “No,” I say, maybe too quickly.

  He kisses me again.

  “You just can’t be giving me gifts,” I say.

  “Or what?” Another kiss. “Or what will my little country mouse do?” His question is a warm fingertip tracing tender skin.

  “You just can’t, is all. It’s inappropriate.”

  He slides my collar aside, baring a new patch of skin. He presses a warm kiss there. “Inappropriate like this?” he asks.

  “Like that,” I mouth, barely a whisper. “Yes.”

  He slides more of my shirt aside, claiming a bit more of my shoulder with his lips. Warmth flows over me every time he presses his lips to my skin. I feel wild and unhinged. I have this vision of pulling him to the bed, which would be so unlike me. But I want the bag. I want another croissant. I want him.

  Completely and utterly want him.

  I want to have sex with the man who is going to destroy our homes.

  What is happening to me?

  He kisses another part of my shoulder. “Like this?” he asks, voice thick.

  “We shouldn’t,” I gasp.

  “Probably not,” he says, planting another whiskery warm kiss. “Like this?”

  “Like that,” I gasp. Men never make me lose my good sense. I’m the most practical woman in the world. But now I feel wild, and 341 West 45th Street feels worlds away.

  “What happens if you take more than your share?” Warm, rough lips brush a kiss over my neck. “What if you take too many croissants? Too many bags? Too much pleasure?” He slides his hands down over my hips. “Does the world end? Does it all come crashing down?”

  I swallow. “I think you’re trying to tempt me,” I say.

  His laugh is a baritone rumble against my neck. “What would make you say that?”

  I fix him with my sly gaze—it’s the gaze I imagine an elegant, confident woman would have. An arch gaze. Very un-countrymouse. Very unlike me.

  He stills, eyes riveted to mine in the mirror.

  “What?” I ask, because he’s looking at me strangely.

  “I like that,” he says. “When you look a little bit witchy like that.”

  “Witchy?” I say. “Watch out or I’ll give you an X instead of a check mark,” I warn playfully. It’s like a whole new side of me comes out when he’s around.

  He’s still fixated on my gaze. Which I intensify. His lips curl in a shadow of a smile. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

  My pulse races. This shouldn’t be fun. “I already decided,” I tease. “You’ll be getting an X for inappropriate behavior.”

  Still standing behind me, he takes the bag off my shoulder and sets it on the dresser. I’m shivering with excitement. He slides his arms around to my front and begins to unbutton my shirt.

  “Don’t think you can change your grade, either,” I whisper.

  He undoes another button as I watch in the mirror. “I do think I’ll change my grade. That’s my whole plan.”

  “I’m not susceptible to bribery, as you’ve already discovered,” I tease, surprised I can form sentences at this point.

  He turns me in his arms to face him now and pushes down my yoga pants. I press my hands to his chest, thanking my lucky stars that I happen to have good underpants on, because I have some bad underpants in my suitcase for sure.

  Heat blooms through me as he kneels and pushes them down lower, past my knees. I should stop him. I should.

  Will I?

  No. Freaking. Way.

  “I’m not going to bribe you. I know you don’t like to take things.” He presses a kiss to my belly. I watch him—watch us—as if from a mile above. “I know you don’t like to take too much. I see you, country mouse.” He kisses my right thigh and then my left thigh. He’s sliding down my panties, hands skimming the sides of my legs, past my knees, my calves. “No bribery. I’m thinking more of extortion.” He presses a kiss onto my mound.

  I shove my hands into his hair, dizzy with desire. “Extortion?” I mumble. He could say devil worship at this point, and I’d probably go along with it.

  He kisses me again, and I gasp from the sheer pleasure of it. Just a kiss and I’m all electric nerve endings. Before I know it, he’s hoisted me so t
hat I’m sitting on the dresser, and he’s got me pretty much naked aside from my bra and open-hanging shirt, while he is still dressed. Just how he runs his negotiations. Stripping the person bare.

  Moi? So good with that.

  He kneels in front of me, with perfect access to my sex. Warm, dull waves of pleasure wash through my body as he kisses me between my legs, even kind of makes out with me there.

  And then he sticks his tongue inside of me. I gasp.

  Hard fingers dig into my thighs, pressing my legs apart, and he kisses me again, and again I gasp. And then he licks me. And I gasp. I’m a regular Pez dispenser of gasps.

  “Omigod,” I say, trembling, shoving my fingers deeply into his hair. He’s licking me shamelessly now. It’s nearly surreal that this is Malcolm Blackberg—supposedly dark, evil, misanthropic Malcolm Blackberg, licking my pussy.

  So. Amazingly.

  His tongue is hitting all the perfect bits of me, rearranging my mind.

  Every stroke seems to ping my very soul—ping! So amazing. Ping! Malcolm fucking Blackberg. Ping!

  I’m lost in pure pleasure for a good long time, but then I come to my senses and realize that he’s being left out. It feels constitutionally against everything in me to take this kind of pleasure without giving anything in return.

  I grab his hair and pull him up toward me. “Come here,” I say. “Come up here.”

  “No,” he says into my pussy, and then he finds an even better angle, and I nearly swallow my own tongue.

  I grab his hair harder. “Do you have a condom?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want to…” I nudge him upwards. My one long-term boyfriend only did this to prime the pump, so to speak. He never just kept on and on. It seems like a wild luxury, totally one-sided.

  Malcolm just growls into my pussy, which feels so good, I might just lose my mind.

  “If you keep going, I might not let you stop,” I say.

  “Are you ready to quiet down and enjoy this?”

  “You are so getting an X,” I say. “Not playing by the rules.”

  He stops what he’s doing and it’s a little bit excruciating that he stops. I want to cry, but at the same time, I did tell him to.