Boxed Set: Books & Billionaires

by Nikki Steele

  My goodness, we really were almost there!

  The car stopped just moments later. Booker adjusted himself, and then a valet was opening the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You know, for two people that have just decided that the only way to keep several billion dollars is not to get caught having sexual relations in public, we just walked a very fine line.”

  I grinned, hand going to my lips again at the memory. The valet had just driven away. “I know. But it was crazy good fun, wasn’t it?”

  Booker shook his head. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to get caught eventually. But it’ll be one hell of a ride until then.” He took my arm. “Shall we?”

  A red carpet snaked through the snow before us. Flickering lamps placed at measured intervals led to a warehouse just beyond.

  “Where are we?”

  Booker just smiled, then led me down the carpet until we were standing before large metal doors. The warehouse was an old corrugated iron affair, several stories high, with all the windows boarded up. Like an abandoned aircraft hangar, but with a flat roof instead of curved. We’d driven all the way into the countryside to go to a warehouse?

  I noticed a butler standing in bowtie and tails to one side.

  “The whole thing looks kind of shabby, doesn’t it?” Booker said, leading us to the butler. He was enjoying the look of confusion on my face.

  “Umm…”

  “Just wait till you see inside.” Booker handed over two golden tickets.

  The butler inspected them, then snapped his heels together. “Very good, sir.” He pressed a discrete button on the wall behind him, and the huge double doors swung inward.

  Well roll me up and call me curly.

  I stood, mouth open, on the threshold of another world; an exotic fantasy land that was half harem, half Turkish bazaar. Stretching into the distance was a vast space, carpeted in rich red Turkish rugs and a million silk cushions. Drapes covered the walls, and silk canopied across the ceiling; held in place by exotic glass lanterns that dangled, flickering, on chains to cast an intimate light.

  Beneath, scattered braziers burned with a cheerful glow. Women in veiled dresses walked among them serving heaped plates of exotic delicacies. There were several hundred well-dressed guests inside; bare chested men in Aladdin pants were offering them trays of steaming Turkish tea and mysterious cocktails. I looked to Booker.

  He winked at me. “Staying rich does have its perks. You get to go to the most awesome parties.”

  It was like we’d somehow stumbled into a scene from Arabian Nights.

  Along with Pride and Prejudice—and now the Karma Sutra—the book was one of my favorite romances. I loved the theme—of Scheherazade, a beautiful woman sentenced to death by an Arabian king, but who every night told such exciting tales that each morning the king spared her life for one more day.

  It took 1001 nights for the king to fall in love with Scheherazade and change her life. It had only taken Booker one to change mine.

  A waiter approached us and Booker took a drink. My hand hovered over steaming hot tea but chose a clear cocktail in a long stemmed glass instead. I took a sip, and discovered with delight that I was drinking something that tasted exactly like Turkish delight.

  I looked up to find Booker watching me with a smile. “What?” I asked self-consciously.

  His thumb went to my jawline, caressing it. “You just look so cute, that’s all. It gives me so much pleasure to see you enjoying yourself.”

  I leaned in close, grinning cheekily. “That’s funny,” I said into his ear. “I was thinking the same thing about you on the car ride here.”

  I was rewarded with a sputter as Booker almost choked on his drink.

  He flicked liquid from where it had splashed on his hand. “Come on, let’s explore before I decide to throw four billion dollars out the window and take you right here and now.”

  * * *

  I didn’t know which was more amazing—the shirtless musclebound man walking around blowing spouts of flame into the air, or the camel in another corner bedecked in rich, red riding carpet, with tassels around its neck. The camel perhaps—but only because I had no idea how they’d managed to find one in the middle of little-old-here, in the snow.

  “Booker, this is amazing.” We had retired to cushions in a darkened, private corner to treat ourselves on the plentiful trays of meze walking regularly past us.

  So far I’d had tiny shish kebobs, fried pastries, miniature peppers stuffed with feta, glazed pecans and baklava, which I’d discovered was a rich, sweet pastry made of layers of filo filled with chopped nuts and honey. I’d waved the serving girl back for a second helping of that one, my mouth still full as I motioned her to heap my plate high. I was having the most wonderful evening—I felt like a princess, with Booker my handsome prince.

  “I’ve never been here before, but I’d heard stories,” Booker said. “A place that caters to the fabulously wealthy—people fly in from all over the country to the private airport just nearby.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of something like this. “But how does it even exist? And why on earth have you never been before?”

  Booker shrugged, choosing to answer my second question first. “I guess I’ve never had someone to share it with,” he said. “A couple of people I know have been pestering me to go for the last few years, but it’s really something I wanted to do as a couple, and well…” Booker didn’t need to say any more. Two years ago was around the time when things had started to go sour with his wife.

  “Who just organizes a random three week extravaganza for the mega rich?” I asked, trying to distract him from the path I’d led him down.

  He brightened. “Oh that’s easy. The tickets more than make this worthwhile for the organizers, and it’s a great place to network with your peers. The people that do this are pretty well known in the right circles.”

  I looked at the extravagance surrounding us. A belly dancer had begun performing nearby, and… was that man with the oiled scalp swallowing a sword?

  “How much are tickets?” I asked, eyes narrowed.

  “Nice try, but my lips are sealed.” He shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”

  A sudden suspicion occurred to me, and I looked down at my Chanel dress. “More or less than this dress?”

  He raised an eyebrow, but shook his head once more.

  “The dress and the shoes combined?”

  He laughed, shaking his head again. “I’m not telling. But it was worth it, if you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “You drive a Ferrari and own a boat bigger than a cruise liner. ‘It was worth it’ tells me nothing!”

  * * *

  I’d been having the most wonderful, extravagant, amazing time. But that all came to a crashing halt when I visited the Ladies’ Room.

  It wasn’t the surrounds; just like everything else here, they were beautiful—Italian marble walls with waterfall basins, rolled soft towelettes; an assortment of expensive perfumes for those that wanted a refresh.

  Rather, it was who was waiting for me when I exited my stall. He was tall with a ratty face, and I recognized him immediately, despite the fact that he’d swapped trench coat for tuxedo.

  “Simon Wickson, Private Investigator,” I said, a sour taste suddenly in my mouth. I looked around and noted that the rest of the bathroom was empty. “How did you get in here?”

  “Clara! What a lovely surprise. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said curtly. “But you’ll have to excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” I brushed past him to wash my hands.

  “So my client, Miss. Stacey Fines, told me something very interesting today.”

  “Oh yes, and what’s that?” I asked, soaping my hands quickly. I couldn’t wait to get out—my hands might be getting cleaner, but I was feeling dirtier every minute spent talking to him.

  “Mr. DeVale never showed up for his appointment today.”

  “Well that’s
her business, not mine.” I dried myself and pushed past him toward the door.

  His hand went to my shoulder, stopping me firmly. “But I think it is your business. You never came good on our deal, Clara.”

  “Sell out Booker? I’m sorry, but that wasn’t much of a deal.” I pried his fingers from my shoulder. “Excuse me, I no longer want to talk to you.”

  “Ah, but I need to talk to you. You see, Clara, I don’t think you realize the situation you’re in right now.”

  I stopped. “And what’s that?” I said, rounding on him. “That Booker’s sister-in-law isn’t going to get her dirty mitts on his hard-won money?”

  He nodded. “Exactly. My client is a very passionate woman. She hunts animals for sport. She wields power like a baseball bat. How do you think getting all that taken away would make her feel?”

  “I don’t care how she feels,” I retorted.

  “Ah, but you should. Because having her unhappy is a very serious problem for you.”

  A shiver went down my spine. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not. I’m just saying that you really should consider your options before you—or Booker—get hurt.”

  “You can’t threaten me. That’s blackmail.”

  He shook his head. “I told you, I’m not threatening you. Nobody wants to go to jail here.”

  He grinned, an insincere show of yellow teeth. “Did you know that if Mr. DeVale dies, his entire fortune goes to his loving wife?”

  “She wouldn’t!”

  “Wouldn’t what? I’m not implying anything. Although I do understand your confusion—$4.3 billion is a lot of money. I’m sure there are people who would kill to keep something like that. Not that I know any of course.”

  “Get out,” I said, finger trembling as I pointed at the door.

  He smiled, and moved toward the exit. “Do enjoy the party, Clara. I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve got some arrangements I need to be making.”

  He rested a calling card on the benchtop beside the door. “The arrangements won’t be ready until Friday—perhaps we can speak again before then? Mrs. DeVale is so eager to complete negotiations.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was still shaken the following day. I’d been having such a wonderful night, and then in one foul swoop that had all been ruined. We’d gone home immediately after; me ashen faced, Booker puzzled at my sudden quietness. But I couldn’t tell him about this. Not yet. Not until I knew how I felt about it myself.

  That investigator had threatened to hurt me. Even worse, he’d threatened harm to Booker. Not that he’d been stupid enough to say it outright, or I’d been smart enough to record him doing it.

  Perhaps… perhaps I should consider signing that document? Booker had been happy to lose the money before. And I’d been happy to too, until I’d realized how much was at stake. Was I just being greedy? Did I value money more than I did Booker’s life?

  I shook my head. The money was just the most visible part of the equation. It was what his wife would do with it that really mattered—more than just make us poor, or miserable.

  With absolutely nothing, we’d be helpless against her. That island—the one we’d protected? I suddenly wondered how even World Heritage listing could stand against $4.3 billion in pressure. The woman would be unstoppable.

  The thought made me depressed, so I did the thing I usually did when I was down. I walked to my bookshelf and picked up a book.

  I considered my copy of The Karmasutra first. But it reminded me too much of Booker. He’d personalized the edition himself, and as I flicked through the pages morosely all I could think of was that soon, perhaps this might be the only piece of him left.

  The book went back on the shelf and my hand drifted further along the spines. Pride and Prejudice… no. Saltwater Kisses… no, Casanova…

  I picked the book up. I’d always loved Casanova, even before Booker had stood under my balcony with a string quartet behind him and quoted verse from it. The namesake of the story was a rascal, a rogue with an insatiable appetite for women and adventure. A charlatan, a gambler and a liar, too. But if you could look past all that, the story of his long and complicated romance with a woman known only as M.M. was fascinating reading.

  I flicked to my favorite part idly, where Casanova described an encounter he’d had with her after saying he had eaten a salad with six egg whites for lunch:

  Then I picked her up, and she put her arms around my shoulders to lighten her weight. I seized her thighs and she braced herself on my nail; but after walking all around the room and fearing the worst, I put her down on the carpet. I sat down with her in my lap, and with her beautiful hand she obliged me by finishing the task, culling the first egg white in her palm. “Only to 5 to go” she said, cleaning her hand.

  So scandalous! The book was one part humor, one part arousal, and one part fascinating insight into the customs of the 18th century.

  They’d been so much freer about their sexuality back then. It had been common for nobles to own love pads that contained erotic paintings on the walls, mirrors on the ceiling, hidden entrances and even secret rooms with spyholes where lovers could ‘sit back and enjoy the show.’ Casanova had made love to M.M. in one such pleasure room, owned by the Ambassador to France. And he’d done it while knowing that the Ambassador might be in the other room, watching their every move.

  Once upon a time, this voyeurism had been the only part of Casanova’s tale that had ever felt uncomfortable with me. But now… I thought I understood the appeal. Making love to Booker on that beach. Pleasuring him in the car. There was something risqué about the danger of being watched. Something that heightened the pleasure—at least occasionally, and only if you weren’t caught.

  Just imagine what Casanova would be up against nowadays! There’d be a video camera behind the spyhole…

  The thought took me to thinking about the wire I had worn that second time Booker and I had made love. I still had it here, somewhere. I’d thought I was doing the right thing—protecting myself by recording our conversation; driving him back to his wife.

  But now… I’d done just the opposite. By taking it off, I’d endangered us both.

  I’d always believed that good conquered all in the end—in books, the bad guys never won. But this was real life. And it looked like the bad girl was going to win.

  Casanova had been jailed once for witchcraft. But if Booker died, there was no magic witches’ brew that could bring him back. There was no secret enchantment or elixir of life I’d be able to feed him. He’d just be dead, and my stupid inability to protect Booker would have cost me any chance I ever had of happiness.

  I flicked to the section of the book where Casanova had escaped imprisonment. There had to be something that I could do to escape this too. Something that would protect us from Booker’s wife.

  But she had an ironclad agreement that would give her Booker’s money. And there was nothing, as far as I could see, that she valued more than that.

  I admit that I am proud of my escape; but my pride does not come from having succeeded… it comes from my having concluded that the thing could be done and having had the courage to undertake it.

  There was, I realized, something I could do. Something that I’d known all along, really. Something the private investigator had told me about the very first time I’d met him. In fact, he’d been telling me repeatedly. I’d just been refusing to listen.

  … it comes from my having concluded that the thing could be done and having had the courage to undertake it. Did I have the courage to do it? Was I really prepared to risk everything for Booker, just like he’d been willing to for me?

  Yes. Yes I was. I snapped the book shut and pulled a small white calling card from my pocket. The phone picked up immediately when I rang.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, taking a deep breath. “But I want to look her in the face when I do. I want to meet the wife in person.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The café out
front of the library was officially closed at this time of night, but knowing the owners afforded certain advantages—and dropping Booker’s name afforded even more. It was important that Booker’s wife and I meet alone, where we could both feel safe saying what needed to be said. The café had seemed the perfect place for that to happen.

  What I hadn’t counted on, was that sitting waiting for a woman with the power to ruin my life would also make me smile. Potted trees graced the floor of the cafe, ferns and vines hung from roof and walls, and there, with books for legs and a timber top, was the picnic table upon which Booker and I had made love.

  I sat down at it, grinning, and ran my fingers across the polished grain. It seemed appropriate to be here, somehow.

  I heard the door open a short while later. I smoothed down my dress and sat a little straighter. Showtime.

  “So we meet at last.” Booker’s wife stood framed in the doorway, a practiced pose I’m sure she’d modelled in the mirror before arriving.

  She was slightly older than I’d imagined, with long blonde hair and full red lips. Tight jeans, designer top and—I had to bite my lip—the fur of something black and grey hanging lifeless around her neck.

  I stood up, determined to be polite. “Hello, I’m Clara.”

  She strode in, ignoring my outstretched hand. “Clara.” She made the name sound like a punch to the stomach. “So you’re the woman who’s fucking my husband.”

  I wiped my hand on my top as if I hadn’t just been snubbed. “Um… Well I guess I should apologize for that. I never-”

  “Look, let’s just cut the bullshit, shall we?” Her words cut across me like a bulldozer. “I fly to Paris in an hour.” Her long legs click-clacked to a nearby table and she ran a finger across its top disapprovingly. “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you’re fucking him or sucking him—as long as his balls have touched your body in some manner or other, I’m happy.”