Billionaire Ever After

by Blair Babylon

  Lizzy Pajori

  Lizzy followed the wedding party into a large office, staying near the back of the crowd with Georgie.

  Rae’s civil wedding was held in a law office downtown in one of the skyscrapers of Paris, which was evidently unusual. There was much bustling and hand-shaking when a tall man with frost at his temples arrived, and Wulf-The-Dom and Rae were introduced to the Mayor of Paris. Rae looked composed and sweet, even though Lizzy knew her expression meant that she was shy and overwhelmed.

  At the wedding, Lizzy watched Wulf-The-Dom.

  He was as polished as smooth alabaster, shaking the mayor’s hand, going through pleasantries, introducing Theo, who produced documents like the Certificat de Coutume, a Certificat de Celibat, some long-form birth certificates that he had translated into French, and some other paperwork that he made leap out of his briefcase with a snap of his fingertips. Through the whole thing, Theo spoke lilting, confident French that Lizzy couldn’t understand a word of. She preferred it when he spoke Spanish. At least she could pick up some of that.

  The guy standing next to Wulf-The-Dom, his best man, looked familiar, but Lizzy couldn’t place him. He wasn’t a movie star or anything, too inbred-British looking, and well—Lizzy glanced at the guy’s thin blond hair and tried not to think ungenerous thoughts.

  Wulf-The-Dom’s face seemed younger.

  He had never looked old, but she had pegged him for his middle thirties, maybe. Certainly an adult.

  Now, his small smile—so blissful, so easy—made him look younger. Late twenties, maybe. Maybe only a few years older than herself.

  He moved differently, too. His posture had always been ramrod straight, but he had seemed stiff, like he was holding himself together with a hefty measure of control.

  His shoulders, while still broad, seemed a fraction of an inch lower, and his chest seemed to move more easily when he breathed.

  He seemed whole for the first time, like he wasn’t struggling to not turn away.

  Not that all that had any bearing on Lizzy’s situation. Wulf-The-Dom had been hiding that he was spectacularly loaded and evidently connected to powerful people if he could summon the Mayor of Paris to officiate at his wedding with a day’s notice. Jeez.

  Lizzy was hiding failure that she never wanted to relive.

  It was different.

  So different.

  At The Wedding: Rae

  Rae

  Rae Stone surveyed the law office, the same one where Flicka had married a few days before with most of the same characters hanging around. Bookcases filled with matched leather-bound books blocked the walls, and the mahogany desk carved with ornate columns skirted the elegant edge of ostentatious.

  She held her chin up, even though she felt entirely outclassed by the lawyers running around, shoving papers at French officials. Flicka’s wedding, having been planned for over a year, had run more smoothly.

  Two gold-leafed, white-velvet chairs were set five feet apart in front of the desk, just like at Flicka’s ceremony.

  Weddings should not be celebrated sitting in chairs, out of arm’s reach, like they were stuck in the Middle Ages and the wedding was part of a peace treaty where she was being wedded in exchange for half of France and a subsection of Spain.

  That royal analogy seemed awfully presumptuous. Rae was a ranching girl. Her bride price, paid to her father rather than dowered from him, would have been a dozen head of cattle and range rights, maybe water rights if she were pretty.

  She turned to Wulf, who was discussing something with the Mayor about the stock market. “Excuse me,” she said, not embarrassed about her American-accented French because that was who she was. “Wulf, may I speak to you?”

  “Mais oui, I mean, yes.” He excused himself and turned back to her.

  Rae sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to get married sitting down.”

  Wulf raised his eyebrows slightly.

  Rae plowed on. “People shouldn’t get married sitting down, like it’s a transaction. We should stand, and hold hands, and face each other.”

  Wulf paused, and she could almost see the wheels spinning behind his sapphire eyes, calculating the quantities of propriety and tradition that would be shifted to the negative column.

  He straightened and beckoned Dieter over. “We’ll need to move the chairs.”

  “Where to?”

  “The back of the room.”

  The security guys busied themselves with removing the chairs.

  Wulf smiled down at her. “Is that better?”

  Rae nodded, feeling like she made a fuss, but it was important, darn it.

  “I can’t make everything perfect on such short notice,” he said, lowering his voice, “but I will do what I can. In a month or so, at the religious wedding, it will be perfect.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m not picky.”

  “I am.”

  She smiled up at him, knowing that he had never had an opinion on clothes or fashion or decor in his life. “Okay, then.”

  Wulf took her hands, holding them softly. He smiled down at her, his dark blue eyes as gentle as the summer sky. “Shall we begin?”

  Oh, Lord, yes. She was so ready to begin her life with him, and no matter what Wulf thought, it would be a long, long life.

  Even if he was still hiding something, because there must be a reason for this rushed wedding, something serious, something dire, and it scared her to think of what it might be.

  At The Wedding: Wulf

  Wulfram von Hannover

  Wulf held Rae’s cool hands in his while he answered, “Oui,” to the Mayor’s standard questions about taking Rae as his wife. The world had seemed to slow for him, to focus down to these few, momentous words that were a pivot in his life.

  Beside Wulf, his cousin William stood in for Constantin. Constantin would have held the rings and made inappropriate jokes before the ceremony, his gray eyes laughing and daring Wulf to make a break for it.

  Reagan said, “Oui.”

  William laid Rae’s ring, just a platinum band, in his hand, and he managed to get it on her slim finger even though his hands shook a little. They should have waited for the religious ceremony for rings, but Wulf couldn’t bear that. He wanted evidence. He wanted to remember the look of his band on her hand.

  William handed Wulf’s ring to Rae, and she took it from him with her head held high. It seemed like she had finally gotten over that shyness with his family, thank heavens. She slid it on his hand and switched to English. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

  The archaic wording was lovely. Her warm fingers around his were everything.

  The Mayor pronounced them man and wife.

  It was done. Wulf breathed.

  Rae looked up at him, waiting.

  Generally, Europeans don’t kiss at wedding ceremonies, especially the civil wedding, but he would do anything for her. He slid his hands up her arms, around her back, and felt the strength in her body. His lips brushed hers, kissing her gently, just tasting her, then pulled back.

  Tears wobbled in her warm, brown eyes.

  Wulf watched Rae, his Rae, his wife. Her hands were delicate on his shoulders, and he kept his grip light around her slim waist. Oh, Lord, that impish look in her warm, brown eyes could keep him going for a thousand years, and that happiness, and that charm. His heart clenched.

  He had survived until this moment. It was enough.

  He signed his name on the license, and she signed hers, and whatever came after this would come in its own time. Relief blew through him in a great gust. Whether or not they ever had the religious ceremony, they were legally married, and Rae would inherit everything. His Swiss and German lawyers already had that paperwork in their offices, ready to file. He had signed it all while she was shopping with Flicka a few days before. Her autism clinics would spring up all over the world like mushrooms in the Black Forest.

  The four witnesses signed the documents, and Theophile Valencia gathered up the
marriage paperwork and handed it off to the French clerk.

  Wulf had planned a small reception at the hotel followed by a private supper with a few friends, and then the plane home. Rae would arrive in time for her classes on Monday morning, as promised.

  The bedroom on the plane would offer them some privacy, some time for them alone.

  He could hardly wait to ask.

  While the thought of it filled him with elation, it was enough that he had married her. No matter what else happened on this bright, sunny day in Paris, it was enough.

  After The Wedding: Wulf

  Wulfram von Hannover

  At the tea after his wedding, Wulf watched the swarming crowd of his relatives and friends, most gleaned from Flicka’s wedding last night and all amused as hell when he had called them this morning. Most had sworn at him because they had lost wagers, which had amused Wulf, in turn. He conferred with Dieter about the security arrangements for the supper afterward and the drive back to the planes for the overnight flight home. They were just discussing whether he and Rae should ride in separate vehicles when Wulf saw his sister Flicka approach Georgiana, his little friend Georgiana from the Devilhouse, and touch her arm. The recognition between the two was obvious.

  A cold mist settled over Wulf’s back underneath his summer-weight suit.

  They knew each other. From the way their arms were linked as they walked off, they knew each other well.

  Icy sweat filmed the backs of his arms and his chest.

  He had thought the American Southwest to be a world away from his own social circles, but Georgiana had moved in both. She had recognized him that morning from just his name because she should have known who he was the whole time.

  Tremors shivered on his skin, just as when a bullet ruffled the air over his head.

  One misplaced word in all those years might have endangered everyone. She had been so close.

  Beside Wulf, Dieter had picked out what he was watching. “That’s surprising.”

  “Indeed,” Wulf said.

  “Should I look into that?”

  “No,” Wulf said. “I’ll ask Flicka later, but it’s over and done with, by every measure. I am finished with the Devilhouse.”

  He glanced over at the head table where Rae and Lizbeth watched Flicka and Georgie walk away. Lizbeth handed Rae a flute of champagne.

  Wulf wove through the crowd, on a mission to intercept that wine.

  ~~~~~

  An hour later, Wulf dropped his long body into an empty chair beside Pierre, his black-haired, new brother-in-law, and they watched the girls—Rae, Lizzy, Georgie, and Flicka—dance together. The four girls giggled and swayed to the uptempo music, a vision of young beauty and happiness. Wulf could watch all four forever, but seeing his sister happy was gratifying and watching his beautiful Rae warmed every corner of his soul. He must ask Georgiana and Flicka how they had known each other, but the whole danger had not come to fruition, so he had finally dismissed it.

  Besides, seeing them together and happy was rather amusing.

  Wulf leaned his head toward Pierre and muttered so that no one else would hear them over the beeping music. His mild smile didn’t waver. “If you so much as look at another woman, I will kill you.”

  Pierre rolled his dark eyes. “Oh, God, Wulfram, you and your abominable sense of humor. On our wedding weekend and at your own wedding, no less. Really, don’t you think—” He glanced at Wulf. His black eyes widened. “Good God, you’re serious.”

  Wulf didn’t let any part of his face move. “Oh, yes.”

  Pierre twitched and turned back to watching the girls dance. “You’ve been slumming in America too long. Mortal threats are gauche. Did Rae’s father threaten you with such a simplistic bluff?”

  “Rat Bastard, we’ve known each other too long for any protestations.” Wulf stood and adjusted his suit jacket. “She loves you. If you break my sister’s heart, I won’t snipe you from a high vantage point. I will take you apart with my bare hands.”

  Wulf walked into the crowd, intending to get that string quartet back so that he could dance properly with Rae. He enjoyed waltzing with her strong, supple body in his arms.

  He was dancing at his own wedding, and so several people owed him many thousands of euros.

  While Wulf might have considered the odds astronomical that he would win, he had instantly realized that if he had lost, they could not collect. He would have to donate the proceeds from the suckers’ bets to one of Flicka’s charities.

  After The Wedding: Rae

  Rae

  An hour and half later, Rae glanced over at the dance floor as the lilting music from the string quartet in the corner quieted, and the musicians set aside their instruments with a wooden clatter.

  She tucked her purse under the elaborate head table and prepared to stand up because if the pretty stuff wasn’t playing, then maybe the DJ would put the good music back on for some more dancing and she and Lizzy could corral Georgie so they could dance again, even though she was getting pretty tired. She still could not believe everything that Wulf had done, or had had done, or something, for this wedding. She couldn’t imagine the tons of lush red and purple hydrangeas and roses anywhere back home, even in the Marsden Hotel, the grandest venue in Pirtleville. The silver chairs upholstered with royal blue satin looked like they belonged in Mrs. Harding’s front parlor because only the mayor’s wife could afford such high style, and there were hundreds of them grouped around the tables. Back home, this would be beyond lavish, outlandish in its scope and extravagance, and despised as flaunting money. They wouldn’t see it as the kind gift from Wulf that it was.

  Oddly, there was still no music. Rae scanned the crowd of men in suits and ladies in silk and lace, looking for what was going on. Maybe it was over and they could rest for a while before dinner. The deep, soft bed in the Empire Suite called to her.

  Lizzy flopped into a chair beside her, watching Theo walk back to the bar. Lizzy asked Rae, “What’s going on?”

  Rae shrugged with both her palms turned up to Heaven. “I honestly have no idea what Wulf has planned next.”

  The small DJ booth was empty, too, so Rae leaned back in her chair and looked around. The crowd rustled as everyone swiveled, and everyone’s attention oriented on two people by a grand piano in the corner.

  Georgie sat on the bench, adjusting the distance to the keyboard, and the guy she had been sitting next to at Flicka’s table stood beside the curve of the piano’s body, leaning on the top. Rae had briefly met him last night at Flicka’s wedding, one of Pierre’s cousins.

  Alexandre smoothed his long hair, pulling back so it lay behind his shoulders.

  “I didn’t know Georgie played the piano,” Rae mused.

  “Oh, yeah. She practices piano every day for a couple hours over in the practice rooms of the music department, plus a long stretch on weekends. She practices like she’s an Olympic pianist.”

  “Has she ever performed?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lizzy said. “Not even once.”

  Georgie’s shoulders lifted as she settled her hands on the keyboard.

  The guy opened his mouth and hit the first three notes, and Lizzy choked on her champagne. She backhanded Rae on the arm.

  “Ow!” Rae rubbed her triceps.

  “Oh my God! I didn’t even recognize him!” Lizzy whispered.

  “You slap people around a lot.” Rae considered punching Lizzy in the arm in retaliation because she had been raised with brothers and you cannot let that kind of thing slide, but she looked over at the piano instead.

  No one else in the whole room was talking, their full attention focused like stage lights on Georgie and the singer.

  Rae whispered, “Why’d you hit me?”

  “Oh my God! Do you know who that is?”

  “Alexandre de Valentinois. He’s Pierre’s cousin. He’s probably related to Wulf somehow, too.” All the hundreds of people at Flicka’s wedding last night seemed to be Wulf’s cousin
s, somehow, by some branch or removal. His family was a fertile bunch. “Seriously, you know I’m from the Southwest Border region. My family tree don’t branch. I’m related to my cousin Frank Tyra through three different lines, but the generations of inbreeding around here shock the heck out me. I’m surprised they don’t all have babies with three heads.”

  Lizzy spun to Rae, her pale blue eyes wide. “You don’t know who he is, do you?”

  Rae looked again, but the guy was still Pierre’s cousin Alexandre. His golden brown hair hung past his shoulders, shining in waves, and was sun-bleached at the ends. His dark blue suit suggested that he was slim, maybe athletic. He looked like all Pierre’s cousins did though, gorgeous and glamorous, as if Grace Kelly’s Hollywood genes had moved horizontally through the generations of Grimaldis.

  Rae blinked. She knew that she had that stupid-blank, down-home look on her face again, but she was in Paris and the object of a high-society wedding, so that was to be expected. “He’s Pierre’s cousin. I assume that he’s somebody. Everyone around here is somebody except us.”

  Lizzy pointed. “Look at Georgie. She doesn’t know either!” She pulled her phone out of her purse and frantically tapped the screen, then held it up. “At least this useless thing still has a camera.”

  “You didn’t get a French SIM card from the security guys?”

  “Is that why this damn thing doesn’t work?” She tapped the video button.

  At the piano, Georgie played dreamy, lovely music while Alexandre sang, and Georgie smiled at him over the top of the shining, black piano. His tenor voice echoed rich and full, hitting the higher notes with an open throat that rang through the room and falling through the runs with a supple grace. The song was about love, as was befitting a wedding, Rae thought, and he sang the lines with his voice blazing with hope like he had handed a woman his still-beating heart. Even Rae could tell that he was really good.