Come and Get Me: The Magister Series, Book 2: A Billionaire Romance

by July Hall

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Sandra breathed.

  “Perfect for a fairy-tale evening, then.” He opened the passenger door and gave her a little bow. “Notre voiture, mademoiselle.”

  Sandra curtseyed. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

  “And we’ll be back before midnight.” He glanced up toward the window of her apartment, where Kristen stood watching them with her arms folded. “Or I have the feeling this car will turn into a pumpkin.”

  Sandra felt a sudden twinge. Kristen was crazy about him. And on a night like tonight, when her own heart felt so tender and vulnerable, she had to fight back the urge to warn her boss not to hurt her sister. Which would be ridiculous, not to mention inappropriate, and Kristen would kill her for saying anything.

  She held her tongue as she slid inside the car and settled against the leather bucket seat. Arnaud revved the engine into a promising roar. It wouldn’t be the world’s smoothest ride, but it’d be fun.

  She hoped that held true for the rest of the night as well.

  * * *

  “So the shot worked?” Charles asked.

  “I think so.” Stephen sipped his water. “Vitamin B-12, the miracle cure. I’ve certainly had worse hangovers.”

  “I thought the rule was just to keep drinking water.”

  “Oddly enough, at stag parties, you tend not to worry about rules.” Stephen leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He smiled. “We had a marvelous time.”

  “That’s the main thing.” Charles was embarrassed to admit it, but he’d had a warm feeling in his breast for hours now as he watched his younger brother prepare for the happiest day of his life. They’d both believed the day would never come, though Charles would never have said so.

  They were in Stephen’s bedroom, waiting for the wedding planner to summon them. The guests were arriving, and many had already gathered on the lawn.

  Bradley was also supposed to be here, but he’d texted Charles saying that he was doing a last-minute consultation with the photographer, and swearing that he’d be by the door when it was time to proceed. He’d been doing well all day, and Rosalie was in raptures with how helpful he’d been in assisting with the setup. Charles was still waiting for the other shoe to drop—it always did—but at least his brother reaped the benefits on his wedding day.

  Stephen took a deep breath and exhaled again, sounding a little shaky. Charles gave him a quick glance. Stephen had been remarkably calm all afternoon, but this was showtime. “All right?” he asked.

  Stephen leaned forward, rested his elbows on his legs, and looked at the floor. “You were happily married,” he said. “What’s your advice? What do I do?”

  It was flattering, sort of, that Stephen thought Charles could give that kind of rundown in this timeframe. He sat down in the chair next to Stephen. “Well, your situation is different from mine,” he said.

  “You mean because I’m gay?”

  “I mean because you and Craig haven’t been calling each other ‘buttface’ and ‘puke-breath’ for twenty years.” At that, Stephen laughed in surprise. Charles couldn’t help giving him a half smile in return. “Eleanor and I promised each other not to work that into the vows. And you’ve already got separate bathrooms, so that’s good.”

  “Separate bathrooms. No ‘buttface.’ Got it.” Stephen shook his head and chuckled. “Anything else?”

  Charles pondered a moment. Then he said, “He’s one of us now. Remember that.”

  Stephen blinked. “Well, of course he is. What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Magisters protect what is ours,” Charles said. He felt the phantom crunch of Richard Zhou’s nose against his knuckles. “He’s your partner, but he is also your charge. Be ready to defend him at all costs.”

  Stephen blinked again. Then he straightened his shoulders and got a light in his eyes that Charles had never seen there before. “Well…my God,” he said. “You’re right.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “For the first time, I know what you mean. I’d kill anyone who hurt him.”

  “Good,” Charles said.

  Stephen gave him a look of wonder. “Is this what it’s like to be you all the time?”

  Charles huffed out a laugh. “Not constantly.” Just mostly. He glanced at the wall clock and stood up. “She should be here any minute.”

  Stephen stood up as well. Charles inspected his white bow tie and straightened it. “There,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Stephen took a deep breath. “You know, Charles…I love you.”

  Charles stared at him, stunned.

  “What?” Stephen said. “I do. You’re my brother and my best friend.” He shrugged. “You’ve always supported me. I thought I ought to tell you now instead of during my reception speech.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said with complete sincerity. “And of course I—ah—” He tugged at his collar. “Well. You know I…”

  Stephen smiled. “Don’t hurt yourself.” Then he cleared his throat and glanced away for a second, apparently feeling a little awkward himself. “I do know.”

  Thank God for that. Charles put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. He remembered Stephen’s ashen complexion on the day he finally stammered out what Charles had always known and imagined the courage it must have taken.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said. “Very proud, Stephen. I couldn’t ask for a better brother. Or a friend.”

  Stephen’s eyes grew glassy with tears. Putting Charles’s thoughts into words, he said, “Oh shit.” Then he wiped his hand over his eyes. “Quick. Tell me something funny.”

  “Um.” This was not exactly his forte. He could only think of one thing. “I heard a joke at the club the other day. There was a Russian and a Frenchman. Or—maybe it was a German. Regardless, they were in an Italian car. A Ferrari, I think? And…”

  “Jesus, stop!” Stephen covered his face with his hands. “I said something funny, not something that’ll make me piss myself laughing.”

  Charles sighed. He’d have to tell Sandra about this. She could needle him some more about his sense of humor. She was out there, somewhere.

  He forbade himself to think about it. Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Tomorrow he would tell her how he felt. Tonight he had to focus on his brother’s wedding.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Stephen called. His eyes still sparkled with mirth, but that was better than tears.

  One of the wedding planner’s assistants stepped inside. She wore a headset and carried a walkie-talkie. “The guests are arriving,” she said. “Nancy said we’d give it about fifteen minutes, but I’ll come back to get you when it’s time.” She ducked back out again.

  Stephen gave an audible gulp. Charles put a hand on his shoulder and looked his brother firmly in the eyes.

  “Breathe,” he said. “It will be wonderful.”

  * * *

  “Chin up,” Arnaud said. “She can’t claw out your eyes in front of all these people.”

  “Can’t she?” Sandra asked.

  There was no escape. The valet had taken the rented Jag down the circular driveway, around the stone fountain. Arnaud and Sandra now had to climb the red-carpeted steps toward the great double doors, where Rosalie Magister stood to welcome the guests as they arrived. Thankfully, Bradley was nowhere in sight.

  Rosalie was resplendent in a gown of deep green, evoking the holiday season. It was especially Christmassy when you contrasted the green of her dress with the massive teardrop rubies that adorned her neck and ears. Charles had said they’d belonged to his mother.

  A voice in the back of Sandra’s mind muttered that her emeralds were just as nice. She shushed it at once, because that was so tacky.

  As Sandra and Arnaud reached the door, Rosalie saw them, and her smile became very tight. She extended her gloved hand and said through her teeth, “Sandra, how lovely.”

  Sandra took her hand, wearing her own pleasant smile. She could out
do Rosalie in keeping her cool. She’d done it dozens of times, refusing to be rattled while she was dating Bradley, although Rosalie’s smug remarks had often taken her back to the days of being bullied. “Good evening, Ms. Magister,” she said and turned to Arnaud. “This is…”

  “I’m well aware. So glad you could join us.” Rosalie narrowed her eyes at Sandra’s earrings. She sounded the littlest bit sour when she said, “Those are pretty.”

  “Thank you.” Rosalie wasn’t just Bradley’s bitchy mom, Sandra reminded herself. She was also Charles’s little sister, and he loved her. So there had to be something worth loving, right? She tried, “Your dress is so—”

  Rosalie looked over her shoulder and trilled, “Fatima, darling! Oh, how delightful to see you!”

  Sandra kept smiling as Arnaud guided her through the door. Well, it could have been worse.

  The Magister mansion was done up for Christmas, and it was as magnificent as Sandra could ever have dreamed. Elaborate floral arrangements seemed to cover every available surface; she saw red and white roses, poinsettias, and red berry branches. Greenery and ribbons hugged the ceiling and wound around the marble pillars of the foyer. Enormous wreaths covered the walls. All the chandeliers were lit, filling the rooms with warm, festive light.

  But the real stars were the Christmas trees. Two flanked the front doors. Sandra saw two more on either side of the first landing on the dual staircase. And an enormous one stood in the middle of the foyer, with velvet ropes separating it from the milling crowd. Its height rose up to the mezzanine, though from the ground floor it seemed to go on forever. It was wrapped in red and gold ribbons, decked out with clear LED lights and…were those Swarovski crystals?

  “And you’ve been coming here for over a month,” Arnaud said in a tone of wonder. “I am insane with jealousy.”

  “I sent you pictures,” Sandra reminded him, sounding a little breathless herself.

  “Give me a break.” Arnaud peered upward. “My God, the woodwork.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I suppose we’re not allowed to wander around.”

  “Probably not the private areas,” Sandra said. “The living quarters and stuff. But I bet many of the ground floor rooms will be open, and the reception’s in the ballroom.”

  Then, behind her shoulder, she overheard a woman say: “…first time they’ve entertained here since his wife died. Ten years!”

  “What a waste,” another woman lamented. “Of course, we’ve been invited to so many of his parties in the city…”

  The voices moved on. Sandra didn’t turn around.

  “Let’s go,” Arnaud said. He nodded at the door through which guests streamed toward the back lawn. Sandra was interested to see how Rosalie had decided to handle an outdoor wedding in December. At least Craig and Stephen weren’t getting married on the beach.

  The corridor toward the lawn was lined with three more Christmas trees. However much Charles said she’d complained, Rosalie must have had a blast getting the house ready for the holidays after so long. Sandra could definitely relate. She felt a pang of regret. If Rosalie ever got her head out of her ass, maybe they’d have something in common—but fat chance of that.

  She glanced again at one of the Christmas trees, and then a thought occurred to her, so horrifying that she nearly stumbled. Christmas!

  What was she going to get Charles? Should she get him anything? What with one thing and another, she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d bought presents for her family months ago. She always did her Christmas shopping early—one less thing to worry about over the holidays. Going shopping with her mom on Black Friday was just for fun, seeing who could score the cheapest pair of jeans. It sure hadn’t crossed her mind to pick up something for Charles at Banana Republic.

  What could you possibly get your billionaire lover for Christmas?

  “Sandra?” Arnaud said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Sandra said at once. She touched one of her earrings. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hold up traffic.”

  They walked on, but she couldn’t let go of the thought. The last thing she’d tried to give Charles was the possibility of the Ru ware bowl, and look how that had turned out. He’d been touched that she tried, at least, but she would prefer that her next gift not end in disaster.

  For that matter, when was his birthday? She cast her memory back to his Wikipedia page. April ninth. Okay, she was good for a while on that one.

  She was stumped. Her mom often gave her dad things that he needed but had no interest in procuring for himself—clothes, mainly. Sometimes a gadget or a tool if he’d expressed interest. Charles needed nothing, and she doubted he wanted anything either. If he wanted anything, it was to give her stuff. Which was sweet, but she couldn’t really say, “Honey, for Christmas, I’m going to let you buy me whatever you want.”

  She’d think of something. Her job required her to think creatively and solve problems. She couldn’t impress Charles with material goods, so it would have to be something else, something that would actually mean something to him.

  There was always sex to fall back on, she supposed. She could buy something truly provocative and be Queen Sandra for him all night long. He’d love it. But she’d kind of been planning to do that already, so it wouldn’t feel all that special, and anyway…surely he wanted something from her besides what she had between her legs. Right?

  She’d think about it later. Sandra swallowed as she and Arnaud emerged onto the back lawn.

  At the sight of the wedding venue, worries about Christmas flew right out of her mind. Over two hundred cushioned Indonesian teak chairs covered the lawn. Strategically placed heat lamps meant that Sandra didn’t need her fur stole, even in the December air. And in a touch she was very grateful for, someone had laid down portable wood flooring to protect both the grass and her shoes.

  The sun had long since set, and a few bright stars were visible, plus a glowing full moon. Lights had been strung up around and above the lawn, providing clear but gentle illumination. A red-carpet runner led down the middle of the aisle and toward the gazebo, where a woman in priestly vestments waited. Men in white jackets and black ties were guiding guests toward the seats. The first two rows were reserved, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be any particular formal order that needed following.

  Charles had told Sandra that Craig’s family wasn’t supporting him. They probably weren’t here. Maybe he didn’t have his own side; maybe everybody was here for the Magisters and nobody was here for him. The thought made Sandra bite her lip. What would it be like to have your own family turn their backs on you? Just for being who you were, who you’d always been?

  And maybe it was crass, but if they couldn’t suck it up and be happy that their son was marrying one of the richest men in the world, then their bigotry must be etched in freaking stone. Poor Craig. She hoped he and Stephen were happy together and always would be.

  As they sat down, Arnaud elbowed her. “Isn’t that an earl?” he murmured in her ear, nodding toward the left. “I could swear I saw him at William and Kate’s wedding on TV.”

  Sandra looked at the man in question, who sat next to a woman in an alarmingly fuchsia gown. “I have no idea. I’m not much good at keeping up with royalty.” She was getting a lot better at billionaires, though. “I guess I can look him up.”

  “No, don’t bother. Your phone’s on silent, right?”

  “Yep.” She’d triple-checked. No way was she going to be the person whose phone went off in the middle of a Magister wedding. “Yours?”

  “Yes.” Arnaud looked down at his program. “This isn’t going to be a long ceremony.”

  No kidding. Although a priest stood in the gazebo, Sandra noticed there would be a shortage of hymns and scripture readings. She wasn’t privy to Stephen and Craig’s religious leanings, of course, but she could imagine how they might not have much use for church. Instead, the ceremony would feature the processional, a “wedding message” from the p
riest, the exchange of vows and rings, and a quick “Gloria In Excelsis Deo” before the presentation of the grooms and the recessional. In and out, done.

  The wedding party was also small—just two attendants per groom. Ugh, Bradley was one of them. It would be the first time Sandra had seen him since their breakup. Well, better here than if he took her by surprise at the reception or something.

  If the actual ceremony was lacking in splendor, the audience made up for it. Sandra couldn’t help being dazzled by the crowd. That might or might not be the Earl of Wherever, but the state governor and a US senator sat in the front row with their wives. And was that…yeah, the mayor of New York City was here, too. She recognized a few other faces, the faces of men (and a few women) who made the Forbes Top 100 lists every year.

  There weren’t any celebrities here. This was a gathering of the privileged, people who lived and died by their wealth and power, and mostly did it all in relative anonymity. Brad Pitt’s net worth was a fraction of that of the balding guy in the fifth row who owned a chain of retail stores.

  The processional music started. A string quintet sat to the side of the gazebo, just far enough that they wouldn’t get in anybody’s line of sight for the actual ceremony. They didn’t play the usual wedding standards—no Canon in D, no “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The program told her it was from Mozart’s String Quartet no. 9.

  The audience murmured and turned. So did Sandra and Arnaud. Bradley and a woman Sandra didn’t recognize were proceeding down the aisle, arm in arm. He led her to an empty seat in the front row and then took his place on the second gazebo step.

  He was dazzling. He always had been. He could have been a model or a movie star. All around her, Sandra heard faint murmurs of admiration. Once, she would have wholeheartedly agreed. Now she knew all that beauty hid something hideous and deceitful.

  Charles had said that Bradley was trying harder, though, and he knew his nephew better than anyone. Maybe she should be more charitable.