The Billionaire Lion’s Prey

by T. S. Ryder

  “No,” I said. “There was no one for me to call.”

  “I’m very sorry. It’s hard to be all alone in this world. I have my family, my sisters and my father. I couldn’t imagine a world where I didn’t have anyone to lean on. It seems like it would be a very hard life.”

  “I get by,” I said.

  “You almost died of fever in an abandoned building in the middle of a blizzard. That doesn’t exactly sound like getting by.”

  “The only reason I was sick is because your illegal breeding animal trapped me in a barn overnight.”

  “You were trespassing,” he reminded me. “Not that what happened is any of your fault.”

  “So you are breeding lions?” I asked.

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I promise you, I am not breeding lions. I would never do such a thing.”

  “So where did it come from?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  A yawn surprised me and a sudden tiredness came over me. “You should get some rest,” Anton said. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you would like. I’m happy for the company. There’s a bathroom through that door and please let me know if you need anything. All of the staff were sent home due to the storm, so it’s just you and I. But I can help you with anything and we can call the doctor back if we need him.”

  I nodded, but already I was sinking back into the soft and warm bed. Anton took the tray away and I watched his tall form as it moved through the doorway.

  Chapter Eight

  By the next day, I could get out of bed easily enough and even manage to keep my eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. The world was still covered in snow and silent. Anton and I were still isolated in his mansion.

  He had washed the clothes I had been wearing the other day. I dressed in my baggy jeans and found t-shirts, smelling clean. It was early, but I wanted to move around. I was tired of lying in bed all day.

  I opened my door a crack and looked out into the hallway. The house was huge, ornate and silent. The floors were made of a shining wood with soft red carpets interspaced. There were delicate end tables and huge portraits. It was like no place I had ever seen before. It was so rich and fancy, I felt terribly out of place.

  I tiptoed down the hallway stopping to admire the portraits. Some were massive, taking up an entire section of the wall, others were small enough to be held in my hand. I could see Anton’s likeness in them. His eyes, his nose, his chin, they appeared on the portraits on the wall. His family line stretched back for generations.

  I came across a stairwell and went down to the first floor. There was a grand entryway and I walked down around the stairs and towards a grand library. The room was cavernous, books lined the walls all the way up to the second floor. There was a huge fireplace with a roaring fire and Anton was sitting in a chair in front of it.

  “Hi,” I said from the doorway.

  “Hello, please come in,” he said without lifting his head. My arrival hadn’t startled him. He must have heard me coming. I walked into the library feeling very small around all of the tall shelves of books.

  I sat down in the chair opposite Anton and looked over at him. He marked his page in his book and then set it to the side.

  “Tea?” He asked. There was a beautiful porcelain tea set next to him. I nodded and he poured me a cup and handed it over.

  “Um...I wanted to thank you for saving me. I just realized I hadn’t done that yet. I probably would have died if you hadn’t come,” I said, sheepishly. He didn’t say anything. “But I was thinking I should probably get out of your hair.”

  “Why do you think you’re in my hair?” He asked. “I enjoy having you here and you can’t leave. You’re feeling better, but you’re definitely still sick. You had a fever of one hundred and four degrees the other day. Had it risen any higher and I would have taken you to the hospital. You still need your rest.”

  “I don’t want to be a burden,” I said.

  “You aren’t a burden,” he replied. “Besides, where would you go? Back to the office building? You almost died there. You can’t stay there. That building has no running water, electricity or heat. We’re not even halfway through winter. This won’t be the last of the snow or the cold and since you don’t have anyone to call, why don’t you stay here? There’s plenty of room.”

  I thought it would be uncomfortable to be in a stranger’s house, but it was such a big house with so much interesting stuff to look at, that it was impossible to be bored. Anton gave me a tour. He showed me the library and his mother’s collection of first editions: Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, letters from Mark Twain. They rested behind a pane of thick glass.

  “Do you want to look closer?” Anton asked me. But I shook my head. They were too valuable, too nice. I didn’t want to tarnish them with my dirty fingers.

  He led me to the formal sitting room filled with high-backed comfortable chairs, elegant antique side tables, fireplaces and decorated fire screens.

  I giggled and he looked over at me. ‘What?” He asked.

  “Well, good sir,” I replied. “This is a terribly fancy room. I feel rather underdressed,” I said pointing to my oversized jeans and baggy t-shirt.

  “You look fine,” he said. “You should buy some more clothes. You can order them online, I’ll pay for them-”

  “You don’t have to buy me clothes,” I interrupted.

  “I know that I don’t have to, but I would like to. You can’t keep wearing the same thing.”

  He offered me anything from his sister’s closet, but I only shook my head, telling him that he should never offer to give a woman’s clothes away without her permission. Her clothes wouldn’t fit me anyway. She was a solid foot taller and about twenty pounds lighter than me. She was one of those willowy girls that always made me feel rather squat.

  He waved his hand in front of his face and said, “she’ll never know. She’s running an artist’s retreat in Phoenix, she won’t be back for months.”

  It was awfully tempting. He led me up to her room. It didn’t look like anyone else’s. It was huge, with bright windows. There were canvases, paint and shawls spread all over in a sort of organized chaos. In her large walk-in closet, there were dresses, skirts and tops hanging from hangers. To my surprise, I was able to find a long sweater dress that actually fit me.

  “I might borrow this,” I said. He smiled and told me to take whatever I needed, his sister wouldn’t mind.

  “Can I see your room?” I asked.

  He led me down the hall and up another flight of stairs. His room was isolated, far and alone in the East Wing. The room was dark. Long, heavy curtains blocked the windows. When we entered, he pushed the curtains aside brightening the room with sunlight.

  There was a huge, four-poster king-sized bed in the center of the room. Much like the bed in my room, there were lion heads carved into the headboard. There were lions everywhere in this room. Above the fireplace, which had fresh ashes from a recent fire, was a huge oil painting of a lion at rest. It was lying on its side, its tale mid-sweep. It stared out from the painting challenging the viewer.

  I remembered the lion from the barn, the way it had looked for me, hunted me. The lion in the picture had the same expression. I was the prey, it was the predator.

  There were books and notepads piled up on an old-fashioned desk with a MacBook. I walked over to see what he was working on. I could feel his eyes on me. His notes were indecipherable, mentions of Sparta and Sophocles interspersed with phrases written in Greek.

  There was a greenhouse. It was warm and smelled of fresh earth and flowers. There was a herb and vegetable garden and roses and hydrangeas in full bloom even in winter. I walked slowly through, smelling the air.

  “It’s so warm in here,” I said, turning to him. He was walking beside me, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I imagine you’ve been very cold these last few weeks,” he said. “I wish you would have accepted my offer soon
er. Why didn’t you?”

  “Because you were a stranger,” I said. “Most of the time when men offer to ‘help you out’ there are some strings attached.”

  He shook his head in disgust, “I would never have done that,” he said.

  “Most people aren’t that charitable,” I said.

  “Well, as you can see, we have a lot of space and besides,” he looked down and paused for a moment. “If you hadn’t been here I would have been forced to endure this storm on my own. You’re doing me a favor, keeping me company.”

  I smiled at him. He was too nice for a rich person. He should have been snider and condescending. He was so kind and generous and open and honest. I wasn’t sure what to do with him.

  I couldn’t hold back a yawn and I covered my mouth sheepishly.

  “Maybe you should go back to bed,” he said. He led me back up the ornate stair, his hand settled on the small of my back. It was an intimate gesture, but a comforting one as well. He stopped at the door. It was almost like we were on a date and he was dropping me off on my doorstep.

  “Thank you for the tour. You have a lovely home,” I said.

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said. “I meant it when I said you should stay as long as you would like. No strings attached, I promise.”

  I gave him one last look and then walked into the room. He closed the door behind me. I had to stop for a moment to catch my breath. When we had been standing in the doorway, for just one moment I thought he was going to lean in and kiss me. We had been standing so close.

  The doctor had left a pair of scrubs for me to sleep in and I changed and crawled back into bed. As I closed my eyes I imagined living in this house. Taking tea in the sitting room, sitting with Anton as he worked through his thick books. I could be a teacher at the local school, I could garden in the greenhouse. I slipped into sleep, dreaming of another life.

  Chapter Nine

  I spent two more days in the house. I was still asleep more than I was awake, but my strength was coming back. Most of the time was spent in the library reading in front of the fireplace while the rest of the world dug itself out from underneath the snow. One night Anton and I watched Casablanca in his family’s home theater. There was a huge screen with comfortable armchairs and we shared popcorn from an old-fashioned machine.

  I barely paid any attention to the movie but watched him instead. He gazed at the screen as the movie unfolded. His thick beard was clean and trimmed and he looked handsome and strong in a tight, black sweater.

  I wanted to lean against him. I wanted to rest my head on his shoulder and let him put his arm around me. There was already such a comfortableness between us. Our silences were never awkward and conversation flowed easily. It seemed like we could talk about anything, books, movies, TV. We didn’t have everything in common, but we didn’t need to. I explained to him the genius that was Margaret Atwood and he explained Plato’s philosophy of the man in the cave.

  He didn’t press me about my past or why I had been squatting in an abandoned building. We lived only in the present. We talked about the snow and winter and how long it would take the town to dig itself out. We discussed philosophy and travel and he always laughed at my jokes.

  He liked to cook. On the third day, he spent all afternoon making us dinner. Filet mignon with fingerling potatoes grown in the garden. He made a thick and creamy asparagus soup with crunchy bread and a strawberry pie for dessert.

  Once, around three in the afternoon, I tiptoed into the kitchen to check up on him. His sleeves were rolled up on his arms and he wore a white apron, as he carefully measured out the flour.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked.

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Good, because I am a terrible cook. I’m a good eater, though.”

  Dinner was at six. I took a shower and dried my hair nicely. I changed into one of his sister’s dresses paired with my own pair of warm tights. I was surprised to see myself looking back at me in the mirror. I had been wearing clothes that weren’t mine for so long, it felt good to be wearing something other than oversized jeans and t-shirts. I wondered about my clothes back home. Was my father keeping them? Or had he thrown them away?

  The table was set elegantly. There was a fire roaring in the marble fireplace, tall candles had been lit on the table. Expensive looking china decorated with delicate blue flowers. It all matched and there were about four different forks on cloth napkins. There was a spray of roses in a vase at the center of the table. Two settings had been put out near two seats cornered close to the fireplace. He pulled my chair out for me and I sat down.

  “This is very nice, thank you,” I said.

  “I like to cook,” he said as he sat down next to me. He ladled us each a hearty bowl of soup. My mouth watered from the smell and I dug in with relish.

  “Oh my God, this is so good,” I moaned. It was a struggle not to fill up on soup and bread, but I could smell the filet resting in the kitchen and I forced myself to be patient. This was all so wonderful, I never wanted to leave, but I knew I would have to. The roads were cleared, people were emerging and heading out into the snow. I would have to join them, eventually.

  “I should probably go back to Main Street tomorrow and open the bookstore. The roads are clear by now.”

  “Do you want to work in the bookstore?” He asked me.

  “Yeah, I like working there. I like to have a job,” I answered.

  “But is bookstore worker really the job you want?” He asked me. “You’re an educated woman. Did you go to college?”

  I took a sip of the red wine sitting next to me and nodded. “I went to NYU,” I said. My face felt flushed, my stomach was tight.

  “For what?” He asked.

  “Education. I wanted to be an elementary school teacher. I did all the certificates and everything.”

  “So what stopped you?” He asked.

  For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to tell him everything. I opened and closed my mouth several times as I searched for the proper words for what I wanted to say.

  “You’ve already done so much for me. I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

  “It’s not a burden,” he said and then to my surprise he reached across and took my hand in his. “Do you understand how easy it is for me to help you? I have means,” he waved his hand, encompassing the mansion and all of his wealth and connections in one smooth motion. “It hurts me to see you struggling to tell me something. I want to help you and I won’t ask for anything in return.”

  “Why?” I asked. I couldn't believe he could really be that kind. I had met a lot of powerful men in my life and none of them had been kind or generous.

  “Because you did see a lion that night. You were trapped in that barn because of me and my family. You almost died because of us. But it wasn’t just that. From the first moment I saw you in the bookstore I was enamored and I want to get to know you better and I want you to know me. If you tell me why you’re running, I’ll tell you where the lion came from.”

  I looked down at my plate and said, “My father works for the mafia. I won’t tell you who for. All the men in our family are involved. I’ve spent my life around drug runners and murderers. I never wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to move to a small town and teach and forget about the strange men that used to come to our house to wash the blood from their hands.

  “There was a man high up in the organization named Stephen Reynolds. He was fifty-four years old and disgusting. He used to chew tobacco, his mouth was stained yellow and he was always spitting out huge wads of spit.” The words were tumbling from my mouth. I had told no one this, but now that I had started I couldn’t stop.

  “He used to leer at me and my sisters, he would slap our butts and stick his hand up our skirts and down his shirts. We used to run out of the house when he came over. My father always wanted to impress him, he cared a lot about what Stephen thought.

&nb
sp; “Then, last year, I met Michael Genaro. He was so different from every man I’d ever known at that point... respectful, well-read, and oh so gentle. It might sound pathetic to you, but... that was all it took for me to fall in love with him – that he treated me like an actual person.

  And he loved me back. It was such a miracle to me, that it made me forget everything I hated about my life. We were planning to get married, talking about our future together – a future I was finally letting myself hope might have some happiness in it.

  “But then, two months ago, my father called me into the living room. He was sitting in this old, smelly armchair he loved and he told me to sit down. He told me that Stephen Reynolds was interested in me. He wanted to marry me. Move me to his house in upstate and be his little wifey.” Nausea rumbled in my stomach at the memory.

  “I told him no, but my father didn’t like that. I had no other options. I would marry Stephen and be his devoted wife. That’s when I finally broke down and told him about Michael. I kept him a secret from everyone, even my sisters, terrified of what my family might do to him, to us... I hoped he would’ve wanted me to marry someone I cared about, but hearing about it only made Father furious. We had a huge fight, and he told me I’d either leave Michael and marry Stephen or I’d regret it, and I refused to back down.

  “But, five days later, I realized I should’ve kept my mouth shut, should’ve just nodded along to whatever he said and then run away with Michael as far the hell away from him as we could go.

  “Because Father told Stephen about Michael... and Stephen... he’s not the kind of man who takes being denied well. And when he retaliates...”

  Tears pooled in my eyes, and my breath caught at the awful memory of that day.

  “Michael and I were out on a date. We’d just seen a movie and were going to his uncle’s restaurant for dinner when... oh, Anton... there was so much blood...”

  My lower lip shivered, and the tears came pouring out.