[Billionaires in Disguise 01.0] Every Breath You Take

by Blair Babylon

“Supposedly, they’re both safe now. I can’t believe that we left them. Theo is in the hospital, in intensive care. He was shot.”

  Georgie stood, driven to her feet as if she could somehow run to Paris. “Is Lizzy okay?”

  “Wulf is going to go there to sort it all out. I don’t know if she’s okay. He said that she’s been discharged from the hospital but that she’s staying with Theo. Luca Wyss is with them. He’s a good guy, and there are five other security guys there, too. They’ll take care of them until Wulf gets there. Wulf said he’ll be back within a few days, and he will have them with him. He had that imperious voice thing going. He’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

  “But Lizzy’s okay,” Georgie prompted.

  Rae said, over the phone, “I’m going to see if I can get in touch with her now. I’m only a few minutes from school. If it’s anything worse than bumps and bruises, I’ll call you right back and pick you up, and we’ll be on the next flight.”

  “My passport is still in my purse,” Georgie said. “I’m ready to go.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  In the ten minutes after she talked to Rae, Georgie showered and pulled her bug-out bag out of the closet, checking the deep backpack to make sure that it held appropriate clothes for her and Lizzy in addition to its usual first-aid kit, ten thousand dollars in cash, a fake I.D., power bars, energy shots, running shoes, and a disposable cell phone with a card to activate it.

  A similar bag was stuffed far back in the trunk of her car.

  Georgie’s usual phone rang, but the screen didn’t show Rae’s smiling face, just an unknown number.

  Georgie answered it, “Hello?”

  A tiny, raspy girl-voice said, “Georgie? It’s me, Lizzy.”

  Georgie almost dropped the phone, but she juggled it and caught the tiny thing. “Mary, Mother of God, where in the nine levels of Hell are you! Are you okay?”

  “I’m still in Paris. I’m okay,” Lizzy’s voice said through the phone.

  Panic boiled over in a froth. “Wulf said that you were supposed to be on the next plane but you never came home!”

  Lizzy’s voice was shaking, maybe from exhaustion or fear. “He didn’t know. There was a miscommunication. He thought we were fine. He’s actually coming back here, now.”

  “Is Theo the Medium Guy okay?”

  “He’s doing better.” Lizzy whispered, “Mannix shot him, and he lost a lot of blood. He almost died. The doctors keep talking about total organ failure, and he’s got dark circles under his eyes and he sleeps most of the time. His kidneys still aren’t working very well.”

  Georgie hoisted the backpack onto her shoulder. “Oh my God. Do you need me to come?”

  “No. Just call Professor Pojman and tell him that I can’t make our appointment this week, okay? I’ll reschedule when I get back.”

  Georgie sat on her bed and let the backpack drop to the floor. “I’ll call him, and I’m glad to hear that you’re coming back. I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too, Georgie.”

  Georgie told her about the phone messages from the reporters, hoping things could get back to normal someday.

  Lizzy said, “I’ve gotta go. I’ll keep in touch and be back as soon as I can,” and hung up.

  Georgie held the phone in her hand, still shaking. At least Lizzy was okay physically. They would deal with anything else when she got back.

  The air in the dorm room around her seemed too still. Just a few weeks ago, Lizzy would have been snoring in the next bed, loath to get up even a few minutes before she had to, and Rae would have been knocking on their adjoining door to drink some coffee and get away from her cousin-roommate, Hester the Repressor.

  Everything was changing so fast.

  Georgie stood to start calling people. She had contacted a bunch of their mutual friends last week to get their notes for Lizzy’s classes that she had missed. Georgie would make sure that, when Lizzy got back, at least her notes for the next few days were waiting for her.

  And after she called people, even though it was already eight o’clock, Georgie needed to hit the music building to get on a piano. Her hands felt irritable, like a fresh horse bucking in its stall for lack of exercise.

  She wanted to explore “Alwaysland” a little more before she let it go.

  Every time she played it, she found something more to admire.

  A Text Like A Lifeline

  Alexandre de Valentinois

  Tuesday night, the cell phone in his hand displayed the text: I can’t stop playing Alwaysland. The screen glowed in the dark, throwing sharp light through the dark tunnel with black curtains at the end.

  Alexandre smiled, slowly, at the phone number displayed above the text. The area code was the same as Wulfram’s cell phone, so he assumed that it must be Georgie. A thrill ran through him: part victory, part pure pleasure that Georgie liked his song.

  I’m glad you like it, he texted back. How many times have you played it?

  Her text pinged back immediately: 100s.

  Hundreds? Most likely Georgie. He recognized that peculiar form of OCD that was necessary to become a consummate musician. He texted, Does it sound anything like what I wrote anymore?

  Nope. Better.

  Definitely Georgie. I play a version on the violin, too. I should play it for you sometime.

  Yeah. Right. I live in McClintock Hall at Southwestern State University, Room 328. Come on over.

  Alexandre laughed, even while he marveled at the text, but then thought better of it. So-private Georgie, who wouldn’t even give him her phone number, surely wouldn’t just hand him her address, not a man known for his romantic, impulsive nature, or at least that’s what Rolling Stone reported.

  But she wouldn’t know that, would she?

  He texted, Is that real?

  Yes. Really. Ask Rae von Hannover.

  Fascinating.

  He probably should confirm that before he acted on it.

  Alexandre peered between two black, heavy curtains. Beyond them, the audience seethed, nearly rioting to the thumping beat of the recorded music blaring over the speakers.

  Their energy almost caught him, almost transformed him, but he looked down at the phone in his hand. Alexandre typed, What would you do if I showed up?

  You’re somewhere in Europe, right? Monaco or London?

  Miami, actually. Somewhere like that.

  Then I would take you to a private piano room in the music building where no one could hear us, and we would play a Beethoven sonata for piano and violin, and our secrets would be safe.

  Beethoven. Yet another composer who had been dead for centuries. Or I could write something for us to play.

  He almost held his breath until she answered, I’d like that even better.

  His heart flipped a jubilant triplet. Then I’ll be there soon.

  Sure you will.

  I have to go now. I have a— He glanced at the stage, where the darkening house lights were dousing everything in darkness. —business meeting.

  Isn’t it the middle of the night in Europe? And aren’t you a despicable, idle rich man?

  “Far from it,” he muttered. Alexandre Grimaldi is a wastrel. Just ask anyone. I’ll talk to you later.

  The recorded music died away, and the house lights dimmed to darkness.

  Alexandre drew a deep breath, and the blinding stage spotlights flew through the air and flashed in his eyes, standing in the stairwell that served as their backstage in the arena.

  On the stage, Cadell hit a long, keening note on his guitar that staggered Alexandre and sent the audience into a frenzy.

  Everything coalesced around him like he was summoning magic, and he handed his phone to Jonas, the band’s manager, to toss in his runner bag.

  Jonas asked, “How are those new songs coming along?”

  “Swimmingly.” His voice sounded confident.

  “We’ve already asked the record companies to postpone the meeting once.”

  “I
’m aware of that.” He stretched his hands, warming them up, and hummed to warm up his voice.

  “We only need six demos,” Jonas pressed.

  Which was four more songs than he had in his notebook and six more demo tracks than he had recorded. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Full house out there tonight,” Jonas remarked.

  “Sell out?”

  “Almost.”

  “How many tickets did we fail to sell?” Did I fail to sell, he meant.

  “Only a couple hundred. It’s still a moderate profit.”

  A couple hundred empty seats meant that there would be dead spots all over the arena, and if the trend continued, Killer Valentine would be playing smaller clubs soon instead of the arena circuit.

  If he didn’t write those songs soon—if he didn’t reach down deep in himself, grab a fistful of guts, and throw his bleeding heart on the page—the record companies were going to lose interest, and Killer Valentine would remain an indie band that might have a few more albums but would soon flame out.

  If he didn’t go out there tonight and put on a hell of a show, word would spread. The next concert on the tour would sell fewer tickets. Fewer concert-goers would convert to the kind of die-hard, crazed fans that a band needs to survive.

  Everything was a feedback loop like a shrieking microphone that he clutched in his hands.

  From behind him, he heard, “Hey! Are you ready to go on, or you just going to stand there with your dick in your hands?”

  Tryp Areleous, the drummer, stood shirtless while the swirling lights splashed the tattooed roses and vines on his skin blue and green instead of vibrant scarlet and black. He twirled a drumstick across his knuckles. “Well?”

  The roar of the crowd infused him with a manic energy that he could not resist.

  Xan Valentine shook back his long hair. His guitar was onstage, waiting for him. “Fuck, yeah. Let’s blow the roof off this fucking arena.”

  Drunk Dial

  Georgie

  Blaring, loud blaring, first inside Georgie’s dream about an enormous piano that she couldn’t reach and then in the dark. Her phone cast bright light onto the ceiling of her dorm room.

  She grabbed the phone and swiped the dot. “Hello! Lizzy!”

  A man’s hoarse, wrecked voice said, “It’s Alexandre. Did you mean what you said?”

  She scooted up in her sheets and glanced at Lizzy’s empty bed. “What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure what time it is there. When you said that we would play a duet, piano and violin, my music, somewhere where no one could hear us, did you mean it?”

  “Yes. Of course. I can’t get ‘Alwaysland’ out of my head. It’s like it’s haunting me. You sound awful. Are you sick?”

  His voice broke when he said, “We’ll play the duet?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  “I’m drunk. But I’ll be there. Soon.”

  “Alex? Don’t drive.”

  “I won’t. Call me Alex again.”

  “Alex?”

  “Yes. Like that.”

  “Or Alexandre.”

  He sighed. “Both. I’ll be there soon.”

  A click sounded through the line, and Georgie dropped the phone back on her nightstand and fell asleep hard, wondering if that had been a dream.

  Dorm Invasion

  Georgie

  The next morning, Wednesday, Georgie slapped open the door to her dorm room after her early classes. She had collected more class notes for Lizzy from their friends, all of whom had barraged her with questions that she couldn’t answer, and the huge stack of looseleaf paper in her arms was slipping and about to crash to the floor.

  She juggled, dropping her purse, but held onto the paper so it didn’t splash across the thin carpeting.

  She flopped the papers on her desk, right next to a suspiciously thick, black guitar case that leaned against it, and a garment bag emblazoned AV hung over the back of her desk chair.

  The door to her bedroom was closed.

  So the phone conversation hadn’t been a dream. Huh.

  She called out, “Alex?”

  Georgie pushed open the door to the darkened bedroom, a little wary that he might do something impulsive like pounce on her, but a large lump in her bed didn’t move. He lay on top of the bedspread like he had only meant to lie down for a few minutes. His stockinged feet hung off the end of her twin bed, and blond hair fluttered in the air conditioning blowing from the ceiling.

  His jeans clung to his slim waist and hips, and his white tee shirt had ridden up to expose a few ripples of his abs. Blue and green tendrils from the tattoo on his back crept around his waist, curling like storm-tossed water.

  “Alex? You okay?” She walked over to him, skirting Lizzy’s stripped bed, and shook his shoulder. “Alex?”

  He grabbed her wrist, tugging her into her own bed, and he rolled on top of her.

  “Whoa!” she called out, even as she ran her hand down his muscled side to the waistband of his jeans. Her body remembered his touch, and she couldn’t quite catch her breath, and not just because his chest was half-lying on her. She asked, “This isn’t just a nookie run, is it?”

  “You would think that I would know vernacular English better by now, wouldn’t you?” His hoarse voice was barely audible, like he had been screaming for hours.

  “What?” She wasn’t sure if she had heard him right.

  His brown eyes were glazed, and he wove a little even though he was braced on his elbows. “I don’t know what a ‘nookie run’ is.”

  Georgie rolled her eyes. “Are you just here for sex?”

  “No.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Nookie run. Sounds like a Mötley Crüe song. I brought my violin. I want to show you a song.”

  She touched his cheek. “You okay, there?”

  “Just call me Alex.”

  In her arms, his body was shaking. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Alex.”

  “Such august company,” he grated out.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m drunk.”

  “It’s ten in the morning, honey.” She smoothed his hair back. He smelled like sweat and smoke, and his breath was rife with whiskey.

  “I’m still drunk. I had my plane fueled up and in the air on no notice. That’s more difficult than I had thought it would be.”

  “Especially when you’re wasted?”

  “I wasn’t too trashed until I got on the plane with nothing to do except kill a couple bottles, and then I couldn’t stop him.”

  His glazed eyes looked different. Unfocused, maybe. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Call me Alexandre. Talk to me about music. Tell me that art still matters.” He laid his head down beside hers on the pillow.

  The creases around his brown eyes seemed like he held so much pain that she stroked his cheek. “Are you cracking up?”

  “I’m Alexandre,” he croaked.

  She could barely hear him. “Of course you are.”

  “The other side is taking over. I can’t remember who I am half the time. I drop so far into character that I’m not me anymore.”

  “Alex?” He closed his eyes and she shook his shoulder. “Alex!”

  “Yes. Bring me back.”

  “Did you take anything other than booze?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t, usually. I don’t have time to recover, and anything that goes up my nose or that I smoke irritates my throat. I can’t do that.”

  “How did you get in here, anyway? You need a keycard to get past the lobby.”

  He chuckled, and the pain lines around his eyes eased. “I grew up in a boarding school. I am adept at sneaking into and out of a girls’ dorm at all times of the night.”

  “It’s actually co-ed because it’s the honors dorm, but I get where this is heading.”

  “Just let me stay.”

  “Of course. Is there anyone I need to call?”

  “No,” he whispered. “No one will even think to l
ook for me for three days.” His dark eyes cracked open. Even so exhausted, his long, lashed eyes looked exotic and altogether sexy. “Are you going to get in trouble if the dorm mother catches me here?”

  “What? No. If you stay for more than three days, the resident assistants will want to have a welfare meeting with my roommate to make sure it’s okay with her, and I’ll have to call her to set that up because I doubt that she’s coming back to the dorm.”

  “Ah. Such liberal policies. But I was a child.” His breathing evened out, and Alex went to sleep again.

  Georgie let him fall more deeply asleep, and then she slipped out from under his heavy arm (she was adept at that,) snagged one of the folded blankets from Lizzy’s bed and flipped it over him, and tiptoed back out to her study room, closing the door to the bedroom softly behind her.

  Good Lord, she had a drunken duke in her bed. In a romance novel, she would be obliged to marry him now.

  Georgie almost giggled, because there was no fucking way in Hell that would ever happen.

  The Ice Princess

  Georgie

  Georgie was typing at her desk, working on a report that contrasted common law in England with early American common law, her staccato fingertaps echoing in the silent room, when Alex staggered out of her bedroom.

  He leaned his shoulder against the door frame and croaked, “Did I do anything stupid?”

  She spun in her desk chair to face him. “Other than getting on a plane in the middle of the night and breaking into a college dorm while trashed? Not that I know of.”

  “No harm, then.” He stumbled to her couch on the other wall and blinked in the setting sunlight, glaring golden light in the windows beside the front door. He smoothed his hair behind his shoulders. “What time is it?”

  “Seven-ish.”

  “Great. Let’s go out.”

  “I thought you were here to play a sonata for piano and violin with me.” Not that she didn’t have some other ideas, since he was there anyway.