Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

  Everything was so futuristic, so Streamline Moderne . . .

  “You wouldn’t have a neighbor named George Jetson, would you?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind . . .” (Just another antiquated reference.)

  The invisible fembot spoke up again. “Master bedroom is ready for occupation . . .”

  “That’s it!” (I couldn’t help it.) “If a robot teddy bear appears in a Napoleonic outfit, I’m looking for an origami unicorn.”

  “Blade Runner!” Despite his pain, Eric snorted. “That one I got.”

  “Not to worry, Ms. Cosi,” Anton quipped. “Our house may be smart, but I am no replicant.”

  Like the rest of this apartment, the bedroom’s décor was minimalist chic, with high ceilings, windows for walls, and sheer shimmering-pearl curtains that only partially veiled the panoramic view. Cozy flames flickered in a hooded fireplace in the center of the room, and concealed lights illuminated the room with a warm glow.

  I helped Eric stretch out on the largest bed I’d ever seen. As I took off my coat, Anton used scissors to ruthlessly cut away the tailored jacket and starched shirt. Finished with that, the jack-of-all-trades chauffeur examined the wound and hurried off “to fetch the medical kit.”

  Eric reached for my hand again and tugged me close. I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Eric’s smile was tortured. “I don’t know what’s worse, the painkillers wearing off or the crash after the amphetamine rush.”

  “You’re kidding. You took amphetamines?”

  “I checked myself out of the hospital against the doctors’ advice, so I needed a little something to get through dinner without collapsing.”

  “That’s crazy. Why did you risk going out in public if you were in such bad shape?”

  “To prove to the world that I’m not in bad shape and, in fact, I’m perfectly fine.” Eric chuckled—then gritted his teeth. “I would have stayed fine, too, if I didn’t get jostled by those extortionists from Solar Flare.”

  “How exactly are they extortionists?”

  “It’s a strategy employed by many activist groups. They say they have a mission, but what they’re really angling for are dollar donations, or a paid ‘advisory position’ on some board of the very companies they claim to despise, including mine.”

  Anton arrived pushing a metal cart with medical tools and supplies spread across a virgin white cloth. Without a word, he thrust a hypodermic needle into the muscle around Eric’s torn stitches. Then he donned a pair of rubber gloves.

  “You’ll be floating in a minute, boss, and I’ll stitch you up again.”

  “But don’t you need a doctor?”

  “Anton is a doctor—well, sort of,” Eric replied. “He was in Timmy’s Uncle’s Opera Cone Special.”

  “I’m sorry—is that some kind of drag show?”

  Eric smacked his lips. “Sowwy . . . the shot made my mouf numb. Tell her, Anton.”

  The wiry man was threading a needle, but paused to look at me through darkly flared eyebrows. “I was a medic in the Unidad de Operaciones Especiales, the Spanish special forces.”

  “See,” Eric said, flying now, his pronunciation improved. “Anton can do everything!”

  The shot appeared to lower Eric’s inhibitions, not unlike truth serum—and I decided it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

  “You were telling me about Solar Flare?” I prompted.

  “Publicity hogs and camera hos,” Eric said with a dismissive wave. “They showed up tonight because they knew the press was sniffing around, and the press is only interested in me because of that car bomb.”

  The stress lines on Eric’s face faded as the painkiller worked through him.

  Meanwhile, Anton cleaned the wound with hot water, applied an antiseptic, and started sewing. Eric was so numb he hardly flinched.

  “The night was worth it,” he said dreamily. “It felt great to get one up on Braddock for a change.”

  “Glad I could help, even though you did trick me into it.”

  Eric frowned. “Tricked?”

  “Don’t play me, Thorner. You knew about the fake Ambrosia ahead of time. You were waiting for my reaction, hoping I’d cause a scene.”

  Eric tilted his head. “Actually, sweet Clare, I was counting on it . . .”

  Anton cut the thread, added more antiseptic, and finally applied a fresh bandage. “Fit as a fiddle, boss. I’ll be outside.”

  Anton took the medical cart with him. When the door closed, I faced Eric.

  “On the day we met, you said you wanted to make me an offer. That Ambrosia stunt was my final job interview, wasn’t it? A last test from the Quiz Master?”

  Eric had not released my hand since he hit the mattress. Now he squeezed my fingers, gazed up at me with little boy eyes, and smiled.

  “Congratulations, Clare, you’re hired.”

  “What is it you want me to do, exactly?”

  “Two jobs,” he said, flashing fingers on his other hand. “First I want you and your staff to cater the launch party for THORN, Inc.’s Appland.”

  “Appland?”

  “Our Chelsea office. We open in a few weeks, and my people will finally be moving out of that crappy cinderblock bunker at the server farm. I want a real celebration.”

  “It would be my pleasure—”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Half of my staff won’t touch wheat gluten or dairy. The other half lives on junk food. Good luck pleasing everyone.”

  “No sweat. Pleasing everyone is practically the definition of a good barista.”

  “Anton will supply you with a list of my gang’s likes and dislikes. You can start there.” He noticed my frown. “You look worried. Is the job too intimidating?”

  “It’s not the catering. Look, Eric, I want to be straight with you. My partner in the coffee business actually forbade me to have anything to do with you, or your organization.”

  Eric frowned. “Is it because of the bomb?”

  “Partly . . .”

  “Partly, huh?” Eric sighed. “I get it. It’s the testosterone thing, which is a shame, because Matteo Allegro is a very talented coffee hunter, one of the best in the business. I could use his expertise, and yours, for a very special project—that would be the second job.”

  “I’d like to help, but you don’t know my ex-husband—”

  “Actually, Clare, I think I do. And I believe I have an offer even Mr. Allegro won’t refuse.”

  I listened intently as Eric explained why he really wanted to hire us.

  I couldn’t believe it, but Eric was right. No matter how threatened Matt’s ego was by this incredibly successful baby billionaire, there was no way any self-respecting coffee hunter would refuse this challenge.

  Thirty-five

  HOLDING my hand the entire time, Eric finished outlining his proposal for me and Matt before falling into a deep sleep. I gently detached myself, left his bedside, and quietly retrieved my things.

  As I opened the door, the bedroom lights automatically dimmed until the flickering fireplace and glow of the city were the only illumination. The view was stunning, and I couldn’t help lingering another few minutes to imagine what it would be like waking up to this vista each and every morning.

  A little voice answered (but it wasn’t robotic).

  Like much in life that becomes commonplace, dear, this, too, would be taken for granted.

  “Yes, it would, Madame . . .” I whispered in reply, and with a little smile, I turned away.

  I’d barely crept into the darkened hallway before stumbling into Anton Alonzo. “Goodness, you startled me.”

  He looked at me strangely. “But I informed you that I would be waiting outside, did I not?”

  “Indeed, you did.”

  Anton smiled, his white teeth luminous in the low light. “It appears everything went according to Mr. Thorner’s plan, so I suspect you never received your after-dinner coffee service?”


  “Actually I was served two, but neither was worth drinking.”

  “I could prepare some for you now, if you wish?”

  This compact, intense man, who I thought a mere chauffeur at the start of the evening, was obviously much more. The Spaniard seemed to know Eric and his business better than anyone I’d encountered.

  And who knows? I thought. He might even dish over a cup of Joe.

  “Thank you, Anton, I would love some coffee.”

  Anton lifted his chin and spoke to the invisible fembot. “House, heat thirty-two ounces of filtered water to a constant of 196 degrees Fahrenheit. Grind seventy-seven grams of beans from coffee basket three, medium fine.”

  “Yes, Anton.”

  The lightest whirr of a burr grinder sounded from another part of the penthouse.

  “Please excuse me a moment, Ms. Cosi, I must freshen up after my medical duties.”

  “I should visit the powder room, too.”

  “The door to your right,” Anton said. “When you are finished, simply ask Miss House to lead you to the kitchen. She will point the way.” Anton bowed. “I will expect to see you in ten minutes, Ms. Cosi.”

  He began pushing the medical cart through a nearby door.

  I slipped in and out of the lavish, marble– and copper-fixtured bathroom in record time. Back in the hall, I saw Anton had left the medical cart lodged in the door, wedging it open. I called Anton’s name, but there was no reply. I called his name again, this time pushing the cart through the doorway and all the way into the room.

  Lights turned on and my jaw dropped at what I saw.

  The walls in this side room were lined with row after row of dolls—Ken dolls, to be exact—placed side by side on backlighted glass shelves. Each little plastic Ken sported a different outfit, and some even had accessories. A quick survey revealed a heavy emphasis on casual wear.

  One Ken had been placed on a center podium, and I realized this doll was clad in a miniature version of Eric’s formalwear for the evening, down to the ebony silk tie.

  Okay, that’s creepy.

  Though they all wore the same painted smile, I couldn’t help but think that these were a lonely bunch of Kens, for there was nary a Barbie in sight.

  A peek through an inner doorway revealed that this space was part of an immense closet, which explained the lack of furniture. On the wall, I noticed some pictures.

  One framed photo showed Anton Alonzo armed to the teeth in camouflaged combat fatigues, surrounded by other soldiers. A second showed his small frame in combat, lifting a man twice his size in a fireman’s carry. A third featured him in dress uniform, Spain’s flag draped off a flagpole behind him. A final picture also featured Anton. Snapped on the nude beach at Fire Island, he romped with a different set of manly companions. Their snug swimsuits (or lack thereof) revealed that these tanned, muscular men were certainly special, but they weren’t Special Ops.

  Interesting . . .

  I glanced at Madame’s jeweled watch. I’m supposed to rendezvous with Anton in three, so I’d better hustle.

  Back in the hall, I turned my eyes skyward. “Oh, Miss House? Hello there?”

  “Yes . . .” Miss House paused then added (to my shock), “Clare.”

  Okay, yes, that was creepy, too.

  I cleared my throat, feeling silly, but—“Would you show me the way to the kitchen, please?”

  “Certainly, Clare. Follow Mr. Arrow, please.”

  “Mr. Arrow . . . ?”

  A holographic blue arrow appeared in the air three feet from my nose. About the size of a bread knife, it pointed to the end of the hall, where another transparent, floating arrow directed me to turn left. Following several more of the ghostly beacons, I descended a chrome and glass staircase so delicately constructed it seemed almost ephemeral.

  The kitchen, as expected, was immense, and filled with a wonderland of gadgets, from a soda machine to a pair of deep fryers, to gas pizza ovens, and a grill and smoker combination.

  I didn’t require any more holographic arrows to find Anton. I simply followed my nose and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  Anton waited at a small breakfast nook by the window. He directed me to a chair.

  “It smells delicious.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Cosi. But my compliments go to the roaster.”

  About then I recognized the aroma of my Wake Up the Night roast, and acknowledged the compliment.

  Anton sat across from me. The formerly intense ball of energy seemed more relaxed now that he’d replaced the starched chauffeur suit with loose, black chinos and a soft, cocoa brown cashmere sweater.

  “To your health,” he said, lifting his cup.

  “Perfect.” I sighed after a satisfying sip.

  “This is Eric’s favorite roast. He thinks it’s amazing.”

  “You’re pretty amazing yourself, Anton. You make superb coffee, you’re a chauffeur, a bodyguard, a butler, and a paramedic, too.”

  “I have an exceptional patient,” Anton replied. “Eric is no stranger to pain.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “He was born with a spinal deformation that worsened with age. It took a dozen operations over many years to correct. He suffered acutely through childhood and adolescence.”

  I could hear the empathy in Anton’s voice as he related Eric’s ordeal, and I had to ask, “You and Eric seem awfully . . . tight. Just how close are you two?”

  “I would never let anything happen to my man.”

  “No, I mean are you really, really close? You know, are you . . .”

  “Are we lovers?” Anton finished for me.

  I nodded.

  “No, Ms. Cosi. Eric is as straight as Mr. Arrow.” He gave a wave of his hand. “His tastes are really quite prosaic.”

  “I’d hardly call Bianca Hyde ordinary.”

  Anton frowned. “Eric had his reasons for allowing Ms. Hyde to insinuate herself into our lives. The end was messy, but it ended.”

  “Yes, it did . . . which makes me wonder.”

  “What?”

  “I met Eric’s sister tonight. She warned me that bad things happen to the women around Eric. She said ‘women.’ Plural. She also mentioned something about a divorcée. Do you know what she meant?”

  Anton appeared stricken for a moment, but quickly recovered.

  “Eden was probably drunk. She’s very protective of her younger brother, and not very discreet when she imbibes.”

  “But what she said sounded so . . . ominous. Was it a threat?”

  “Pay no attention,” Anton insisted. “Bianca’s death was one thing, Charley’s quite another—”

  “Charley?” I put down my coffee cup. “Are you saying that Charley, the ex-cop who died in the explosion—Eric’s dead driver—was a woman?”

  Thirty-six

  “YOU didn’t know this?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Charley was indeed a woman,” Anton confirmed. “An attractive one who intrigued Eric from the start. But Charley was not what she appeared to be . . .”

  “Eric was intrigued? Then Charley and Eric really were . . .”

  Anton nodded.

  Well, I thought, at least now I understand Braddock’s comment about Thorner sleeping with “the help”—not to mention Eric’s desperate behavior after the first explosion.

  In the moment it took for me to process the fact that Charley was a woman, I almost missed the second half of Anton’s statement—almost.

  “Not what she appeared?” I said after a pause. “You mean because she was an ex-cop?”

  “No; Eric knew her credentials. That’s why he hired her, both to drive him and provide protection. But Charley had her own agenda, and she wanted the job for her own reasons.”

  “And those reasons were . . . ?”

  “Not for me to say.” Anton shrugged. “In any case, you have nothing to fear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have no rivals for Eric’s affection, Clare. He h
as thought of nothing but you since he awoke from his operation.”

  “But you misunderstand. I’m not interested in Eric. Not that way.”

  Anton rolled his eyes. “Then why quiz me about his prior affairs?”

  “After everything that’s happened tonight, I’m curious, that’s all. And I already have a boyfriend.”

  Anton tapped the Omega chronometer on his own wrist. “Are you referring to the man who was supposed to call you at eleven?”

  I slapped my forehead. Not only had I forgotten Quinn’s call, I’d turned off my phone at the Source Club.

  “I can’t believe I forgot. What’s Mike going to think?”

  Anton mirrored his boss’s smirk. “He will suspect the worst, of course. Perhaps you should have told him you loved him before he hung up.”

  I frowned. “Eavesdropping is bad form.”

  “My dear lady, ears come with the job.”

  “Apparently so do Ken dolls.”

  “Snooping is bad form, too.”

  “I’m sorry, but the door was open—and I thought you were inside.”

  “Did you?”

  “Okay, I was snooping. So what’s with the Ken dolls?”

  He shrugged. “Understated luxury.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It is my job to help Eric straddle two very different worlds. In this city run by money, the financial class dresses for success. The more tailored and elegant their attire, the more respect they garner.”

  “That’s true.”

  Anton paused to finish his own cup. “The situation is very different in his world of digital commerce and computer technology, where a fashion heuristic states that only two types of men wear suits and ties: funeral directors and assholes.”

  I bit my cheek. “Who told you that one? Let me guess . . . Eric.”

  Anton leaned across the table. “This is Eric’s world, not mine. I was born to an esteemed and aristocratic Spanish family. I attended military school and became an officer, like my father and grandfather before me. I grew to be a man around elegant things, and I understand the world of wealth and power in ways Eric cannot.”

  He sat back. “So you see my dilemma. Two worlds, two cultures. But Eric must function in both of them, so I dress my man in clothes that are distinctive, casual, yet classic—and expensive enough to impress bankers and financiers, and their women.”