How to Marry Another Billionaire

by Elise Sax

  “Let her fly home,” Bessie says, handing me a wad of cash. “I don’t want her throwing up in my purse.”

  I pocket the money, say goodbye to them, and follow the helicopter to the landing. It’s the first time that I’ve been alone in years. It’s quieter being alone, but I don’t like it. Just as I’m thinking that I should have braved seasickness and gone back with my friends, I arrive at the helicopter pad. The helicopter has landed, and the motor is turned off. The blades slow until they finally stop spinning, and out walks a tall, blond, handsome billionaire, surprising me.

  Rock Clarke smiles at me and saunters over. “I hear you put Vern into the hospital,” he tells me when he reaches me.

  “I did? But I saw the lifeguard save him.”

  “Something about his colon. I usually stop listening when he talks about his colon.”

  Rock’s so handsome. I get lost in his eyes. I try to remember if I ever got lost in my husband’s eyes. We were high school sweethearts, and I don’t remember much beyond the cloud of hormones and the pleasures of the back seat of his Toyota Corolla.

  I had known him since eighth grade, but it wasn’t until eleventh grade that he worked up the courage to ask me to a school dance. We slept together for the first time on graduation day, and nine months and two days later, my oldest son Mick was born. By that time, my husband got pretty proficient at sex and wanted to spread his talent around to a bunch of other women. I was clueless, but maybe I was just fooling myself since I was overwhelmed with babies and didn’t want to know the truth about the man I married.

  But I don’t miss him, and I don’t miss his eyes. Child abandonment doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. That’s for sure.

  But Rock’s eyes I would definitely miss no matter what. I want to gaze into his eyes for hours. Oh, who am I kidding? I want years to gaze into his eyes.

  “You look hungry,” he says. “And thirsty.”

  “I drank a lot of seawater.”

  “How about I take you to dinner?”

  “I don’t know if I can eat any more billionaire food.”

  Rock smiles, and his eyes twinkle. “Me, neither. Blech. Billionaire food. How about fish and chips? You up for that?”

  “That sounds good.”

  He puts his arm around my shoulders and we walk away. Rock smells so good that I want to eat him with a spoon. Or just lick him like an ice cream cone. As we walk, he steers me away from people and potholes. When we get to the restaurant, he pulls the chair out for me.

  And then we’re sitting face to face, alone at a table together. If I had a bucket list, this would be number one on it. There’s no harp in the restaurant, but the sound system is playing “Besame Mucho” sung by Diana Krall, and it’s the most romantic moment I’ve ever had.

  The sun is setting, and the waiter lights a candle and places it on the table between Rock and me. The light flickers, bringing out the flecks of gold in Rock’s eyes, and I’m lost in them, again.

  My hands are on the table, and my fingers nervously play together, interlacing and coming apart, finding lint on the table, adjusting my cutlery. Rock’s hands find their way on top of the table, too. His fingers inch closer to mine but stay just out of reach. I watch them for a moment until I feel his gaze on me, and I look up.

  No words pass between us, but our mouths are slightly open as if we need to say something, but we’re powerless to.

  And that’s how I feel: powerless. And I love this feeling of powerlessness. Because I sit hollow, ready to welcome Rock inside, where I know that his essence will mix with mine, making me full and happy and powerful. Sometimes you have to surrender to conquer.

  We order the fish and chips. “Would you like wine?” Rock asks me.

  “I don’t think I can take any more alcohol.”

  “Okay. How about we get some virgin fruity drinks?”

  “It sounds heavenly,” I say. Every time he looks at me, I blush. I hope he doesn’t think I’m having a heart attack and call an ambulance.

  “You look very nice this evening,” Rock tells me when the waiter leaves.

  “Oh, no!” I exclaim. My hands fly to my face. I’m not wearing any makeup, and I’m caked in sand and salt from my near drowning experience. My hair is a dried-out mess, tied back in a ponytail, and I have a slight sunburn. “Don’t be mean to me. I don’t like to be teased. I probably look like a monster. It’s not my fault. Vern tried to kill me. No amount of waterproof makeup can stand up to a drowning. And I almost got bitten by a starfish.”

  Rock takes my hands and removes them from my face. Now holding my hands on the table, he leans in. “I’m not teasing you. I like you like this. California girl. Natural beauty. Fresh. And oh so pretty.”

  Not just pretty. Oh so pretty. I’ve got an overwhelming desire to jump on his face, but luckily, our virgin fruity drinks arrive just in time. We lean back, removing our hands to make space for the drinks.

  I take a sip. “Delicious,” I say.

  “It would go great with ice cream,” Rock says, shooting me a big smile.

  “Yeah, it would.” I giggle and snort, much to my horror. Rock pretends not to hear.

  “How are you enjoying the office?” he asks.

  “I’ve only really been there one day. I love Excel,” I add like an idiot.

  “Really? I’ve never been able to learn Excel. I pretty much hate anything that chains me to a desk.”

  I know that Rock is a land developer and an investor, but I don’t know what that means. I know what I think it means, but I doubt that has anything to do with reality. “Did you always want to become a land developer?”

  Rock laughs. “Me? No. I was very happy being a rancher, running through all of the girls in Idaho at my leisure. My family has been ranching out there for over a hundred years, back to the Wild West days. There was nothing I loved more than to be out in the middle of nowhere, just me and my horse, looking for a wayward steer. Sleeping under the stars under the big sky. Nothing better than that. Well, maybe there’s one thing better than that,” he says looking at me, intently. I try to swallow, but my throat isn’t cooperating. I take a sip of my fruity drink in order to look away from him, and I manage to get the sweet liquid down.

  “That’s all I wanted to do,” Rock continues. “I built my own house on the property a few miles away from my folks’ place before I graduated high school.”

  “You did? All by yourself?” He nods. “You hammered and sawed and climbed ladders and got all sweaty?”

  “Really sweaty,” he says, smiling. “I’ll take you there sometime. It’s not a mansion, but it’s real sweet. Three bedrooms, four chimneys. Best place on the planet in the winter time when the snow is chest-level outside, and inside I’m curled up by the fire, reading a good book.”

  Oh my. He reads, too. I grow hot, and I drink down some more of my fruity drink.

  “Sounds heavenly. I’m a Southern Californian girl, so I’ve never experienced snow.”

  “We’re going to have to change that,” he says, softly. I don’t know if he’s making polite conversation, leading me on, or is asking me to marry him.

  I ignore the comment and keep the conversation going about him. “So, how did you get from reading by the fire to taking over the world?”

  “Cole Stevens,” he says.

  “Cole helped you take over the world?”

  “In a sense, yes. Cole’s family and mine were always really tight. I thought he was my brother until I was five years old. We did everything together. And then as soon as we graduated, he got a big burr under his saddle and was off and running, bound and determined to make millions.”

  “Billions,” I correct.

  “You’re right. Billions. Although, it’s easier to get to a billion once you’re in your millions, believe it or not. There’s momentum in business, like the wind at your back.”

  I’ve never had any wind at my back in my life, but I take his word for it.

  “And Cole brought you along? Help
ed you out?” I ask.

  Rock flinches and leans back in his chair. “Ouch. Olivia, that hurt. Cole and I don’t help each other. We compete with each other. Bronco busting, bull riding, chopping wood, dating cheerleaders. You get the picture? I built my house, and I thought that I had one up on Cole, but it turned out that while I was putting in the plumbing, he was making his first million. I couldn’t let that stand.”

  “So, you became a billionaire to compete with Cole?”

  “Sort of. I got my first million to compete with Cole. After that, it got addictive. Accumulating wealth is addictive. And fun. But it’s not just about the money. I love to find land to develop. I love to find it and be smart about it. I love the land. I don’t want to destroy it.”

  “You like to make things.”

  “Yes, and I like to move on to the next project. I go from project to project to project. I’m not much for commitment, you know. Not long-term commitment, anyway.”

  My heart lurches, and I stop breathing. Then, I remember something. “Wasn’t Cole the same way before he met Beatrice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Love conquered all,” I say, softly. “Even commitment phobia.”

  “I don’t have a commitment phobia. I’m just having too much fun not committing.”

  It takes everything I have not to kick him under the table. I probably would if I wasn’t wearing flip-flops. The waiter arrives with our fish and chips, and I dig in after asking for more tartar sauce. There’s a moment of awkward silence while we chew, and then Rock steers the conversation from him back to me.

  “What about you? Are you following the dream?”

  “I’ve never had a dream.”

  His expression turns to pity. “Oh, no, Olivia. That’s so sad. Everyone has a dream.”

  “I never thought about it. I got married and had lots of children. I never had much of a choice in the matter. My life just sort of happened. I love my children, but they weren’t planned.”

  But I do have a dream, I realize while I take another bite of my deep-fried fish. I dream about love and security, about being cared for and nurtured, about raising my children in a loving, safe home. That’s my dream.

  “And your husband?” Cole asks.

  I shrug. “He disappeared with a young woman with no stretch marks. I hired someone to find him, but he couldn’t.”

  “Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t return.”

  “My children deserve to have a father, even if he’s a royal shit.”

  I’m great at conversation killers. My emotional outburst about my husband and my kids has managed to end our conversation. We eat for a while with a few comments about the beautiful evening, the good food, and Catalina. Date talk. Whatever spark there was, it’s been snuffed out by reality.

  Rock pays the bill, and we walk back to the helicopter. I’m surprised when Rock takes my hand and holds it while we walk. There’s a warm breeze blowing, and the evening is beautiful. We’re not the only couple walking. Catalina is the perfect place for romance, and the walkways are full of lovers strolling, two-by-two.

  When we get to the helicopter pad, we’re the only ones around. There are no other helicopters except for Rock’s, and there isn’t a pilot or employee to be seen.

  “Maybe they’re closed,” I say. “Maybe they don’t fly at night.”

  “They don’t,” Rock says.

  “We’re trapped on the island?” I ask, panicked. “How will we get off? How will we get home?”

  Rock grips my shoulders. “Relax, Olivia. Don’t fret yourself. We’re going to fly off the island in my helicopter.”

  “But you said they don’t fly at night.”

  “They don’t. I do.”

  “Is that safe? Have you flown a helicopter before?”

  “No, but how hard can it be?” he says, smiling.

  “But we’ll be flying over the ocean, and the ocean is big, and there’s sharks, and it’s big. And I don’t want to drown again!”

  Rock puts his hands on my back and pulls me in close. “I have my pilot’s license, pretty girl. I fly all the time. I flew over here in the first place.”

  “Oh.”

  He puts his finger under my chin and tilts my head up. Our lips are inches apart, and I can smell the tartar sauce on his breath. Warmth pools low down in my body. My skin tingles, like it knows that something big is going to happen. Something exciting, like a trip to Disneyland.

  “You’re a really bad idea,” he whispers.

  Bad idea or not, his lips graze mine, just the lightest of touches. A butterfly kiss, backed by heat and hormones. My eyes close, and I stand immobile, focused on the feeling as Rock’s lips caress mine. Such a simple gesture, hardly sexual, and yet I’m rocked. My brain is fuzzy with desire. My bones are soft from it. My muscles weak.

  Dizzy and off-balance, I wrap my arms around Rock’s waist for support. And if I’m totally honest with myself, I want to be closer to him. I want to feel his body against mine from chest to feet. My soft against his hard. My pliable body against his rigid one.

  My hands walk up his back, desperate to touch him. Rock’s lips travel along my jawline toward my ear. He sucks gently on my earlobe, and a moan escapes from my mouth. He nips and sucks at my ear, and just when I’m about to go insane, he moves back to my mouth.

  He holds the sides of my head and crushes his lips to mine. Gone are the gentle butterfly kisses and in their place is passion. Wild, uninhibited passion.

  Rock tastes like passion. His swirl of hormones has overtaken the tartar sauce, and all I taste is man. A man who wants me.

  The kiss is endless and deep. His tongue slips into my mouth, and I greet it with my own. I want to take, and I want to give, and I do both with our kiss. But Rock isn’t satisfied with just a kiss, or maybe kisses for Rock are more than lips and tongues.

  He caresses my collarbone with a fingertip. Dipping lower, he gently pulls the neckline of my cotton shirt down until it reveals the swell of my breast. He breaks our kiss and without hesitating, moves his mouth to the top of my breast. He kisses and licks the soft flesh until he reaches the lacy edge of my bra.

  With a finger, he eases the fabric down until it reveals the whole of my breast. He glides his fingers over it, at first hesitant, as if I’m a virgin and have never been touched by a man before. His breathing is ragged, filled, I assume, with desire and excitement.

  His tentative touch changes suddenly. His thumb glides over my nipple, making it rise to a sharp, taut peak. He glances at me for the briefest of moments, and then it’s as if he’s decided something.

  I tremble as he takes my nipple into his mouth, making love to it with this tongue, while he cups my heavy breast with his large hand. I melt under his ministrations. Like sugar in a warm rain, I melt against him. I can feel his arousal grow harder and larger against my belly. My body answers his arousal with its own, and I grow wet. Ready for him. Wanting anything and everything he can give.

  And I know that he can give me everything. If a kiss and a touch can make me feel like this, what would making love to him do to me? And what would giving myself to him totally do to me? The thought is intoxicating and makes my desire grow exponentially.

  Finished with my breast, he moves up my neck until our mouths are joined again. As he makes love to my mouth, his hands roam over my body, kneading my ass. I lean against him, as we kiss. My skin is on fire, and I feel like I’m going to explode.

  I lift my knee and drape it over his thigh. My naked breast rubs against him, and his hands roam lower along my thigh, and finally he’s there, rubbing against my panties.

  I grind against his hand, desperate for the thin layer of fabric to be gone. Desperate to be alone with him in his bed, in the house that he built, anywhere where we could know each other in every way I want.

  A finger slips underneath the fabric and finds my tenderest spot. Like a man with all the time in the world and complete knowledge of what he’s doing, he massages the area, heightening m
y arousal. My breathing becomes ragged, and I can’t kiss him anymore. My mouth drops open. My head falls back. I can only focus on his finger driving me to madness.

  It’s almost unbearable. What am I talking about? It is unbearable. I’ll die from this if he continues. I’ll die if he goes on. I begin to break apart, and I scream out his name. And then I fall into a million pieces in his arms, clutching his body to me, forever ruined for any other man. It doesn’t matter if Rock is a businessman or a rancher, a billionaire or a pauper. He could own a mansion or be homeless, and I know right at this second that I will never want a man like I want him. And I also know right at this second that I’ve never wanted a man before like this.

  “Olivia,” he breathes, our cheeks touching. “What have you done to me? You’ve ruined me. I’ll never be happy again.”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t this the start of happiness?”

  “I told you. I don’t do commitment. And I really don’t do kids.”

  “But…”

  “No, there are no buts,” he insists. “This is the way it is. Can we chalk this up to a beautiful location and island breezes? Maybe we had too much to drink?”

  But we haven’t had anything to drink, just virgin fruity drinks. And beautiful locations and island breezes have never done this to me before.

  But even though I’m crushed, I want to hold onto some semblance of dignity. So, I merely nod, and we climb into his helicopter and head back to Los Angeles.

  Chapter 7

  Olivia

  “You need to let go of the children. You’re going to smother them,” my mother urges. “You’ve been holding onto them for five hours. I think they know you love them, even if they’re asleep.”

  I got home five hours ago. The helicopter trip back to Los Angeles was quiet except for the sound of the helicopter blades. After we landed, Rock drove me home, this time dropping me off at the guest house instead of bringing me into his house.

  I didn’t even say goodbye to him, and come to think of it, he didn’t say goodbye to me either. I wandered into the house, like a zombie or a woman who’s in love with the man who has just dumped her because she’s a “commitment.”