18 Chapter 18

How to Marry Another Billionaire

book two of the

operation billionaire trilogy

elise sax

Beatrice

I'm married to a billionaire. At this point, I guess that just means I'm having lots of sex. Because that's what I've been doing for the past week. Lots of sex. Cole and I haven't gotten out of our house since we were married a week ago.

Our house.

I mean, Cole's house.

I mean, my house.

Actually, it's a mansion in Idaho, and as far as I know we--that's right, we--have more houses. I don't know why we need this many houses, but it's the billionaire way, and since I'm married to a billionaire, this is the way I'm supposed to do it, I guess. Anyway, we haven't been out of the house for the past week.

We've become adept at having sex with casts on our legs. My leg is broken, and Cole's ankle is sprained. We're so good at boffing while injured that if Cole wasn't richer than Midas, I would suggest that we take this show on the road. We could charge a fortune in some circus. Look at how this couple manages to copulate with casts on!

On second thought, that might be a bad way to make a living. Maybe I just have sex on the brain because, well, sex on my brain is pretty much the only position we haven't done in the past week since we got married.

But now I'm taking a break in the kitchen, because how much sex can one woman take? Even with a man like Cole, who's the man of my dreams and completely gorgeous and really very talented at having sex with a cast on, enough is enough.

So, I've made it into the kitchen, and I'm looking at all the appliances. The day after we got married, Cole brought in a lawyer and signed over all of his appliances to me. This is a huge step up from my long history of boyfriends who stole my appliances.

I'm now the proud owner of pretty much anything that has ever been built in stainless-steel. I am the stainless-steel mogul of planet Earth.

I caress the waffle maker with one hand and caress the espresso machine with my other hand.

My appliances. My appliances.

Never again will a man take my appliances.

Yes, I still have slight PTSD from a lifetime of bad relationships where men tell me they love me but then leave me and steal my appliances, but Cole is the real deal. He's my soulmate. He's the true love of my life. He will never leave me.

I pause over the panini press and gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I still have a little kernel of self-doubt. Will Cole love me forever? Will he leave me at some point?

I don't think so, I think after a moment. There was no prenup. He signed over all of his appliances to me. He has not stopped giving me orgasms for a solid week.

I think in anyone's book that means I shouldn't worry.

Cole walks into the kitchen, and he's completely naked except for the boot on his leg. He's all kinds of hot, sexy, manly man. But a week of having sex has made him lose at least five pounds. Every time we realize that we're hungry and start to get something to eat, our hormones take over and we're back in bed having sex. Or back on the coffee table having sex. Or back in the shower having sex. Or back on the sofa having sex. Or back on the kitchen counter having sex. Or back in the car having sex. Or back in the pool having sex.

Well, you get the picture. We've been doing a lot of cardio.

"We should probably eat," I tell Cole. "I think this is the way the Donner party started."

"They didn't have any food and were trapped in a winter storm in the mountains," Cole explains. "They didn't starve to death because they were having too much sex. Although, they did eat each other, which gives me an idea."

Cole drops to his knees and pulls me close to him. He lifts my shirt up, which is actually his white button-down shirt that hangs down to my thighs. Just as he's about to show me once again the power and skill of his tongue, his mother Bessie marches in.

"I want grandbabies," she insists loudly. "Don't you know how to make grandbabies? That's not how to make grandbabies. Your body parts are all mixed up."

"Mom!" Cole shouts and jumps up from his kneeling position. Then he notices he's naked and grabs a kitchen towel off the counter and covers himself. "We're a little busy here, Mom."

"You've been busy for a week. Don't you think you should come up for air? You've got to be pregnant by now, Beatrice. I think you two have had sex more times than your father and I had in thirty years of marriage."

"I don't think I like the direction this conversation's going," Cole says.

"Fine. But you might want to get dressed," Bessie says. "The Operation Billionaire meeting is happening in about five minutes. Is it safe to sit anywhere? Or should I call in the EPA or CDC to clean up before I sit down?"

"Of course it's safe to sit anywhere," I lie. It isn't safe to sit anywhere. We're probably creating the new superbug. "You might want to put a towel down if you're going to sit on the couch, though," I add.

Bessie rolls her eyes. "Newlyweds. Well, if history proves anything, you should be slowing down soon. But I want grandbabies, so don't slow down too much." She wags her finger at me, as if I have the power to make my ovaries spur into action. I don't have the heart to tell her that I'm on the pill. I mean, shouldn't people be married for more than a week before they have children?

Rosalind

"What does it matter when I'm back in the office?" I want to say into the phone. It's Dana White on the other end, the personal secretary to Jackson Hardy, the billionaire CEO of the company that I've sweated over for years. Buckets of sweat. LeBron James amounts of sweat. Dana doesn't care about my sweat. She doesn't care if I'm dripping, exhausted, and in pain. She just cares about the marketing department and how it's going to hell without me.

She doesn't say the last part, the without me part. Just the hell part. I can practically see her looking at her nails through the phone. Upset at me for taking a week off from the company, when I've never taken a week off. "Go to hell with your marketing department," I also want to say into the phone. I want to say a lot of things into my iPhone. I'm like Abraham Lincoln, but with a really bad attitude and much better technology.

I've turned into pissed off girl.

I've been a professional, Chanel-wearing girl for so long that pissed off girl feels fabulous.

There's also this bit of information: This is the first time that Jackson Hardy's personal assistant has ever called me. That probably means that Jackson Hardy misses me. Since he's the billionaire I'm targeting in Operation Billionaire, this is great news.

Seriously, it's like V-E Day news.

Like the invention of Botox news.

That's why I don't tell her to go to hell. Instead, I say, "I'm so sorry, Dana. My mother's still not better since she broke her hip. You know old people."

I'm walking up the driveway to Beatrice and Cole's luxury home, along with Olivia and her mother, Diane. I shoot Diane a look when I mention my mother and her broken hip and old people. She shoots me a death stare back, which I choose to ignore.

"I thought your mother was dead. That's what it says in your file," Dana tells me, as if I would lie to her about my mother and her hip, and of course, that's exactly what I'm doing.

I'm going to lie to her until Operation Billionaire is locked down. Beatrice is done, and Olivia's in the works, and when she's got her billionaire, I'm going to hook Jackson Hardy and finally, finally, finally, make it up the ranks of the company, just like I deserve. I figure if Operation Billionaire takes too long, I'll back up the hip lie with a sepsis lie. Or maybe I'll give her leprosy. Does that still exist?

Or maybe I'll just kill my fictitious mother, I think, studying Diane. I have been living with her for two weeks, and I'm tempted to smother her with a pillow. Luckily, I don't think that locking down Olivia's billionaire will take too long because he's already obviously attracted to her, and she's going to be in close proximity to him as his personal assistant.

Just like Dana White with Jackson Hardy. Hmmm...I wonder if something's going on there.

"That's odd," I say into the phone to Dana. "The women in my family are long-lived. At least I hope they're long-lived." I say the last part with a phony hitch in my voice to bring it home. I never played hooky from school, so this is a first for me.

I kind of like it.

"So, what're we talking about? Will you be back by Friday?"

"Jot me down for another week, Dana," I tell her. "Poor Mother," I add for good measure and look at Diane, who sticks her tongue out at me.

"This is really inconvenient. The marketing forum in Bora Bora is in two weeks," Dana whines.

My brain goes into fifth-gear, roaring to life, speeding along with the information. A romantic island marketing forum would be the perfect place to get access to Jackson Hardy. I wonder if we can wind up Olivia's Operation Billionaire by then and start the planning for mine.

"You can count me in for that," I tell her. "I'm sure Mom will be fine in a week, and then I can plan on Bora Bora."

Olivia visibly blanches when I say we will be fine in a week, but Diane positively beams when I mention Bora Bora.

Dana sighs loudly and gives me some more attitude. But finally, she hangs up, and I put my phone in my Birkin bag. "There. That's done," I say. "We've got one week to make you and Rock happen," I tell Olivia. I stick my long index finger up with its perfectly manicured fingernail. "One."

"But..." Olivia starts.

"That's right. Butt. And boobs. And all your other parts. We've got to make the whole thing happen pronto."

Olivia

I feel like a veal. Not the kind that's locked up and isn't allowed to move its legs. The kind with a tag bolted to its ear and paraded around to be gawked at and sold as a future promise of beef.

I'm veal. I'm beef. I'm a hamburger with extra sauce.

Oh, damn. Now I want a hamburger with extra sauce.

But there's no sauce for veals. Veals have to eat low calorie, low carb, low, low, low so that they can catch a billionaire. Billionaires must have something against extra sauce.

"Don't sit on anything," Rosalind orders me as we enter Beatrice and Cole's house. "It smells like the set of Deep Throat in here. You can't risk getting an STD before you snag Rock."

"I hear you can get crabs from dirty teaspoons," my mother says and wanders like a zombie on the trail of brains toward the gigantic television in the living room.

"You can't get crabs from teaspoons," Bessie insists. "Have you ever heard of anything so stupid? But you can get crabs from movie theater seats and hairdryers."

"Mom, what're you talking about?" Cole demands. He's wearing sweatpants hung low on his hips and a t-shirt. Beatrice is clinging to him, wearing a man's white button-down shirt and shorts. Her hair is messed up, and she's got an afterglow on her that would light up North Dakota. I'm jealous of her afterglow, and at the same time, I'm thrilled for her.

According to the Operation Billionaire team, my afterglow is just around the corner, but I'm filled with self-doubts, not enough sleep, and no extra sauce.

"You can't get crabs from hairdryers," Cole insists.

Rosalind takes control. It's her normal state, and she's very good at it. "Let's stop talking about crabs. Open all the windows and air out some of this sex cloud, and give me every paper towel you own so that I can sit down."

Rosalind, Bessie, and I sit on stools at the kitchen counter, while Cole and Beatrice cook breakfast. Meanwhile, my mother is in the other room, braving the couch without paper towels while she watches Judge Judy on the TV.

Rosalind slaps her tablet on the counter and brings up the billionaire spreadsheet. "Clothes?" she asks.

"Check!" Bessie says. "Got some of that Spanx in there, too. Rock doesn't like bulges."

I suck in my stomach. "I've had like a million kids," I say, jumping to my own defense.

"Nobody wants to sleep with a bone," Cole announces as he fries up bacon.

"Beauty treatments," Rosalind continues, reading from her list. "I've got those lined up for tomorrow, right before you fly to L.A. Childcare?"

"Check!" my mother yells from the other room. "Bessie and I are taking shifts."

Rosalind looks up from her tablet. "What do you mean you're taking shifts? You can't take shifts. We've got a lot of work to do, and we don't have time for kids."

Tell me about it. They take up a lot of time. I have four of them, all under five years old. I have super active ovaries. I bet I could even get pregnant by eating hormone-laden chicken.

"Fine! I'll hire a babysitter," my mother yells and turns up Judge Judy.

Rosalind doesn't look convinced, but she goes back to her list. "Rock's likes and dislikes?"

Cole dishes the bacon onto a platter and puts the pan back on the stove. "Rock likes Bon Jovi. Hates Adele. Likes cheap sex with anonymous women. Hates kids."

"I'm sure Cole's exaggerating," Beatrice tells me diplomatically. But Cole's right. This is going to be an uphill battle. Playboy billionaires aren't fond of women with four kids and a runaway husband somewhere. I have baggage. I'm a walking commercial for Samsonite. If I were flying anywhere, I would have to pay thousands for all of my extra baggage. It would take a hundred skycaps to carry it all.

My baggage is heavy, and it's not the rolling kind.

Rosalind points a menacing finger at Cole. "We don't need any Debbie Downers here. It's bad enough that you keep Beatrice in Idaho when we need her in Los Angeles."

"We're on our honeymoon," Beatrice explains.

"Any more honeymoon and your vagina is going to fall out," Bessie says.

"My vagina's just fine," Beatrice insists.

"It can take a real pounding," Cole agrees and gives Beatrice a kiss that's probably illegal in thirty states.

Rosalind huffs with impatience. "We need to focus on Olivia's vagina now, people. What have you found out about your intended?"

All heads turn toward me. Since Operation Billionaire started, I've discovered that I love to do research. I can Google all day and night. And boy, have I googled Rock. As one of the most eligible bachelors in America, he's been written up in dozens of newspapers and magazines.

"He does seem to date a lot," I say, clearing my throat. "He likes to go to steakhouses, theme parks, and he likes to travel around the world to see the places where he does land developing before he starts."

"He was in Brazil for two months last year," Cole says. "Raper of the land."

"He's a big philanthropist, too," I jump in, coming to Rock's defense. I have a doozy of a crush on him. I Google him mostly just to see pictures of him. He's the definition of handsome. He's sexy in any language. He's totally out of my league. "He loves orangutans. He's funding a new enclosure for them at the San Diego Zoo."

"Orangutans," Rosalind repeats, rolling the word around in her mouth, like she's thinking about it. "That might work for us."

"Rosalind's a genius when it comes to trapping men," Bessie says with more than a little awe in her voice. "If we could bottle her, we could set up the whole planet."

"I just use common sense," Rosalind says.

I'm not sure any of this is common sense. I'm about to fly to Los Angeles to become Rock Clarke's personal assistant, and I don't know how to use Excel. "I don't know how to use Excel!" I shout and break out into a sweat.

"There she goes, again," Bessie says. "I've never seen someone sweat as much as Olivia."

"I've sweated LeBron James kind of sweat for my job," Rosalind announces.

I can't picture Rosalind sweating. She's more put together than a completed jigsaw puzzle. She's super glam sophistication. If I was a betting woman, I'd put money on the fact that she doesn't have pores.

The thought helps me stop sweating. My mother walks in from the other room. It must be a commercial break. "Do I smell bacon?"

"Am I allowed to eat bacon?" I ask, hopefully.

"No," Rosalind says. "You can eat scrambled eggs, though."

"Don't say eggs to Olivia," my mother says. "You'll stir hers up, and the next thing we know, she's giving birth on the barstool."