Page 36 of Billionaire Romance

15

Chris

The day started out brilliantly, in bed with Weaver at the hotel. Like most of my grandfather’s demands, this one turned out not to be as urgent as he’d first suggested. When Weaver and I were walking through Charles de Gaulle on Monday morning, I received a text from him that he was “indisposed” for a few days, but “definitely, absolutely, it was completely imperative” that we meet at his estate in the country on Wednesday. And then Wednesday morning I received a text: See you Thursday. I didn’t mind at all since it gave me and Weaver time to ourselves.

I had prepared Weaver as much as I could for Alexandre Beliem, the Beliem family patriarch, CEO and Founder of Beliem Enterprises, but really, I knew there was no preparation that was adequate enough. He was an octogenarian who had worked hard, achieved enormous success early in life, and has been having his way for decades. The man was fixed in his ways and mercurial, and I never knew which Grandad I’d find behind his estate walls.

Weaver was naturally speechless when we arrived at the estate. The long entry drive from the road up to the house is a mile-long, lined with oak trees that are hundreds of years old. The house itself is a nineteenth century château, with square towers at each end and set on a grand terrace. If I hadn’t taken Weaver to Versailles earlier in the week, I probably could have convinced her that this was it.

“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Chris, I knew you were rich, but I thought it was exclusive-cam-girl-arrangement rich not château in France rich! It must have been wild to run around here when you were little.” I love seeing Weaver excited, and experiencing everything through her eyes this week has been more fun than I could have imagined. In fact, more fun than I think I’ve had in the last few years, but I can’t share her excitement right now.

“This is a new acquisition, actually,” I tell her. “He’s lived here for just a few years. I actually don’t think more than two bedrooms have even been slept in. One for Grandad and one for Sandrine, his…I guess his nurse. When I visit, I go back to Paris at night. Alexandre Beliem is good in small doses, so don’t get too comfortable, okay Weaver? Quick trip and then we have dinner reservations at Kate’s.”

The car pulls up around the circular driveway and stops in front the oversized door, flanked by pillars with lions’ heads on top. The driver opens our door and I take Weaver’s hand and lead her up the stairs. She smiles so sweetly at me. It makes me want to turn around and put her back in the car, send her back to the hotel. I’m second-guessing why I even brought her here. Probably in part because of pride. I’d spent so many months pining for her, longing for her, now that she felt like mine, I wanted the world to know it. But it suddenly feels like I’m offering her up to the lions.

The large door opens before I can turn around. “Christopher, welcome home.” It’s Sandrine, Grandad’s nurse/maid/companion. No one in the family is completely clear on this arrangement, and frankly, we’re better off without the details. But I like Sandrine, and my mother can sleep easier at night knowing there’s someone by her father’s side in case of emergencies. “Alexandre is in his study. He’s been expecting you.”

“Thank you, Sandrine,” I say, offering her my coat and helping Weaver out of her own. “I’d like you to meet my friend from New York, Weaver.”

“Pleasure to meet you Weaver,” she says kindly. Weaver for her part is standing in the foyer with her mouth agape. Adorably agape, but I still prod her gently in the side. “Oh, yes, nice to meet you too,” she says, blushing.

We walk down the cavernous hallway to the back of the house to his study, where grandad spends most of his time. We find the old man there, sitting by a fire, a stack of newspapers and a cigar burning in a heavy crystal ashtray by his side. The doctors have told him over and over not to smoke, but he won’t listen.

“Grandad,” I say loudly, leading Weaver in ahead of me. He begins to rise but I rest a hand on his shoulder to stop him and kiss his cheeks. “Why get up when we’re just going to sit down?” I say, saving the old man face. “Meet my friend, Weaver. She’s come from New York with me.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Beliem. Your home is beautiful. Thank you for inviting me,” she says, so generously it breaks my heart when my grandfather speaks next.

“You know his trust fund is restricted to the terms of his employment, don’t you?” he asks. “It’s not my intention to have grandchildren who suck from the teat of my fortune. If they want it, they need to earn it. Right Christopher?”

Weaver looks shocked, but she rolls with the punches and before I can rebuke him, she says, “That’s good thinking, sir. I guess Chris gets his smarts from you.” She sits down on a leather couch by his side, and despite my grandfather’s abruptness, she looks completely at ease again. How many different ways can this woman amaze me?

Sandrine wheels in a silver tray with drinks. “Who’s in the mood for some mulled wine?” she asks in her sing-song voice. She hands us our cups and Weaver takes a sip. She closes her eyes and nods. “Did you prepare this, Sandrine? It’s delicious. What did you use, a Malbec? And there’s sherry in here, isn’t there? That’s always the best.”

Sandrine looks pleased and smiles down at Weaver. “You have a sharp palette. I’m impressed.”

“Weaver went to school for hospitality and hotel management. She knows a lot about food and wine,” I say, grateful for this benign, even pleasant, conversation.

“You don’t want to marry a souse, Chris,” Grandad says gruffly. “Women who drink can be fun in the sack but they’re—” luckily for him his next words are swallowed up in a coughing fit. Sandrine hands him a handkerchief and he wipes his mouth. “Weaver,” Sandrine says, “can I give you a little tour so these two can discuss business. It’s not too cold outside to walk around the garden.” Weaver agrees that it sounds like a great idea, and as she and Sandrine take their drinks and head to the door, I mouth a silent thank you to her.

Now that we are alone, I want to get right to this urgent business and get out of here. “What can I do for you? What was so important that I had to leave New York and come to Paris immediately?”

“Her,” he says curtly, pointing toward the door. “We need to talk about the girl.”

“How on earth did you even know about Weaver and what could we possibly have to discuss?” Then it clicks: Ryan.

“Your brother’s concerned about you. He said there’s a floozy hanging around you—”

“Not a floozy,” I correct, but he doesn’t pause.

“He says she has no job, just suddenly showed up and now she’s by your side. Ryan says she’s after your money and that he thinks she may even be—” he drops his voice an octave and looks toward the door— “a whore.”

The way he spits out that word has me on my feet and pacing. “Watch your mouth, Grandad,” I warn him, raising my voice. “That’s no way to speak about my girlfriend. Ryan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t you find it strange that he called you?”

“He’s looking out for you,” he coughs out. “Like a good brother should.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I yell. “He’s manipulating you because he knows he can; because he knows that once you get an idea in your head, you’ll latch on to it, and you won’t let it go.”

He stands unsteadily and his face is red. I’ve seen him angry before, and on a scale of one to ten, this is a ten.

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