At the Billionaire’s Wedding (30 page)

“Yes, both plants in Indiana will be closed. The plant outside of Columbus too.” Piers clutched the phone against his ear and listened to the voice on the other end. Below him, the city reclined in glittering array, the Schuylkill River snaked in a silvery-green ribbon to the north, and the sky was a hazy late-summer blue. Cars, cabs, and buses passed by fifty-seven floors below. Across the river, a train pulled out of 30th Street Station and, farther south, a helicopter lifted off the pad at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.

On the other side of three layers of tempered, laminated, floor-to-ceiling glass, Piers heard none of it.

“The total?” He turned from the view and looked at the spreadsheet on the screen atop his mahogany desk. “Eleven hundred and forty-six employees terminated. They’ll receive the usual compensation package. We got this one ripe for plucking. Now that we’ve stopped the bleeding, we’ll make a huge profit.” He paused, gathered his courage, then dove in. “But, actually, I’ve been thinking about the plant in Gary, and I don’t think we need to—”

The voice came at him again. He listened. He always listened. When Jacob Taylor Vaughan Prescott, the most powerful man in Philadelphia, spoke, everyone from the parking valet at the Union League to the governor in Harrisburg listened.

“Right.” Piers sucked in breath through his nostrils. “Will do.” But the call had already gone dead. He pressed the
End
button anyway, as if it could wash away the nausea he felt climbing up his throat. “Will do, Grandfather,” he mumbled.

Meager compensation packages for men and women who’d been working in those plants for years. Some of them for generations. Pathetic.
Immoral.
But business was business. They were already deep into the post-acquisition strategy, and the plants had to go. To Mexico. Or China. Or Bangladesh. Anywhere they’d cost less to operate.

Acquisitions like this one were the worst part of his job. Countless people suffered while Prescott Global raked in the money.

Dragging his fingers through his hair, Piers turned again toward the window.

“Mr. Prescott?” His secretary’s voice came over the intercom.

“Yes, Mrs. Crowley?”

“The board meeting has been moved to tomorrow at noon.”

“Saturday? I can’t do it.”

“Your grandfather rescheduled it. Would you like me to tell him you won’t be able to attend?”

He’d tied his tie too tight when he’d returned to the office at lunchtime. It was choking him. “No. Not yet.”

“Yes, Mr. Prescott. Your mother is on line one.”

He moved to the sleek bronze and ebony phone on his desk. “How long has she been waiting?”

“Twenty minutes.”

He picked up the phone. “Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“It’s lovely to hear your voice, too, darling.”

A chuckle loosened his chest.

A lawn mower’s buzz came over the line. His mother must be in her garden at the house in St. Davids. Since his father’s death a year ago, she spent most of her time there instead of down at the shore—to be closer to him and Amy, he suspected.

“What’s up, Mom?”

“Come to dinner tonight.”

He raked his hand through his hair again and squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t. I’ve got a stack of—”

“Come to dinner tonight, Piers.”

His hand halted. “Why? Is something wrong?” Not Amy. His little sister never got into trouble. He waited for his mother to say his brother’s name.

“Nothing’s wrong. But you need a break, and I’ve just picked the most delicious baby corn. I’ll make you a steak.”

“I don’t eat steak anymore, Mom.” Not with his stress level. One Prescott man dead of heart failure before fifty-five was enough.

“You don’t eat anything anymore. Come have steak and corn. I’ll make iced green tea. The antioxidants will counter the effects of the steak.”

He smiled. “All right, but is early okay? I’ve got a load of work to do before I catch a plane tonight.” He’d said it. Aloud. But three hours ago he’d already known he would go. Weeks ago, actually—the minute California Blake had told Roy and the others she’d received an invitation to his college roommate’s wedding.

Piers didn’t believe in mystical signs. But this coincidence was too good to ignore. And this morning at the park she’d confirmed it. She was going to Jane and Duke’s wedding.

“Off to New York?” his mother asked.

“Not this time.” The tension gripping his chest:
gone
. “Thanks, Mom. Looking forward to seeing you later.” He hung up and pressed the intercom button. “Mrs. Crowley?”

“Sir?”

“Please tell my grandfather and the directors that I won’t be attending tomorrow’s meeting. And place all my calls on hold for a week.”

A moment’s silence.

“For a
week
?” Her unflappable monotone broke.

“I’m taking a vacation.” He looked out at the city, to the north.

He was going to England.

London Heathrow Airport

The passport control officer looked squarely at Cali. “Purpose of your visit to the UK?”

She looked squarely back. “Pleasure.”

He pressed a stamp onto the little blue page and handed her the passport. “Enjoy your holiday, Miss Blake.”

“I know you need a vacation, Cal,” Zoe had insisted for four straight weeks. “And you obviously need some action. For God’s sake, you’re lusting after a drug dealer whose face you’ve never seen. Go meet a hot, rich guy and have hot-rich-guy-wedding-party sex. Have an impulsive fling for once.”

But Cali didn’t do impulsive flings. And she definitely didn’t do hot, rich guys. She did Ted in Reference, once, two years ago. For a guy with encyclopedic knowledge, he’d known nothing about sex. She’d also done Chu in Accounting. Twice. Excruciatingly dull. She’d given him a second try just to see if he’d had an off night. He hadn’t. Still, those guys had been like her. Struggling to make it. Just moderately cute.
Safe.

“Wedding party sex isn’t safe,” she’d said, hoping Zoe wouldn’t question her resistance if she played the STD card. “Guys who hook up like that with women are bound to have all kinds of diseases.”

To that, Zoe had said, “Screw safe. No, actually, buy a box of condoms and screw a hot, rich guy. Then tell me all about it when you get home. A girl’s got to live vicariously. Now go catch that bus or you’ll miss your flight.”

She’d boarded the plane with her stomach in knots. As the flight attendant announced phones had to go on Airplane Mode, Zoe had texted:
Wedding party hookup or don’t come home
. Cali laughed. By the time the plane touched down in London, the knots had turned into tingles.

Now she hefted Mrs. Fletcher’s 1990s floral suitcase from the baggage claim turnstile. The wheels squeaked as she walked toward the exit for public transportation. Men in dark suits were holding placards with names on them. One read
BLAKE
.

Cali’s smiled broadened. It was totally a sign—a sign that she’d been right to do this. When she’d left the apartment, Zoe and the nurse were already dishing about their favorite soaps, and Mrs. Fletcher promised to do the grocery shopping midweek. And both of them plus Masala and Maggie had been thrilled with the presents she’d bought with the remainder of the gift certificate to Joan Shepp after she’d picked out the cheapest dress in the boutique.

Yes. All would be well at home. And she desperately needed a vacation. She hadn’t had one since she was a teenager. Now she’d have a whole week to do nothing except read, relax and enjoy Jane’s company. Silently she thanked her secret patrons, trying not to feel guilty that Masala’s shop needed a new marquee, Roy still hadn’t bought the walker he wanted, and Maggie’s shoes were worn out. She had to believe Masala: if she didn’t allow herself to enjoy this trip, she would disappoint them.

And now that she was on the other side of an ocean from her reality—worries and bills—a wedding party fling with one of Duke’s techy friends didn’t sound bad. With a lift in her stride she walked past the sign that was more than a sign. It was a welcoming beacon.

“Miss Blake?”

She kept walking.

“Miss California Blake?”

She turned. The man holding the
BLAKE
sign was looking at her.

“Yes?”

He came forward. “Good day, miss. I’m George. May I take your bag?”

“How do you know my name is Blake?”

“I was given a description of you, miss.”

“A description? Who—? Oh, Jane Sparks must have arranged for you to pick me up.”

“Very good, miss.” He tugged the suitcase handle out of her grasp. “Right-o. Shall we be off?”

“Where are we going?”

“To Brampton House, miss.”

“All the way to Brampton House?”

“Yes, miss. The car is fully stocked with refreshments and the windows can be darkened if you care to sleep en route.”

She didn’t have international cell phone coverage. She couldn’t call Jane and check this out. But if this guy was some sort of con man, he was really convincing. Jane was providing her bridesmaid’s dress; she might have sent her the tickets, after all. Cali hadn’t asked. If Jane wanted the gift to be anonymous, she’d respect that. After the way her father had treated her mother for years, respect was big in Cali’s book.

She followed the driver out of the building to a long, shiny black car on the curb. A Rolls-Royce. She stared at the hood ornament: a woman leaning forward with her arms stretched back, cloth billowing out that looked like wings. The Spirit of Ecstasy.

Her heart fluttered weirdly.
Another sign?

Sitting back gingerly on the sleek black leather, she accepted a glass of champagne from George and didn’t mention that it was eight o’clock in the morning. Maybe English people drank champagne at eight o’clock. Maybe really rich people just drank champagne whenever they wanted.

After only a few sips, her eyes were fogging as she stared at the fields flying by out the window.

She awoke to the car slowing and turning onto a long drive bordered by giant overhanging trees. The house was magnificent, like the sorts of houses on PBS miniseries about the English aristocracy, all stately elegance and ponderous grace. And this would be her fantasyland for
an entire week
.

Retying her ponytail, she dabbed on the coconut lip gloss she’d grabbed in a rush of nerves at the drugstore checkout counter yesterday. She’d gone there for one item only: a package of ultra-pleasure condoms. She didn’t know when she’d have another chance at this, and she wasn’t about to show up unprepared.

The car rolled to a stop and Jane came running out of the house. Dressed in a sweater set and pencil skirt, her hair perfectly styled with pearl stud earrings peeking out, she looked exactly like when they’d been at state college together.

“Cali!” She kissed her on both cheeks like a fashionable New Yorker, then hugged her tight like a small-town girl. “How was your flight?”

“Great. Jane, thanks so much for—” She stopped herself. “Well, for all of this. I’m so happy to be here.”

“How’s Zoe?”

“Really good.” A lot more often, now.

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

Two men came from the front door and down the steps. Cali recognized Jane’s fiancé right away. Duke Austen, tech genius and start-up wizard, was in the news all the time. He was really good-looking, in a T-shirt-wearing, tech-genius kind of way.

“Cali, this is Duke,” Jane said. “Duke, meet my library buddy at State. We worked in the stacks together.”

Cali had never shaken the hand of a billionaire, but Duke just smiled with genuine warmth and shook her hand like a normal person.

“Thanks for coming, Cali.”

“And, California Blake,” Jane said, turning to the other man, “this is Piers Prescott, Duke’s roommate from Stanford. Piers lives in Philadelphia, too, so you should have a lot in common.”

A shock of nausea at the name turned abruptly to proper confusion.

Meltingly gorgeous blue eyes. Vibrant like Superman’s. But warm.

She’d often seen the crown prince of Prescott Global in Philadelphia newspapers. Only a few months earlier, he’d been in the Lifestyle section of the
Inquirer
after he’d shown up at a benefit for the Philadelphia Orchestra with a woman who was not his longtime girlfriend. The
Star
fed off the breakup for weeks. Even the
City Paper
mentioned it.

The pictures hadn’t done him justice. Tall, with broad shoulders and tousled hair the color of black walnuts, he wore his perfectly tailored slacks and sleek button-down like they’d been made for his athletic body. Under the shirt collar, a thin gold chain descended beneath a winter white T-shirt.

He extended his hand. Around his wrist sparkled a black and gold Marvin C 1850.

“Hello, California Blake,” he said in a voice that made her hot where no man’s voice alone had ever made her hot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Every feeling in her rebelled against shaking the hand of a member of the family whose foundation had brutally rejected the bookmobile grant proposal. But she couldn’t refuse in front of Jane and Duke. She put her hand in his, then tried to pull away quickly, but he held fast. Strong. Confident.

She forced out, “Hi.”

Teeth white as the sails of a million-dollar catamaran flashed between his lips. His smile seemed genuine, pleased, like he’d nothing better to do than smile at her. Finally, he released her.

When Jane started talking to her again, he didn’t stop looking. He was staring. At her. But that wasn’t possible. Firstly, she was sure her hair looked like the end of Ron Weasley’s broomstick. Secondly, she was A Nobody and Piers Prescott was definitely A Somebody. Thirdly, she knew what a sleepless night sitting up followed by a nap in a car did to her face. And fourthly,
he was so hot
. Cut jaw. Gorgeous eyes. Incredible body encased in thousands of dollars’ worth of casual wear. Confident stance. Easy stride.

As a bellman carried her suitcase into the house and they all followed, Piers Prescott was right behind her, so close he could read the label on her Target-brand jeans if he wanted to look at her butt—
ass
. She resisted craning her neck around to check.