Lie to Me: A Contemporary Billionaire BWWM Romance (2 page)

* * *

“
T
hree months
!” Adam Rothberger wailed in a far less manly way than he had at first intended. “
Three months
,” he repeated in what he hoped was a deeper, more masculine timbre.

“Bad break then?” asked his brother Nick, who stood on the other side of the bar.

“In every sense,” said Adam. He picked up a shot of whatever had been put in front of him (he really did not care at this stage) and downed it. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Do you need her that badly?” asked Nick.

Adam let out an exasperated snort. “Haven’t you listened to a single word I’ve said?!”

Nick shrugged. He was, generally speaking, an honest man and did not like to lie to his brother. “For the first half hour I think I listened to every word. After that it began to slip. I reckon now I’m catching about one in five. In my defense, it wasn’t that interesting to begin with and you keep repeating yourself.”

“And yet you have still failed to grasp the salient points.”

Nick shrugged again. “Well, like I said: it wasn’t that interesting to begin with. I hung in there for as long as I could.”

Despite being brothers, Adam and Nick Rothberger were very different men. They shared DNA, possessed a taste for the finer things in life, and had both been heftily whacked with the handsome stick, but apart from that (and an allergy to cat hair) they had little in common.

When their mother and father had retired, ownership and running of the family business of RothCo (a substantial concern with more divisions than could be listed here without boring the reader) had been split between the pair, who became joint CEO’s. Adam had dived into it, reveling in the day to day running of the company, laying out an ambitious expansion plan to take place over the next five years. Nick meanwhile had announced that he would prefer to remain a silent partner, and bought himself a bar.

The bar was called
Nick’s.

He wasn’t an imaginative soul.

Few of the people who got drunk at
Nick’s
of an evening would have guessed that the man wiping down their glasses and replenishing the peanuts was worth an eye-watering eight figure sum, and that was how Nick preferred it.

“Explain it to me again,” Nick said. “I’ll listen this time. Promise. Firstly: Remind me-- who’s Vanessa? What does she do again?”

Adam buried his head in his hands. “If I go grey before I’m thirty then it’s because you never help out.”

Nick shook his head. “If I strode into the office tomorrow and told you I’d decided to become an active CEO -- instead of a silent partner type, then you’d have one of your lackeys throw me out. And if I was very lucky they’d use the door rather than the window.”

“I don’t have lackeys,” said Adam. “I have minions.” The trace of a grim smile crossed his face.

“My point remains.”

Adam had to concede that it was a fair point with a great deal of truth to it, and they returned to the central issue. “Vanessa Reese is senior Vice-President of RothCo.”

“You’d think I’d know a thing like that.”

“Yes, one
would
.” Adam’s tone was pointed and he rolled his eyes at his brother. He continued, “She is one of the sharpest minds on the board, our best negotiator and the only person with a chance of closing the Jourdan deal.”

Nick’s brow furrowed once again. “That sounds familiar… Remind me.”

Adam bit back another cutting remark concerning his brother’s level of knowledge about where all his money came from, and continued. “Jacques Jourdan is the head of Jourdan Wines and Spirits.” He pointed at the bottles neatly arranged behind Nick’s head and glowered at him.

“Ah,” Nick perked up. “I do know who he is!” He ducked beneath the counter and produced a bottle sporting the logo of the Jourdan vineyard (est. 1812).

“Good for you,” said Adam sarcastically. “Anyway, Monsieur Jourdan is retiring and, since none of his family is interested in taking over, and since he’d quite prefer the money anyway, he’s decided to sell Jourdan Wines and Spirits.”

“And we want it?”

“Yes we want it! Of course we want it! Do you have any idea how much money this business makes? And how much our distribution contacts could add to that?!”

“No,” said Nick, honestly.

“We’re talking serious money,” said his brother. And when Adam – someone for whom ten grand was mere pocket change - said ‘serious money’, he meant
serious
money, money so serious that it read Kafka and wore a black polo neck. “And now we’ve lost Vanessa.” The distraught CEO downed another shot. “The only person who could seal the deal.”

Nick pulled a face. “She can’t be the
only
person. There must be other sharp-minded negotiators on the board. Otherwise what sort of people are you employing?”

Adam shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s not just that Vanessa is good at her job. There are… i
ntangibles
.”

Realization dawned on Nick. “You mean Jacques Jourdan fancies her.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily go that far,” Adam hedged. “But he appreciates a certain…
type
of woman.” It was the most ‘PC’ way he could put it. “You’ve got to remember that this is a man who has spent the better part of his life working in the wine industry – you deal with a certain type of person. Vanessa is cultured, charming, well-educated…”

“Fit?” suggested Nick.

“Yes, alright she’s beautiful,” admitted Adam. “You make it sound so sordid. The point is; she had the
right
kind of beauty. The kind Jacques fancied. Matured like a fine wine. One dinner with her and Jacques Jourdan will be putty in her hands.”

“And there’s nothing that ruins a charming evening of sophisticated conversation quicker than the woman limping in on crutches?” guessed Nick.

“Precisely. And she couldn’t even limp if she wanted too. She’s stuck in her hospital bed in God-knows-where-Africa with her limbs elevated in traction.”

“How long is Vanessa out of action for?”

Adam sighed. “Three months give or take.”

“Oh, that’s what you were moaning about.”

Adam nodded. It seemed like a lifetime ago now when this conversation had started, but yes: Vanessa Reese was, according to her doctors, going to spend the next three months laid up in a private hospital bed in Johannesburg.

Which, as he thought about it, was probably as bad news for the nurses as it was for Adam.

“And there goes my deal,” said Adam, glumly. “There goes my
three billion dollar
deal.

Nick shook his head and whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“You have an uncanny way of getting right to the heart of the matter. Brilliant deduction,” snapped Adam. “Yes, Nick, it is a lot of money. It is a
lot
of money, even for RothCo. And I simply don’t have anyone else with Vanessa’s class, skills, knowledge or anything else. No one but her can do it.”

But Nick shook his head. “I don’t buy it. It’s a simple business deal. You turn up, ‘wow’ the guy, write a check. Easy peasy.”

Adam held up his hands. “With all due respect Nick, I think I know a little more about making business deals than you do.”

“Well, since you’re willing to just walk away from this one without even trying, I’d say that I deserve your attention.”

Adam downed another shot, stared at Nick until the two images of him that he was now seeing resolved into one, and spoke. “Alright; what are you suggesting?”

“Has Jourdan ever actually
met
Vanessa?”

“No...”

Nick shrugged. “Then get someone to pretend to be her.”

Adam shook his head. “They may not have met but they have corresponded.”

“Over Skype?”

“No.”

“Facebook?”

“Does the aging head of a French Vineyard sound to you like the type of man to be on Facebook?”

“Have they ever seen each other?”

Adam considered the question for a moment, now becoming more thoughtful and less dismissive. “No. ”

“There you go.”

For a while longer Adam pondered, but then shook his head once more (immediately wishing he had not as the room started to spin). “No. Can’t be done. He knows what she looks like—He’s seen her picture on the company website. There’s no one else in the company who can look like her—even sound like her. Not imitate her voice I mean. But who could talk about wine, about opera, sailing, good food. There’s no one who can dress like her or walk like her. It’s stuff you can’t just teach. It has to be ingrained at a young age at some posh finishing school. She and Jacques had common interests. For one thing they both spoke French.”

“Many people do,” Nick pointed out. “It’s not like it’s ancient Sumerian!”

“It’d have to be someone in the company. Someone who understands our business already. Someone we can trust.”

“So, a woman in the company, reasonably attractive, vaguely resembling Vanessa, and speaks French?” Nick shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like a major ask to me. Not exactly a needle in a haystack. We do have over 3,000 employees.”

“I just can’t see how
anyone
could take her place.”

“A trained poodle could do it,” declared Nick. “Provided it spoke French (which I sort of assume most poodles do) and worked for the company. All you need is the right trainer.”

“You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“I can.”

Adam sat up as straight as his heroic consumption of strong liquor would allow. “
You
? You’re saying you could do this yourself? You could train someone to
be
Vanessa?”

Nick hadn’t really thought about it but… yes. Why not?

He’d been sent to the best of schools, he knew about art, he knew about food and wine. Hell, if he got up in drag with the right wigs and makeup he could probably do the job himself! Certainly he could train someone else who looked somewhat like Vanessa to do the job.

“You bet I could do it!”

Adam’s ears pricked up at one particular word. “
Bet
? You mean it?”

“What?”

Adam’s eyes flicked momentarily to a girl who had just entered the room, apparently looking for a friend. He leaned forward on the sticky bar. “I bet you, that you can’t turn an ordinary girl into a convincing Vanessa Reese. And I pick the girl”

“One who works for the company, resembles Vanessa, and speaks French?”

Adam nodded.

“How long do I have?” Despite himself, Nick was becoming interested.

“Three weeks.”

“What are the stakes?”

Adam leaned still closer, so Nick could smell the alcohol on his brother’s breath. “Your stake in the company. If you lose, I become sole decision-making CEO. You will only retain dividends from your stock. You will sign over all your voting power on the board to me.”

In a way, Nick had nothing to lose – he had no interest in the business and never went near it. He usually gave his brother decision making power anyway. But, however much he did not like taking an active role, Nick had to admit that he very much liked having the
possibility
of taking a more active role, and the prestige and respect being the CEO of RothCo afforded him.

Giving that up would be… well, it would be a lifestyle adjustment. Then again…

“And if I win?” That would surely be the determining factor.

“I’ll give you the wines and spirits division,” said Adam. “No one could say that you don’t have experience in the area. It’s worth about two-hundred million yearly.”

Nick was confused. “If I win, you’ll give me the thing that you’ll only get if I win?”

Adam rolled his eyes at his brother’s ignorance. “
I
keep the distribution. That’s what I want. That’s the three billion. Jourdan’s got a global network that has a stranglehold on the market. You get to go off to France and run a vineyard. All that lovely French wine. All those lovely French girls. I understand they have nice bread and cheese too.”

From the moment he had said it, Adam had known that he had his brother.

Running a vineyard was Nick’s idea of heaven. More accurately, running a
long-established
vineyard was Nick’s idea of heaven. He wouldn’t want to set one up – that would be work – he wouldn’t even want one that was just ticking over – Nick could run anything into the ground, even his bar was struggling. But controlling one that essentially ran itself and had done for the last two centuries? Sitting back and watching the money flow in while he drank and chatted up the Mademoiselles? That was a future that appealed to him.

Especially the Mademoiselles. Nick had a serious weakness for women, and vice versa.

Adam stuck out his hand. “We have a bet?”

Nick grabbed his brother’s hand and shook. “Oh yeah.”

Adam leaned back and pointed across the bar to a mousy, chubby, girl seated in the corner. “I pick her.”

“No, no!” Nick wasn’t going to be caught out that easily. “We agreed - it has to be someone from the company who speaks French.”

“She’s Vanessa’s assistant,” grinned Adam. “Isn’t it a small world?”

“She’s got to resemble Vanessa!” Even from across the bar Nick could see that the girl was lacking height, and the elegance and grace of Vanessa Reese. He watched as the woman dribbled nacho cheese sauce on her blouse, and then suck on the finger she used to scoop the glob up, with growing horror.