The Billionaire’s Desires Vol.12-13 (17 page)

"What makes you think..."

"Alma! He's changed names and lives. He's gone from rebel student and idealist to bimbo-collecting billionaire. Vadim Arcadi doesn't exist anymore, and Vadim King is not right for you!"

"I still love him, Clem..."

"I know, I'm not blind! But you're going to fall hard if you try something with him!"

"I'm still attracted to him, I can't deny it! I can't help it. I lose all control. And I can tell he wants the same thing as me. I don't know how to explain it, but I don't think he's moved on either. We hover around each other, looking for one another, provoking each other. We say horrible things to each other, but I feel like what we really want is to relive the past. I still love him. I should be honest and tell him everything, but then he drives me crazy and I blow a fuse!"

"Ignore him – he'll get bored eventually. It probably amuses him to see the effect he has on you. Maybe he wants revenge."

"But for what? It's not as if I committed a terrible crime by leaving him! You were there, Clem, you know why I left. I had no choice! I did it for him just as much as for myself!"

"It's no use trying to understand men..."

"But that's just it, I would like to understand!"

"Alma," she says more softly."Forget him. Find a guy who's good for you."

"I can see where this is going..."

"Raphaël still loves you. He would do anything for you. After what you've been though."

"I don't want talk about that, Clem. And stop trying to... to… what, exactly? What is it you want? That I start seeing him again and return to my quiet little routine? That's the last thing I want. I want to live passionately, in the fast lane, to try everything and regret nothing!"

"Passion is great when you're twenty. At thirty you have to come to terms with certain things."

"Have you chosen your dessert, ladies?" the waiter says, smiling at me.

He arrives just at the right moment. This conversation is on a dangerous path. It's best we stop. We eat our crema catalana in silence and pay the bill. As we're leaving, Clémentine gives me a hug and kisses my cheek softly – which I take as an apology. I give her butt a little slap as she walks away to let her know all is forgiven.

I've never been interested in having roommates, but tonight someone else in the apartment would be a welcome change. Empty, silent, dead. Nothing to keep me from thinking about him, us, our past. After a refreshing shower and an episode of
Homeland
, I go to my room to look for my"fur" slippers. Yes, I'm in the mood to wear fake hair on my feet. And drink chamomile tea.

Alma Lancaster, seventy-five years old.

I rummage through the bottom of my closet for a few minutes and stumble across my"memory box." I'm not seventy-five anymore – now I'm somewhere between eleven and nineteen. Relieved to have found a source of distraction, I sit down on the polished wood floor and lift the lid. I find photos from my childhood: Basile, Lily and I riding ponies, driving bumper cars, or perched on skis, building sandcastles or snowmen. Photos of my parents too, back when the wrinkles were barely visible on their faces. Clémentine and I practicing our dance routine to
Barbie Girl
. Again, me and Clem in our dresses for the school ball. Timothy Wallace, my ex, in a basketball jersey. Leonard Abrams, my awesome, crazy teacher who tried to teach us how to swing dance in the middle of class.

I know this return to the past might play tricks on me. That if I open the big envelope at the back of the box, I'll go plummeting headfirst. But I don't hesitate for a second. I grab the envelope and rip the staples out in one motion, as if a mysterious force had taken control."Vadim Arcadi, love of my life." is written in red ink on the back of the first photo. It's true, he was my first love, my first lover, the only one who really counted. I turn the photo over, ignoring the racing rhythm of my heart. I see him again, like he used to be. In his black leather jacket, sitting on a brick wall on the college campus. He's not looking at the camera. In this photo I got his profile, his eyes looking off into the distance. He is so handsome, it almost hurts.

The torture continues. I flip through the snapshots, witness to our passionate affair, destined to fail. I was eighteen and he was twenty. We weren't from the same world, we didn't have the same values, but the chemistry between us was obvious and absolute.

How could I have left him?!

If I could do it over...

The little notes passed back and forth while no one was looking, the dares we challenged each other to, the love letters and hate letters: I kept everything. A mere glance at his sloppy handwriting and the tears are flowing. I thought I was stronger than this, but I was wrong. Vadim Arcadi is not part of my past, he never really left me. Again, it's ironic (I'm starting to hate that word) knowing that I ended the most beautiful love story I ever had.

How could he have changed his name? His name suited him so well. It was a part of him...

Victim to my emotions, I act without thinking. He's the only person who makes me act irrationally like this, without hesitation or doubt, at his expense, perhaps. I choose a snapshot of us in each other's arms, sitting on the terrace at the Sunset Café. Our transfixed smiles and eyes don't lie: we were hopelessly in love. I enter his number at the top of the screen and attach the photo. I hold my breath as I hit
Send
.

No going back now.

Midnight: no answer. One o'clock: no answer. Two o'clock: no answer. I fall asleep a few times and wake up several minutes later with a jump. Still nothing from my phone. I'm beginning to regret my spontaneous message. Okay, correction: my desperate message.

He's going to think I'm crazy... a lunatic who's going to harass him his entire life...

My internal monologue has reached its limits. I fall asleep for good this time, and wake up at 4:48am. I hear a beep, open my eyes and I can't breathe, panicked. I unlock my iPhone and see Vadim's reply.

[Are you trying to hurt me? What are you trying to do, Alma, besides mess with my head?]

Tell you I love you, that's what I'm trying to do!

And trying to get you to admit it's mutual...

Both upset and moved by his message, I don't know how to reply, which words to use. The words I dream about saying and that he wants to hear. Once again, fear takes hold of me and paralyzes me. After writing and erasing about twenty replies, I give up. I throw my phone onto the rug and try to go back to sleep. I don't know what's in store for us. I don't know if Vadim will give me a second chance. All I know is that this war of egos has to stop. This is not a game. It never was.

I should have replied. Just a few words, something simple, something banal, without anything misleading. I should have told him that seeing him again affected me, shook me up, even, but the shock has passed. That I don't expect anything of him, that the only thing I want is that we can work together intelligently without letting our old feelings get the best of us. That now that I've closed my box of memories, I'm ready to move forward. In the right direction, and keep strictly to our roles. He is my CEO, I am his employee. Simple, right?

The problem is that I don't believe a word of it. For the seven interminable days and six sleepless nights since that message, Vadim King is all I think about. And all I dream about. I can't close my eyes without seeing his familiar face, his fiendish smile, his feverish eyes, without imagining myself trapped in his burning arms. Now he's away for an indeterminate amount of time, and already I'm heartsick for him. Result: my brain is in tatters.

Over the last week, I've been seeing him everywhere I go. At cafés, at the gym, in the line waiting for a taxi, at the supermarket. It makes no sense, I know. Vadim King is not likely to drink a glass of bad wine at the local bistro, go to trendy gyms, refuse the services of his chauffeur, and he's even less likely to go on a shopping spree for cleaning products. But each time my eyes and my mind betray me, I am fooled like a half-wit. The same pattern, over and over. A suffocating heat overcomes my body, my heart starts racing, the floor drops from under my feet, and doubt plagues me."I'm not ready! I look terrible! Tomorrow, I'll talk to him tomorrow..." Then the man turns around and I realize he is nothing like Vadim, not even a slight resemblance. My anxieties lift, taking with them a bit of my self-esteem. It's not a pretty sight.

What if he left because of me? My sister, Lily, would make fun of me and accuse me of thinking I was the"center of the universe," but the hypothesis is plausible. The photo of us did upset him. Maybe he went away to think about things, to keep himself from getting carried away. It's a logical explanation.

"Alma, did you choose that neckline so I would spend my day admiring you?" jokes Wilson inappropriately as he passes me in the lobby.

"I'm in a hurry, Joseph. What can I do for you?" I ask, annoyed.

"Slow down a bit. Can I get you a coffee? Or maybe your boyfriend already brought you one in bed?"

"That's my private life, Joseph! Stop..."

"Okay, Alma, I was joking. Don't get all huffy!"

"I'm not getting huffy, but I don't approve of these sorts of comments, that's all. All I ask is that we be professional. I'm going now, I have work to do," I say, trying to escape.

Clooney holds onto my arm, his face tight with irritation.

"You think he acts like a professional, huh?!"

"Joseph, let go of me!"

He releases my arm, slightly embarrassed to have gotten so worked up, but continues his diatribe.

"Jump ship when we have so much to do! His presence is crucial, essential, and he knows it perfectly well! And all to babysit his little starlet..."

"Excuse me?"

"He didn't even have the decency to tell me when he'd be back! And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Do all his work for him?!"

"Isn't that what you're here for, Joseph?"

"Certainly not! I have enough to do already! And what do I say to our investors, the bankers, to everyone he's left hanging? It's completely disrespectful!"

Look who's talking – respect – pshh, you thick-headed brute...

"Babysit his little starlet?!"

"What were you saying about Grace Montgomery?"

"Poor little thing is starting a new film shoot in L.A.! Of course, it would be way too hard for her to go without her
king of the world
rolling in dough! And in the meantime, we're all screwed!"

"Mr. Wilson, your nine o'clock is waiting for you on the seventh floor," his assistant says shyly, appearing from nowhere.

The worst job in the world: personal assistant to Mr. First-Class-Pain-In-The-Ass.

He sends her packing, clears his throat, gets one last eyeful of my cleavage and finally decides to walk away. Alright, let's review. One: Joseph Wilson is unstable, disrespectful and sexually frustrated. Two: Vadim packed up and left to hold Grace's hand in L.A. and couldn't care less about me. The day is off to a good start...

Four more days go by and still no news. At least not in the Vadim department. My sister, though, has been dumped by Omar, Niels has fallen head over heels in love with yet another cheater, Clémentine has got a new haircut, Clooney has made yet another inappropriate pass at me, and my coworker Sophie has moved to my neighborhood. Life goes on with or, more to the point, without him. I've been focused at work, and definitely haven't been slacking. My professional life is my priority. At least, that's what I've been telling myself. To such a degree that I'm becoming zealous about it. My dear coworkers, who notice everything, have told me to take it easy with the overtime.

Should I tell them they need to take it easy with the smoke breaks?!

I can't get out of the cocktail party celebrating a new partnership with Court Métrage, a production company specializing in short films. I decide I'll make an appearance, shake a few hands, smile, drink a glass of champagne and slip out quietly. As the assistant director position requires, I dress to impress. A cherry-red cocktail dress, my black Louboutin heels and an ultra-straight hairstyle complete the look. I arrive at the Aero-Club, just a stone's throw from the Place de l'Etoile, about a half hour late, and I can see as I walk in that the event organizers have done a great job. Note to self: congratulate Marc Dinter and his team. The place is huge, the decoration is refined and elegant, and the service is impeccable. But I don't have time to admire my surroundings: Sophie and Clarence are already on top of me, shoving a flute of champagne at me. Which I of course accept!

"Wow! Miss Assistant Director has let her hair down, not something we see every day!" my bubbly blond colleague exclaims.

"I know how to have fun – don't worry about me, Miss Production Manager!" I answer, taking a sip of the finely bubbling vintage.

Champagne + empty stomach = danger...

"Champagne all around!" Clarence yells, handing me another flute.

I check to make sure the whole crowd isn't looking at us, just in case. The number two of the company getting drunk in real time? Bad idea. Very bad.

"What are you two scheming at? Are you trying to make a fool out me?"

"No, we just want you to relax!" Sophie explains, sipping her glass of Martini dry.

"What's this? Having fun without me?!" Wilson cries, intruding on our little circle.

As usual, Clooney shows up at the worst possible moment. A real party crasher. He has killed the mood. Sophie and Clarence shoot me desperate glances. Wilson's presence makes them uncomfortable – what a surprise! And something tells me they are counting on me to get rid of him.

Dangerous mission, this guy is a real leech!

"Joseph, I think Marc was looking for you..."

"Marc Dinter? He can wait, as opposed to the dish I have here," he says, leering at me shamelessly.

"Can I help you?!" I blurt out dryly.

"I'm sorry, but you're ravishing, Alma. This dress accentuates your gorgeous figure marvelously!" my boss continues, ignoring the stupefied looks on my colleagues' faces. And on mine, now also red with anger and dismay.