Billionaire on Board (2 page)

I stuck the tooth-brush into its cup and spat the foam into the basin. "That'll serve you right, bitch."

Then I frowned. 

Where on earth was I going to get a super hot, ultra-rich man who was willing to pose as my wedding date?

Two

On the 1
^st
of May I still had no super hot, ultra-rich boyfriend to bring to a wedding taking place in, what, forty-eight hours?

The problem was, everybody believed I had!

 Of course Christian, the unreliable idiot, had told
his
mother, who had told
my
mother, who had gone ballistic because I had told her nothing about Ryan Corvera-Fabergé, the handsome, wealthy diplomat's son, whom I had met during my last visit to Cambridge and who kept seeing me regularly in my one-bedroom flat and of whom, strangely enough, no photograph existed. 

I could not tell my mother I had made him up, it would have been too lowering. She was so terribly excited about it. To get
her
off my back, Ryan Corvera-Fabergé would have to go bankrupt and develop a disfiguring disease. 

I had already planned for him to do so within the next six months.

My two best girlfriends, Lilly and Tina, knew everything about my silly invention - no point lying to them - and they kept sending me fake love texts signed "with  everlasting adoration, Ryan." It had turned into a running gag.

The closer it got to the wedding, the more the whole business had begun to annoy me.

I was not even interested in going to Christian's stupid wedding anymore but I had been compromised by my own goofiness! 

The idea of showing up there as a total failure was of course unacceptable and I had made up my mind not to go.

I would cancel last minute. Maybe Ryan Corvera-Fabergé could go and die in a plane crash. I would be forced to attend his funeral, wouldn't I? Or an earthquake had destroyed his castle! Vis major! Sorry, luv!

"Is this St. Michael's church?" a voice asked behind me. 

"No, that's St. Catherine's church."

"Oh, I thought it was St. Michael's…" the elderly woman behind me sighed. She had sighed the same thing upon beholding St. Peter's, St. James's, St. Nicholas's and the red light district's main police station.

"No, Ma'am, St. Michael's was the church we just heard the organ concert in."

"Oh, yes, right."  

I frowned and caught my own image in the coach's rear view mirror. Blonde ponytail, dark sunglasses, microphone in hand. I thought I looked quite fetching, in a tour-guidey sort of way.

"It's such a beautiful city…" the woman in the first row breathed. The remark appeased me. 

Yes, it IS a beautiful city. A very beautiful city!

Most people imagine Hamburg like a grey, industrial port city with a notorious red light district but in truth it is an international, multi-cultural, open-minded city of lush green parks, of street cafés, of glittering rivers and lakes, of countless spectacular historical villas, of avant-garde architecture, a great nightlife, magnificent churches, giant ocean liners and white sailing boats. It is elegant, spotless and rich. Every second car is a Range Rover, if it is not a Porsche. It is a city where people do not think of red Ferraris as enviable accessories but as embarrassing vulgarities. It is a city where you can buy organic caviar in every self-respecting supermarket. Well, it has its dark and gloomy sides of course, but when you are on a sightseeing tour on a sunny day, with the flowers and bushes in full bloom, when the chic society people are out for a stroll with their handsome dogs and babies, you will think Hamburg is the most beautiful place in the world. 

It is. At least it is to every Hamburger breathing today (the humans, not the dish. But burgers shouldn't breathe anyway). 

Only, it is not very diversified when it comes to attractive, smart men. 

Seen one, seen them all! Like your average Tommy Hilfiger campaign: tall, blond, in polo necks and not interested in me. 

Or I in them. 

They are all lawyers, bankers or brokers or…  well, nothing really. They are all lawyers, bankers or brokers, period!

But back to my story.

We continued around the geographical city centre, the enormous Aussenalster lake, and across one of the city's almost three-thousand bridges, to the smaller lake, Binnenalster, right next to the gorgeous City Hall.

We ended our tour at the Hanseatischer Hof Hotel, the
grande dame
of Germany's traditional houses which is always mentioned in one breath with the Raffles or the Ritz. 

In its early days the Hanseatischer Hof had been the playground of the European aristocracy, waiting for their first class trips to the New World on Lloyd's famous liners. After the war the movie stars and the playboys made it their haunt, while nowadays it hosts mostly sheiks and oligarchs who have their mega-yachts built or repaired in the Hamburg shipyards.

I love the place. 

The white facade, the red carpet, the livered doormen, the friendly concierge… 

You walk through the gilded doors and you step into a world of plush sophistication. Everything and everybody looks absolutely tasteful. 

The staff is so well trained, you actually believe they are deliriously happy to serve you.

I had been hired for the tour by the hotel's marketing director, Mr. Schiedemöller. 

He awaited me in the lobby, beaming with gratitude, so glad I had been able to make time for the last three hours (which gained me a salary of 200 euros and a 50 dollar tip). Would I not like to join him for a nice glass of champagne or a hot coffee and something to nibble? A plate of avocado tuna saffron sushi crisps and sautéd lobster chops perhaps?

Of course I would. 

So the marketing director, his PA, his PA's PA and I jaunted into the hotel's own snug little deli where our snack was charmingly laid out. 

It was teatime and the place was bustling with hotel guests and upperclass Hamburgers who had come in for a a cup of tea after their holiday's walk around the lakes. The two utterly delightful barmaids were busily - but ever so happily - taking orders, serving cake and collecting payment. I greedily munched the sautéd lobster chops and slurped my champagne.

 My group was just discussing with some schadenfreude the latest delay to our new concert hall's opening, when one of the barmaids said something behind me that nearly made me bite into my glass.

"Thank you, Mr. Corvera-Fabergé."

I turned around and stared.

Ryan Corvera-Fabergé existed!

Well, of course he existed, I knew he existed because I had seen him once for approximately fifteen seconds in my boarding school's driveway on the first day of term. He had given a lift to his sister Laetitia Corvera-Fabergé, who had been one year below me and with whom I had never spoken a word in two years of school. I had only heard her say "Bye, Ryan" when she had got out of his Mercedes convertible, twelve years ago. 

He had been the most beautiful creature I ever beheld… and here he was. Right in front of me.

Was this a sign? Was here my salvation? 

Or was here the taunt for my hubris? For claiming he was my boyfriend although in truth he did not even know of my existence? 

I knew nothing about him either. He was fantastically good-looking, obviously wealthy and had a sister called Laetitia. The story about him being a diplomat's son was a complete invention though. I had merely used his name because it had sounded so utterly, filthily jet set! I had tried to google him after I had so carelessly recruited him - in an onslaught of wishful thinking - but I had found nothing, except some old regatta results.

"Do I know you?" he drawled in a crisp English, fresh from the royal polo fields. 

"Ah, Mr. Corvera-Fabergé!" The marketing director eased in genially as his profession demanded. "Miss Jansen here is your bet if you're looking for an excellent city guide. I hope our espresso was to your satisfaction, it's made of Blue Mountain semi-fermented beans from Java, roasted in our own little roasting facility."

"Aha. How very interesting, Mr…?"

"Schiedemöller, I'm the marketing director."

"Ah yes." He nodded and turned away.

"
Ich glaube, ich spinne!
" I yapped. It is best translated with 'I think, I'm going crazy'.

Ryan Corvera-Fabergé turned around again, a slight frown marring his perfect brows. 

They were not the only parts of him being perfect. 

He had bronzed skin and dark, shiny hair, parted sideways and elegantly swiped back like you can see it on the male models in fashion magazines. Rudolph Valentino or Cary Grant style, but not greasy at all. His face was aristocratic, with high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, a very clean cut and immaculately shaved jaw, an elegant mouth and very dark eyes, now narrowing to slits. He was tall and lean, his legs were long and his shoulders were broad. He was coming directly from a Giorgio Armani fantasy. Fittingly, his clothes were exquisite too. Not of English, but of Italian tailoring, I guessed. Probably Ferragamo or Ermenegildo Zegna (those were the only names I knew.) He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt, a bronze coloured tie and brown shoes. You know, the ones these types always wear. The ones with the holes.

He snarled. "I beg your pardon?" 

"No-nothing…" I whispered, dazed, still unable to turn away. 

"Are you ill or something?"

"Miss Janson?" The marketing director was obviously embarrassed. 

But I was still suffering from shock at this epiphany. 

The epiphany's face changed from frowning to questioning and for the first time he really looked at me. He leaned forward. "Good God, have we had sex and I don't remember you?" 

My insides clenched. I managed to shake my head and utter something that sounded similar to the word "no." 

"I didn't think so." 

And thank you for that! 

I had, despite my confusion, been momentarily flattered he had taken the option into account.

Well, what could he think of me? I was dressed conservatively in a navy blue polo neck and fitting trousers with matching loafers and a little red and blue scarf sporting the Hamburg coat of arms, identifying me as an official city guide.  I wore hardly any make up and my hair was pulled back in an innocent pony tail. It was one of my regular working outfits. Neat, with a touch of the seaside as befitted a maritime city, not at all sexy. In fact, I looked absolutely boring.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else," I finally managed to say.

"Oh, did you? Well, from the way you speak one might assume we could know one another."

"Ah." 

He was talking about my English accent, of course. I was generally accused of sounding posh, but what could I do with a mother from Oxford? 

He began to speak again. "Anyway, I think I've seen—"

"Your receipt, Mr. Corvera-Fabergé." The barmaid held out a little piece of paper.

Then - it must have been one of those days when all the planets were aligned - something far less serendipitous, but far more inconvenient happened. It was as if God and his angels were having a field day making mischief.

"For Christ sake! Poppy Jude!" My mother's voice rang out right next to me. "There you are and here's Ryan and you haven't even bothered telling me he's already here! How do you do, I'm Poppy Jude's mother, Imogen Jansen."

"Oh, please mother, don't
call
me that," I pleaded in a reflex, before the enormity of the situation had been completely processed by my brain.

"Well, it is your name, darling, I think neither your grandmother nor Paul McCartney deserve the slight. He's a regular in this hotel, by the way."

"Had I not known, I should have guessed. The similarity is unmistakable. How do you do, Mrs. Jansen," Ryan Corvera-Fabergé said without any inflection in his voice and took my mother's hand.

I glanced around. Where were the hidden cameras?

"Oh, do call me Mo. Are you staying here? Or have you just come to pick her up after work? That was my reason for coming, I thought perhaps Mr. Schiedemöller had a bit of shampoo up his sleeve."

"I'm staying here."

"Fancy that…" My mother's elbow nudged me stealthily. "I'm afraid the wedding location won't be quite so elegant. But Corinna's family is not…  well, that's not polite to say. It's actually my friend Sybille's husband, the groom's father, who has to pay for the wedding. But I'm sure Poppy Jude told you all about it. Anyway, how nice to finally meet you."

"Oh, ditto," the handsome creature next to me purred, strangely pleased. "I really can't wait to waltz Poppy Jude around the room. In fact, we were just about to waltz up to my suite. But now you're here, I think we can't, can we, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart? 

What can I say, I was bereft of words, breath, thought and temporarily even eyesight.

"No, no, never mind me," my mother protested gleefully. "I have another appointment in ten minutes, I was just hopping in for a cuppa. Don't let me keep you, we'll have plenty of time to talk on saturday, the rest of the company will be boring enough."

Mr. Schiedemöller, who had silently and professionally watched the developments, had come to his own conclusion about our situation.

"Hallo, Mrs. Jansen. Ha, I think not even your daughter knew her fiancé had already arrived, she was quite stunned to see him here."

"Oh, a surprise! How sweet."

Ryan Corvera-Fabergé smiled courteously. "Yes, that's me. What I won't do for my Poppy Jude… Shall we go up, hon?"

He took me by the arm and manhandled me out of the deli towards the lift, while my mother and Mr. Schiedemöller waved and smiled suggestively. 

The lift doors closed. 

"Well, Poppy Jude…" 

"I—"

I didn't manage to say another thing because he had taken a step towards me and without further ado scooped me up against the wall. He had one hand under my chin and lifted my face.