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  Lucy Jones

  AT THE BILLIONAIRE’S COMMAND

  Vol. 1-3

  1. Thunderstruck

  Certain journeys are only made thanks to a dream. One night, I dreamt I was walking through Central Park as if it were the garden of my childhood, wandering around the exhibition rooms of the MOMA as if I knew them by heart. Manhattan seemed so familiar and so real to me that it triggered something in my head. When I woke up, I made the decision to fly off to New York. For such a shy, young, provincial girl – who'd never travelled further than London on a school trip in ninth grade – it was a big leap. But I knew I needed to do it. I needed to plunge into the unknown, to learn to stand on my own two feet, to gain self-confidence.

  I was thinking about my departure and everything I’d done since, as I sat behind the desk in the lobby of the luxury hotel where I had found a job as a receptionist nearly six months ago. My contract was due to end in two weeks and the prospect of returning home filled me with a combination of nostalgia and enthusiasm. There was no doubt that this trip had transformed me. New York had swept me away. I had walked its streets, visited its museums and readily immersed myself in its odours, its sounds, its rhythms, its faces and its images. Here, I was someone else, far away from the people, things and thoughts which composed my life in France. I had discovered unimagined resources within myself.

  Suddenly I stood up; I'd just heard the muffled sound of the revolving door starting up. I turned my head towards the entrance, but was still preoccupied enough to keep the pencil that I was holding between my thumb and index finger in the corner of my mouth, chewing on it unthinkingly. Four people, all dressed in perfectly tailored black suits, entered the lobby, followed by two trolleys packed so high with luggage of all sizes that I could hardly see the bellboys who were pushing them.

  As the group made its way towards the lifts, one of the men broke away and walked athletically towards me. Wide-angle view: he was tall and slender, his build masculine yet graceful at the same time. There was something rather feline about the way he moved. Everything about the way he carried himself was imbued with effortlessness, agility and elegant power. This body coming towards me acted like a magnet; I felt attracted to him, but could not move a muscle. The frame was shrinking. How old could he be? I couldn’t say. The few lines in the corners of his eyes and lips seems to be less signs of age and more expression lines. The small dimple on his chin conferred on his face the seal of eternal youth. His complexion had the pallor of a matte skin which has not yet been kissed by the sun. His brown hair was unkempt, but with a controlled elegance. His prominent cheekbones and his large, slim nose, lent his face a rather noble air. The complete look, a combination of strength and finesse, had a fascinating harmony. Close-up: he was now less than a metre away from me. I noticed a glimmer of gold in the green of his eyes, eyes which penetrated my heart like daggers. His smile lit up his whole face. I had to smile too, and welcome him to the hotel, but I remained silent, hypnotised by the beauty of this man.

  "Julia?"

  He pronounced my name in the French way. The noise of the pencil hitting the counter made me jump and brought me back to my senses. My mouth was already half-open and I completed the picture by blushing…

  "Julia Belmont. It’s written on your badge."

  Did he really take my idiotic look for surprise or was he trying to put me at ease? I absolutely had to say something. I stammered:

  "I’m sorry, Sir. You're Mr...?"

  "Daniel Wietermann. Suite 607 and adjoining rooms", he said calmly.

  Check the register, ask for identification, find the key… I seemed to have forgotten these gestures, although they had become so familiar to me; it was as if I had just parachuted in behind the reception desk. I tried to drag my eyes away from the man, in order to not completely lose my mind. But with my feeble voice and tentative actions, I felt as if my body was betraying me.

  "May I have your identification and that of the people accompanying you, please?"

  "Here you are," he said, placing four passports on the counter.

  "Thank you. If you could also fill out this form…"

  "Of course. Anything to make you happy…"

  Did he realise the destabilising effect he was having on me? Was he trying to make a joke to relax me, or was he mocking my incompetence? Who knows? Nevertheless, he continued to stare at me with his devastating smile and I felt physically nailed to the spot. Once the formalities were done, I took the keys from the rack. When I handed them to him, he covered my hand with his, lingered and then carefully took the keys. The effect was immediate and bewitching: a wave of heat washed over me, slight tingles ran up and down my body and into my groin. I tried to hide my turmoil despite my panicked breathing.

  "Enjoy your stay, Mr Wietermann."

  "I am sure I will, Miss Belmont," he said, as he walked away.

  I went from stupor to excitement. As soon as he was in the lift, I pounced on his registration file: “Nationality: French”, “Age: thirty-three”, “Reservation: ten days”. That was all. I knew nothing about this man. I had only seen him for a few minutes. A few minutes which had been enough to make me feel agitated, a sensation which was all the more troubling in that it was new and it would not go away. His last
sentence, said with a mysterious, amused and mischievous little smile, undoubtedly didn’t have anything to do with me at all, but to me it sounded like an invitation. As crazy as that might seem, I think that at that moment I could have followed the man anywhere. If the simple touch of his hand on mine produced such sensations, what would be the effect of his caresses on my neck, on my shoulders, on my stomach, on my lower back…? The brushing of his hand was like a foretaste of pleasures to come, I told myself. I closed my eyes. The soft heat and the tingling feeling returned.

  "Julia? Julia!"

  It was Tom. We usually worked together, but this evening he was standing in for one of the night watchmen. Tom had been kind and friendly to me ever since I arrived. He was a tall, gangling young man, slightly awkward and a few pounds overweight, but a reassuring gentleness radiated from his whole being. I had immediately felt comfortable with him. He was discreet, kept himself to himself, listened to others and could eloquently and passionately discuss subjects which interested him. I was always surprised to see how different he was when he played the piano, drew or even when he was just talking about these subjects. He became almost otherworldly and I was astonished by his talent. Tom wanted to be an architect and was working at the hotel to pay for his studies. I was so lucky to have met someone I could share my love of the arts with! Even though our timetables didn’t give us much time to do so.

  "Julia, are you ok? You look strange."

  "I’m ok Tom. I’m just tired. I need a rest," I said, moving away. I could see Tom would like to chat for a few minutes, but my thoughts were elsewhere and I didn’t want give anything away.

  "Ok, have a good night, Julia."

  "Thanks, Tom."

  I was pleased that Tom had dragged me out of my reveries. I had to get a grip on myself. If only I could talk to Sarah! But when I was going up to my staff bedroom on the top floor of the New York hotel, she would be sleeping soundly in her Paris studio…

  The hotel provided reduced-price accommodation for its foreign seasonal staff, which had been a godsend for me. My room, with its beige walls and thick, cream carpets, was small but very nice. A narrow patio door led to a small balcony, whose stone border almost came up to my waist. On the left, it ran right along the whole floor. On the right, at the corner of the building, it ended at an iron gate which led to the outside fire escape ladder. These metallic serpents, which wound their way around the historic buildings of Manhattan, were like picture postcard images for me, a little taste of elsewhere on film and a source of imagination. When I leant on the balcony up in the New York sky, and the noise of the avenue reached me, I really felt as if I were in a film. This time I wasn’t watching it, I was in it. Near the window, under two rows of shelves covered with books, there was a fawn leather club armchair – no doubt considered too worn for the fastidious décor of the lower floors. It was slightly sagging and a bit scratched, but that was what gave it its cosy, comforting look, like an old friend waiting for you. A small desk, a dark wooden bedside table and a bed with white sheets adorned with the initials of the hotel embroidered in blue thread completed the room. The tiny en-suite bathroom had everything I needed. Pedestal washbasin, metro tiling, tulip wall lights and a toilet with a suspended tank and hanging chain; I loved its retro look.

  I closed the door, took off my shoes, picked up my computer and went to snuggle up in my old armchair. Although I was exhausted, there was no way I could sleep. I had to write to Sarah.

  * * *

  From: Julia [email protected]

  Date: Thursday 12 July 2012 22:16

  To: Sarah [email protected]

  Subject: Thunderstruck

  Dear Sarah,

  How I wish I was with you at the moment, I'm sure you'd be able to dispel all the confusion I'm feeling and be able to reason with me! I'm far too wound up to go to sleep and I hope that writing will manage to calm me down at least a bit…

  I have to tell you something. A French customer arrived today. Oh I can hear you snigger from here. “There’s nothing amazing about that, my dear, it’s obviously time you came home! Is the US making you so homesick that you're lusting after Frenchmen?”. No, you’re right, it’s not the fact that he’s French that’s amazing, HE is amazing. As soon as I saw him, all my senses became muddled. He is unbelievably good-looking and he has the most disarming smile. Yes, he smiled at me, but probably only out of politeness. I should also tell you that our hands touched and it was… electric.

  No, I'm just jumping to conclusions based on simple friendly body language. The fact that I couldn’t speak, my blushing cheeks, plus my bewilderment and stunned expression, probably amused him. I have to stop fantasising about this stranger, he's different from me in every respect: looks, wealth, age… we weren’t on the same side of the desk… But it's a man like that I'd like to hear say “I love you”. But a man like that would never really look at me. And although for a moment I thought he was attracted to me, the illusion was certainly due to me being an expat, my loneliness and my imagination.

  I'm feeling doubt and hope mixed together, fear and enthusiasm. I'm trying to be rational but my rationality is hanging by a thread and it'd be a relief if it snapped. Resistance is futile, faced with the strength of my desire. I have never felt such a powerful bodily attraction.

  We need to see each other soon!

  lots of love,

  Julia

  * * *

  I put my computer down, still full of all these new and uncontrollable emotions, by this apparition which, after being repeated over and over, had become filled with illusions. But I was also overcome with tiredness. I closed the blinds, got undressed and got into bed. My eyes closed and I fell into a half-sleep. In the heat of the summer night, somewhere between dreams and reality, my mind began to wander. The light sheet slid gently over my bare skin. The material brushing against me was making me quiver and it felt good. My body was half uncovered now. I bent one leg and caressed the sole of my foot with my fingers, moving up over my ankle, calf and knee, slowly, up to the inside of my thigh and my stomach. I lingered, my fingers tracing circles. My breathing deepened and I could feel my breasts becoming swollen and taut. I massaged them and then returned to my stomach, moving lower. I plunged my fingers into my pubic hair and the dampness between my legs. The hand running over my body was his. It was his fingers I could feel inside me, so much so that my back arched, my breathing quickened and my body contracted, becoming aroused to the very tips of my fingers. My mouth opened slightly, my breathing froze and as my whole body shook, I moaned and sighed. Suddenly my muscles relaxed, I sank into the mattress as if it were a bed of feathers and I fell asleep.

  When I woke up I felt calm again and the previous day seemed like a dream.

  I had only been at my workstation for a few minutes when the telephone rang. It was an internal number.

  "Good morning, Julia Belmont speaking"

  "Good morning Miss Belmont. I was hoping it would be you."

  I recognised his smooth voice and all the composure I'd recovered disappeared. I tried to speak in a professional voice, but my intonation was awkward:

  "What can I do for you, Mr Wietermann?"

  "What a wonderful question, Miss Belmont…" he said with a languor which tightened the knot I already felt in my stomach.

  The silence which he left deliberately made me nervous. When he spoke again, his voice was different and had become authoritarian rather than seductive.

  "For the moment, a light meal for four people, something savoury, something sweet and some coffee."

  I was thrown by this sudden change of tone, but relieved by this request which was completely devoid of innuendo; I told him I would inform the kitchen immediately.

  "Don’t send anyone else, I want you to bring the food up," he ordered before hanging up.

  But that’s not my job! Who did he think he was?

  There was no point cursing, so I obeyed. The customer is always right, and I was dying to see him again
and compare my memory with reality. To see whether this man would have the same effect on me as he had the day before. When the door to suite six-hundred and seven opened and he appeared, I completely forgot my annoyance. His green, smiling eyes, his unreadable fine lines and his charcoal-grey suit (which made him look so sexy) literally made me melt. I almost dropped the tray and he just managed to catch it.

  "I'm very pleased to see you again, Miss Belmont. Tell me, how long have you been working here, Julia? I've been coming here for years, but I have never seen you before."

  "Oh, I'm just here temporarily, I have been here about six months. When I go home, I will be taking Art History classes in Paris. I would like to work in a gallery. I thought it would be useful to be able to speak English. And also there are so many museums and exhibitions here…"

  Why on earth was I telling him my life story?

  "How old are you, Julia?"

  "I will be twenty tomorrow."

  "twenty? So you’ll be having a party."

  "Oh no, no. Tom, the only person I really get on with here, is working and so am I. I'll celebrate when I go home, which is soon."

  "What a sad little face! You miss your family, don’t you?"

  Why would he care about that? He was talking to me as if I were a child. Was he making fun of me?

  "No… yes… well, I sometimes feel a bit lonely here."

  Oh, I was talking nonsense…

  "I have to go. Have a good day, Mr Wietermann."

  2. My twentieth birthday

  From the moment I'd arrived in New York, I'd had to cope on my own, and I'd managed rather well. Six months working as a receptionist had dispelled my shyness. But I certainly wasn’t completely cured yet; my timidity had just played a dirty trick on me. The disclosures I had just made to Daniel Wietermann were one of its pernicious effects.