The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride by Nadia Lee

Chapter Three

Declan

I step off the flight from Thailand to Seoul and smooth the minor wrinkles in my shirt. My mood could best be described as extremely irritated, because the flight was five hours late. Which, of course, means I’ve missed my connection to LAX.

Just how difficult is it for the airline to maintain its fleet properly and operate on time?

Delays due to mechanical issues just mean the airline is terrible at its primary function. And I hurried through everything in Thailand to make the damned flight for nothing.

I pull out my phone and turn off airplane mode. Texts and alerts fill my screen. Some of them are from the airline about the damn flight, like I wouldn’t know I’ve been hugely inconvenienced without their idiotic alerts. A mountain of to-dos are waiting for me in L.A. I don’t have time to waste here, even if this airport is spectacularly spacious and nice.

One new email in particular is near the top of my inbox. Despite the fact that it’s in Japanese, I check it first because it’s going to be more effective than meds for bringing down my blood pressure.

Sure enough…

The email contains pictures of old golden retrievers. They look adorable and happy. I smile. Only a sociopath could stay angry seeing those panting doggy grins. And just look at those cute, bright eyes. The dogs are lovable. No other word for it.

This is exactly what I wanted when I started sponsoring a “retirement center” for old seeing eye dogs in Japan. I never knew what happened to those dogs. Actually, I never gave much thought to them at all, since I’ve never known anybody who needed one.

But three years ago on a long trans-Pacific flight, I watched a documentary about what the Japanese did with their animals once they grew too old to serve. Since they can’t be seeing eye dogs anymore, they’re sent to a kind of retirement center where they live out the rest of their lives. Their owners visit them if they live nearby. But it has to be painful for the dogs to be away from someone they’ve known and loved for so long.

Toward the end, the film featured a sick dog named Nana. That poor thing was old and suffering from an unspecified illness. A center worker said they were waiting for a vet to come in, while rubbing Nana to comfort her.

The slow way Nana blinked…and how unfocused her eyes were… It just gutted me. The film wasn’t trying to solicit donations. But I found out where the center was located, hired a translator and flew out there. Nana had already died, so there was nothing I could do for her. But I got to see the other dogs at the center. How intelligent and gentle they were, how happy they were to have a visitor, tails wagging and noses questing to meet this new person.

They’ve spent all their lives in training and service to humans. Now that they’re retired, they could use some pampering beyond what the center’s budget can give. Every single one of the dogs there deserves steak and biscuits. They deserve dignity.

I set up an annual donation on the spot.

Everyone was thrilled about the decision except my accountant. He advised me to choose a different organization to give money to, saying I couldn’t write it off my taxes. Apparently, a foreign entity that isn’t registered with the IRS doesn’t entitle me to a deduction. It’s my accountant’s job to worry about stuff like that, but I ignored his advice. It’s my money. I’ll give it to whoever I deem worthy, not who the IRS considers acceptable.

And I say those dogs deserve to be treated like royalty.

So every month, the center sends me updates and pictures…sometimes videos. I can’t read the updates because they’re in Japanese—Google Translate helps to sort of parse it out—but opening the updates is always a happy moment.

Finally I close the email, then send a quick text to my best friend Aiden.

–Me: Can’t make it for drinks like we planned. Got delayed.

–Aiden: That sucks. Some other time, then.

Assuming we can agree on a date. We both keep busy schedules. He’s an attorney and lives to protect his clients and destroy their enemies. I’m one of his clients too, and I love having an asshole on my team. Comes in handy at times.

–Aiden: Lemme know when you get back.

–Me: Ok. I’ll have Benedict check my calendar next week.

–Aiden: Too special to hang out with me this weekend?

I snort. Because of my trip, I suggested meeting for drinks on Saturday rather than Friday, but he told me he was busy.

–Me: Like you have any free time.

–Aiden: Yeah, true. TTYLater gator.

That done, I contact my assistant Benedict.

–Me: I just landed. Call me.

I see another security checkpoint. Shit. But at least the lines are moving.

–Me: Wait. Call me after I clear security. Ten minutes.

After I go through a metal detector and have my carry-on scanned by a woman who tries to maintain eye contact a little longer than is really necessary, I walk along the wide and curving main corridor of Incheon Airport, past a string of brightly lit duty-free stores, phone in hand. I also note an indoor garden that must be new. I don’t remember seeing it last time I came to Seoul. Panels on the high ceiling above show soothing patterns of blue and orange. I squint. Are those fish on the screens…?

And when is Benedict going to call? I said ten minutes, not eleven—

My phone rings. “Tell me you put me on the next flight out of here,” I say.

“Sorry. The airline put you on the one after.”

“Why?” The gall of the airline. “Don’t they know they’ve wasted enough of my time?”

“I made that clear, but they were worried that you might not clear the second security check after getting off the flight from Singapore. But they assured me that was the fastest they could arrange. Even said it was with their partner airline.”

Oh for God’s sake. “Well, I’ve already cleared it. So can they put me on the next flight?”

“Probably not. Unless it’s been delayed, it’s already boarding. Or about to.”

Fuck. Me.

“But according to the schedule, you should be home in the next fourteen hours for sure.”

That fails to improve my mood. I should be halfway over the Pacific by now, damn it. But there’s nothing to be done, so I latch on to something that I can do something about. “Fine. Update me on anything I should know.”

“No emergencies. Your agent sent five more scripts since you left for your little getaway in Phuket. How’s your tan, by the way?”

“Good enough.” I grunt with half annoyance and half pleasure.

I don’t regret adding the three-day detour to Thailand to my trip to Japan, where I was filming a few whiskey commercials for a local brewery. I’d never been to Thailand, and a producer told me the beaches in Phuket are fantastic. But I resent the hell out of the fact that the airlines fucked up my return trip home.

“Also, FYI, you have fourteen calls from Jessica Martins,” Benedict says, to distinguish her from another Jessica, a photographer I used to work with some years ago.

Something bitter and sour coats my tongue. An ex-girlfriend. An annoying, clingy ex-girlfriend. If I’d realized she’d turn out to be this pathetic and irritating, I would’ve tossed her overboard the moment she said hello at that yacht party four months ago.

“You didn’t actually take any of them, did you?” I already told Benedict not to, and he’s excellent at following instructions.

“Of course not. She left quite a few messages and texts, though.”

“Delete them, unread. I’m not paying you to waste time with that trash.”

“Already done. But I thought you should know she’s not giving up.”

Of course she isn’t. But it’s to her benefit to look for the next sugar daddy elsewhere…and as soon as possible. Every second she grows older, the less desirable she becomes as a trophy. “I already blocked her on my phone.”

“I warned security,” Benedict says.

“Good.” This is why Benedict is my right-hand man.

“And Ella called.”

“Ha. Not just once, I’ll wager.”

“Twenty-six times.”

My teeth grind together. My half-sister always calls when she needs something. And it’s almost always money. Until she got engaged, she also asked me to introduce her to rich men in my circle. She refuses to understand I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy. Not because my enemies deserve better, but because I don’t want her to get to live her dream of being a rich man’s wife.

“What did she want?” I ask impatiently.

“The usual. Money. Fifty K.”

I nearly choke. Fifty thousand dollars? She still hasn’t figured out that I’m not giving her anything? “For what? Plastic surgery?”

Benedict lets out a small, muffled laugh. He knows how much I hate my half-sibling. “No.”

“Good, because it wouldn’t help.”

She’s not ugly, per se, but her features are off. Unbalanced. Every single one of them. And living in L.A. makes it a hundred times worse, since the city’s full of gorgeous women. Every small town’s prettiest girl makes the journey and dreams of becoming a movie star.

“It’s for her wedding.” Benedict manages a calm, non-laughing tone.

“Didn’t she already get fifty thousand from her mother?” I demand. Although it supposedly came from her mother, it’s really my damned money. Father was many things, but he wasn’t a font of cash.

“Eighty, actually. And yes, she did. But apparently she needs more.”

“Tell her no. She’s lucky I’m not praying for a tsunami for the wedding.”

She plans to get married on a beach. With flower-festooned arches and rose petals in the air. The entire idea is ridiculous. The sea winds will sweep every petal away before the ceremony starts.

I wonder if fifty K could buy her a new and improved brain? She needs that more than a ludicrous wedding to a trust-fund moron. That way, their children won’t end up with turkey-level IQs.

“I don’t think the chances of a tidal wave are particularly high.”

“Can’t you sacrifice a goat or something? Appease Poseidon?”

“Sorry. Outside my work scope,” Benedict says.

“What ‘work scope’? Celebrity assistants do anything their bosses want them to do. It’s not like I don’t pay you enough.” His salary and benefits are at least twenty percent above the usual pay for celebrity assistants. I make sure to compensate my people well. “Make it a virgin goat.”

“I’m quite sure it’s illegal to sacrifice an animal within the city limits.”

“I’ll bail you out if you get arrested.”

“It won’t look good if you have an assistant who gets arrested for caprinicide. Bad publicity.”

“For what?”

“Caprinicide. Caprine is the adjective for goats. You know, like bovine for cows, ursine for bears, porcine for pigs…”

Benedict the aspiring writer. Of course he would know a word like that.

“Fine,” I say grudgingly. My public image is important.

I run a hand along my jaw. I take after my mother one hundred percent, and that apparently means I’m too pretty for my own good. I suppose I’m good-looking, but it’s hard to be impressed with something I see every time I glance in the mirror. They say familiarity breeds contempt. In my case, it’s bred indifference.

But that doesn’t mean I’m unaware of my good fortune. It’s this face that’s allowing me to make an amazing living as a model and actor. The two Netflix dramas I starred in did well, so offers for more acting roles are flooding in.

“Also, I’m going on vacation for two months starting next Monday,” Benedict says. “Just a reminder, in case you decide to consult Aiden about the legal fine points of massacring goats, although I’m not sure if animal rights are his thing.”

“What?” I say, stunned. “Vacation?”

“You approved it last month, remember?”

“I did? Was I sober?” He might’ve sprung it on me while I was drunk. Or exhausted from late-night filming or during some six-a.m. photoshoot. There’s no way I said yes without a temp to replace him.

“Oh, quite. It was during your breakfast. You also had a cup of coffee before you approved, which I made for you and waited for you to finish because I didn’t want you to claim I took advantage. I told you I needed two months off to finish my screenplay, and you said okay.”

Hmm… I vaguely remember him saying something about wanting to win an Oscar for a screenplay. I guess that means he has to write one first. I just didn’t realize it would be so soon!

“So who’s going to be my assistant while you’re gone?”

“You told me you’d figure something out.”

“I did? I must’ve been high.”

“Nobody gets high off one cup of coffee. Anyway… You don’t have anybody in mind?”

“No.” Fuck. There’s no way I can live two months without an assistant who can act as a gatekeeper. And bring me coffee. And groceries and anything else that might pop into my head.

“Well, you still have today and the weekend.” Benedict sounds singularly unsympathetic.

“I don’t have any résumés. And I’m in Korea!”

“It’s only for two months. You just need an ironclad NDA, which Aiden has already drafted for you.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds super simple,” I say. “You know what? You aren’t going anywhere unless you get me a replacement.”

“What?”

“It’s only for two months, and you still have today and the weekend. And you happen to be in L.A.”

“Come on!”

“Less complaining, more working.”

Benedict sighs. “Fine. I’ll find someone before I leave.”

“Thank you. It wasn’t that hard, was it?”

The second I hang up, a new flight ticket pops up on my phone. I check it and sigh. The gate is at the opposite end of the terminal. Of course. At least the lounge for first-class passengers is near the gate.

I turn around and start walking through the crowd, getting the usual looks. This airport is cavernous. Well, cavernous might not be the best word—it is bright with sunlight. But holy mother of God, you could run a marathon in here.

At least the walk will give me the time to gather my thoughts. Why the hell didn’t I remember this vacation? And how is Benedict going to find somebody decent?

Argh.

Although I told him to get a temp or else, I don’t want to be that kind of jerk celebrity boss who makes him cancel his time off. I know an actress who called her assistant to get the poor woman to handle freakin’ phone calls when her mom died, and the assistant quit, which the actress deserved. I don’t want Benedict quitting on me. We work well together, and I like the guy.

Whether I get a temp assistant or not, it’s only for two months. Should I just rent a Doberman to keep people away? But then there are calls, emails and deliveries and things. I can’t deal with all of it myself. No single human can deal with it, because the mailmen drop off a mountain of stuff every day. If I weren’t busy trying to figure out my next acting role, I might consider letting it just sit, but…

There’s no way around it. I need somebody.

I take a deep breath and stretch my neck to release the tension at the base of my skull. There are event stages set up along the concourse. A soft piano melody comes from one to my left as I stride by. There’s a black baby grand on it, and a young woman is playing. She isn’t bad. Actually, she sounds pretty good, in my amateur opinion. I started taking piano lessons when I was ten, but gave up after a couple of years. My fingers are too clumsy for anything other than moderately paced scales, and I didn’t want to bother if I couldn’t play Schubert’s Impromptu Opus 90, Number 2 with an acceptable degree of proficiency.

My teacher complained that I was fixated on Schubert. But then, she didn’t know what that piece meant to me, and didn’t want to understand when I tried to explain it to her.

The piece the woman is playing is mellow and lovely. Soothing, even, and the mild headache that’s been aggravating me starts to dissipate. But I maintain my pace. I want to hit the lounge, grab a shower and some snacks before it’s time to board.

But I slow and then stop when she begins the Impromptu.

I heard the piece for the first time when I was ten. A girl was playing it on a white Steinway baby grand. Listening to her was like holding a mug of hot chocolate on a freezing, snowy day. It was a tense time in my life, and a warm sweetness spread through me, all the way to my heart, giving me not only comfort but a sense of wellbeing, that everything would be fine.

I own every recording of this piece out there. And I listen to them all the time. But none recapture the feeling I had when I heard it that first time. I’ve never gotten that sense of comfort again.

But now… This pianist is giving me exactly that. And something more. A frisson of electricity that brings all my nerve endings to attention.

I turn and study her more carefully. She seems to be in her early to mid-twenties. Straight auburn hair frames her small face just so. Her lashes are lowered, her full mouth set in a straight line. She keeps her shoulders straight, her slender arms and long fingers relaxed and fluid as they move. The Impromptu ends all too soon. But then, played at the correct tempo, it’s not even five minutes long.

She launches into another piece, this one tumultuous and rapid. Her hands are a blur as they fly over the keys like a hummingbird’s wings. I wonder how long she practiced to master the instrument like that, then decide probably too damn much time, much more than I’m capable of.

I want her to go back to Schubert. But I wait. There’s a command to her performance that says she won’t appreciate an interruption.

Thankfully, the new piece isn’t long. She pauses for a moment and exhales softly. I step forward.

“Are you a concert pianist?” I ask. “If so, could you tell me your name so I can buy some of your recordings?”

She lifts her head and turns toward me. Her steady dark brown gaze hits me, lances me to the spot. For a moment, I can’t move or breathe. It’s like somebody’s sending an electric shock through my system to restart my heart. But as soon as the shock’s gone, my whole body feels tight, my blood hot and flowing rapidly through my veins. All my senses seem sharper, as though they've just awakened.

I breathe in a little bit through my mouth. It feels like I can taste the air, the cool, industrial flavor of a large international airport mixed with something a little more intimate. Her scent. Sweet and citrusy, with a hint of flowers.

If I were the romantic type, I might think I was in a Hollywood freeze frame where a guy falls in love at first sight. Thankfully, my head’s screwed on tighter than that.

Instead of answering, the woman looks at me oddly. Maybe she could tell I was having a moment.

Or maybe she can tell I’m starting to get hard, like some teenager. Damn it. A man shouldn’t be having a libido surge when he’s been sitting on a damned tarmac, had his flight delayed and is tired and jet-lagged.

Or maybe that’s why my penis is out of control. Maybe if I were better rested…?

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up or anything.” I shift a little to better hide my unmanageable reaction to her nearness.

Then it hits me: maybe she doesn’t speak English. Shit. I don’t speak Korean. Actually, she might not even be Korean. She could be any Asian connecting through to somewhere. Incheon is one of the biggest hubs in the world.

“I don’t play concerts,” she finally says. “I’m not a professional.”

Oh, good.So we can communicate. My dick keeps saying we should hook up, but there isn’t enough time. Transiting, Declan, transiting. Time to go home soon.

The fact that she doesn’t have any recordings is disappointing. It’s taken over two decades to find somebody who can re-create my unforgettable childhood comfort. Her being hot is another point, but that’s probably just due to me being exhausted. Not as much control as usual.

Should I offer her a job as my personal pianist?

Maybe not.Her Georges Hobeika dress alone is worth thousands of dollars. I know because Ella whined endlessly to get me to buy one for her—and failed. A woman who can afford an outfit like that doesn’t need a job.

So I go for the second best option. “If you take requests, would you mind playing that Schubert again?”

Her eyebrows go up. “Why that piece?”

“It’s…comforting.”

She regards me for a moment, then nods. “Sure.”

This is the second time I’m listening to it within a few minutes, and I wonder if the second time is going to be as good as the first. It usually isn’t.

Her fingers start moving. The rapid notes flow like the gentle murmuring of a clear stream in spring, and the second time is actually better, like the previous one was just a warmup.

When she’s finished, I murmur, “Perfect. Absolutely brilliant.”

Her cheeks flush, pleasure shining in her eyes. She leans a little closer, then squints at me. Maybe she’s recognized who I am.

I want to ask her her name and if she has an interest in making some recordings. I’ll pay all the expenses.

Better yet, she can play it once more now, and I’ll record it with my phone.

But before I can make the suggestion, an airport-wide announcement calling for some flight comes over the speaker system. She jerks, looks up, then checks her phone.

“That’s my flight,” she says, and steps down from the stage.

Fuck, no, no, no.

“Wait,” I say as the announcement continues in English. I catch something about Los Angeles, and I place my hand on her elbow. “Are you going to L.A.?”

“Yes. Are you on my flight?”

“No. I’m on the next one.” Mine better be the next flight. “Here.” On sheer impulse, I pull out my card and hand it to her. “I live in the city, so call me if you want to hang out or…whatever.”

She takes the card, but doesn’t look at it. “But why? You don’t know me.”

“Any woman who can play Schubert like that is worth getting to know.”

She smiles. Her entire demeanor changes from prim and slightly standoffish to warm and friendly. It reminds me of the happy feeling you get when the sky’s cloudless and the breeze is just cool enough to be refreshing.

“Okay.” She puts the card in her purse. “Gotta go. Don’t be shocked if I really do call you.” She waves as she starts walking off.

“I’ll try not to faint,” I murmur. I’m never shocked when women call. It always happens within twenty-four hours, like they’re afraid if they make me wait too long I might lose interest. No reason this pianist will be any different.

As she vanishes into the crowd, I realize I didn’t get her name. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll have it soon enough.