Boxed Set: Dominated by a Billionaire - Part 10-12: Irresistible Billionaire (22 page)

I watch the landscape roll away through the window. The train has just left Montparnasse station and the suburbs passing before my eyes seem grey and gloomy, just like my mood. I've absolutely no desire to spend the next two days in a vineyard. Tonight, I had plans to spend a quiet evening in and Marion suggested we go see a movie tomorrow, like we do every Friday. But Eric had other ideas. I really like my boss, he took me under his wing and is helping me move up the ladder by giving me all sorts of responsibilities, but this time he's pushing me a little too far. I'm an intern for his oenology website. He's thirty-seven years old, single and childless, he works twenty hours out of every twenty-four, and sometimes has a hard time understanding that Emilie and I don't share his level of interest. There are only three of us on the team: Eric writes the content, Emilie takes care of the administrative tasks and I'm doing an internship to finish my last year of college for a degree in journalism. “My dear Amandine,” Eric often tells me, “If you'd work just a little harder, you'd go far!” I don't dare tell him that I'm not bursting with ambition, like most of my friends in the world of promotions, and that this internship in his little business was the only one I could find that would accept me last minute, as is usually the case. It's not that I don't like working as a journalist, actually I really love to write, but I'm not made for going out into 'the field'. I'm too shy, too impulsive, too...too much myself. Everything and its opposite. At twenty-two years old, I think it's time to start asking myself: “Who am I? Where am I going? Where do I belong? What am I doing? What do I want?” That's my daily reality. And “I don't know” is my favourite answer.

In my carriage on the high-speed train, all the other passengers are either sleeping or staring off into space. I take out my tablet and try to focus on work. Paris-Angoulême is only a two and a half hour trip, I should get a few things done before I get there. Eric briefed me thoroughly before I left, and even put a little pressure on me: “I can't go, but these two days are really important, Amandine. I trust you, you must absolutely find a way to talk to Diamonds.” Gabriel Diamonds, a legendary man in the wine world. He's a billionaire media mogul who owns almost all of the wine-related publications on the international market. But most importantly, he's one of the world's greatest wine connoisseurs and over the years has bought up all of the best vineyards in France. Every year, he organises a huge showy event in a chateau in Bagnolet to promote his wines. I don't really know why, but apparently people would kill to get an invitation. The highlight of these two days of revelry in the lap of luxury is a classical concert that Diamonds gives for his most important guests. The specialised press is generally invited to the party, but very few journalists can attend the concert and get up close and personal to Diamonds. I study the beautiful invitation on thick cream paper that I have in my purse, caressing the large golden letters standing out in relief. 'Gabriel Diamonds is pleased to invite you'. The pleasure isn't really mutual, since I'm already stressed out over this, but I'm curious, and intrigued. I've heard so much about this mysterious Mr. Diamonds, first from Eric, and then at dinner parties and in the papers. I never dreamed that someone would send me out to meet him.

Realising that I don't even know how old he is or what he looks like, I Google him, slightly nervous about what I might find. I try to reassure myself, he can't be that impressive. The Wikipedia page dedicated to him gives me the basic information: Gabriel Diamonds is thirty-five years old and was born in the United States to a French mother and an American father. He grew up in a very wealthy family, then came to study in France and still lives between the two countries. I zoom in on my screen to get a better look at the photo on the webpage and discover a man with a beautiful, sculpted face. His jaw is very well defined and makes him look incredibly masculine. Blond, carefully styled hair frames a large, broad forehead. Above his straight and elegant nose, his intense blue eyes stare out, full of mystery. There's some darkness in that blue. His stormy gaze contrasts with the sweetness of his mouth, perfectly framed by full lips, parted slightly to show off his impeccable teeth. It doesn't reassure me much, but I understand things better now: that sort of face doesn't leave a person indifferent. I realise that I get a little thrill from looking at that photo, and I start to think about this two-day trip with a touch of excitement. However, I know that mustering up the courage to approach Mr. Diamonds will be a real challenge for me. Eric asked me to prepare a few questions so that I could include a little interview in my report, and I start to jot down a few ideas in my notebook, but my eyes are hopelessly – almost magnetically – attracted to that photo. My mind wanders, I have a hard time concentrating on what I'm doing. I think about Eric again, so disappointed that he couldn't go to this party in Mr. Diamonds' vineyard, and how I hated the idea of having to stand in for him. Maybe I'm starting to have a change of heart...

I look for other photos of Gabriel Diamonds on the internet. There are very few of them, as if he trying to protect his image. I can see him clearly in one of them, though, he's standing up during a wine-making ceremony. Taller than most of the other men I know, he looks slender and well-built. Judging by his broad back, his solid shoulders and his muscular butt, he's either an athlete or a particularly potent force of nature. It's almost irritating. And to top it all off, he seems to have an innate sense of style. He's dressed very elegantly, without seeming too sophisticated. A black suit, dark and chic, frames a white shirt, the first three buttons of which are open, showing a torso as tanned as his face. I'm surprised at how much pleasure I'm getting from studying this man, a man I barely knew existed a few minutes ago. Well, he's extremely attractive, that's for sure. His extraordinary physique, his appearance, the way he holds his head and his posture all have an effect on me, I have to admit it. I let out a long sigh and close my eyes after looking once more at the two photos of Gabriel Diamonds. Without trying, I slip into an beautifully sweet sleep, a smile on my lips and my head full of dreams.
Mounted on an imposing thoroughbred horse, Gabriel towers over me, in a dominant stance, and his presence makes me feel even more minuscule. My chestnut hair, too messy and too boring, my jeans tucked into my flat and plain boots, my black jacket that's a little too big: nothing about me does much for my confidence. He's dressed as a chic version of a knight and shoots me a harsh glance.

“You're late,” he scolds in his sexy voice, his gorgeous blue eyes boring into mine.

“Yes, sorry...”

“Spare me the excuses. Who are you?"

“Um...I'm here for the interview.”

What's come over me? Why am I stuttering like a idiot unable to string a simple sentence together?

“I believe I asked you who you are. Not what you're doing.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry. I'm Eric Chopard's intern, from the wine website.”

“I know who he is. But I still don't know anything about you. Except for your obsession with constantly saying you're sorry. Do you have a name, Eric Chopard's intern?”

“I was just trying to be polite. But I can stop if you prefer.”

His way of looking down at me starts to bother me, and his last remark irritates me. But he doesn't seem to like the insolence of my response either, judging from his dark gaze, his parted lips and the silence that follows. He must not be used to people standing up to him. I collect myself and quickly add:

“Amandine. Amandine B -”

I don't have the time to say my last name before he interrupts me.

What nice manners!

“Amandine. It's a pretty name, with fruity notes. Just a touch of sweetness. Now Amande – that's French for almond – would be better for you. A hard fruit, with velvety skin, a milky interior, a sweet and bitter flavour. Yes, Amande would fit you like a glove. I'm going to call you that from now on.”

I let out a long sigh.

Who is this arrogant guy running off at the mouth? And where does he get the right to change people's first names? But his gorgeousness subdues me, and I almost forget his oversized ego. I'm surprised by how much I fancy him.

“Are you thinking of what to say, or are you just going to keep staring at me silently? Unless you're sulking, bitter Amande?

“I'd prefer not to say anything. Do you have any other questions?”

“That's a wise choice, sweet Amande. Let's go on to the next question. What type of man do you like?”

“Short, brunette, the Latin type. A guy who dresses simply. Cool, discrete, natural. Very gentle, most importantly. And full of self-deprecating humour.”

Take that.

I take a mischievous pleasure in describing his exact opposite; a tiny smile appears on his lips, and then he laughs out loud. It's the first time that I see him express a sincere and spontaneous emotion. The shell of his cold beauty cracks and reveals a seductive aura. More, he's completely irresistible. He must be aware of this effect since he gets off his horse to stand just a few feet away from me.

“Are you experienced with men, dear Amande?”

“I think that's absolutely none of your business.”

“I think that's not a valid answer to my question.”

“And I think that was a very rude question.”

“And I think you're looking for a way to avoid giving me an answer.”

Touché.

I'm twenty-two years old, I have three ex-boyfriends, only one who was serious, meaning that the relationship lasted longer than six months. Most guys don't interest me and when they're interested in me, I don't even notice. I don't see the signs, I always need a girlfriend to decipher things for me, and at any rate, it's never me who makes the first move. In terms of emotions, I've never experienced huge amounts of passion and when it comes to sex, it's dead calm, nothing outside of the vanilla stuff and never anything transcendental. I simply haven't met the lover who makes me feel like I can really let go. And I don't want to try out twenty before finding one good one. That pretty much sums up my experience, so no, I have nothing to say and no, I don't want to answer that question. Except Mr. Diamonds, the dashing billionaire who no woman can resist, shoots daggers at me from his azure eyes and demands an answer, from the way he's pointing his chin towards me. It doesn't seem like he's going to give up any time soon.

Either out of courage or insanity, I take a step forward and reduce the distance between Gabriel and me, my eyes glued on the most sensual mouth I've ever seen. I softly place my hand on his cheek and bring my lips close to his, feeling his breath mix with mine. Then I feel something move next to me, a presence that unsettles me, and I flinch.

***

I wake up suddenly, quickly closing my gaping mouth, checking out the corner of my eye to make sure no one’s looking and realize that I was dreaming. I'm almost embarrassed. The train pulls into the Angoulême station and everyone around me gets up to collect their bags, a world away from suspecting the inner turmoil boiling inside of me. I imitate them while cursing my gooey romanticism. No, really, a horse? What next? I try to erase the image of Diamonds as a modern-day Prince Charming from my memory, but I have only one motivation now. To get to the Bagnolet estate and meet him in person. And look at his mouth.

I think about Gabriel Diamonds non-stop for the duration of the car ride from the Angoulême train station to the château, wondering a thousand different things: is he as handsome in real life as he is in photos? Why can't I find much information about him on the Internet? Is he married? Why did I just have a teenybopper fantasy with him in the starring role?

My jaw drops and my eyes grow wide as I arrive at the Bagnolet estate in the late afternoon. The château is gorgeous, much more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. The central square pavilion, made from white stone, is flanked by two wings that stretch out to the East and the West. An old pergola transformed into a rose garden gives the place a poetic and slightly old-world atmosphere. The English garden covers over seven hectares and slopes sharply downwards to the Charente, flowing peacefully below. The journalists who've arrived before me stroll about lazily in little clusters, through the hundred-year-old trees. The whole place looks like a living pastoral tableau. Two, trimmed box hedges frame the door which the car pulls up to, gravel crunching underneath its tires. A man wearing a suit comes to open the car door for me, then takes my luggage from the trunk. All of this luxury makes me feel terribly awkward, but I smile as naturally as possible at the butler who leads me to my room. The longer I stay here, the less comfortable I feel. I take my cellphone out of my purse for a little reassurance. The man leads me into an immense and incredibly comfortable room, places my suitcase at the foot of a king-size bed, kindly wishes me a pleasant stay and leaves. As soon as he's out the door I unlock my phone and send a barrage of texts to Marion.

“Just got here! You need to see my room.”

“How is it?”

“Everything is perfect and gorgeous. It's just serene and exquisite luxury.”

“Obviously! Feeling a little more poetic now, aren't you? Show-off!"

“Come on, don't be jealous. If you're nice, I'll bring you back the best bottle I can get my hands on.”

“Deal! You know I'm full of nothing but love and kindness.”

I know her much too well and when all's said and done, she really is happy for me. She knows this trip will do me some good, but she can't help from being a little smart-ass. That's Emilie in a nutshell! I put my phone back in my purse, wishing she was here to share this insane experience with me.

The room is breathtakingly gorgeous. Really, it's not a room so much as a suite...I shouldn't really dwell about it too much, given that it's about the size of my apartment in Paris. It's round, tucked into one of the towers of the château. The walls are all lined with incredibly fine moulding which highlights how high the ceilings are. It makes me dizzy. A thick, immaculate cream-coloured carpet muffles my steps and gives the imposing room a soft aspect that I absolutely adore. I throw myself onto the bed, possessed by a sense of hysteria that makes me laugh: the room's so big that my laughter echoes around me.