She is Mine: Prequel to The Billionaire's CamGirl Read online

  She is Mine

  The Billionaire’s CamGirl Prequel

  Penny Wylder

  Copyright © 2019 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Weaver

  2. Chris

  3. Weaver

  4. Chris

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1

  Weaver

  It’s all so last minute, this trip to Paris, but I couldn’t bear to say no to my oldest friend when she begged me to come. Kate and her cousin, Marie-Laure, are opening a restaurant in Paris, and tomorrow is the opening night. I knew it was Kate’s plan to move to Paris and pursue her culinary career here, but the speed at which she accomplished that dream is shocking. I have to admit, I’m envious. Here she is, just a year out of college and already she’s ticked off two major accomplishments from her bucket list. I can’t help but compare my current situation to hers, and I really hate myself for it. This is a trip to celebrate my friend and really enjoy myself before I get to work back in New York, before I step up to my big plan and start to take back my life.

  “Gare du Nord,” the tinny voice announces, reminding me that the Paris Metro awaits me first. Just as planned, I stride off the train and onto the platform, my (too) many bags all accounted for and none left behind on the train. I find quiet area to the side of the platform to take in my surroundings and check my phone. I’m not about to spend beaucoup bucks on an international SIM card, so I wait for my phone to connect to the station’s free Wi-Fi network. I know Kate will have already texted me a dozen times. My plane had been delayed a couple of hours, and she was skeptical I could manage my way to Paris with all my luggage on public transportation. Just as I expected, as soon as my phone connects to the network, five iMessages pop up from Kate, each with a few more exclamation points and question marks than the last. The gist is, Are you fucking here yet? I text back, Arrived at Gare du Nord and heading to Air BnB. Paris, baaaaby! Smiling, I tuck my phone back in my purse.

  Travelers on the platform bustle around me and I swell with pride that I’ve made it here all on my own! Like Kate, my mother thought it was preposterous that I’d take the train (“The train, Weaver?”) from the airport, but I knew I could do it. Weaver Jones, ever resourceful and independent! Weaver Jones, ever stubborn and alone, my mother’s voice counters in my head. I shake my head and disregard that nagging voice, walking down the platform confidently and following the signs to the Paris Metro. Since when is it a bad thing to have confidence in yourself? Ever since childhood, I’ve strived to do things my own way, and it’s served me well. So what that when I was eight I’d refused to allow my dad to bring my Girl Scout cookies order form to his office and I’d only sold a dozen boxes to my immediate neighbors? It was my responsibility and he wasn’t a Girl Scout. I didn't mind that Lacy Lockwood had won the grand prize and all I got was a participation patch. I knew her mom had sold most of those boxes and I'd won my patch, however small and really underwhelming, fair and square. What can I say? I’ve always felt most comfortable depending on me, myself and I.

  Me, myself and I stop suddenly in the grand station hall. A young man, a teenager by the looks of him, is playing a beat-up accordion. It’s lovely, and it bring my head back to the present: Paris! He’s playing the quintessential French song, La Vie En Rose. By his side is his open accordion case, with a few euro coins thrown inside. And by the side of that is an older looking dog, some sort of shepherd mix, dozing peacefully. The sign propped next to the case reads Toute aide appreciee. Merci. For all my insistence on making my way through the world on my own, I can’t resist helping someone in need. I’m a big believer in karma, so any chance I have to throw some positivity into the world, I take it. I gingerly prop up my wheelie suitcases and root through my purse for a few bucks for the busker. I feel around my passport and credit cards until I find a few bills for him.

  As much as I would have love to enjoy the rest of the song, Gare du Nord is too busy to stand around idly with my luggage, so I toss the bills in his accordion case and scratch the sleeping dog’s head. Gathering my suitcases again, I nod to the player. He glances down at his case and his smile is wide and shining. I guess he doesn’t get many tips because mine seems to have made his day. I walk away as he continues to play and shouts a melodic, “Merci belle bienfaitrice.” It was only a few bucks, but if he considers me his “beautiful benefactor,” I’ll take it.

  I follow the signs to the Metro. I’ve already worked out the route to the studio I’ve rented in the Marais district, and I’m pleased to see a sign directing me to the exact train I need to take right above the staircase down to the tracks. If my hands weren’t so full with suitcases, I would reach around to pat myself on the back. Meticulous planning and a can-do attitude for the win! And then…the universe knocks that self-satisfied grin right off my face. Or rather, a young couple managing a stroller down the stairs knocks me ass over kettle down the stairs. I’m all legs and arms and suitcase handles, and the fall seems to last forever. I have to choose between protecting my head or holding onto the suitcases, and after a split-second decision, my head wins. I land with a loud grunt at the bottom of the first landing and watch one of my suitcases tumble a few feet after me and down the next flight of stairs. Parfait.

  I take a few beats to assess the damage. My body feels fine, and it seems I’ve avoided injuring myself much at all. I won’t be surprised to find bruises in the morning, though. My suitcase is no worse for the ware and I send up a silent thank you to the Gods of TJ Maxx for offering me these luxury suitcases at bargain basement prices. Hopefully the other is unscathed. The only injury I’ve suffered is my pride. When I look up, the faces of smirking Parisians walk past me, one after the other, shooting pitying and humored glances in my direction. Not exactly the grand entrance into Paris I’d imagined, but oh well, I guess I’ve arrived.

  "Permettez-moi de vous aider,” I hear from above me, and inches from my face is a hand. A man’s hand by the look of it. I take in the rather expensive looking watch and brass monogrammed cufflink at his wrist—CB. My eyes follow that arm all the way up to a face, a gorgeous face, and I’m torn between utter mortification and the feeling of being in my very own rom-com. I blink a few times like a cartoon character.

  “Êtes-vous blessée?” he asks as he scrutinizes my face. My French is limited, but I get the idea. He’s offering help.

  Ignoring his hand I stand up and dust myself off. “Merci,” I say. “I’m sorry, my French isn’t great. Do you happen to speak English?”

  He smiles good naturedly and says, “Better than that, I speak American like you. But really, that was a nasty fall, are you okay?”

  “What, that? I’m fine. It was really nothing,” I say, feigning complete nonchalance and composure.

  “Well I’m glad you’re not hurt,” he replies, walking away from me and taking the stairs down two at a time. Au revoir tall, dark and handsome, I think. I don’t need a knight in shining armor to rescue me, but I wouldn’t mind staring at his hot face a little longer. And just as the thought passes my mind, he’s back, my wayward suitcase in hand. He sets it down by my other and flashes me a megawatt s
mile. “I’m Chris,” he says, extending his hand toward me again. “And you are…?”

  “Fine. I am fine,” I say, although I realize I’m being a little too defensive and unfriendly considering the guy is going out of his way to help me. Softening, I extend my hand to shake his and say, “Weaver. I am Weaver and I am fine. Thank you, though. Between you and me, that fall wasn’t exactly on my Paris getaway itinerary.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Weaver. I’d hate to see an encore of that performance, so let me help you down to the turnstile,” he says. Before I can protest, he’s picked up both suitcases and heads down the last flight of stairs. All I can do is follow him, any protest caught in my throat as I take in the way his jeans hug his ass. I might not need a knight in shining armor to save me, but I’ll take watching a knight in perfectly snug denim carry my suitcase down a couple of dozen steps.

  We stop in front of the ticket kiosk and I stare dumbly for a second at the screen. “I suppose it won’t spit out a ticket for me if I scream one billet, s’il vous plait at it,” I joke.

  He laughs back and says, “In my experience, it won’t. Let me help you.”

  Chris talks me through the steps of buying my metro ticket, and helpfully suggests I choose the tourist ticket since this won’t be my last ride on the metro. “Just promise me you’ll take those steps slowly, okay?” he says with a wink. I’m sensing some metro flirtation in the air.

  “I’ll do my best,” I say, and reach into my purse and feel around. Phone, check. Passport, check. Debit card, check. Money…oh shit.

  “What’s the matter,” Chris asks. I guess I said the latter out loud.

  “I’m realizing right now I am a belle bienfaitrice,” I say to myself, although I can’t help but smile. I guess I really made that busker's day. I inadvertently threw about fifty euros—all my cash— into his accordion case. Good luck, my man, I think, coming to terms with my cashless situation and appreciating the kid’s good luck.

  “I’m not following,” Chris says, looking at me oddly.

  “I wouldn’t expect you would,” I say back. “It turns out I don’t have any cash on me. I assume this thing takes cards, right?” I ask, handing mine over.

  He slides my debit card into the kiosk, and it spits it back out with an obnoxious noise. Carte refusée.

  “That means this card isn’t working,” he says.

  “Thanks. I figured that out all on my own.”

  I shove the card back in, ever so gently, hoping for a different result the second time around if I’m exceedingly nice. No dice. I remember I’d meant to alert my bank that I was travelling internationally. Unfortunately I hadn’t actually remembered to alert them.

  I’m going over options in my head. I figure I can walk the few miles to my studio if I can’t buy a metro ticket. It won’t be easy, but what other choice do I have? The hardest part will be making my way back up those stairs.

  “Let me help you, Weaver,” Chris says, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a creamy worn leather wallet. He hands me a twenty-euro bill.

  “No way, I can’t take money from you, I don’t know you from Adam,” I say. “It’s really not a problem. Once I get to my place I can call my bank and clear this up. I think it’s just a quick walk.”

  “This may seem a little forward, asking an attractive woman I’ve just met where she’s staying, but I promise you, my intentions are mostly innocent,” he says.

  “Mostly?”

  “Yes, mostly because if you insist on walking, I’ll be obliged to help you lug these suitcases back upstairs and well…I don’t know you well but I do know you don’t pack light.”

  “I’m staying near Place des Vosges,” I say, and I realize our eyes are locked on each other. The circumstances suck, but this is feeling playful and fun and I really don’t mind this hiccup.

  “For a woman like you, in pretty good shape if I may say,” he says, his eyes doing an assessing sweep up and down my body, “that should take a little under an hour. But those suitcases, Weaver…don’t be stubborn. Take the money, it’s really not a big deal to me.”

  Ooooh, he said it, the words that always make me dig in to whatever position I’ve be holding on to, no matter how foolish. “Stubborn?” I laugh at him. “What’s so stubborn about not accepting money from a stranger in a foreign city?”

  “I take it back. I take “stubborn” back. How about “foolhardy,” will that work?” he says with a conciliatory smile. And then he does something that makes me catch my breath. He reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear. Forward, but I like it. Hold that thought. He draws his hand back from my hair and between his fingers is a cigarette butt. “You had a little something left over from your fall,” he says.

  Hello mortification my old friend.

  “Souvenir?” he jokes, laughing and chucking the butt to the ground.

  I sigh. What else can I do? I take the twenty from his hand. “I owe you one, Chris, and I always repay my debts,” I say, sliding the twenty into the kiosk and waiting for it to print my ticket.

  He quirks up an eyebrow at that. “Well then it sounds like I just made a pretty good investment.”

  While I try to think of some flirtatious retort, his phone chimes indicating a text is coming in, and he looks at it briefly.

  “Let me help you to the turnstile,” he says, suddenly sounding like he’s in a rush.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Chris,” I say, as way of goodbye or to extend the conversation, I can’t say. I’m eager to get on my way and settle into my temporary Paris accommodations, but Chris has an appealing quality to him that makes me want to stay. He’s dressed casually, but you can tell he put thought into his appearance: not too stuffy, but stylish none the less. He also smells amazing, his cologne a mix of blackcurrant, cedar, and an underlying musk that I imagine is all him.

  “It’s been my pleasure, Weaver,” he says. “It’s not every day I get to come to the rescue of a beautiful woman. And I won’t forget what you said: You owe me one. And I have a feeling you’re a woman who always pays up.”

  The loudspeaker blares with the announcement of an incoming train.

  “That one’s yours. You better run,” he says, passing my ticket into the turnstile and handing me my suitcase.

  I walk through the sliding gate, suitcases following behind me, and turn around to give him one last smile. He waves and turns, heading toward the stairs and taking them up, two at a time. Damn, he looks good from behind.

  I hustle through the station and slide into the train car at the last minute. Luckily the train is empty, and I find a seat with plenty of room for my bags. I settle in for the ride to my rental. The hardest part of this trip is behind me, soon it will just be fun and relaxation. But my body hasn’t caught up with my mind. My heart is pounding and I feel warm, but I don’t think it’s from the weight of my bags and the run to the train. It occurs to me it’s Chris who has me like this. He’s put me in a different, very particular mood.

  2

  Chris

  I’m a gentleman and I would never hope to see a woman topple down a flight of stairs, but my run-in with Weaver Jones has certainly been the highlight of my day. It’s probably because I know I’ll never see her again that keeps her on my mind. Her smile, her sexy body, her completely surprising personality keeps playing on a loop in my head as I walk back upstairs to the train north, to Lille.

  It hadn’t been my choice to come to France. I was looking forward to a skiing trip with friends in St. Moritz this weekend, but family obligations always take priority in my life. When I received the phone call that grandfather had summoned the family to his estate in Lille, there was only one thing to say: “Of course, Grandfather.” I know the visit won’t be pleasant, it rarely is, but I owe it to my family to show up, or else they’ll all suffer the consequences of my absence. The Beliem family name has given me many advantages in life, the least of which isn’t the bank account that allows me to jet off to St. Moritz or France on a mo
ment’s notice, so I have a sense of obligation to the family, no matter how onerous their demands.

  I’d told my friends to go on without me even though I’d paid for the chalet. They’re a good bunch of guys, true friends, and if I can’t join them at least I know I won’t be ruining their trip. I learned early in life that just as there are benefits of having so many zeros at the end of your bank balance, there are pitfalls too. I’ve been through a couple of relationships with women that ended badly when I discovered they were only in it for the money.

  That’s what strikes me about Weaver: her complete distaste for receiving any kind of help, whether it was carrying her bags down the stairs or taking a stupid twenty euros. That’s a girl who won’t use me for shopping trips on the Champs Élysée or flights to Bali. And now I’m thinking about Weaver in a bikini on the beach in Bali, with me beside her, chivalrously offering to spread tanning oil over her legs…

  My phone rings, interrupting that daydream. It’s my oldest brother, Martin. He’s already in Lille with my parents. I’m a good grandson but Martin is ideal. He probably hopped on the first flight as soon as my grandfather called, leaving his lovely wife Millie behind with all three of their kids. But like I said, when grandfather says “jump,” the only acceptable answer is “how high?” Our fortunes, our lives, he holds the strings like a puppet master. So here we are, in France, heading to his estate for the latest critical emergency.

  “Martin,” I bellow into the phone, “long time, no speak. What’s it been? Twelve hours since you last called me in a panic?” I should soften my tone. Martin has a lot on his plate, unlike my other brother Ryan, whose only responsibilities are a seemingly unending smorgasbord of young, available women. Ryan doesn’t mind throwing money around if it means he has his choice of ladies.