How to Bang a Billionaire Read online

  How to Bang a Billionaire

  Alexis Hall

  New York Boston

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Alexis Hall

  Chapter excerpt copyright © 2017 by Alexis Hall

  Cover design by Brian Lemus

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First ebook and print on demand edition: April 2017

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  ISBN 978-1-4555-7134-5 (ebook edition)

  ISBN 978-1-4555-7132-1 (print on demand edition)

  E3-20170303-DA-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  A Preview of the Next Book

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Praise for Alexis Hall and His Novels

  Newsletters

  To CMC, you are the fucking best.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks, as ever, to my partner, my agent, and my dear friend Kat: You’re all amazing and I couldn’t do this without any of you. And thanks, as ever, to all the readers who inexplicably stick with me. And finally, a huge, huge thank you to my editor, Madeleine, who I suspect didn’t quite know what she was getting herself into. I’m so grateful for all your help and patience.

  Sweet are the uses of adversity.

  —As You Like It, William Shakespeare

  Prologue

  The crop strikes me with a snap like breaking ice. The pain that follows is sharp and cold, but I don’t cry out. I know I will, eventually, that I’ll sob, gasp, scream perhaps, but I make him break me every time. He needs to see what he does to me. He needs to see what it costs to love him.

  At last it’s over.

  I can feel him behind me, his heat and his hoarse breath. He’ll be tender now as he takes me, though it’s not my pleasure that brings the flush to his skin and the fire to his eyes. It’s my pain.

  This is the ugly truth of what he needs: someone to suffer for him.

  He rolls me over. The sheets are rough against my burning skin. Another hurt I will bear and forgive.

  I hear the soft slap of the crop as it falls. He looks desolate and savage, the sweat on him as bright as tears.

  “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  He’s said this before. But it always brings us back to this room. And to this. Me on my knees. Or in chains. The marks of his shame and torment on my back.

  I go to him and draw him into my arms. He resists for only a moment, then surrenders, pressing his damp face against my neck. I hold him as he shudders and weeps and shatters.

  “Nathaniel.” He lifts his head. His eyes are as cold as the moon. As empty. “I mean it. I can’t keep hurting you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “It’s not that simple. This is what I need.”

  “No.” I press my hand over his frantically beating heart. “I believe you’re better than this. Stronger than this. You don’t have to be what he made you.”

  “I am what he made me. I don’t deserve you. And I can’t make you happy.”

  “But I love you.”

  “You shouldn’t.” His voice breaks. “Nobody should.”

  He leaves me in that terrible room, the room where I first understood what he would do to me and what had been done to him. Though he turns away now, though he denies me and rejects me and flees from me, I know he’ll come back to me.

  I am not the only man who has touched him but I’m the only one who truly knows him. The only one who loves him. The only one who ever could.

  He’s mine. My beloved. My monster. My broken prince.

  He’ll come back to me. And I will save him from himself.

  Chapter 1

  Hello! I’m Arden St. Ives, calling from St. Sebastian’s Colle—”

  Click.

  “Hello! I’m Arden St. Ives, calling from St. Sebastian’s Colle—”

  Click.

  “Hello! I’m Arden St. Ives, calling from St. Sebastian’s Colle—”

  Click.

  Oh dear. It was going to be a really, really long night.

  I was supposed to be doing this college fund-raiser thing where undergraduates called up wealthy alumni and connected deeply with them in a way that got them all nostalgic and wallet-opening or bank-transferring. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly an ideal candidate for the role. Given that I got all squirmy borrowing 60 pence for a can of Coke Zero from the vending machine, I had no fucking clue how I was going to work “and how would you feel about endowing a Chair of Philosophy in perpetuity” into a casual conversation with a complete stranger.

  My best friend Nik was actually the one who’d signed up, but he’d come down with laryngitis. Which meant the telethon team ended up having to use me instead. I knew as soon as they gave me what was supposed to be two days of training in ten minutes that it was going to be awful. And a quick glance around the only slightly dank basement confirmed my worst fears: the rest of the volunteers were all engaged in life-enriching, college-benefiting conversations with opera singers, human rights lawyers, and boutique cheesemakers. Whereas I’d eaten my body weight in free doughnuts and been hung up on more times than an insurance salesman with underdeveloped people skills.

  I dialed the next number. They’d told me you could hear the smile in someone’s voice, so I made sure I was grinning as if I’d swallowed a coat hanger.

  “HelloImArdenSt.IvescallingfromSt.Sebastian’sCollegepleasedonthanguponme.”

  Silence.

  Then, “How did you get this
number?”

  “God, I don’t know. It was just on the list. I’m helping with the…” My mind blanked out. Something about that implacable, cut-glass voice. “…telethon thingy.”

  “The telethon…thingy?”

  “The St. Sebastian’s College annual telethon. Um, you went here, right?”

  “Isn’t that why I’m on your list?”

  “Oh yeah.” I decided to pretend my utter incompetence was funny. “Good point. But there was a letter. You should have got a letter.”

  “I don’t have time to read letters.”

  “Well, no wonder you miss stuff.”

  A laugh, quiet and almost shy, ghosted down the phone to me, and I felt it like fingers against my spine. “I assume that if the message is important, the sender will find a more efficient way to deliver it.”

  “Efficiency isn’t always better, though.”

  “Under what circumstances is being effective at achieving what you set out to achieve less good than the alternative?”

  I’d had tutorials like this. Blurting out some half-baked idea, which was swiftly revealed to be the most abject nonsense. So I did what I always do—the general refuge of the comfortable upper second—and promptly reframed. “Only if what you want to achieve is communicating something as simply, directly, and immediately as possible. Like, if you were on fire, a letter would be a really bad way of telling you.”

  “Also a flammable one.” God, his voice. From the moment I’d heard it, I’d thought it was pretty sexy, in a chilly, upper-class way, but amusement-softened, it was as rich as honey. Irresistible.

  I grinned foolishly at the receiver. “But if I wanted to say something with more nuance, something personal like I’m sorry or, thank you, or…or y’know…I love you, then maybe a letter would mean more than a text message or a Post-it note.”

  “I had no idea the Master of St. Sebastian’s felt quite this strongly about me.” A neat little pause. You had to appreciate a man with timing. “Do you think it’s too late?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe if you chased after her in the pouring rain.”

  “She’s not entirely my type.”

  “It’s that purple houndstooth jacket, right?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a deal breaker.”

  I snuck another peek at the room, in case I was doing it wrong and everybody could tell, but nobody was paying any attention to me. I huddled a little closer to the phone and confessed, “I’ve actually only met her once. In my first year. She asked me what I was going to do when I grew up.”

  “And what are you going to do when you grow up?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. Grow up, I guess?”

  He was silent a moment. “I think that would be a shame.”

  “If I grew up?”

  “If you changed.”

  I made a sort of hiccoughing noise. Surprise and bubbly pleasure. “You don’t know me.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But I’ve enjoyed talking to you and I’m sure others will too.”

  That sounded perilously close to goodbye and I panicked. Maybe it was just because I would have to start the cycle of doom all over again but I genuinely didn’t want him to go. “To be honest, you’re the only person who hasn’t hung up on me halfway through my opening line.”

  There was another moment of silence. I might have been imagining it but it felt a little charged. “You asked me not to.”

  “I was honestly pretty desperate.”

  “Well, it seemed to work.”

  “I guess you took pity on me.”

  “I wouldn’t call it pity.”

  I nearly asked him what he would call it, but I didn’t quite have the balls. I’d been told to telebond, after all, not teleflirt. I wondered what he looked like. What he was doing right now as he was talking to me. Probably he was sixty-five and tending a bonsai tree, but his voice made me imagine wingback chairs and whisky. A riding crop with a silver tip laid idly across a knee…Okay, maybe that was too far. Or just far enough.

  I shivered and suddenly realized how, well, silent silence was when the only thing connecting you was an electrical signal. I didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know me, and if I didn’t say something soon, it was going to get super fucking uncomfortable. “So…um…” I fumbled with the cheat sheet of helpful icebreakers. “When was the last time you were here?”

  “Ah.” A chill syllable, as devastating as a dial tone. “I was wondering when we’d get to this part.”

  “Um, what part?”

  “The part where we exchange charming stories about life at St. Sebastian’s and then you ask me for money.”

  I actually yelped. I’d been sufficiently distracted by the awkward (and occasionally not awkward) conversation part of the arrangement that I’d managed to totally forget about the whole fund-raising thing.

  He laughed and it wasn’t like the other time. It was cold and harsh, and very, very resistible. “What else does it say on your list?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your list. What else does it say about me?”

  I hadn’t expected the call to last more than five seconds, so I hadn’t bothered to read anything beyond the number I was dialing. I looked now. “It says you’re Caspian Leander Hart and you graduated in 2010 with a first in politics, philosophy, and economics. Oh my God, you were a PPEist.”

  “Someone has to be.”

  “And apparently you’re the CEO of a multinational banking and financial services holding company. I don’t know what much of that means.”

  “You can look it up on the Internet. Anything more?”

  I stared at the next line. “It says you’re a lovely person, and very kind to animals.”

  “Arden.”

  It showed how screwed up my priorities were right then that, for a moment, all I could think was, He remembered my name. I imagined his lips shaping it: Arden, Arden, Arden. “Uh, what?”

  “What does it really say?”

  My name, and the touch of sternness, raised all the hairs on my arms. “It says you’re the third richest man in the UK with a net worth in the region of twelve billion quid.”

  I waited. No idea what for. I’d done as he’d commanded, but he wasn’t exactly going to shower me in praise and cookies for it. I expected he would hang up but he didn’t and so we were stuck here, fresh silence deepening between us into this well of infinite nothingness.

  “Um…” I skimmed desperately over the cheat sheet. “It says here that I should ask you if you’re enjoying it. But I don’t know what the it is. Oh, right. The answer to the previous question. How are you enjoying being the third richest man in the UK?”

  “I’m finding it quite enjoyable.”

  “You recommend insane wealth as a potential future for other St. Seb’s graduates?”

  And then…then he laughed again, the laugh I liked. And I could breathe. “I do. What’s your next question?”

  I checked. “Do you get the Arrow?”

  “Since I don’t know what that is, it seems safe to assume I don’t.”

  “It’s the Book of Making You Feel Bad About Yourself. You know, the St. Seb’s magazine? It’s full of stories about people who are living amazing lives and achieving amazing things while you’re sitting around in your pants playing Tsum Tsum.” I paused. “I guess you don’t do that, what with being a billionaire and everything.”

  “I don’t, no.”

  “And you don’t have time for the post, so the whole thing’s a bust really.”

  I must have sounded a bit woebegone because he said, “There isn’t an e-copy you could sign me up for?” with the same kind of embarrassed gentleness you might show a three-legged kitten if you weren’t all that keen on cats.

  “I don’t know. It just turns up in my pidgeon hole. It’s this glossy thing and the cover story is always St. Sebastian’s Graduate Now King of Everything Ever.”

  Another soft laugh. “In which case, I shall strongly resist being put on the mailing list.”
>
  “Oh my God,” I wailed. “I’m epically bad at this. I’ve stirred you from apathy to active antipathy. Do you not like St. Sebastian’s?”

  “I haven’t thought about it since I left.”

  “You don’t have any good memories?”

  “It’s not that. It’s simply that I prefer to focus my energy on the present.”

  “And you never look back?” I tried again. “Never miss anybody or feel thankful?”

  “The past is merely a string of things that have already happened.”.”

  I knew I was a dweller by nature, reliving every moment of embarrassment, every harsh word, every little loss, but I wasn’t sure his way was the answer either. “That sounds alienating. Living out of time.”

  “I would rather control my future than concern myself something I can’t change.”

  Something in the way he said it made the back of my neck prickle. “You can’t control everything.”

  “On the contrary, with enough wealth, power, and conviction, one can control anything. Anyone.”

  Aaaand that really wasn’t helping with my inappropriate telefeelz. I tried to laugh it off, but it came out way too shaky to be convincing. “You sound like…There’s this line in Ulysses where someone describes history as a nightmare from which he’s trying to awake.”

  “I’m already awake. And I haven’t read Ulysses.”

  “You want to know a secret? Me neither.”

  “But you can quote from it.” He seemed to have warmed up again. Maybe he was even smiling. And I thought, What would a man like this look like when he smiled?

  “That’s what an English degree from Oxford teaches you. How to be convincing about a bunch of shit you actually know nothing about.” And there I went. Fucking up again. “But I bet PPE was useful to you, right, and has shaped your career and helped you become the incredibly successful person you are today?”

  “Oxford—as a brand—still carries a certain value when effectively leveraged.”

  I sat back in my chair, tucking a knee beneath me. I felt oddly sad suddenly. Not exactly for us but because of us. I’d basically squandered the last three years being disorganized and lazy and preoccupied with getting laid, and he’d just used the words brand and leveraged in cold blood. “But a world-class education…that’s a gift, isn’t it? It could make a real difference to someone. I mean, someone who was, y’know, better than we are.”