Chapter 5

Beatrice

Rosalind steps back a couple of feet and studies me. "I don't know. More eyelashes?"

"If she has any more, she'll look like caterpillars are eating her face," Olivia says, shaking her head.

Showered and dressed in a robe, I'm standing in front of a full-length mirror as Rosalind and Olivia argue over my hair and makeup. It's like they're preparing the virgin to be sacrificed. I've been plucked and pulled and pushed and prodded. A whole lot of P-things.

Why am I letting myself be tortured? I guess I'm still in shock over the fire. And I would be a lot worse if I hadn't had the room service hamburger, fries, and a strawberry daiquiri.

"I guess we can't do any more," Rosalind says, obviously disappointed in my face.

Olivia nods. "It'll have to do."

"All righty then," I say, trying to ignore the slights on my personal appearance. I plop down on the floor and play Legos with Olivia's kids. It's good to distract myself from the fact that I'm due for another round of capture the billionaire in a couple hours at a cocktail my company is throwing.

The kids are enjoying the suite as much as we are. It's vast and decked out in every toy imaginable. The suite's living room is a large, ornate area with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, showing a gorgeous view of meadows and mountains. I'm almost serene as I sit and play with the Legos, but Rosalind and Olivia have second thoughts and hover over me with more brushes and cosmetics.

"Maybe some more..." Rosalind says, holding a large brush near my face.

"It's just a work thing," I say, shielding my face with my hand. "Nobody cares about my makeup or my eyelashes." But what I want to say is: "What if next time I set fire to him or electrocute him or cut off an arm?" I'm terrified of getting near him again. Wasn't once enough? It was like getting trounced at a neighborhood baseball game. Isn't it time to take our ball and go home? Do I really need more humiliation in my life?

Olivia's mother reads my mind. "What if she electrocutes him next time or stabs him with a dinner fork?" she asks from the chaise longue, where she's watching Judge Judy on the big screen. I never thought about cutlery. I could do a lot of damage with stainless steel. I hope the cocktail party only serves finger foods and not a full meal. I probably can't hurt anyone with a stuffed mushroom cap.

"We've got it covered, Mom," Olivia says, still studying me. Fool. She doesn't understand the danger. I'm like the La Brea Tar Pits of bad relationships. I'm the North Star of dysfunction. If men don't leave me, I'll take them out with weapons of mass destruction. Anything so that happiness and love elude me. I'm cursed. Didn't Olivia get the picture when I almost set Cole on fire today? Nope. She's happy as a lark. There's a knock at the door, and she skips to it. "That must be the babysitter," Olivia announces happily. But it's not the babysitter. Somehow, Bessie has found me.

She's still dressed in her cowgirl outfit, and she walks in like she owns the place. "There you are," she says, eyeing me. She sits down on the chaise longue next to Diane, and Judge Judy gets her attention. "You tell them, Judy. Those morons..."

"Right?" Diane says, obviously happy that someone recognizes a good show when they see it. "A contract's a contract. They need to pay up."

"How are you, Bessie?" I say because saying "What the hell are you doing here?" is rude.

"Just dandy. Just dandy," she says, turning away from the TV. "I wanted to see if you needed something like aloe or antibiotic ointment."

I put the finishing touches on a Lego castle and hand it to Olivia's oldest. "Thanks, but I didn't get a scratch on me."

"It's like a Christmas miracle in July," Diane mutters. "Wish I'd seen it."

"It was a sight, all right," Bessie says. "Are those your babies?"

"No. Mine," Olivia says. "I have very active ovaries."

Bessie looks from Olivia to Rosalind to me to the kids and then to Diane. "What's going on here? This isn't a cult, is it? You on that Sister Wives show or something? I smell a rat."

Of course she smells a rat. The room is filled with rats. We're a rat zoo. We're where the Pied Piper came to rest. Day one and we've been found out. I squirm under Bessie's gaze. I'm a terrible liar. I bite my lip and flash a look at Rosalind. She's the best talker, and I wait for her to answer, but she's biting her lip, too. "We're family," Olivia says, finally. "We're keeping Beatrice company. She doesn't like to travel alone."

She smiles a wooden smile, and Rosalind copies her. They look like they've had strokes. Diane rolls her eyes, and I keep biting my lip. Bessie doesn't seem convinced.

Diane turns off Judge Judy. It's the first time the television has been off since I arrived. "Beatrice's hunting a billionaire," she says, cutting through the crap. "We're her support crew."

Bessie frowns. "Cole? You're hunting Cole? Well, you're not the only one. Every woman with duck lips and a pair of silicone floating devices on her chest has been trying to get into his bank account. There's a parade of skinny women in his wake wherever he goes."

"Those tatas are silicone free," Diane insists, defending me. "I know because I got an eyeful when we were cutting her out of her outfit. I don't know about her lips, though. Are those yours, Beatrice?"

They're mine, but I'm thrilled that she thinks I paid for them.

"And she's looking for love," Rosalind adds, finding her voice. "She wants Cole, and we're going to help her get him, because we deserve happy endings, damn it." She points at me. "Beatrice has loved and lost. No! Not lost. She's loved and that love has been ripped away from her because it wasn't real love. It was settled love. She settled. And now she's following her heart. She's not waiting for love to come to her. She's going out and proactively, assertively grabbing it. And she deserves it."

Out of breath, Rosalind sits down on a chair. It's a great speech, and even though it was dramatic, it's true. I thought I was in love, but I thought wrong. I mean, how could I be in love with despicable men? I settled with each man I've been with. But there's no settling with Cole. He's the top of the line model.

But Bessie is shaking her head and looking sad.

"I've heard a lot of stories about love," Bessie says. "When Mavis Stapleton told me that she lost her virginity to a Cabbage Patch doll, I took her at her word. When Johnny Jones said he cut his penis off so he would stop masturbating, I said blech followed closely by okay, Johnny. But Beatrice honey, you just met Cole for five minutes, and half of that time you were on fire. How can you know he's the one?"

Every head in the room turns toward me, including the children. I sniff, and a tear rolls down my face. How do I know that Cole Stevens is the one? He writes poetry and saves horses. When I look at him, my heart beats out of my chest. He smells like sex and money and something else I can't place, but it's good. So good.

"I don't know that he's the one," I say, finally, and more tears fall down my cheeks. I'm reasonably certain he's the one. I mean, he would be the one-I'm sure of it--if only he would fall in love with me, but that's a longshot. Like getting struck by lightning while I'm holding the winning Powerball ticket kind of longshot.

So this is the end. Bessie is going to rat us out to Cole, and Cole is going to believe her because she was his kindergarten teacher. Then, Cole is going to tell my boss, and I'm going to be fired, fired, fired. Canned. Thrown out on my ear. Unemployed, as well as homeless without even a pot to piss in or a panini maker. I love paninis. I look at Olivia. She feels it, too. Her five-star presidential suite with room service and an on-call babysitter are about to go bye-bye. I feel like a terrible heel.

Then, another miracle happens. Bessie squints hard at me, as if she's reading something on my face, and nods. "You do love him," she says, surprising me. "I can see it in your eyes. I thought so when I saw you look at him, and I was sure of it when you set yourself on fire. But I had to test you, and you've passed. I like the idea of you and Cole Stevens. He needs a real woman. A woman with real boobs. And even though you've got a Friday the thirteenth stink on you, I think he's strong enough to handle it, even if you set him on fire or stab him. Who knows? Maybe that'll be good for him. Everything comes too easy to him, anyhow."

It's like getting the housekeeping seal of approval in a warped, insulting kind of way. I'm not sure how to respond.

"So sign me up, ladies," Bessie continues. "I want to be part of the support crew. I want to help with Operation Billionaire."

"Are you crazy?" I ask. "Are you off your meds?"

But everyone else is delighted by this change of events. Olivia applauds, and Rosalind joins her. Diane offers Bessie a piece of her Toblerone, and she accepts it. "I've got lots of ideas on how to make this happen. I think this can work." She slaps her hands together in glee.

"Good," Rosalind says. "You're going to come in handy for logistics and reconnaissance. You'll be our mole."

"Reconnaissance?" I ask, but they're huddling, deep in conversation and don't hear me. There's a knock at the door, and I answer it. The babysitter, a teenage girl with long brown hair and a face covered in freckles, who seems thrilled to take care of four young children, walks in and goes right over to the kids. Unfortunately, time keeps ticking away closer to the cocktail party.

Olivia introduces herself to the babysitter and gives her a lot of instructions, while Rosalind and Bessie herd me back into the bedroom to dress me for the evening. Thankfully, I wear a little black dress that fits me perfectly with not-too-high heels. I'm almost comfortable, even in my two-pound eyelashes and thick makeup.

"Do not, under any circumstances, touch your mouth," Rosalind says. "You've got fifteen coats, and those lips have never looked better."

"But it's a cocktail party. That means there will be, you know, cocktails." Nobody is going to stop me from sucking down a cocktail. Or four. I'm not going another step sober.

"You can hold one, but don't drink." Rosalind furrows her brow. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"Insubordination. Rebellion. Insurrection. Beatrice, remember that men look at eyes and lips. Those are two tell-tale signs of fertility and eroticism."

I never knew that I had tell-tale signs of fertility and eroticism, but I take her word for it. Now that I'm dressed, and my tell-tale signs are covered in the best of what the beauty industry has to offer, I'm given the go-ahead to leave. Bessie accompanies me, even though she's not invited to the cocktail party. She insists that as a local, she doesn't need an invitation. I'm glad for her company because my nerves are pulled tight, and my stage fright is back in spades.

Just as we get to the door, Olivia hands me a tiny ear bud. "What's this for?" I ask.

"This way we can warn you if you're on fire," she says, holding up an industrial-sized fire extinguisher. "We'll stay close if you need to be put out."

"Okie dokie." I stick the earbud in my ear. I'm pleased that I have an early detection system in case of impending catastrophe, but I'm going to need a cocktail.

"What a snooze," Cindy Graves tells me as soon as I walk in the door. "We're supposed to be event planners, but whoever among us planned this shindig is going to get tossed on their ear." She holds up an appetizer. "Shrimp puff, but there's no shrimp. You know what a shrimp puff is without the shrimp?"

"A puff?"

"No. It's crap." She tosses it over her shoulder and throws back the rest of her drink. We're five minutes into the party, and she's blotto. She's rocking on her feet, and I'm slightly seasick watching her.

"I'm Bessie." Bessie shakes Cindy's hand, pumping like she's thirsty and is expecting water to flow from Cindy's mouth. Cindy nods, yanks her hand away and walks back into the crowd, weaving and stumbling. "City gal," Bessie says to me, as if that explains everything about Cindy.

The party is located on the ground floor of a building structure near the equestrian center. Like our hotel room, it has floor-to-ceiling windows, and we're being treated to the end of a magnificent sunset. The room is lit with twinkly white lights and candles. There are about fifty guests, in addition to my colleagues, who are schmoozing.

"I have to meet and greet," I tell Bessie.

She takes my hand and pats it. "That's why I'm here, honey. I'm your cover. It'll look like you're working on me until we eye the target." She giggles. "Oh, I feel just like John Wayne." She does a terrible John Wayne impression and walks into the room, as if she's riding a horse.

"Testing, one, two, three," I hear in my ear bud, scaring me half to death.

"You're doing it wrong."

"I'm pushing the button, like it says in the manual. Can you hear me, Beatrice? Roger. Over."

"Yes, I can hear you," I say.

"What?" Bessie asks. I point to my ear.

"Can you hear me? Can you hear me? This is Rosalind. Oh, shit, Olivia. It's not working."

"Maybe you're not talking loud enough. Beatrice! Beatrice! Can you hear me?! Roger! Over!"

I clutch my head in pain and stumble over to the wall. "I can hear you," I screech, drawing some stares. I lower my voice. "Be quiet. I can hear you."

"Nothing, Rosalind. I think we got a bum microphone."

"Those bastards at Best Buy. They told me...Oh, hold on. Of course. Duh. Beatrice doesn't have a microphone. Beatrice, if you can hear us, go to the window near the chocolate fountain and give us the thumbs up."

"They're checking my ear bud," I tell Bessie, and we walk over to the chocolate fountain. A server with a tray of champagne flutes walks by, and I grab a glass.

"No, you don't," Rosalind says in my ear. "We're watching you."

I squint against the glass. There's a car across the street, and I see a glint of something inside. They must be watching me through binoculars. I wave.

"Don't be obvious," Olivia instructs. "Pretend we're not here. Be yourself. Roger. Over."

"Except be sexy and sophisticated," Rosalind adds.

"Yes. Do that. Roger. Over."

I'm so distracted by the voices in my ear, that I'm oblivious to the sounds around me. Strong hands clap my upper arms and turn me around, making me gasp in surprise. I look up-way up-into Cole Stevens' eyes. He's taller than I remember, even though he's not wearing a hat, now. He's got on a perfectly tailored black suit, and he looks like he popped off of a GQ cover, in order to eat appetizers with Idaho's upper crust.

"Oh," I say.

"There he is. That's Cole. Roger. Over."

"She knows that, Olivia. Who else would it be?"

"Act cool, Beatrice. Think Angelina Jolie in Mr. And Mrs. Smith...but without guns. Roger. Over."

"Did you hear me?" Cole asks. I rub my ear. As soon as Cole has his head turned, I'm going to rip the bud out my head.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Hey there, Cole," Bessie says, interrupting. Her lips are outlined in chocolate, and she's holding a chocolate-covered marshmallow. Cole raises an eyebrow, as if he's confused by her presence. "You remember Beatrice," she continues. "I already told her that I was your kindergarten teacher."

Cole smiles. "Did you? Yes, Bessie was a wonderful kindergarten teacher," he tells me. "She taught me everything I know about finger paints. I looked for you this afternoon," he says, changing the subject. "I couldn't find you. I was worried."

Bessie pops the marshmallow in her mouth. "Not a scratch on her. Amazing, right?"

He looks me up and down, and I squirm under his gaze. "Beatrice Hammersmith." When he says my name, a warm, oozy sexy feeling covers me, like I've been dipped in Cole cooties.

The yummiest cooties on the planet.

"Oh," I manage.

"Is your nose running, or are you drooling? Roger. Over," Olivia asks. I surreptitiously wipe my chin. "Don't be afraid of him. He's just a man. Or maybe not. Rosalind, do you think he's been genetically modified like soy beans? I mean, how else do you explain it? He's like a Ken doll but with all the parts. Roger. Over."

"Like a GI Joe doll," Rosalind says.

I'm desperate to throw away the ear bud. Cole's lips are moving, but I haven't heard a word he's said. I nod and smile, anyway. He raises an eyebrow and smiles back at me.

"Bessie, may I steal Beatrice for a moment?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure, honey. Have a good time." She double-winks at me and turns back to the chocolate fountain. I down my champagne and put the glass down on the table.

"You left half of your mouth on the champagne flute," Rosalind complains. "All that work, and now you look like you don't know how to color in the lines."

I reach for a napkin to clean up my mouth. I give it a couple dabs. Cole gives me his elbow, and I slip my arm through his. I'm touching him. He's touching me. There's touching happening! I check to make sure I'm not on fire. Nope. No flames. Huh, that's funny. I feel like I should have flames shooting out of my pores. At the very least, my liver has melted. But the fact that he's touching me for reasons not associated to dousing a fire is a definite step upward in Operation Billionaire. Yay!

Pretending to sneeze, I turn my head and give a thumb's up toward the window and smile at my backup. There's a scream in my ear.

"Don't panic," Olivia says. "It will be fine. Just excuse yourself for a moment and get to the bathroom. Roger. Over."

What is she talking about? This is the moment I've been waiting for ever since Shlomo Kurtz dumped me at eighth grade summer camp and stole my Samsonite weekender bag.

"Are you crazy, Olivia? She looks like Bozo got drunk and attacked her. It looks like the French flag and Irish flag are screwing her up her nose. She looks like a walking advertisement for every episode of Botched, combined. Listen, Beatrice. Panic, now. The shit is hitting the fan. I repeat, the shit is hitting the fan. This is an amber alert, terrorist warning, five-alarm fire situation. I told you not to drink. Get to the ladies room pronto. Sonofabitch, I don't think she hears me. Is this thing on?"

There's a loud banging in my ear, and I slap at my head to dull the pain. I'm still arm in arm with Cole, and he doesn't seem to be at all freaked out by my face. Could Rosalind and Olivia be exaggerating, slightly? Do I break this magical moment with the man of my dreams in order to check my face in the bathroom?

No.

A Cole in the hand is worth ten in the bush. Bush...the double-entendre makes me blush and I forget completely what Rosalind and Olivia told me to do. Oh, well.

There's static and crackling in the ear bud, but I can't make out what they're saying. I'm thrilled that we're walking out of range, and I try to ignore the static and focus only on Cole. We walk out of the room and down a dark, empty hallway. He gently pushes me up against the wall and puts his finger under my chin, tilting my head up.

"Do you know me?" he asks.

"Do I what?" His face is granite, chiseled from beautiful stone. His eyes are dark, and he has nicer eyelashes than mine. "You're Cole Stevens. You're the Aerospace King."

"But we've met before?"

For a moment, I'm sure that he knows I've been cyber stalking him for the past six months, but I've been careful, and there's no way he could know that I've been watching his houses on Google Maps. I even taped over my video cam in case he had some kind of reverse hacking technology attached to Google.

"No, but like I said, you're my client," I say. "Well, the client of the company I work for." He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes my face. "Am I?...Was I?...Was it?...Did it look like two flags were doing something bad to my nose?"

He smiles, folds his handkerchief, and puts it back in his pocket. "Pity to cover your lips with lipstick," he says. Nora Roberts couldn't have written it better. He stares at my mouth, and my insides throb and melt just like in a romance novel.

If he would only wear a kilt, this scenario would be perfect.

"You..." I start.

"What? Tell me."

"You're nicer than I thought you'd be."

"You mean for the Aerospace King? For a titan of industry and the one percent of the one percent?"

"I didn't mean..."

"Yes, you did. So, how nice am I? Mickey Mouse nice?" He puts his palm on the wall above my head and leans in until his jacket's lapels graze my chest. Something tells me that he's not Mickey Mouse nice.

"Maybe not," I croak. My mouth is a desert. A giant cotton ball. I couldn't find saliva in a lake of it. It's not a mystery. All my fluid is settling down lower away from my mouth, as if it's preparing for him. I have a vagina scout. Always prepared.

"I'm going to kiss you, now, Beatrice Hammersmith," he informs me, leaning in even closer. I nod with my mouth agape. I hope he's a man of his word. He is. He's all kinds of man, and his all kinds of manhood is pressing against my belly through our clothes.

Oh, my.