How to Bed a Millionaire Read online

  How to bed a

  Millionaire

  Dieter Moitzi

  How to Bed a Millionaire

  The Light Hearts Trilogy, Book 1

  By Dieter Moitzi

  Cover & layout Dieter Moitzi

  © Dieter Moitzi 2021

  Photos: © Adobe Stock

  Independently published

  If you want to contact the author, please drop a mail

  [email protected]

  © All Rights Reserved Dieter Moitzi 2021

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author. However, brief quotations may be reproduced in the context of reviews.

  Summary

  Take a scrawny French student and a hunky housekeeper; put them in a swanky summer villa; add a pink car named Sean and a ruggedly handsome delivery man—and voilà a sunny-funny summer romance.

  Twenty-year-old Trevor is overjoyed. An Australian millionaire offers him the summer job of his dreams: to catalog the library of his summer house in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat—one of the ritziest and most exclusive spots on the Côte d’Azur.

  What unnerves him, however, is the presence of a young housekeeper who turns out to be as drop-dead gorgeous as he is stilted, obnoxious, and conspicuously straight. Of course, Trevor’s quirky sass and light-hearted banter soon create an atmosphere of crackling tension between the two men.

  What if the housekeeper isn’t as straight as Trevor thinks? What if Trevor is just the kind of person that housekeeper has been looking for all his life? And what if things aren’t exactly what they seem?

  The interview doesn’t last long

  The interview doesn’t last long. I was afraid I’d be questioned for hours, but no. It’s over in no time.

  Fun fact: it does last longer than the trick Dirk brought home last night. At least, that’s what he told me on the phone this morning. The guy had apparently come so fast Dirk didn’t have time to see his dick. “Whipped it out, and the next thing I knew, he’d spurted all over my chest and left,” Dirk moaned. “All in the wink of an eye. Talk about a Speedy Gonzales.”

  I’m glad I was spared another dick description, but Dirk was devastated. He prides himself on giving me detailed accounts so that I hear about all the fun I’m missing. Somehow, he believes I’m completely sex-deprived, which isn’t true. I’m just not pursuing my next lay as single-mindedly as he.

  I arrive on time for the interview, ringing the doorbell at 10:00 a.m. sharp.

  No thanks to the metro, by the way. The line I should have taken was closed for “unexpected technical issues.” Our underground system dates to the beginning of the 20th century and looks as if hardly any upgrades or repair works have been done ever since, so you’d think the RATP, our Parisian public transport operator, would expect problems after all these years. But no, they prefer to be oblivious. I was therefore forced to walk to the nearest station of another line and literally squeeze into a train because I wasn’t alone in enjoying the questionable charms of RATP obliviousness.

  Finally, I reached the 16th arrondissement with five minutes to spare. That’s because I had left my tiny flat very early—I had figured in the possibility of technical issues. Watch and learn, RATP.

  The address Dirk gave me turns out to be a very, very posh mansion. The whole tree-lined, tranquil avenue reeks of dough, but this residence and its wrought-iron gate with gilded bits and pieces put me ill at ease. I’m not used to that kind of ostentatious opulence. I usually don’t hang out in this part of Paris, either, which explains why I feel so cowed. Or it’s because of the state-of-the-art camera rotating, then zooming in on me when I approach.

  An Asian-looking maid in a black dress and a frilly, white apron opens the door. She gives me a bored once-over while walking down the five steps that look suspiciously like white marble.

  “You are?” she asks without opening the gate. I’m surprised by her faultless English. I mean, she could have tried French—spoken by the majority in this country. But no.

  “Trevor Raven,” I reply.

  She shakes her head as if to say, ‘No, no, no, that can’t be right.’ Then she asks for my ID.

  I show her my passport.

  “Oh—Raven”, she says. Ray-ven.

  “Raven”, I correct slowly. “Ruh-venn.” Hello? France? French pronunciation? With a stress on the second syllable? My family name has nothing to do with thieving black birds, thank you very much.

  The maid stares at me unblinkingly. “You are expected”, she says at last. Then she checks her wristwatch. “And you’re two minutes late.”

  Of course, I would be now. I was in time before this stupid, KGB-inspired identity check.

  I don’t say that, though.

  The maid opens the gate, leads me into the mansion, and down a hallway as large as the railway station of a minor French town. She shows me into a huge library. Not on the scanty side, either.

  “You wait here,” I’m instructed. “And don’t touch anything.”

  Charming.

  When she has noiselessly left the library, I gawp at my surroundings.

  The room, no, the hall is breath-taking. The stone floor is polished to such a shine that it reflects the rows upon rows of wooden shelves and their contents, which cover the two long walls to my right and to my left from floor to cathedral-high, stuccoed ceiling. Shelves and books all antiques, by the looks of them. In one corner, there’s a fragile desk and two chairs I suppose to be genuine Louis XV. In the corners stand huge vases, probably Chinese. I’m facing three French windows through which I have a beautiful view over the lush green lawn, the bushes, and the trees of a park that seems to go with the mansion.

  I mean, a private park! In Paris! I’ve never seen so much luxury.

  But what really boggles my mind are the books. I’m a bookworm, that’s the main reason I’m standing here. And this library is simply one of my dreams come true. My gaze wanders over the thousands of spines, most of them so old and still so dainty that I can’t believe my luck. These are treasures! And I’m going to work on them over the summer months if the interview goes well!

  Cluck, cluck, cluck. Someone wearing high heels is coming down the hallway.

  The door is opened, I turn around.

  A woman in an expensive, navy-blue pant suit and a white blouse cluck-cluck-clucks toward me. At a glance, I’d say she’s wearing Louboutin stilettos. Her dark hair is gathered in a bun that looks as tight as her fleeting smile. She too gives me a once-over without hiding that she’s not impressed by my slender frame, black jeans, black T-shirt, and white sneakers. She holds out her hand, however, and I shake it.

  “You must be Monsieur Raven,” she states. In English again. At least, she gets the pronunciation of my last name right.

  “Madame Destrelle?” I ask. Together with her name Dirk told me she is my prospective employer’s PA. Housekeeper. Secretary. Whatever. He was vague about that. Details bore him if they don’t concern men.

  “Mademoiselle”, she corrects me. “Let’s have a seat.”

  She briskly strides over to the table—cluck, cluck, cluck—and beckons me to sit down on one of the chairs. I eye it with apprehension as it seems too frail to hold even my featherweight. To my surprise and relief, it doesn’t instantly fall to pieces, though, when I place part of
my bum on its edge.

  “I appreciate it, Monsieur Raven, that you could come and see me at such short notice. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long,” Mademoiselle Destrelle says. Meaning she has better things to do. “I take it Monsieur Bormann has already instructed you.”

  Monsieur Bormann—that would be Dirk. And yes, he has.

  That’s why I nod and say, “Yes, he has.”

  Sketchily, I might add, which I do not.

  Mademoiselle Destrelle sums up my prospective job, anyway. Better be safe than sorry seems to be her motto. She’s a crisp, no-nonsense lady who reminds me of a modern-day Mrs. Danvers. I can perfectly well imagine her stroking her late mistress’s furs and dresses when no one’s looking.

  While she talks, I listen and nod—no verbal answers required nor wanted.

  After a ten-minute monologue, she says, “Normally we would have made a thorough background check. But as you come highly recommended by Monsieur Bormann and Professor Dulieu…”

  Dulieu? He knows I exist? Who’d have thunk it. He’s one of my university teachers and has never so much as nodded in my direction. He knows Dirk, of course. Biblically. From what I’ve heard, Professor Dulieu can be described as “thick, veiny, and fulfilling.” Certain parts of him, that is.

  “Well, there you are. When can you start?” Mademoiselle Destrelle asks.

  “As soon as is convenient for you.”

  “Let’s see. Today is Monday. How about Thursday?”

  “All right.”

  “How will you go there?”

  I stare at her, taken aback. “Why? I’ll take public transport, of course…”

  “By train, then,” she states while getting up. “Keep the receipts of the train and the taxi so that we can reimburse you.”

  “Train? And taxi? Why would you want me to take a train and a taxi to come here?”

  Now it’s Mademoiselle Destrelle’s turn to stare. I feel as if I had suddenly grown a huge and ugly zit in the middle of my forehead. “You won’t be working here, of course”, she says, aghast. The mere thought of me handling the precious antiques in this room makes her shudder.

  “Of course,” I murmur.

  Mademoiselle Destrelle sighs. “Didn’t Monsieur Bormann tell you that you would be working in Mr. Kinner’s summer house?” Armistead Kinner—that’s her boss’s name. American businessman, I reckon. Huge fortune.

  “Er, no,” I admit.

  With forced patience, she says, “There’s a summer library. In the summer house. Mr. Kinner wants you to make out an inventory of that library. Just, you know, list the books, authors, editors, release dates, and where they’re shelved.”

  “Got it.”

  “Is that a problem, Monsieur Raven?”

  “Not at all. Where is that summer house?”

  “Why, in Saint-Jean, of course.”

  Of course. How silly of me to ask.

  “Saint-Jean-de-Luz?” I say, citing the name of a famous seaside town in the French Basque Country.

  “Oh, no. Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.” Her face spells ‘Duh!’, but she’s too refined to use that word.

  “Oh. All right.”

  “Are you still interested?”

  “Yes, of course.” To spend July and August in one of the ritziest, most exclusive spots of the French Riviera is even better than the Basque Country. I all but bounce on my chair, remembering in time that that would probably be the end of the delicate Louis XV piece. “But I’ll take my car if you don’t mind,” I add.

  She doesn’t. By the looks of it, she couldn’t care less. “As you wish. It’s settled, then. This afternoon I’ll send you the details as well as the contract by email. You’ll leave a signed copy with the housekeeper of the summer house.”

  Without further ado, I’m thanked with the warmth of an igloo, then shown out.

  The whole thing has lasted twenty minutes.

  While I’m walking to the metro station, I’m still a bit dazed. Unexpectedly good news and the display of out-of-this-world riches would do that to you.

  Suddenly, I realize I didn’t even ask how much I’ll be paid.

  Another detail Dirk forgot to tell me.

  Here’s the thing: Dirk is a slut

  Here’s the thing: Dirk is a slut.

  No, scratch that. Dirk is the slut.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m saying this fondly. But it’s a fact, and he owns it. He thinks monogamy is the name of a board game.

  We hooked up two years ago, you see. That’s when I learned about Dirk being a slut. The hard way. To call ours a brief affair would be an understatement. To say I was crushed when it was over before it had even begun, another. That’s because I’m a hopeless romantic. Meaning that after our first shag—which incidentally turned out to be our last one—I was ready to publish the banns.

  Dirk, not so much.

  To his defense, he never hides his sluttiness. He’s even very outspoken about it. Gives you the proper warning right from the start. I remember, when we had both climaxed and were mopping up the evidence glistening on our bodies, he told me casually, “Phew—that was great, Tyler!”

  “Trevor.”

  “Oh. Right. Trevor. By the way—don’t fall in love with me.”

  My reaction consisted of… a great blank. I was speechless. Probably because falling in love was exactly what I’d had in mind.

  Oblivious to my emotional turmoil, he went on to explain. “I don’t do long-term relationships. Why, I don’t even do short-term relationships. I normally just, you know, fuck. No strings attached, no follow-ups included.”

  I nodded like a robot.

  “But I think I like you. We should stay friends, shouldn’t we?”

  We shook hands that had shaken other body parts some mere minutes ago, and I left with a poker face. Only back in my tiny, tiny flat did I burst into tears.

  Eventually, I got over him. It took me a week, to be precise. Not because I have a heart of stone, but because Dirk made sure my suffering wouldn’t last longer. He did so by calling me several times over the next few days, initiating his habit of informing me in crudest detail about his latest conquests.

  After a week, I stated, “You’re such a slut, Dirk.”

  “Why, how sweet of you!” he replied, sincerely flattered.

  He single-handedly cured me of my romantic streak, then and there. I’m still looking for Mr. Darcy, all right. You don’t change so radically overnight, or overfuck as it were. But I’ve stopped fancying myself in love each time I get laid. Although Dirk thinks otherwise, that happens occasionally. Even blind chickens pick up a grain from time to time, as they say.

  Dirk is German, by the way. And he has this annoyingly attractive all-German boy thing going. You know, thick blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, mischievous smile. He’s tall and well built, with bulging muscles and no body fat to speak of. He doesn’t even work out, which, I mean, how unjust can life get? Oh, he’s also very well endowed, if memory serves me.

  In other words, he’s a hung hunk. The guy who has it all and enjoys it, as he should.

  What about me, you ask? Good question. I’m just your average dude. No one would describe me as hunky. For starters, I’m rather on the slender side. No, make that thin. Zero muscles embellishing my frame, no broad shoulders, just scrawniness wherever you look. I repeat, I do get laid. Some guys out there have a skinny kink, and what can I say? Lucky me.

  My best features? Let me think. My eyes, maybe. They’re emerald green and come as a surprise because my hair is dark and my complexion, too. Cappuccino-ish. Americans with their fondness for all things binary and clear-cut would call me black. My mom is American, and darker than I, so I should know. Namely because she calls me black, but hey, that’s Mom.

  Here in Europe I’d pass as a Mediterranean guy if it weren’t for the thick l
ips—“Perfect suck-me-off-lips” according to Dirk—and the very distinctive frizzy hair. The lips are okay. Whether they’re particularly suited for blowjobs or Dirk just had one of his racist moments isn’t for me to say. Never had any complaints in the oral department if you want the truth.

  And my hair, well, I just love it the way it is. Hardly ever cut it, going for the good, ole Afro style. You can do so many cool things with a nice Afro, especially now guys have discovered that a man-bun is a thing.

  Oh, talking about features I like about myself—let’s not forget my bum. The best thing I inherited from my mom’s far-away African ancestors, it’s firm and bouncy. Wet dreams material for gays with a bum fixation. This may come as a surprise to you, but they’re not in short supply.

  Back to Dirk if you will. He’s great fun to have around: bitchy, lively, not a care in the world. Plus, he’s fiercely loyal to his friends. In a way. His way. That’s why he suggested me as his replacement for the Kinner job as soon as he had decided he’d prefer to spend his summer months with his aunt in Greece. That freaky woman has just invested her latest inheritance to buy a house somewhere on the Peloponnese coast and invited him to join her.

  “I simply can’t say no,” he told me. “Think of the beautiful landscapes. And the sea. And the food.”

  “Think of the beautiful Greek guys,” I muttered.

  “Exactly,” he replied. “So, will you go and meet that lady for the interview? Please?”

  “All right. I’ll do it.”

  I don’t know what shaky lie he told Mademoiselle Destrelle, and I’m not sure I want to know. I’m just glad she didn’t bring it up because there’s a chance Dirk’s mother is supposed to be fatally ill again. So far, she has recovered at least a dozen times from ailments as far-fetched as jugular fever and acute fartinosis. I kid you not. Try to keep a straight face when something like that comes up in a job interview!

  You know what? In a way, I’m grateful Dirk has other summer plans. I need the dough. That’s why I didn’t think twice before applying for his job.

  I’m studying French, you see, at the Sorbonne. From time to time, I’m helping out in a bookshop, but when you look at the wages, it’s more a charity thing than a well-paid job. Doesn’t pay for the supplies I need to buy, books and other stuff. There’s the food problem, too. My mom hands me Tupperware boxes whenever I visit my parents, but they only last for a while. I also must pay the rent for my flat. All right, it’s so tiny and cramped a dog would have to wag its tail vertically, but still. For those who don’t know it: rents are insane in this city.