The Billionaire's Boyfriend Page 10

  Unfortunately, there were no backseat shenanigans on the ride to the airport. We had a long trip ahead of us and I was way too excited… or anxious… or I don’t know what, to get up to mischief.

  As we passed the turn-off to the airport, I pointed out the window, confused. “Aren’t we supposed to take that exit?”

  “We take a different route. That’s for commercial flights.”

  “Oh. You mean.”

  Cal nodded with a smile. “We’re on a private flight.”

  “All the way to Rome?”

  “No, we need to refuel on an aircraft carrier halfway across the Atlantic.”

  “Oh God! Really?”

  “I’m kidding. About the aircraft carrier, at least. We’ll refuel in Lisbon, Portugal, then continue on to Rome.”

  “Gosh, it all sounds so...”

  “Romantic?” Cal took my hand. “I hope so.”

  I braced myself and took a breath so long and deep that I began hiccupping. “Cal—”

  Hiccup.

  “Before we get on the plane, I have something I need to—”

  Hiccup.

  “—ask you—”

  Hiccup.

  Cal squeezed my fingers. “Of course. Ask away.”

  Hiccup.

  “Do you—”

  Hiccup, hiccup.

  “—have—”

  Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup.

  “Oh goddammit, do you have a glass of water?”

  “Yes, of course!” Cal rustled up a bottle of Evian from a small icebox set into his armrest.

  I gulped and gulped, drowning my hiccups—

  —along with any courage I had mustered to ask about Angus. When I had drained the entire bottle of water, I gasped for air and sighed.

  “Is that all you needed to ask?” Cal said.

  I paused, realizing the moment was gone. “Yes, that was all. Thank you.”

  Cal looked beyond me and pointed out the window. “We’re here,” he smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. I guess.”

  * * *

  We cleared a security checkpoint at a section of the airport perimeter then drove across the tarmac toward a waiting Learjet.

  “We’re driving on the tarmac!” I exclaimed like a kid who just saw Santa Claus and his reindeer come in for a landing. “We’re driving on the fucking tarmac!”

  Cal chuckled. “It’s okay. We have permission. Do you have your passport handy?”

  I dug my passport out of my backpack and handed it to Cal as the limo pulled up beside the jet.

  A security officer, customs officer and pilot were waiting to greet us.

  “Good morning, Mr. Croft,” said the pilot. “Beautiful day for a joy flight to Rome, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do,” Cal replied. “Matthew Darcy, I’d like you to meet Captain Jenkins. He’ll be flying us to Rome today.”

  The pilot shook my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Darcy. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your flight. If you wouldn’t mind letting Officer Burke check your bag, that’d be much appreciated. We’re scheduled for take-off in ten minutes.”

  While I handed my backpack to the security officer, Cal handed both our passports to the customs officer who scanned them with a handheld device before handing them back.

  “Everything seems in order, Mr. Croft,” she said to Cal. “Have a safe flight.”

  “Thanks Kate. See you when we get back.”

  As the security officer returned my backpack, I glanced over at Cal and said, “You don’t wait in line for anything, do you.” It wasn’t a question but rather, from what I could see, a fact.

  “That’s not true. I still have to cue for a hot dog at a Knicks game.”

  “So, you do rub shoulders with Brad Pitt at the basketball!”

  Cal shrugged with a knowing grin before Captain Jenkins gestured for us to board. “Gentlemen, Yvette has a fine bottle of Dom Perignon on ice waiting for you. If you’d like to board the plane and take your seats, we’ll have you in the air in no time.”

  “After you,” Cal said to me, pointing to the fold-down steps leading inside.

  The interior of the plane was all white leather with silver accents. It was sleek, stylish and the very definition of a gay man’s fantasy, something that was confirmed by the pop of a champagne bottle. I turned to see Yvette, a gorgeous flight attendant in a chic sixties-style uniform, pouring Dom Perignon for two.

  She lifted a silver tray and invited me to take a glass. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy. Welcome on board for your flight to Rome today.”

  I had, quite possibly, died and gone to heaven.

  In that moment—and for the entire duration of the flight—all thoughts of Angus had simply vanished. All I could think about was the champagne on my lips, the clouds over the Atlantic, and the man who held my hand the entire journey.

  * * *

  I had just enough time to pick out some postcards at a souvenir shop in the main terminal of Lisbon airport before Cal tried to haul me away from the treasure trove of exotic little trinkets.

  “Another ten minutes? Please?” I begged. “Look, over here, there’s a book on the 1755 Lisbon earthquake that killed a hundred thousand people… Mr. Banks would love that, he’ll have such fond memories of that day. And over here, there’s a handbook with a thousand common phrases translated from English into Portuguese… Tilly’s always wanted to order peri-peri chicken in the chicken’s native tongue.

  “I don’t think chickens have a native tongue.”

  “You know what I mean. But wait, check these out! A set of shot glasses with Portuguese monks on them. When you take a shot, and tip the glass upside down, their robes go up and they flash their asses.” I started laughing. “Mrs. Mulroney will love those!”

  “Matt, we have to get back to the jet or we’ll miss our take-off slot.”

  “I know. But I’ve never been to Portugal before.”

  “You’re not really in Portugal. You’re just in the airport.”

  “I know that, but who knows when I’ll ever get a chance to come back here?”

  “We can come back next weekend if you like.”

  Of course, a billionaire would say that. “God, your reality is so different to mine.”

  “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  Cal dragged me away, and within a few short hours we touched down at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport in Rome.

  Customs.

  Security.

  Limo.

  In a whirlwind of efficiency, we were whisked away from the airport, then swept into a tornado of Roman traffic as swarms of veering Vespas and frantic Fiats swerved and turned and honked their way recklessly through the streets.

  By some miracle we arrived without incident at the Palazzo Manfredi, a small, opulent hotel overlooking the Colosseum.

  “You’re going to love this place,” said Cal. “It’s my home away from home in Rome. Just don’t mind Sergio, the concierge. He can be a little… snobby.”

  “How can he be snobby to you? You could buy the Colosseum with your kinda dough.”

  “Oh, he won’t be snobby to me,” Cal said, stepping out of the limo.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Is he gonna be a snob to me?”

  Cal leaned back into the limo and took my hand to help me off another slippery limo seat. “Just don’t take it personally. Deep down he’s got a heart of gold.”

  “How deep down?”

  “Deep. Oh, and he likes to use the word ‘magnifico’… a lot. You’ll get used to it.”

  As I stepped out of the limo with my backpack, a little man with his nose in the air and a wide smile holding up his bushy moustache hurried out of the hotel to greet Cal.

  “Signor Croft, how wonderful to see you again! You look magnifico, if I may be so bold to say.”

  “Thank you, Sergio. It’s good to be back.” Cal turned to introduce me. “Sergio, I’d like you to meet my friend
, Matthew Darcy.”

  As Sergio turned to look at me, his smile seemed to have trouble holding up that bushy moustache of his. He eyed me up and down like I was some scrawny stray cat that Cal had just brought home and asked if he could keep.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Cal covering his mouth, trying not to laugh.

  “Ciao,” Sergio said shortly. “Do you have any baggage?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, offering him my backpack.

  He simply looked at it without moving a muscle. “I mean, do you have any baggage besides your laundry bag?”

  “Um, no. I mean, yes. I mean, this is my bag.”

  As though he were plucking the panties off a hundred-year-old hooker, Sergio snatched my bag from me with tweezer-like fingers. “Bellboy!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Within seconds, a lanky bellboy scurried to Sergio’s rescue, relieving him of my backpack.

  I turned to Cal, suddenly realizing he had no luggage. “Where are your bags, anyway?”

  Sergio felt the need to answer for him, rather proudly. “Signor Croft has a complete wardrobe of clothes he keeps here.” His sneer melted into a smile as he turned from me to Cal. “They’re waiting for you in your suite, whenever you are ready, sir.”

  “Grazie, Sergio,” Cal said with a nod.

  With that, Sergio escorted us up to our suite—a sprawling space overlooking the ancient ruins of the Colosseum.

  “This is breathtaking,” I said as we walked into the palatial suite, which included a sitting room, balcony, a master bedroom and a guestroom.

  With an indifferent wave of his hand, Sergio gestured for the bellboy to drop my bag into the guestroom.

  “Actually, Sergio. Signor Darcy’s bag can go in my room,” said Cal.

  “Oh, how… magnifico,” Sergio muttered sarcastically under his moustache. He drew a long, noisy breath of air through his flared nostrils before waving the bellboy into the master bedroom.

  “Signor Croft, for your drinking pleasure I have stocked the bar with a selection of your favorite wines from Tuscany. I’ve also taken the liberty of dry cleaning your tuxedo for tonight.”

  “You’re going somewhere?” I asked Cal.

  “We’re going somewhere,” Cal replied.

  Sergio let out another frustrated sigh. “Si. I have two tickets for tonight’s opera ready for you to collect downstairs.”

  “Opera?” I asked, both daunted and excited.

  Cal nodded. “There’s a special performance of Turandot at the Colosseum tonight. I thought you might like to hear what Nessum Dorma really sounds like. But first, we need to find you something to wear.”

  * * *

  It seemed every corner of Rome was home to an ancient ruin and every turn held a new surprise. Two-thousand-year-old columns cast their shadows over trendy little bars and cafes packed with people. Famous landmarks like Capitoline Hill, the dome of Saint Peters and the Castel Sant’Angelo drifted across the skyline beyond the crumbling apartment buildings and towering statues. My eyes were fixed with fascination and wonder to every sight that passed by the window of our limousine.

  “It’s stunning, isn’t it?” said Cal, watching me watch every inch of Rome go by.

  “It sure is. But there’s one thing I want to see more than anything else.”

  “I know what it is. And when the limousine stops you have to promise not to be distracted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My favorite tailor in Rome is on Via Condotti… which is also the same street that leads straight to—”

  As if on cue, the Spanish Steps suddenly appeared out the window.

  I gasped, unable to hide my excitement.

  Just a few feet away, alive with purple and pink azaleas and camellias in giant pots cascading down the steps, was the place I had dreamed of visiting ever since my parents passed away.

  “Oh my God, they’re real. They’re really, really real!”

  “Yes, they really, really are,” Cal said as the limo pulled up. “But I want to save them for later.”

  “Later?”

  “After the opera. Let’s come back here, just the two of us.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Matt, what’s the rush? We’ll stand on the Spanish Steps. We’ll stroll every street of Rome, and throw coins into the Trevi Fountain, and look up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel till our necks are sore. We’ll do it all… one thing at a time. But right now, I want to buy you a tuxedo for the opera tonight.”

  He had my heart on a piece of string yet again. God, he knew how to tug at it.

  I glanced back once more and hesitated a moment longer.

  “Matt, I’ll bring you back here tonight. I’ll hold you in my arms on the Spanish Steps and I’ll kiss you under the stars. I promise.”

  I wasn’t sure which part of me reacted the fastest—my pounding heart, my love-struck eyes or my pulsating crotch. “You promise?”

  He nodded, then leaned in to kiss me.

  As he did, the limo turned down Via Condotti—

  —away from the Spanish Steps.

  My dream would have to wait a little longer.

  * * *

  Signor Ravello’s tailor shop was a tiny yet exquisitely adorned business nestled between a wine bar and a designer handbag store on Via Condotti. On the oak-paneled walls were small Renaissance etchings, bronze ornaments from ancient Rome, and dozens of framed photographs of famous people whom Signor Ravello was obviously proud to call his loyal patrons—Barack Obama, George Clooney… and Calvin Croft.

  “Ah, there’s a photo of you on the wall,” I whispered quietly to Cal as we stood waiting for Signor Ravello to return from the back room with a selection of tuxedos for me to try on. “Just in case you didn’t know, I thought I should tell you. You’re on the wall. Next to the photo of Marlon Brando.”

  Cal tried to ignore me, saved just in time by the return of Signor Ravello.

  “Sorry to keep you, Signor Croft. Here I have several sizes and styles that I think will suit your friend, but to be sure I would like to measure him up.”

  “Of course. Please do.”

  Signor Ravello gestured for me to follow him to a fitting room behind a red velvet curtain. It was not the kind of fitting room I was used to. There was an antique chaise longue along one wall, a free-standing full-length mirror with a gold frame in one corner, an espresso machine which I’m sure George Clooney had used more than once, and rows upon rows of shoes, ties and bowties hanging from racks.

  Before Signor Ravello could close the curtains, Cal followed us into the fitting room and made himself at home on the chaise longue.

  “Please, step this way in front of the mirror, Signor…”

  “Darcy,” answered Cal. “This is Signor Matthew Darcy. My apologies for not introducing you earlier. I was busy trying to lure him away from the view of the Spanish Steps and into the shop.”

  “They are beautiful, no?” Signor Ravello asked me.

  I nodded. “Yes, they are. Even more than I imagined.”

  “Wait until someone you love takes you by the arm and walks you up those steps one at a time, until you reach the very top,” Signor Ravello said, his eyes filled with his own dream of love. “I can assure you, with all of Rome spread before you, with centuries of love at your feet, no embrace will ever feel as powerful, no kiss will ever taste as sweet.”

  I took a breath and my bottom lip quivered. I bit down on it to make it stop.

  “I believe you,” I said to the tailor.

  With a sharp snap of his measuring tape, Signor Ravello yanked me out of the moment so fast he may have given me whiplash. “And now, time to drop your pants. I need to measure you up.”

  “Oh? Oh!”

  “Pronto, pronto! Off with your pants! And your shirt, if you please.”

  “Of course,” I said, quickly doing what I was told.

  I unzipped my jeans and unbuttoned my shirt, suddenly feeling awkward and shy. It wa
sn’t every day I was asked to disrobe in the same room where Barack Obama had stood in his presidential boxer shorts.

  Cal grinned as my jeans got stuck around my ankles and I clumsily wrestled my way out of them, needing to lean on Signor Ravello to finally get the job done.

  “Why are you being so self-conscious all of a sudden?” Cal grinned.

  “Why are you asking me about being self-conscious? It’s making me self-conscious.”

  “Relax,” he said. “I’ve seen you with less clothes on than that.”

  Even more embarrassed, I jerked my head silently toward Signor Ravello as if to say, Not in front of the tailor!

  Signor Ravello noticed and simply gave me a mischievous smirk. “Perhaps it is Signor Croft who will walk you to the top of the Spanish Steps,” he said. “You could do worse, that’s for sure.”

  “He’s biased,” Cal cut in. “I spend a lot of money with him.”

  “Yet you have never before brought a gentleman friend here for a fitting,” Signor Ravello observed.

  This time I was the one to grin. “Is that true?”

  “Please just concentrate on the measurements, Signor Ravello,” Cal said.

  “Of course, Signor Croft.” With another snap of his tape, Signor Ravello measured the inside of my leg all the way from the floor to my right testicle… which instantly retreated in fear.

  I flinched and gave a little yelp of surprise.

  Cal smirked again. “Make sure it’s nice and tight around the inside seam,” he instructed. “My clients are always trying to hide their assets. I think Signor Darcy should show his ass…ets off. Don’t you agree?”

  “As you Americans say, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” said Signor Ravello. “In fact, I do believe a number of the suits I’ve selected will be a perfect fit for Signor Darcy. Perhaps the two of you would like to try them on in private. Just ring the bell on the table if you need any assistance.”

  “Grazie, Signor Ravello,” Cal said as the tailor politely left the fitting room and drew the curtains closed behind him.

  Cal turned to me and with a sorry sigh said, “I hate to say this, but would you mind putting some clothes on, Signor Darcy?”