Page 22 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

According to the screen, Pandora is running the current musical selection—something soft and ballad-y—Radiohead, if I’m not mistaken. I remember him liking alt rock of that era. All except Dave Matthews Band. I smile at the memory of him leaping across Beau Cirque set pieces to get rid of a Dave Matthews Band song during lighting blocking. As head of AV, he exerted fanatical control over the music as well as the lights. And he so hated Dave Matthews Band. I never understood why. I always liked them.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

He gives me a look. “Don’t screw this up.”

I give him a pouty little frown. “I’m not the one conscripting a fake wife for a business dinner.”

“Real wife.” He goes back to his phone. “My actual wife.”

I snort. “A little hard to forget.”

He gestures at the small door that forms the base of the fancy limo coffee table. “Beverages. Help yourself. It’ll be a while.”

I pull on the discreet handle and it turns out to be a luxurious mini fridge, complete with lots of snacks and beverages, including, much to my delight, a couple of mini cans of zero-sugar black cherry carbonated water and chilled glasses. “Don’t mind if I do,” I say. “Don’t mind if I do at all.”

I never drink sugary stuff when in rehearsal mode. When you’re doing seven-hour days of dancing—ten if there’s a performance—you have to manage your energy.

When I’m done pouring, I toss the can into a discreet compartment with a recycling logo. This place is like a cockpit, except way more high tech, and definitely more luxurious, and it smells woodsy and spicy like him, not that I’m keeping track.

“So who are these personages that we’re going to be dining with?” I ask.

“It’s the president, vice president, and a few of the operating officers from a company called Arcana Protech,” he says, not bothering to pull his gaze from his phone.

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s an international conglomerate based in Rio de Janeiro, with offices in Dallas,” he says to his phone. “They’re all about industrial engineering. The Texans we meet tonight may act like they are in charge, but it’s actually one of the Brazilians who makes the decisions. A woman named Juliana.”

“And Juliana wants to buy your company, which makes little machine-cleaning microrobot thingies.”

“Somebody’s been doing her homework,” he mumbles, scrolling onward.

“A girl likes to know who she’s married to,” I say. “So when the robot takeover happens and artificial intelligence exterminates all of the humans, will your microrobots be like tiny little Renfields? Obediently shuffling after our overlords while catching and eating flies?”

“Machines create human leisure,” he says. “We humans are the overlords of technology.”

“Somebody needs to re-watch the Terminator franchise,” I say.

He simply grunts.

“Is there anything else I should know? Don’t you think it would be customary for me to be up on this stuff?”

“You don’t bother yourself about the business. You’re deeply infatuated with me. That’s what our marriage is based on.”

“Deeply infatuated,” I tease.

“Deeply.” He looks up at me now. His face is in shadows, but his eyes are burning out at me. In a rumbly voice he says, “You can’t get enough of me. Something just comes over you whenever I walk into the room. Though I have to say, a man has his limits, Francine.”

I snort. “Omigod. Can’t even.”

He doesn’t smile, of course, but I can feel the jerky pleasure radiating off him in waves.

“We met in Vegas doing Beau Cirque, of course,” he says. “We’re both extremely private, and very independent in our pursuits, not always on the same coast. Best to stick close to the truth.”

“Right, of course, this all really sounds like we’re sticking with the truth.”

The car slows. Benny glances at the console thing—the picture on the console changes from the Pandora display to a map and an address.

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