The Billionaire Next Door

Lizzie sat down on the bed and took her cell phone out of her purse.

Except she couldn’t call just yet. She had to stitch herself back together a little. At the moment, she felt like a stuffed animal whose side had been torn open and whose padding was leaking.

She glanced back at the bag and was overcome with grief.

Over the past two years, Mr. O’Banyon had become a kind of surrogate father to her. Gruff, prickly and standoffish in the beginning, he’d stayed that way…but only on the surface. As time had passed and his health had declined, he’d gotten as attached to her as she was to him, always asking her when she was coming back to see him, always worried about her driving after dark, always keeping up with how her day went or what she was thinking about. As his heart had grown weaker and weaker, their ties had grown stronger and stronger. Gradually, she’d done more things for him, buying groceries, doing errands, cleaning up, helping him keep all his doctor’s appointments straight.

She’d liked being responsible for him. With no husband or children of her own, and a mother who was too fey to really connect with, Lizzie’s caretaking nature had needed an outlet beyond her job. Mr. O’Banyon had been it.

Clear as day, she pictured him sitting in his Barcalounger in front of his TV, a crossword puzzle balanced on the arm of the chair, his reading glasses down on his nose. He had been so sad and lonely, not that he’d ever shown that outright. It was just…well, Lizzie was a little sad and lonely, too, so she’d recognized the shadows in his eyes as exactly what she saw in her own mirror.

And now he was gone.

She stared down at her cell phone and the piece of paper she’d taken out of his wallet. His son’s name was Sean, evidently.

She started to dial, but then stopped, picked up the bag of Mr. O’Banyon’s things and headed out.

When she talked to the man’s son, she was going to need some fresh air.

***

Standing in the Waldorf’s ballroom, Sean O’Banyon smiled at Marshall Williamson III and thought about how the guy had tried to blackball him at the Congress Club. Hadn’t worked, but good old Williamson had given it his best shot.

“You’re the pinnacle,” Williamson was saying. “Without peer. You are the man I want on this merger.”

Sean smiled and figured that given the amount of groveling that was going on, Williamson was remembering the blackball thing, too.

“Thanks, Marshall. You call my assistant. She’ll get you in to see me.”

“Thankyou , Sean. After all you did for Trolly Construction, I know you—”

“Call my assistant.” Sean clapped Marshall on the shoulder to cut him off because getting stroked was boring. Especially when the sucking up was insincere and business motivated. “I’m going to get a drink. I’ll see you sometime next week.”

As he turned away, he was still smiling. Watching men who’d cut him down eat their pride made up for the social slights he had to deal with. Thing was, there was one and only one golden rule on Wall Street: He who had the gold, or could get it, made the rules. And in spite of his nothing-doing background, Sean was a mine for that shiny yellow stuff.

While he headed for the bar, he looked around the ballroom and saw the crowd for exactly what they were. He was under no illusions that any of these people were his friends. They were his allies or his enemies and sometimes both at the same time. Or they were acquaintances who wanted to have their pictures taken with him. Or they were women who’d been his lovers.

But there was no one here he was particularly close to. And he liked it that way.

“Hello, Sean.”

He glanced to his left and thought, ah, yes, a bridal barracuda. “Hello, Candace.”

The blonde sidled up to him, all pouty lips and big, insincere eyes. She was dressed in a black gown that was so low cut you could almost see her belly button, and her surgically enhanced assets were displayed as if they were up for sale. Which he supposed they were. For the right engagement ring and a generous prenup, Candace would walk down the aisle with a bridge troll.

Her voice was slightly breathless as she spoke. Possibly because of all the silicone on top of her lungs. “I heard you were out in the Hamptons last weekend. You didn’t call.”

“Busy. Sorry.”

She pressed herself against him. “You need to call me when you’re there. Actually, you just need to call me.”

He disengaged himself as if he were peeling free of a coat. “Like I told you a while ago, I’m not your type.”

“I disagree.”

“Haven’t you heard about me?”

“Of course. I read about you in theWall Street Journal all the time.”

“Ah, that’s business, though. Let me enlighten you about the personal side of things.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I never buy jewelry for women. Or cars or plane tickets or clothes or houses or hotel rooms. And I believe in splitting the check over dinner. Right down to the tip.”

She hauled back as if he’d blasphemed.

He smiled. “I see you get my point. Trust me, you’ll be much happier with someone else.”

As he turned away from her and walked over to the bar, he had to laugh. The thing was, he hadn’t said those things just to get rid of her. They were the God’s honest truth: For him, Dutch was the rule with women.

The minute he’d made his first big chunk of cash, he’d become a target for that kind of predatory female and he’d gotten burned. Back over a decade ago, after having lived for years as the poor relation to his roommates and friends at Harvard, he’d finally put together a deal with a percentage point or two in it for him.

The cash had been an avalanche. More than he could ever have imagined filling his account. And within a week of him throwing some of it around, a very sophisticated blonde, not unlike Candace, had shown up on his doorstep. She’d been everything he’d ever wanted, proof positive that he’d arrived. Elegant, cultured, an antiques dealer with style, he’d felt invincible with her on his arm.

He’d done his best to buy her anything she wanted and she’d been more than happy to trade her presence for the things he got her. At least until she’d found someone who could write even bigger checks. On her way out the door, she’d told him, in her Upper East Side, long-voweled way, that even though he was just a roughneck from South Boston, she could tell he was going places…so he should never hesitate to call her if he was ever in the market for oil paintings.

Lesson learned.

Now, it was easy to pick out women like that, although not because he was a genius at reading minds. Pretty much anyone he met in a dress was after money.

Just like anyone in a suit, too, come to think of it.

After he ordered a Tanqueray and tonic from the bartender, he noticed two young guys edging their way over to him. They were dressed well, real spit and polish, Ivy League shiny, and their faces were composed as if they were prepared to play it cool.

Except both of them were rubbing their right palms on their hips as if they were worried they’d offer him a wet handshake.

“’Evening, Mr. O’Banyon,” the taller one said.

Sean got his T& T and pointed to the guy. “Fred Wilcox. And…Andrew Frick, right?”

The two nodded their heads, clearly astounded he knew their names. But you had to keep up with the FNUGs. Some percentage of them were going to make it and thus become useful, and besides, he liked the look of this pair. Smart eyes, but none of that showboat crap some of the other young hardies tried to pull. Plus, if he remembered correctly, they were both HBS like him.

“How you boys doing tonight?” he said.

They stammered over some social nonsense then fell completely silent as a cloud of perfume wafted in. Sean glanced behind his shoulder and then smiled honestly for the first time since walking into the gala.

“My lovely, Elena,” he murmured, leaning down and kissing the smooth cheek of a stunning brunette. As she greeted him in Italian and he replied, he could positively feel the hero worship coming at him from the young guys. He glanced at them. “Will you excuse us?”

“Of course, Mr. O’Banyon.”

“Absolutely, Mr. O’Banyon.”