A Billionaire for Christmas

Now his body ached and his eyes felt grainy. But he was here. And unless Frank had missed his message from yesterday and found another way back to LA—and wouldn’t that be ironic?—Damien’s father-in-law was inside.

It was eight now, and Damien glanced at the display on his phone, hoping to call Frank again, but foiled by the lack of service on his phone. Frustrating, but not surprising. He was far off the beaten path here.

He had some water and snacks in the backseat, and he used one of the bottles to splash water on his face. He imagined he looked like hell, but hopefully not so disreputable they wouldn’t let him inside the gates.

He frowned. He’d meant the thought in jest, but the truth was that poverty ran rampant in this area, and it drew drug traffickers like flies, most coming over the border from the south.

Hopefully the trip wouldn’t get any rougher than it already was.

After a few quick stretches and a second bottle of water, he felt human again. It was just past eight on December twenty-third, and it was time to get Frank and go home to his family.

The plantation’s entrance was marked by a simple but well-tended fence that spread out as far as he could see on either side of the drive leading to the main house. There was no gatehouse, just a rusty intercom that surprised Damien by actually being functional.

Fortunately, his name and meager Spanish vocabulary got him through the front gate, and he walked the short distance to the front door, which opened just as he climbed up the stone stairs to a wide, welcoming porch.

A man stepped out, and Damien’s body almost melted with relief at the sight of the familiar weathered face and graying hair. Frank.

His father-in-law stood there, his eyes wide with surprise and joy.

“Damien? What the hell, son? For that matter, how the hell?”

“I’m guessing you didn’t get my text.”

“Haven’t had service in days. I called you from the plantation’s landline. And the Wi-Fi here is down, too. I’ve been cut-off since we talked.” He cocked his head. “But get in here. You look like you could use some coffee, and there’s plenty of that here.”

Damien followed him inside where he met Carlos and Juanita Mendoza, the couple who ran the plantation, and whose English was significantly better than Damien’s Spanish. “We were just sitting down for coffee when you called from the gate—I shot a few sunrise photos this morning as a thank you to my hosts for letting me stay on a few extra days. Figure they can use the images in their marketing.”

“Sounds like I missed a spectacular view by just a few minutes.”

Frank didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he simply stood, shaking his head slowly. “Damn, Damien. I don’t think I’ve been more surprised in my life.”

“Good surprise, I hope.”

“Hell, yes, but why are you here? Dealing in coffee now?”

“I have a hand in here and there, but don’t be coy, Frank. I’m here to take you home. I have your daughter and two little girls who want Grandpa with them for Christmas.” He cocked his head, grinning. “Assuming you want to come.”

“Home? You know I do. But good God, son. How’d you get all the way down here during the strike?”

“Do you think I’d work as hard as I do if there weren’t some benefits to my bankroll?” He grinned as Frank laughed. “Seriously, though, we came by jet.” He briefly described the ordeal, watching Frank and the Mendozas’ eyes go wide as the story got more and more harrowing.

“After that, I got the rest of the way by car. And, to be honest, we should probably head back to the airport as soon as we can.”

He explained how Grayson had stayed behind at the airport to try to beg, steal, borrow or buy another plane. And, miraculously, he’d sent a text about an hour before Damien had arrived at the plantation. Apparently, a Mexican film star had just landed with his girlfriend. And since they were spending the holiday with her family, Grayson arranged to rent the plane for a three-day round trip to LA. By that time, the strike would be over and Grayson could return on a commercial flight, leaving everyone happy.

That was the plan at least, and the sooner they hit the road, the sooner he’d be with his family. More that that, he wanted to call Nikki and tell her that his “work crisis” was going well and he’d be home soon.

“It’s a five-hour drive followed by a five-hour flight in their jet,” he explained to Frank. “Which means we’ll get home at seven if we push it. You might even be able to see the girls before bedtime.”

“I’m all for heading out now,” Frank said. “I like to leave a lot of lead time. Hell, I thought I was when I booked this job. Never expected a strike.”