Billionaire Retreat Read online

  “And?” Lillian pressed, staring at him with the intensity of an interrogator.

  “Well, Stan had just had a call from another cop in Kentucky, you see? Seems your boy and that fat gal that used to work in the club, well they got pulled over and arrested,” Walter said. “So anyhow, Stan gets the story from his buddy in Kentucky about how Jason had been whining and crying about running away from certain doom in a wedding he didn’t want and had agreed to go with the fat gal. So he stole a car when theirs barely made it across the state line. And it seems they’re going to be there for a good long time ‘til the good people of Kentucky decide what to do with them. It was Stan who told me the wedding was off. He was a bit upset, I’ll tell you. He was looking forward to the party and all.”

  Mary collapsed back onto the couch in fits of laughter and more tears. Her body couldn’t decide on an emotions and a confusing mix of happiness and sadness was all she could produce. Jason had run away from her, apparently from a horror of a marriage, and had ended up in jail after stealing a car!

  “Sorry honey, but to be fair, it seems you got off lucky by the sounds of it,” Walter said.

  Mary had to agree with him, her spirits lifting for a moment. That is, until her mother spoke again.

  “That isn’t all Walter. Madam here has spent all her money on a honeymoon to South America, would you believe?” Lilian still stood, sending disapproving looks to both before Mary rolled her eyes, annoyance starting to break through.

  “It’s Portugal, Momma. In Europe, Daddy, not South America at all,” Mary said.

  “Can’t you cancel it and get your money back or something?” Walter asked. Albert had positioned himself by the side of Walter’s chair and was enjoying the unconscious, constant patting he was getting on the head from the man. Albert hadn’t forgot about his bowl, however, and was going to start nudging Walter about it after a little more petting.

  Mary shook her head, her eyes filling with tears once more.

  “No, I don’t think so. The flights are the day after the wedding and the cottage is fully booked up now.” She sighed, plopping back into the couch again as she remembered just how much money she’d spent on the honeymoon.

  “Well,” Walter said, shifting, hoping the matter was closed. He was desperate to turn on the TV to watch football but terrified it might not be the best time to do it just now so he fiddled with the remote.

  “I have a passport,” Lillian announced suddenly, her face revealing she had an idea. This usually meant her daughter and her husband were in for a hard time of trying to dissuade her from some hare-brained scheme. The revelation that she had a passport informed them both they weren’t going to like what came next.

  Mary and Walter turned to look at Lillian in confused amazement.

  “Why on earth do you have a passport, Lillian?” Walter asked, shocked at his wife’s secret.

  “Remember when you went to Texas to work at that plant? I thought you’d be gone for six months. I was going to fly to visit you so I got a passport.” Lillian replied, looking at the floor sheepishly.

  “Texas is in the States, Mom. You don’t need a passport to go there,” Mary said with more consternation.

  “I’m not an idiot, dear. Of course, I know Texas is in the States. But I thought if Walt could get a few days off, we could fly down to Mexico from there for a romantic weekend or something. Oh, I don’t know! It was just a silly idea of a lonely lady is all,” Lillian said, slouching down on the couch next to Mary.

  “So? Why didn’t you go?” Mary asked, her face now a wreath of pleased smiles. Her mother was a young girl at heart, it would seem!

  “Your Daddy went and hurt his back and had to come home, of course. So, I just stuck the passport in a drawer and forgot all about it.” Lillian answered as Walter stood up from the chair and came over to her. He put a large arm over her shoulder and hugged her.

  “Sorry I ruined your plan, honey. I didn’t mean to fall off a rig. I guess you deserved a break after all you’ve put up with from us for all of these years.” Walter said.

  “Yes, yes I did and still do. That’s why Mary and I are going to use these tickets and go to wherever Portugal is, and you my good man are going to look after the house,” Lillian said, standing to her full height and glaring at Walter, daring him to reject her idea.

  Walter went back over to his chair and collapsed into it, staring at the blank TV screen. He couldn’t fathom his wife, these days. She was full of weird ideas.

  “We are?” Mary asked, pulling the attention back to herself.

  “The trip is paid for and the wedding is off. You either lose your money and sit in the room crying for the rest of your life, or we go to this Portugal and have ourselves the best road, erm, plane trip ever, right?”

  “I guess,” Mary said, shifting around on the couch and looking at Walter for a more reasoned reply as to why this would be the worst idea ever.

  Walter didn’t disappoint and jumped straight out of his chair and stood in front of Lillian, hoping she was in the mood to be reasoned with. He didn’t really think she was but he gave it a shot.

  “Now just hold on there one danged minute, Lillian! I have never heard anything so crazy in all my born days! This poor girl is heartbroken and your best plan is to run off to some foreign country on the other side of the world? What am I supposed to do while you’re having the time of your lives?”

  “You’ll have plenty to do! I’ll give you a list of jobs I’ll be expecting you to get done while we’re away. You won’t starve. There’s a three tier wedding cake in the refrigerator. Even you’ll take a week to eat it and if you give any to Albert, I’ll break your knees, boy. He’s getting fat enough as it is.” Lillian tried not to laugh as her husband backed away from her tirade.

  Albert lowered his head as he heard his name alongside the word “fat” again. His bowl had been empty for ages, the sunlight had moved a whole inch across the floor since it had been last filled!

  “No, Lillian, I won’t have it! I understand everyone is upset about all this nastiness, but this is a crazy idea and you know it. Portugal, indeed! I have never heard anything so crazy, and you’ve come up with some doozies in your time, I can tell you,” Walter snapped at his wife, not noticing Albert hanging around his bowl again.

  Walter settled back down with a huff into his favourite recliner and flicked on the TV. He held up a silencing hand to indicate that was the end to the conversation when Lillian started to reply. She promptly shut her mouth and stared at him in shock.

  Glaring at her husband as she realized what had just happened, Lillian turned back to her daughter instead.

  “Find the suitcases, Mary. I’ll sort my clothes. Your father is having visions of grandeur again. Once the football starts he won’t even notice we’re gone,” Lillian said to a stunned Mary before departing to her bedroom.

  She’d never witnessed anything like this from her father before.

  “Daddy?” Mary whispered, looking over at her father with round eyes.

  Walter raised his hand again and pointed to the TV. “I’ve had my say, now do as your mother tells you.” As he heard Mary rising from the couch and heading for her bedroom, he gave a wry smile. He calculated a good six-hour drive to the airport. He nodded to himself. Yeah, he could manage that.

  Chapter 2

  Ben Cooper tilted the glass of wine to his lips and took a sip. As usual it was perfect, but then it was Portuguese and he was drinking it overlooking a turquoise lagoon in the Algarve. The wine was perfect as was the lunch he was eating with it.

  Ben gazed out over the crystal clear water and the holidaymakers enjoying the beach in the warm sunshine. Another day on the Algarve and, as like all days on the Algarve, it was bliss.

  Ben was a blogger for an online tour guide. Sitting here, basking in the sun with a glass of fine wine wasn’t leisure, it was work. Hard, hard work he worked very hard at. This was what he did.

  At six feet even and well-built, with a
thatch of blonde hair and blue eyes, Ben at 35 looked healthy, fit, and quite attractive to the ladies, though he tended to ignore them most days. He’d been a soldier in the British army since he’d left school at 16. Now, still locked into a lot of the just-so ways of the army, he was free. Free to indulge a passion of travel and getting paid for it again. He had no real interest in the usual tourist side of things, though. His job was specifically to seek out those hidden gems the package tourist never sees. Those places that once visited someone may never leave again. Here in Fuseta, a little fishing village on the shores of the Algarve, he had found such a place.

  Ben smiled as two jet skis shot across the lagoon in the bow wave of a water taxi, on their way to the island ahead. Here, you could have all the speed you ever wanted, or like Ben, enjoy the slow pace of life in an Algarvian paradise. Though it could sometimes drive him mad, Ben had to admit, the slow pace had done him good. Meals would arrive when the waiter had finished talking to his neighbour. The wine would never come late, though it might be served mid conversation to a local fisherman. And of course, as soon as the sun hit dead centre in the sky, most places would close their doors and call it time until the cooler evening arrived. No rush for money. No busting a gut to earn those last few cents. They would work when they decided it was suitable and not before.

  Ben carried a pocket of table clips and a ball of sticky putty in his pocket most of the time. Portuguese bars and restaurants insist on a tablecloth, regardless of the weather. No problem indoors, but fighting to keep a paper cloth on a table often became a nightmare out on a patio with the sea breeze. Waiters would half-heartedly attempt to fit them with table clips if they remembered to bring enough, but usually it required spreading the utensils, glasses and ash trays to hold it in place. So Ben always carried four strong clips of his own.

  The silly putty of course was for those places that would have wonky pictures all over the walls. There was no way Ben would take a picture for his blog with wonky picture frames in the background, so he’d meticulously straighten them with a blob of putty in the corner. Yes, it got him some strange looks from the proprietors, but he noticed when he returned some days later the pictures would be just as he left them.

  For now, Ben was happy enough to sit and enjoy his wine and the view.

  A rather beautiful woman walked by, catching his eye. Ben wasn’t looking for a relationship or even a fling really, but he couldn’t help but notice the pretty ladies, could he? That was one good thing about living in a tourist town; when he felt like he needed some company, there was always someone around to fill the void temporarily.

  The lady disappeared into a shop, her bathing suit little more than a wisp of pink silk. It did little to hide the firm roundness of her bottom and Ben very much appreciated the view.

  Ben turned back to the table and decided he would finish his wine and what was left of lunch, then make his way back to his apartment on his bicycle. It was only a couple of miles, the perfect distance for a bicycle. It was too short a trip to go to all the hassle of bringing the car through the narrow streets blocked with tourists. A bicycle was perfect.

  He waved at the waitress and asked for the bill. His Portuguese wasn’t fantastic but he could usually get himself understood. Portuguese was one of those languages you either spoke since childhood or would forever sound like a foreigner. Even the northern Portuguese had problems talking to those in the Algarve. Visitors were always going to struggle.

  Ben paid for his meal and got on his bicycle. A slow ride back to his apartment taking in the views of the boats and the wildlife sanctuary suited him just fine. It was still warm in the late afternoon, so he was in no rush. He passed by the cafés on the roadside, all frying fish and chicken on the charcoal grills for the hungry tourists heading back to their beach-side apartments. He had to skirt his way around a band of musicians serenading tables at one of the café’s.

  The songs were a mixture of swing and other fifties’ tunes, but the singer delivered them in a rich local accent, making no attempt to impersonate the originals. He kept the songs gentle and melodic, his delivery paying off as coins crashed into the guitar case.

  Ben smiled as he navigated past and onto the empty track that led through the bird sanctuary. Here, flamingos gathered in large flocks. White wings hid the bright pink they would only show if a passing engine set them off in flight. They kept their heads down and foraged in peace as Ben rode past on his bicycle. He cycled leisurely by and followed the rough track until it emerged beside a small local bar that made excellent grilled chicken to take away. Ben pondered. He decided to forego the chicken but take a break for a cold beer.

  Ben found himself a table to one side of the patio that overlooked the roads and the clientele. He was a people watcher. Nothing amused Ben more than watching the world go by as he sat back and spectated. Today he had the company of two tables of German cyclists and a French couple. The French couple kept themselves to themselves and quietly drank their cocktails. The Germans on the other hand, shouted across the patio at each other and broke the peace every few minutes with uproarious laughter.

  Ben had a smattering of German in his vocabulary but he didn’t catch the jokes. They were dressed in the full on cyclist gear with lycra shorts and tops and the matching gloves and helmets. Ben smiled and gently shook his head knowing they would probably cover no more distance with their fancy expensive gear and bikes than he would on his leisurely ride to town. But then, he mused, they’re on their vacation. Spend it how the hell you want to, lads.

  Ben sipped at his ice cold beer and left the cosy little bar. Another mile would have him back at his apartment.

  Once home, he leaned the bicycle under the large wooden veranda that shaded the front door. Outside was a cobbled courtyard swamped with every kind of flower. Ben loved pottering in the courtyard and had built trellises for beans, peppers and tomatoes, that all grew and thrived in the warm Algarve sun.

  His masterpiece was a grapevine he’d spread along an arbour, the grapes hanging between the lattices, promising a bountiful harvest. They would be turned into wine, another hobby of his and one that would keep him company on the long, rainy winter nights the Algarve experienced.

  Ben walked into the gate that closed his place off from the rest of the villa. Standing at the centre of the courtyard was an old, triple tiered, cement water fountain that had long since given up being a water fountain at all and had been filled with geraniums that exploded colour in the middle of the yard. Ben gave an appreciative murmur. He loved coming back to it. He pushed through the wrought iron gate into the courtyard and went into the cool air inside the complex.

  He checked his email quickly, one from the owner of the apartments informed him that new guests were expected when Arabella, his current neighbour, left in a couple of days. A couple would be renting the barn at the end of the garden for a month. They should arrive sometime in the evening on that day. He reread the email.

  “Americans? Coming here?” he thought to himself. Quiet ones that have read a book or two, he hoped.

  Ben shrugged as he opened the fridge and removed a dish of fresh shrimp. He’d start off with frying the fresh shrimp in olive oil with some chunky chopped garlic and a sprinkle of coriander. Simple to make, messy to eat and absolutely delicious. Pouring a glass of wine as he fired up the cooker he soon forgot the impending visit of the American guests. People came and people went. He’d always make an effort to be friendly and polite but always enjoyed watching the taxi pull away as they were leaving. After three years of living alone in his little two-bedroom part of the apartment complex, he knew what he liked and he liked what he knew. Complicated visitors and tourists were not it.

  The shrimp only took a few minutes and soon Ben was back out in the courtyard sat at the rustic table to eat his snack. With a couple of slices of local bread and butter, it was better than paying for it in town. For a start he could put twice as many shrimp on which was always a bonus. There could never be too many
shrimp in a garlic and shrimp fry.

  The sadness arrived for a fleeting moment as he looked up at the slowly setting sun. His wife Eloise would have loved this. She’d have nagged him for overloading the shrimp and yet would have eaten just as many for herself and would have shrugged at any mention of the double standards. But Eloise wasn’t with him. She’d been cruelly taken from him some four years ago due to a nasty and aggressive cancer. Ben had seen plenty of heartache and action as a soldier, but nothing ever prepared him for losing his wife in such an ugly way.

  Eloise was always strong. She’d had to be, married to a serving soldier, but even as she faced her final moments she’d been so much stronger than Ben thought he could ever be. She held his hand as the morphine tried to fight off the pain before finally slipping away from him. He sobbed. All he could do was sob. His heart went with Eloise. He could never love again. Never share the joy of anyone else. Nobody could ever replace the only true love he had ever known.

  Ben took a large slurp of wine and gave a deep breath. What was done was done. Over is over. Portugal was an attempt to move on. To move forward again with life. The tourist blog was a good distraction and supplemented his military pension. He fumbled with a large shrimp and easily peeled off the crisp skin. Yep, Eloise would nag about that too, dripping oil all down his front. He smiled and tucked into the dish.

  “Are you open for business, stranger?” A sultry voice came through his gate and Ben looked up.

  Arabella, the Italian currently occupying the other apartment, stood there with her hand on her hip, a welcoming gleam in her eyes.

  He’d noticed her coming and going but hadn’t spoken to her. The landlord had told him her name when she’d emailed him about Arabella’s arrival date. He’d not introduced himself to the gorgeous Italian woman, but there she was, asking him for things she wasn’t sure how to ask for.