Latina In Love With a Billionaire

CHAPTER ONE.

A YOUNG MAN STEPPED OUT OF A RENTAL CAR

in front of the Royal Palace Hotel on Broadway in New York. He looked like a man out of an English play wearing a flat cap, a single breathed jacket, and brown pinstriped trousers. His shirt all white, however, with a black waistcoat.

He should attract much attention, but he didn't. He was at least six feet tall, with blue eyes and curly brown hair.

He had a way about him, a nonchalant attitude which made him walk as though he wasn't in a rush to be anywhere. Although his destinations were usually essential for he was a millionaire.

His name was Bruce Diamond, of Missouri's Diamond family to Idaho, and most of the Midwest. He was a third-generation benefactor of old men who saw the future and invested in it. Bruce was on his way to make his first million by the age of twenty-three. By his twenty-fifth birthday, he had made three times that, and Forbes was already considering his face for a glossy front-page edition of their magazine.

Bruce was quick to disabuse the publishers of the paper of their intentions. He was Bruce Diamond. That was who he wanted everyone to consider him to be. He did not fancy Bruce, the Young Millionaire, or anything extra peachy. Nothing more; he just wanted to live a simple life.

He looked up at the step leading into the hotel and smiled. He took his jolly time up the steps, his hands swung easily beside his body, and he hummed a tune, Carpenter's

Yesterday Once More.

The bellhop was a Hungarian named Sebastos.

"Hello, welcome back, Mr. Diamond."

"Thank you, Sebastos." Bruce takes a moment with the middle-aged man. "How's the knee?"

The man pushed his chest out and tapped his shoe on the hard floor. "As good as new. No more pain."

"Good thing you got it checked, hey."

"Yes, Mr. Diamond. Good." Sebastos leans near, he whispered, "Mary just got on duty. She's on the third floor by now."

Bruce nodded and made his way to the lobby. The receptionist beamed at him, per hotel regulation first, and because the girl likely found Bruce quite attractive. Bruce came to the hotel often; he now has a penthouse almost permanently to himself. He only had to call ahead, as he had done before coming over.

Sebastos was one of the few people who knew about Bruce's relationship with Mary and he preferred it to stay a secret. As he went up the winding steps that drove customer traffic to the top floors of the five-story hotel, beautiful memories flashed before his eyes.

It was Mary Cortez from the beginning. By the time they’d ended their time in high school, it was apparent it would always be her. But his heart was heavy, and for the first time in his life, he experienced early signs of confusion.

He went past Room 57 and smiled at the fact that he had only entered that room twice out all of the times that he's been coming to check on Mary. Sometimes Bruce would just meet her in the hallway where she was working and carry on a conversation with her. He'd help Mary with her chores, make the beds with her, help her push the cart while she dabs the fine red floors with her mop head.

Or he could wait by that room as if he expected some delivery from her. When Mary came around, they'd just talk for a few minutes, after which Bruce leaves. He was a busy man himself.

—

Mary Cortez was in the business of being good to guests without being noticed; consequently, it was difficult for her not to be noticed. She was a beautiful young woman with smooth, olive skin and medium height. Her bright, brown eyes noticed things, even the minutest feelings, although she may not have known what these feelings meant at the time.

Mary was on cleaning duty that morning, pushing a cleaning cart down the wide hallway while gossiping with her friend Tami when she saw Bruce Diamond step out of the lift. She beamed and waved at him.

"Here comes your knight in shining armor to come to save you from your dreary job," Tami whispered to her. "Wish I had one in any armor—"

"Shut up, Tami. All you need to do is choose either of the four men in your life right now."

"I want all four."

They both giggled. Bruce wanted to share in the joke.

"No Bruce, you don't want to share," Mary said, "Unless you want to hear about female stuff like menses, breast lumps, and the men we date."

"Oh gross," Bruce frowned. "How do you cope with this woman?” he asked Tami.

Tami said she plans on putting Mary up for adoption soon. This light-hearted banter continued for another two minutes before Tami excused the couple and went down the corridor with both of their carts.

Bruce silently stared at Mary for a moment. He was at least a full foot taller than her. They walked back together the way she’d came. She looked back every ten seconds or so. Mary Cortez was the only one whose lover came to visit her at work in America. Even though almost no one knew this was happening, she still went about it with some apprehension.

"Bruce, did you want to tell me something?" she asked. "When we spoke on the phone it sounded like you did."

He shrugged. "I might be going out of town for a few days. I thought I should see you before catching my flight."

"Today?" she grimaced.

"Hey, let's not worry about that. I want you to have dinner with me tonight—"

"At the house?" she asked quickly.

"Would you come if we have it there?"

She pursed her lips, as if she wanted to shake her head but bobbed it instead. Bruce grinned at her; she returned the gesture with a wave and a smile too. "She's an inspiring woman, your mother," Mary said.

"Yeah, I agree."

"On the phone," Mary stops walking and turns to Bruce, "You wanted to tell me something important. I heard it in your voice."

Bruce took one look at those jet-black eyes, the oval face, and the slightly curved lips. He decided whatever he wanted to say didn't matter anymore. It could wait. Maybe he'd break it to her on a day when it was unlikely for his mother to pop into the conversation. Lately, Bruce and Mary had grown serious with their relationship, and his mother always found her way into it.

"I wanted to ask if dinner at eight tonight appeals to you."

"Bruce?"

"On the phone you sounded like someone died," she looked at him dubiously, "Come on, spill it. What's eating you, baby?

Cuentame.

Tell me."

He gathered her in his arms and threw her head back gaily. "No, baby, I'm living the life. I’ve got you. It's been how many years now, huh?"

"Since college?" she replied. "But you were foolish; you never asked me on a date, you let me think I wasn’t good enough for you."

"Yes, I agree. I was a moron. Now you are dating that moron. You are a moron-dater. A moron-lover."

She elbowed Bruce playfully. "You changed the subject. That was immature, what you did! You know you had something on your lip, you were about to drop it."

"Chinese or Spanish?" he asked, further dodging her probing.

"We had Spanish the last time. Let's get Chinese now. Feng's Place, Third Street?" she suggested.

"Yeah. I love that one."

—

Rita Diamond was at her salon downtown getting her hair done for a party that night when her mobile phone buzzed. She could not touch it, though, because she gave her beautician her full attention. She had her digits stretched out before her; a girl with eyelashes the size of little dove's wings were clipping and filing it. Rita's head was laid back over a foam headrest shaped like the ones they issued at the hospital for broken necks. She was pampered by another woman —Pamela Brown, who owns the shop.

Rita's eyes were covered with a special pair of goggles to protect them from all the chemicals. Pamela brushed into her hair. Pamela Brown wore gloves which she took off and glared at Rita's phone because it would not stop vibrating on the table.

"Do you wanna answer that?" Pamela asked.

Rita said with an attitude, "Pam, I'm incapable, as you can see!"

"No, you are not."

Pamela pressed the red button and pushed the phone against Rita Diamond's right ear; Rita asked the phone to be transferred to the left ear. Pam rolled her eyes. When the phone touched her ear, Rita said, "Yes, who's speaking?"

She listened. Her body jerked.

"Wait, wait!" Rita retrieved her nails from the other beautician; she wriggled her head from Pamela's grip, and she grabbed her phone. "Gimme that!"

Some of her wet hair fell in her face, and she brushed the tangles out. She leaned forward, listening her eyes wide and mouth open. The general expression on her rather pretty face was quite an ugly one of nasty consternation. Her blood-red lips curled.

"No, that's not possible; Bruce never mentioned anyone like that!" she said and continued to listen more.

Pamela Brown waited behind Rita; her gloves now back on now hovered behind the other woman's head. The assistant beautician walked away to see the rows of other women sitting properly on revolving chairs, all of them getting their treatment from other assistants.

Rita finished talking on the phone finally. Fuming and red-faced, she put her phone back on the table where it was. She reclined and closed her eyes. Her eyes flew open again just as Pamela was about to continue with her work.

"Pamela?"

"Yes, Rita."

"Do you think I'm a wicked mother?"

"You’re not my mother so how am I supposed to know?" Pam replied without much humor.

"Oh, Pam. This isn't the time for sarcasm, okay. This is a matter of

social

security. Bruce is about to make the biggest mistake of his life. I can't let that happen. No, I can't!"

"Bruce is a millionaire. Men like that hardly make mistakes—"

"He is just a bit!" Rita scoffed. "Whose side are you on? You are supposed to be my friend!"

"Hey, I don't even know what we are talking about here," Pam, Rita's long-time friend, said.

Pamela and Rita had lived on the same street since they were kids. They played together, fought, and then would make up. They went through their teenage years together; elementary school, high school, and then college. Pamela had opened her hair salon after quitting her bank job. Whereas Rita had gone on to marry her boyfriend from college, billionaire Terry Diamond.

Both women had surprisingly kept their friendship over the years. Pamela never married again after her third divorce. All three men were Rita's friends, too. Pamela was a red-haired beauty, had been a model for a while. These days she spent most of her time making other women like Rita look beautiful while they would share gossip.

Rita Diamond said, "Someone just spotted Bruce with a girl at a hotel."

"So?"

"She's a nobody, she's Hispanic, she's—"

"She's not rich," Pamela supplied.

Rita shrugged and turned to look at her friend. "Yeah, reputation is important, isn't it? I mean, how's Bruce supposed to represent the family well if he's with a nobody?"

Pamela applied white stuff to Rita's hair. It looked like whipped cream, but it wasn’t. Then asked, "How do you know she's a nobody? You haven't even met the poor girl."

"Then how come I have never heard her name?"

Pamela leaned forward looking into Rita's face. "What's her name?"

"I don't know."

Both women went back to the business of looking good.

—

It was Rita Diamond's white hair that caught everyone's attention the first time they’d seen her. That and her tall stature. She had an elegance to her that spoke of affluent breeding. She loved parties. She made sure that she attended every single one that she's been invited to, and there are an awful lot. Mostly, rich people's parties are organized to facilitate business associations and marital engagements.

The party tonight was at Latimer's Court in a high-end area of Brooklyn. Rita arrived in one of the rarely used Lamborghinis. It was yellow, one of her favorite colors. She wore a black Gucci dress though, it stopped a little after her knees, and her shoes were from Fendi.

When she entered the hall, heads turned, and a few of her high society, friends, were quick to say something nice about her white hair. It glowed in the suffused light of the chandeliers.

The night began and continued swiftly to its tail end. That was when Bruce Diamond showed up. He was alone. Rita exhaled in relief and smiled at his son; He wore an Oxford-style suit and black shoes. His hair was parted to the left, and it shone black and glossy. Bruce and her mother kissed on the cheek a waiter passed with a tray of champagne glasses. Bruce picked two glasses and gave his mother one.

"I thought you'd attend with her," Rita said as she sipped.

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend."

Bruce said he didn't know what his mother was talking about. The palace was filling up. Everyone who was somebody and was here. A man, the size of a freight train, waved at Bruce. A pretty girl was hanging from his elbow. Bruce bowed at the girl, she smiled.

Rita said without opening her mouth, "Someone saw you with a girl at the Royal Palace on Broadway. Tell me about her."

"Mom, your source must have mistaken me for someone else," Bruce said, icily. "I got dressed for the party. I like the girl hanging from Dennis Broughton's hand. I'm gonna go say hello to her—"

"Bruce—"

"Mom, relax. I'm single. Let me talk to that girl, okay."

Rita watched his son weave through the crowd, open-mouthed. Then she snapped her lips closed. She sipped her drink and told herself it may be true. Maybe there was nothing to that report. As she began socializing for the night, she pondered:

but Clemens is never wrong about what he sees.

—

Clemens was Rita's driver, bodyguard, and private investigator. Bruce and his family only knew Clemens as that,

Clemens,

no surname. He was a big burly guy with a pitted face and a nose shaped like a bagel. Clemens was bald too, and that gave the impression that Clemens could inflict harm. He would be, just not yet.

Bruce left the party earlier than his mother would have expected. But of course, Rita was already caught up in her engagements. Bruce went through the front entrance. Clemens was waiting by Rita's Lamborghini. He wore his usual funeral clothes, black greatcoat, baggy trousers, with a grim expression that others would typically reserve for people dying on their death beds.

"Mr. Bruce—" he greeted.

"Clemens," Bruce added, "You saw me earlier today, I've heard."

"Yes, indeed."

"Are you stalking me, Clemens?"

"Just looking out for you, Mr. Bruce. You've refused to have a bodyguard. It's dangerous."

"I appreciate your concern, okay. Just wear a smile when you are following me. My real bodyguards may think you are the threat."

The girl Bruce saw hanging from Dennis Broughton's elbow like an albino monkey was named Rory Palmer. She was smallish, perky breasts poked at her glittering gown. Her blonde hair was done up in a peculiar style that Bruce found funny.

She stepped out of the party and looked for Bruce. He called her.

"This is Rory," Bruce said to Clemens.

"Hello, Miss Rory."

Clemens bowed slightly, sharp brown eyes taking in the little woman.

"You don't have to follow us, Clemens. We'll be okay."

Bruce's car was waiting on the other side of the street. It was a black Buick. Nothing dramatic. The girl halted halfway across the street.

"Is that your car?"

"Yeah."

"But—" there was a pain in her voice, shock in her eyes.

"I like to keep a low profile. Keeps the press out of my life."

When Bruce looked in her eyes again, he saw she was the type of girl who thrived on the attention of the press. He pitied her. Bruce opened the door. "Come on, get in. I promised to drop you off."

She got in and sat as she had just been admitted into an abattoir. Rory's clothes would get soiled by the blood and her nose by the smell of grime. Bruce smiled again and rummaged his mind for the first time he pulled up at Mary's place in his Ferrari.

Mary had refused to get in. She had been so visibly shaken and had promptly raced back up to her apartment, where she locked herself up. Though he was amused by her actions, Bruce had also found it instructive.

He let the girl, Rory, out on the corner of Pollack and Smith on Third Avenue. He knew he won't be hearing from her anymore, and it was okay. She was her alibi. And it was evident to what she thought of Bruce. She had given him a smile that said,

I don't believe you are my type; you are rich, yes, but nope, I don't do Buicks and cheap dates.

Mary Cortez was waiting on the sidewalk. She was sitting on the low fence; it was almost eight in the evening. The heavens lit up every minute, thunder clapped. Mary jumped off the wall when she saw the car.

She was dressed for the evening, wearing a gray sweater and jeans. Her hair was tied back, with no makeup. Her face was a beacon on the street, lit by her smile on a night propelled by her festive spirit.

Bruce drove them deeper downtown to a Chinese restaurant of her choice. Feng's. They were attended to by Feng Shu himself. Ageless and happy, the man wore a white kimono that night. He served Bruce and Mary steamed spinach and creamed dumpling. Then he brought what he called the nights special for a special lady to Mary, sticky rice in lotus leaf.

Mary finished her food and attacked the rice with relish. She put a spoonful in her mouth and closed her eyes. Proud Feng clasped his wrinkly fingers together, his wise eyes smiled at Mary.

"Bruce, let's always come here, please," she moaned.

"Yes, we can."

Even though it was out of the way. Clemens wasn't likely to find them in here, and the stalking media couldn't ever think he'd come to the place. They left an hour later, all full. Mary leaning against him as they walked down the familiar street filled with regular people. They walked away from his car, which was parked away from the Chinese place.

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, Bruce?"

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not. I saw that look again this evening. You tried to hide it. Is it your mom?"

He sighed.

"You told her about me yet?"

"I haven't worked up the strength yet." He looked at her and quickly added, "It's not you, it's her. Rita is fixated on making me a husband. It stresses me out."

"I want to make a husband out of you, too."

"Yeah."

"Does it stress you out?"

"You could never stress me out."

—

Bruce took Mary back to her apartment. She took out a box of cocoa, and they drank it together. Then they made love, slow and warm in her bed. It was filled with words and touches. It was sticky, and it was closer than close. When it was over an hour later, they dozed off. Bruce would not be going back to the mansion where Rita Diamond expected him and hoped that he was with some rich man's daughter.

In the morning, when he had left Mary Cortez's place, she smiled at the sun coming through the window and at the bright day. She turned back to the mess that was the bed and chuckled. The thought of what he did to her made her want him all over again.

She got dressed and stepped into the street.

On her way up the steps into the Royal Palace Hotel, a big burly man stared at her curiously. She barely noticed Clemens’ imposing figure.

"Nice girl, that one," said the Sebastos at the door.

Clemens grunted.

"You know Mary?" asked the bellhop again, but the big man was already bumbling down the steps to the hearse of a car he’d came in.

Clemens growled, "

Mary…"

—

Her chores waited for her on the fourth floor of the hotel. Mary Cortez would care for seven rooms. She would clean at midday and again once the guests have departed. She would change the sheets, make the beds, and restock the amenities in need of replacements, toiletries, notepads, drinking glasses.

In the evening, two hours before she got off —if she was on the day shift— she took some time off to study for an hour in the storeroom. Her friend Tami would come in to keep her company. They often talked about the men in their lives while eating something crispy from a colorful bag, usually potato chips. Mostly Tami just asked a lot of questions and ate. Mary answered her and continued to study.

"So, are you going to marry him?"

"If he asks me, yes."

Tami made crunching noises as she ate. She stared at her friend for a long time. "And if he doesn't ask what then?"

"He'll ask," said Mary as she flipped to the next page in her psychology textbook.

"Are you ever gonna go to college?"

Mary's shoulders sagged. She slowly closed the large book. She has thought about the possibility that she may not be able to get a scholarship. She had opened a bank account specifically to save for her education.

"I don't know. I'm just gonna keep preparing," Mary said, "Maybe someday I would."

"And if it doesn't happen?"

"What would you have me do then, hm?" Mary said a little forcefully, "It's a crazy world out there; we just gotta try and get what we can from it. I just need to go after my dream with all I’ve got. All I’ve got is hard work."

Her study time was over, and she walked down the hall again to continue. She passed several departure guests and noted the vacant rooms. Soon she'll be attending to those rooms in preparation for new guests. These rooms were a simple model of her complicated life. Mary was already halfway through her psychology textbook. She could recite most of the theories and already knew all the big names in the field and their contribution to it. Yet she didn't even know if she'd ever make it into college.

Sometimes Tami asked those questions to encourage her; at other times, Tami's inquiries were simply her friend trying to know if Bruce Diamond was making himself available as a benefactor for her college finances. Mary understood the angle, and sometimes she wished life was more comfortable for her; Bruce could make it easier. But these expectations never made it into their conversations. Mary dreaded their entry into her relationship with Bruce. She feared it would change things. She loved the way they were now, her independence, and the fact that she was with him solely based on

who

he is and not

what

he is.

Sitting alone on the edge of a bed in Room 306, the place warm with the smell of stale sex, a rippling river of sheets and blotches of body fluids, she buried her face in her palm and wished things had been different than they were.

She bit her lower lip and her eyes filled with tears. It had been five years since she’d started working her butt off in the Royal Palace, five years since her parents left her alone, so prematurely. Then her shoulders shook with the convulsing energy of weeping.

Oh, God, why? I need you, mom and dad, I need you.

—