But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.
—Mansfield Park
Badrutt’s Palace sprouted out of the mountainside like a castle in a Grimm’s fairy tale or EuroDisney. I half expected to find yodelers in the lobby. It looked ancient to me, but considering it opened in 1896, it was modern by European standards. When you’re on a press trip the hotel tends to make a fuss, but not in a subtle way; Badrutt’s was no exception.
“Welcome to Badrutt’s Palace,” the manager, a tall, blond, angular woman greeted me enthusiastically. Her name was Helga. “I can give you a complete tour in the morning if you’d like,” she explained as a bellboy followed us to my room. It wasn’t a suite but a deluxe room overlooking St. Moritz and the Engadine Mountains. As long as it had a minibar I was happy. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said and left me in peace. I flopped on the bed and had nearly fallen asleep when Fawn came calling, dressed to hit the slopes.
“Is this all they had?” Fawn stood at my window, outraged that my room wasn’t as fabulous as hers. “You should write a nasty article on them now.”
“Really, Fawn,” I said trying to be persuasive. “It’s fine.” I had admitted that my hotel was paid for in exchange for a travel series I was writing for Haute, and of course she found that exciting. I wasn’t sure I should trust her with the truth about the Austen article; the timing wasn’t right.
“You should see my suite,” she went on. “It’s enormous! Two bedrooms miles from each other, and the fireplace!”
“I’m glad you’re happy,” I said as I changed into my full ski suit complete with slim-cut pants. I loved it because it was fitted; none of that puffy Michelin Man aesthetic for me. I wanted to look glamorous, not fat. And better yet, with everyone wearing a getup like this, no one could tell how old anyone was; unlike Florida with its beaches and bikinis, skiwear was age camouflage. Take that, Tatiana.
“I’m ready,” I announced and swanned out of the dressing room, ready to make my St. Moritz debut.
“Very nice,” Fawn said faintly and plopped on my bed, looking like she would burst into tears at any moment. “Next to you I look like a buttered crumpet.”
Her outfit was in fact pale yellow and puffy. “You do not,” I lied. I headed for the door but was stopped short by Fawn’s outburst of tears.
“I’ve … I’ve,” she cried. “I’ve lost it …”
I wasn’t sure what she’d lost because she was crying so hard. I had no choice but to sit there and wait it out.
“What have you lost?” I asked softly when her tears had subsided.
“May I have a tissue?” she asked like a little girl. I quickly ran to the bathroom and brought back the entire box. She blew her nose and forced a smile.
“That’s better.”
“I’m glad. Can I help somehow?”
“No one can. What I lost I can never get back—my youth.”
I removed my ski jacket and sat down. Lost youth was no five-minute chat; this could take a while.
“When I saw how sexy you looked in your little black ski suit, I was jealous. I feel ugly and old in this buttery mess of a thing. No wonder my husband left me for a younger model. Who’d want this?” She held out her arms encased in yellow marshmallow sleeves. “But look at you, Kate. You’re exciting, glamorous, sexy, smart, and younger than me. With you zipping around in that ski suit, what chance does an old woman like me have? I’m no longer desirable. I’ve come to the end of my beauty.”
I didn’t like her berating herself like this. I looked at her, sitting on the bed, vulnerable and sad; the sultry and confident woman I’d met in Palm Beach just weeks before had vanished. When I had met her she had been the picture of rich wife glamour, but now she reminded me of a broken champagne flute, jagged, fragile, and discarded. I felt sorry for her and that made me angry. I cleared my throat and spoke honestly. “You are one of the most elegant and beautiful women I’ve ever met,” I said, which made her smile. “We are going to go out there and you’re going to have dozens of eligible men fall head over heels in love with you! And better, they’ll all be rich.”
I got up and pointed to the door. She smiled weakly.
“Ha! Or is it LOL?” She laughed artificially. “It’s not money I’m after.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked at me as though I had three heads.
“I don’t want to grow old alone,” she growled. “I want a man who loves me. Money doesn’t keep you warm at night or hold your hand when you’re sick.”
“But you always act like money is all that matters,” I explained. “I for one would rather be rich and alone than poor and alone.”
“That may be,” she said, examining me through her bleary eyes. “But neither of us are poor. Just alone.”
I felt her eyes focusing on mine as she spoke, scrutinizing me. Or at least it felt that way.
I wanted to tell her the truth and not just to make her feel better; it would be a relief to drop the act.
“I’m poor,” I admitted at last and waited for the fallout.
“Well, I assumed you weren’t rolling in it, but poor? Define poor.”
“Empty bank account and maxed-out credit cards. No house. No job.”
“Just your land in Scotland?” she asked sympathetically. I could tell she didn’t believe me.
“The truth is my estate in Scotland encompasses exactly one square foot of conservation land.”
Then I spilled the entire thing: my mother’s gambling, my house, the genesis of my aristocratic title, and, of course, my grandmother’s death. Fawn took it all in, nodding patiently and giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat during the parts about my grandmother. Then I knew the timing was impeccable. So I told her about the article.
“I’m trying to see if Austen’s approach to act like a lady and put yourself in the path of rich men will bag a billionaire,” I said with a sigh. “Though it’s gone far beyond research, after everything that happened I must do it for real. Making a good marriage is my only chance to have a decent life. Then I met Scott and I knew he was the right man for the job, so to speak. I know I could fall in love with him and he could fall for me if given half a chance. So you might say I’m a middle-aged woman trying to see if I can win the lottery, but instead of playing numbers I’m playing romance.”
“You know what this little adventure of yours reminds me of?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. “One of my favorite movies of all time, How to Marry a Millionaire. Have you seen it?”
I had. It starred Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Grable as three down-on-their-luck models who try to pass themselves off as society women in order to lure rich husbands. I hadn’t seen it in years. Fawn was right on target.
“You’re right, somewhere between Austen’s books and that film is my life,” I admitted.
“That movie was practically my instruction manual,” she confessed. “How else could a small-town beauty queen become somebody who everyone respects, who everyone wants to be friends with, and who has more money than most everyone?”
“So, you don’t think less of me?” I asked cautiously. “I mean Scott is a friend of yours.”
“Think less of you? How can I? Honey, I was you back in the day. I went after my husband exactly as you’re going after Scott. Who am I to judge? Now, does anyone else know your secret?” she asked. She had moved to my powder room to reapply her makeup and with a final stroke of red lipstick Fawn Chamberlain, the millionaire hunter, was back with a vengeance.
“You’re it,” I admitted reluctantly. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Why would I do that?” she asked innocently. She was smiling again as if we’d never had the conversation, but she kept looking at me as though she had something on her mind. At last, and with a dead serious expression she said, “I want to help you.”
“Help me?” I said, taken aback.
“What you need is a mentor.” She tapped my shoulder. “Otherwise you’ll be strutting around like a runner-up in a beauty pageant, sleeping with the judges, hoping they’ll vote for you next time. I can teach you how to win and first prize is a billionaire. Wait until you get a load of the tiara!”
This was either a really great or a really terrible idea. Then again, I had three days to advance my plan or I would be out on the streets. I decided it was really great. “Then consider me your pupil.”
She clapped her hands together gleefully. “I love having new projects!” she declared. “I always try to set up my daughter but she flatly refuses and is determined to never marry. I’m starting to think she’s a lesbian.”
I giggled. I was sure that Fawn’s daughter wasn’t gay, just independent, and besides, she was an heiress. What did she need a rich husband for?
“Let’s start by hitting the slopes,” Fawn suggested. “Men love an active woman.”
Big confession: I don’t know how to ski. Like tennis and equestrian events, skiing is a sport with an outfit I admire but will only wear to sip pinot grigio. Fawn was amused by my lack of skiing abilities but didn’t see any point in attempting a lesson on the bunny hill. Apparently the sort of men I needed to meet were strictly black diamond types. So instead of hitting the slopes, we hit the bar.
As it turned out, Badrutt’s Palace had a rather splendid one called the Davidoff Lounge, so there we sat by a large picture window with an unobstructed view of the lake, skipping the ski portion of après-ski and enjoying a lovely white wine, when three men sat down at the table beside us. They were boisterous, but we didn’t pay an iota of attention to them, which was made easier by the fact that they were speaking Russian, or so Fawn said. Our afternoon would have passed pleasantly, if unremarkably, if it hadn’t been for one of the men lighting a cigar. Fawn was immediately indignant and began to sputter and shift in her chair. I did my best to ignore it but it was impossible. The smell was putrid, as was the thick layer of green smog that drifted to our table, encircled our heads, and crept into our nostrils as if it were on legs. I made a face. Fawn coughed and waved at the smoke. Scott smoked cigars but always outside, and with far more finesse than this lout. We waited, fully expecting him to head for the nearest exit, but he stayed put. “I can’t take it anymore,” I muttered to Fawn. “Let’s move to another table.”
“Not on your life,” she said sternly and spun around in her chair and tapped the shoulder of the man closest to us.
“Excuse me,” she said brightly. They all abruptly stopped talking, clearly shocked that someone dared to disturb them. The man she poked turned to face us. I caught my breath. He was extremely handsome. He had large, wide-set eyes the color of a 90-percent-cocoa chocolate bar. I couldn’t even make out the pupils, they were so dark. His hair was nearly as dark and it was long, past his jutting chin, and wavy with a center part. He wore a black leather jacket with a purple shirt underneath; the collar was a floral pattern and it looked custom made. With a pair of charcoal gray jeans and brogues, I assumed he wasn’t much of a skier himself. He looked like a rock star.
“Can I help you?” he said in a heavy Russian accent and with a note of extreme seriousness.
Fawn, unaffected by his brooding sex appeal, smiled sweetly and spoke in her most ladylike southern accent. “I hope you can. My friend and I can’t abide that gentleman’s cigar smoke. Would you mind asking him to take it outside?”
Then she waited, determined not to waver. Fawn was a badass when she wanted to be.
“Why don’t you move table?” he said rudely.
Fawn bristled for a moment, then turned and pointed to me. “Do you know who this is?” she said as I recoiled into the safety of my wingback chair. “This is Lady Katharine Billington Shaw of Scotland.”
I was horrified. Fawn grabbed her wineglass and took a swig like she was a biker chugging bourbon. He didn’t answer straightaway; instead, he stared at me as though examining every detail; no emotion showed on his face. I stared back, which, to tell you the truth, was no easy feat. You try staring down a drop-dead handsome stranger who is either mentally undressing you or plotting an assassination attempt. I grabbed my glass of wine and, taking my cue from Fawn, took a massive swig to prove I wasn’t afraid, only instead of exuding biker chick toughness I gagged. Fawn rolled her eyes as the wine dribbled down my chin.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Pinot grigio,” I sputtered in feigned defiance. God, how wimpy did pinot grigio sound! I regretted not ordering whiskey.
He was still staring, and I was seconds from blurting that grade school idiom, “Shake your head, your eyes are stuck,” when he suddenly turned to his companions and barked at them. His comrades, including Puff, quickly removed themselves from the table and took up residence at the bar. Fawn nodded her approval just as a waiter swooped in.
“Another vodka,” he said to the waiter in a less scary tone. “And the women will have more pinot grigio.”
Hmmm. Not so wimpy when spoken with a Russian accent and looks to kill.
“That’s much better,” Fawn said coolly. “But I can’t stay.”
As she got up to leave I grabbed her arm, or clung to it, was more like it.
“Don’t leave me,” I pleaded under my breath.
“This one is flush, I can smell it,” she whispered. “Rule number one, always see where an encounter can lead. You can always say no, but you can’t say yes if they don’t have an opportunity to ask the question.”
“But what about Scott?” I muttered fitfully.
“He’s not the only man who can make your dreams come true.” She winked. “Consider it research, at the very least.”
With that, she disappeared and I was left with the sullen Russian. I smiled awkwardly at him and clutched my wineglass to my chest.
“Who are you exactly?” he blurted.
I nearly spilled the wine I was so stunned by his blunt question. He must have noticed for his features softened for the first time into a smile. “My apologies. I’m Russian and sometimes my English isn’t so good or so polite. What I wanted to know was where are you from?”
“I’m American, if you must know,” I said, trying to affect a regal air and hoping what I was about to say would be a “do” on Fawn’s list of ensnaring a billionaire. “But my estate is in Scotland.”
He nodded. The waiter was back with our drinks. It was clear from the waiter’s deference that this grumpy Russian was a very important person.
“Enjoy your drink, Mr. Mihailov,” he said.
Mr. Mihailov picked up his vodka. I quickly picked up my fresh wineglass in anticipation of some fancy toast, but watched in astonishment as he took a drink without so much as making eye contact. It was anticlimactic but I took his cue and sipped my wine and waited for him to speak again.
“You like it here?” he said at last.
“So far,” I answered breezily. “But this is my first day. Ask me tomorrow.” Then out of fear of more awkward silence, I asked, “Where are you from?”
“I live in Moscow, and London mostly,” he said, checking his BlackBerry. “But I’m from St. Petersburg. I came here for the polo.”
Not another one, I thought, but never mind that; according to my rich man calculations, homes in Moscow and London added up to one thing: Russian oligarch. Fawn was a genius.
“What do you do in Moscow and London?” I asked, feeling more at ease, so much so I was practically batting my eyelashes at the man.
“I run companies, mining, lumber, some oil.” He listed off his assets like a shopping list. “What do you do in Scotland?”
“Whatever I want,” I said flirtatiously.
“And what is it you want?” he asked with a fixed glare.
This threw me off, so I laughed artificially to give myself some time to think of a witty answer.
“That depends.” I continued to laugh. “On who is with me.”
“Do you have sheep?” he asked, blatantly ignoring my flirtatious remark. What a strange question. How odd that both Scott and Mihailov were so interested in what I had on my fake estate. It must be a male thing, like their bizarre fascination with Home Depot. I thought it best to ensure my lies had a certain continuity and that meant no sheep.
“I have the finest herd of Highland cattle in Scotland,” I boasted, slightly unnerved by how easy lying had become. It was nearly second nature.
“My cousin has cattle in Wales,” he said.
“What a coincidence. What kind are they?” I asked, hoping they weren’t Highland cows, too. Thankfully Mihailov shrugged.
“They are just cows.”
I was relieved. It would have been complicated had he known one end of a Highland steer from the other.
“What do you do for fun?” I asked, much more relaxed. “Do you ski?”
“I buy pretty women pinot grigio and then take them to dinner,” he said, still unsmiling.
I didn’t know what to say, so I reverted to my foolproof fallback position for these very situations; I drank more wine.
He was staring again. This time I didn’t stare back. I turned to the window and tried to distract myself by the lake and mountains.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said, and it was.
“You are beautiful,” he said. His compliment meant I had to look at him. My, was he gorgeous.
“Thank you.”
“Will you allow me to buy you dinner tonight?” he asked with a faint smile.
“Yes,” I said and smiled broadly. If Scott could be with Tatiana, then I could have a date with someone else, too. And Fawn was right, I had to keep my options open in case I couldn’t pry him away. Day one was over and I had a date with a Russian oligarch. I loved the words so much I kept repeating them in the elevator as I rode up to my room to change. Thankfully I was the only person in the elevator.
“Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him,” instructed Fawn, lounging comfortably on the bed. I was in the process of dressing for my date, having settled on my Chanel dress and string of pearls. I rolled my eyes.
“You’re just saying that because of Bernardo,” I said indignantly.
“Absolutely not,” she countered. “Bernardo didn’t have a dime; that’s what you do with men like that, enjoy them for sex. Wealthy men who are also attractive are far more dangerous because women sleep with them on the first date, mistakenly believing that the man is falling in love and not just satisfying his lust. These women don’t understand that a wealthy man does this all the time. If you want to marry the billionaire, save the sex for later.”
“That seems like very old-fashioned thinking,” I said cautiously, not wanting to offend Fawn.
“They are called old-fashioned rules because they withstood the test of time. And for a reason,” she continued. “They work. Appearing aloof and untouchable drives them crazy and makes them want more.”
“Well, I have no intention of sleeping with Mihailov,” I insisted and slipped on my black velvet slingbacks. “Besides, he scares me.”
“Precisely why you might,” she said with a tone that implied she didn’t believe me. “Where is he taking you?”
“Someplace called Chesa Veglia.”
“Verrry nice.”
“Why, what is it?”
“It’s only the finest place to eat and be seen in St. Moritz. There are three restaurants inside; I hope he takes you to the Grill; if he takes you to the Pizzeria he’s not serious about you. Oh, and there are two bars; one is called the Polo Bar, it’s only open during the winter season. You might run across Scott there.”
I waved away the suggestion.
“Look at you! Not caring about Scott.”
“He doesn’t care about me,” I corrected her. “Besides, he’s still with Tatiana. And Mihailov is at least fifteen years younger, so at least if I ever do see him naked his body will be in fine shape.”
I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth and saw Fawn recoil at the references to youth. “Maybe you can join us later for a nightcap,” I said quickly to change the subject.
“I’m staying in tonight and watching dirty movies,” Fawn said with a laugh. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“Like a chaperone?” I teased.
“Exactly. Only I chaperone from the comfort of my luxury suite.” She laughed. “Stick with me and you’ll land your rich man.”
I intended to do just that. Picking up my evening bag, I glided across the floor and twirled in front of the mirror.
“How do I look?” I asked. Fawn gave me a nod of approval.
“Like a million dollars,” she said proudly.
“That’s a good thing,” I answered solemnly. “Because that’s what I need to get.”
But as I headed toward the elevator I was hit smack on the head by a brick of self-doubt. Where did this Kate come from? My whole life I had never been more mercenary than taking the last cupcake off the dessert tray, and here was the so-called new and improved Kate, off on a date whose purpose was to attract a man solely for his money. I didn’t really know who this Kate was that got on the elevator and strutted across the lobby, and I wasn’t entirely sure I liked her any more than Marianne did.