The interviews went on in the same vein. I was surprised at how young most of the contestants seemed to be. Some of them could have been seniors in high school. For each one, Piers asked the same questions. Why do you want to date a billionaire? Where are you from? What do you do? What’s the most important thing you look for in a man? Do you think you’ll win The Billionaire Dating Game?” Occasionally he would ask a follow up question, but they went through all twenty contestants pretty quickly. After a girl was done, a crew member would lead her out the back of the set.
After the last chair had emptied out, Piers waved me up. It was already past four. I did the mental calculations in my head. If I ran back home, I would have fifteen or twenty minutes to type up the interview answers. It wouldn’t be my best work, but Clarence should know not to expect great work in such a time crunch.
“So, ready for the interview?” I asked, plopping down on the set couch. I pulled out Jessica’s list of questions. It was hard to see anything past the glare of the set lights. I hadn’t realized how bright they would be on this side of the cameras.
“First, the audition,” Piers said.
What? I blinked into the bright lights.
“Audition? Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all,” Piers said, and I made the mistake of looking up into his charming smile. I knew now why every woman in America was in love with him—that smile, those eyes, with that accent? He was unbelievably charming. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t want to audition for your show.”
“Play along, love.”
Love. God, the way he said that word made a shiver go through me, and it wasn’t just the cold coffee still damp on my skin. I stared intently down at the question sheet.
“If I play along, will you answer my questions after?”
“Of course, love.”
My head snapped back up. Those blue-green irises twinkled with pleasure. He knew exactly what that word, in that accent, was doing to me. Well, I wasn’t going to play along. Not the way he had in mind.
I beamed my best Broadway-quality dazzling smile and tossed my hair, ignoring the fact that I was wearing only a suit jacket over my bra. I wasn’t the kind of girl who ever got in front of cameras. That was Jessica. But if he was going to force me, I was going to act my little introverted heart out.
“My name,” I chirped, “is Lisa Forrester!”
“Lisa,” he said. It was the first time he had said my name. I didn’t know which was worse, him saying love or him saying Lisa. Both words made the skin on the back of my neck tighten up.
“That’s right!” I said, glancing down at my watch. Four fifteen. Not too bad. “Next question?”
“What do you do, Lisa?”
“I’m a journalist. I interview very important celebrities.”
“Important celebrities?”
“Well, maybe not very important celebrities. Very sexy celebrities. Some of them are more arrogant than important.”
Piers was suppressing a smile.
“Where are you from?”
“Right here in New York City.”
“And why do you want to date a billionaire?”
Piers leaned forward, and again the scent of his cologne floated across the air. I swallowed hard.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked brightly. “I’m totally in it for the jet ski vacations and sunset sails in the Caribbean.”
Piers bit his lip. He was trying so hard not to let me get to him, but my ditz impression was spot on after years of working next to Jessica, a true California valley girl if ever there was one. And it was starting to work.
“Nothing else?”
“Oh, and rides in his red Ferrari. He has to have a Ferrari. A red one. If he doesn’t have one, I’d ask him to buy one. Not for me to drive, of course. I don’t like driving.”
“You don’t like driving?”
“What New York girl does?” I laughed like an airhead and tossed my hair again. “Anyway, we’d only be driving upstate to our private ski cabin.”
“Sounds lovely. What’s the most important thing you look for in a man? Whether or not he has a Ferrari?”
He was joking, but there was a serious note in the question that I couldn’t miss. He was asking me what I wanted. And I wasn’t going to pull any punches.
“I want a man who’s real. Someone who won’t lie to me. Someone who doesn’t wear any masks.”
Piers narrowed his eyes and leaned forward even farther. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the camera wheel a bit to the side.
“And that’s why you want to date a billionaire?”
“Every guy wants something,” I said. “Every guy out there is working an angle. But if I’m dating a guy who already has everything he wants? He’s not going to play games with me. He’s not going to pretend to be someone he’s not.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, dropping the ditziness for a moment.
“You see, I’m not going to sit here and lie and say I just want a nice guy. There are a million nice guys out there. I want someone who’s already figured themselves out. Someone who doesn’t want anything from me… except me.”
“And you really think a billionaire is the best kind of man for that?”
“Well, all of the non-billionaires I’ve dated haven’t worked. So I’m open to trying new things.”
Piers suddenly leaned back, like he realized how far off-track we were going with the audition questions.
“Great!” he said, back to his normal charming self. “Last question. Do you think you’ll win The Billionaire Dating Game?”
“If I make it onto this show,” I said, almost laughing at the absurdity of the idea, “I’ll be the worst sore loser you’ve ever seen.”
Piers chuckled. His fingers, I noticed, were stroking the arm of the couch idly. They mesmerized me.
“Is that a wrap?” The voice came from off set.
“Good over here.”
Piers nodded off stage. I saw a red light blink off.
“Wait,” I said. “Were you actually taping that?”
“Don’t worry,” Piers said, his fingers still moving idly. “You did fine. That was a great audition.”
“Hah. Great audition,” I said sarcastically. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
The cameramen and other crew members began breaking down the set as we sat. The bright light snapped off, and for a moment I saw nothing but white spots in the darkness. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The lights had been giving off a lot of warmth, too, and with them gone, it was chilly. I shivered a bit as I clutched the list of Jessica’s questions.
“Are you cold?” Piers asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You can have my jacket, love. You can put it on top of my other one.”
“Stop calling me love,” I said, my insides twisting at the word.
“You got it, darling.”
“Ugh, fine. First question,” I said, blowing back my bangs. “When did you pick up a British accent?”
Piers squinted at me.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I was just curious why sometimes you have an accent, and sometimes—”