3. CARSON

I’m always amazed at how hard some Europeans have to work to have a good time. I mean, three-quarters of the people on the dance floor look like they’re in the middle of a physics exam instead of gyrating to a thumping techno beat.

You’re in Milan, for crying out loud. Relax.

I suppose that’s easy for me to say as I tip the third empty bottle of ’88 Dom Perignon into the silver bucket next to our table, signaling our waitress to bring another. I never see the bills that accumulate on my platinum American Express – they go straight to accountants I’ve never met.

I’ve burned money like it’s firewood ever since I sold my company three years ago and I still haven’t even made a dent in the principal from the sale.

I did the math once: assuming I live to the age of ninety – so another sixty years – I’ll have to spend upwards of a hundred grand a day to go through all of it. Of course, the money isn’t just sitting in the bank; it’s invested all over the place, bringing in very respectable returns, so you can probably up that number to $250,000. Sure, it’s easy to spend a quarter-million dollars in one day. Anyone could do it.

But spending that much every single day for the rest of my natural life? That’s a whole other ball game.

Our server sashays over with two more bottles of champagne and places them on the table in front of Maks and me. The British girls are busy giggling and watching people on the dance floor.

The server, a black-haired woman with chestnut eyes and a neck like a swan’s, leans in close to my ear, filling my nose with some exotic floral scent. I assume that’s how she spent some of the $5,000 tip I left for her last night. Her lips tickle the skin of my earlobe.

“Compliments of the house,” she says, raising her voice despite the closeness. It’s the only way to be heard over the driving thump of the music. I smile ruefully. I’ve just been comped about $4,000 worth of booze.

Even when I try to spend it all, I can’t.

Maksim pours the contents of his bottle into the ladies’ glasses. “You pour your own, big payer,” he says to me.

“Big spender,” I correct, shaking my head.

“What is difference?” he says, consternation on his face. “All it means is same thing.”

I chuckle.

Sometimes it irks me that he never picks up a check – it’s not like he can’t afford it, his father is a billionaire – but I never actually get mad at the guy.

One thing about Maksim Orlov: if he’s around, it’s a party. He attracts people like moths to a flame. He’s always got a grin on that swarthy, stubbly face, and he’s always up for a drink, or a concert, or a swim in the ocean, or jumping out of a plane. He probably could have joined me on my wingsuit escapade this afternoon, but he’s also incredibly lazy.

He’s also got a knack for finding the most beautiful women on the planet. Case in point, our current companions. Joanna is seated to my right, wearing a stunning black evening dress I bought for her this afternoon. At least I think I did. She accepted my credit card happily enough.

To my left is Georgia, a petite brunette with huge doe eyes, in a tank top and an ivory miniskirt. Emily, another blonde, is all over Maks.

Joanna leans across me to talk to Georgia. “Pinch me!” she cries.

“No, you pinch me!” comes the reply. The two giggle like fiends.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Joanna lays a hand on my thigh, dangerously close to my crotch. “What do you think, silly? We planned this holiday thinking we’d be staying in hostels and eating at tourist traps! Then we met you two and – well, this happened!”

Georgia leans in to flank me and claims my other thigh. “It’s like a dream!”

“Well,” I say, “if we’re all dreaming, why aren’t we in bed?”

Their eyes light up. “We thought you’d never ask!” says Joanna.

The two of them grab their purses and stand up. Emily and Maks, who are practically sitting on top of each other, look at us with matching grins.

“Have fun,” Emily coos. “We’re going to stick around a bit.”

The girls pull me up from my seat as I wave to our companions. We amble toward the door, their arms around my waist, my arms around their shoulders. My head is a little fuzzy from the champagne, but I’m well aware of where tonight is heading.

The sultry night air hits me as we emerge from the front door into the streets. The girls continue to giggle as we meander our way toward the hotel where Maks and I – and, I suppose, our three new friends – are staying. People mill past in various stages of drunkenness. All of them are young and impossibly beautiful.

This is Milan, after all.

“How did you make your money?” Joanna asks as we walk. Her face suddenly turns beet red. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize how crass that would sound! You don’t have to tell us.”

“Not at all,” I say. “Elevator pitch: I invented a type of software that some people found very valuable, so they paid me a lot of money for it. The end.”

“You must be really smart,” says Georgia. I think the champagne affected her tiny body a bit more than the rest of us, judging by the way she’s weaving. “I can barely turn a computer on.”

I lean in close and whisper, “Well, you’re both doing an excellent job of turning me on.”

They flash each other a look that promises me I’m in for a night of delight.