The Billionaire Affair

Might things have been different if her mother had lived? If she’d been the son her father had wanted?

‘So you swallowed your Harvey pride. I more than half expected you to refuse to turn up.’

The soft dark voice punched through her like a body-blow. Her breath tensed and trembled in her lungs as she turned reluctantly to face him. He had entered by the main door behind her and although the hall was large by any standards he dominated it.

Gypsy-dark black eyes hinting at a wildness only superficially tamed, soft black hair fingered by the breeze, lithe body clothed in black, of course, to match his soul, snug-fitting jeans, topped by a fluid fine-cotton shirt.

Her heart stung deep in her breast. But she could hold her own. No longer in thrall to his seductive magic she was his equal, or more than, and not his willing toy.

The possibility that he might be here had had her dressing for effect, making a statement. Beautifully tailored, sleek deep blue suit, high-heeled pumps, her hair coiled into a knot at her nape, her stockings sheer and disgracefully expensive, her only jewellery a thin gold chain that shone softly against the milky-pearl skin of her throat. Where, to her deep annoyance, a pulse had started to beat much too rapidly.

‘Where my work’s concerned I have no prejudices. You hired a professional, Mr Dexter.’

‘So I see.’ A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his long, sensual mouth as his dark eyes swept from the top of her glossy black hair to the tips of her shoes and back again to lock with hers. ‘Such elegant packaging—exquisitely understated of course—such control. Every inch the daughter of the landed gentry.’ His voice deepened to a honeyed drawl. ‘I recall times when—’

‘Mr Dexter.’ She cut in firmly, desperately trying to ignore the way his lazy, explicit appraisal had set her skin on fire, had made the blood fizz alarmingly in her veins. ‘Might I suggest we stick to why I’m here?’ She broke off, sheer relief making her feel light-headed as a woman in her early thirties walked briskly towards them from the back of the house.

Short blonde hair curved crisply around an open, cheerful face, her short, wiry body clothed in serviceable blue jeans and a navy sweatshirt. Ms Penny? A far cry from the billowy, faded prettiness of Dorothy Skeet.

‘Sorry to have kept you; Martin couldn’t find me. Unblocking a drain.’ Brisk voice but a warm smile. ‘Lunch in fifteen minutes, boss. Breakfast room.’ Bright grey eyes were turned on Caroline. ‘I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, Miss Harvey.’ She picked up the luggage and headed for the stairs.

Caroline followed, still light-headed enough to have to hold onto the banisters. It was bad enough that Dexter was around when he didn’t need to be. She could have done the job she’d been hired to do without having him under her feet.

But if he was going to try to dredge up the past, make pointed comments on the way she looked then the next two or three days would be intolerable.

CHAPTER THREE

‘HERE we go, then.’ The housekeeper pushed open a door at the far end of the corridor that ran the full and impressive length of the house. ‘No en suite, I’m afraid, but there’s a bathroom next door.’

Caroline sucked in a sharp breath as she stood on the threshold. Was it coincidence or had Dexter issued instructions that she should be given this particular room?

He knew it had been hers. How many times had he tossed pebbles at the window to wake her? Countless. But she’d never been sleeping; she’d been waiting for his signal, full of longing for the arms of her secret lover, racked with anxiety in case he didn’t come, ready to fly silently down the stairs to be with him, to melt with him into the magical beauty of the soft summer night.

A wave of ice washed through her, followed by unstoppable drenching heat. She shook her head, annoyed by her body’s reaction, then firmed her mouth, a flicker of scorn darkening the deep blue of her eyes. She was too strong now to let him get to her on any level. In any event, the atmosphere of the room felt entirely different.

The faded nursery paper had been replaced by soft primrose-yellow emulsion and there was a pale ferny-green carpet instead of the cracked linoleum that had shrivelled her bare feet in wintertime—

‘You’ll have lunch with the boss—the breakfast room’s the third door on the left, off the hall.’ The housekeeper put the bags down at the side of the bed. ‘He’ll give you instructions on what he wants you to do, of course. But if there’s anything else you need, you just let me know.’

‘Thank you. It’s Ms Penny, isn’t it?’

Really, she had to get a grip, not go to pieces simply because she’d be using her old room for a night or two. She made herself smile, walk through the door instead of hovering like someone being urged to enter a chamber of horrors! For pity’s sake, she didn’t have to remember if she didn’t want to!

‘Call me Linda. I only come over Ms-ish when I’m on my dignity!’ A disarming grin then a square, capable hand was extended and was taken.

‘And I’m Caroline. Tell me, is Mr Dexter staying too, or is this a flying visit?’ She hoped it was the latter, but she wouldn’t put money on it.

‘Staying, as far as I know. He comes and goes. Usually he just drops by from time to time to keep an eye on work in progress. But this time he arrived with a heap of luggage. Now…’ a quick glance at the man-sized watch she wore ‘…I’ll get lunch on the table. It’s cold; I’m not much of a hand when it comes to cooking. Admin’s my line and there won’t be a cook in residence for another month, so you’re going to have to take pot luck, I’m afraid.’

A live-in cook as well as a housekeeper to ensure the smooth day-to-day running of the house. Dexter must have decided to make Langley Hayes his permanent home she mused as Linda left the room. Showing that the wild, penniless youngster could lord it over the village just as her father had done? Only in better style, with far more money to throw around.

Sucking her lower lip between her teeth Caroline methodically began to unpack. In a way she couldn’t blame Dexter for what he was doing. Brought up by his mother—a rather fearsome woman, she remembered—paying a small rent for the dubious delights of living in a near derelict cottage on her father’s estate which no one else would dream of inhabiting, the unconventional pair had been looked down on by the majority of the villagers. It would take a strong-minded man to resist the temptation to come back and display his new-found affluence.

Not that his motives interested her, of course. They didn’t. Her only concern was getting the job done and getting back to London.

Aware of the passage of time, she squashed the childish impulse to refuse to go down to lunch at all. Refusing to face problems wasn’t her style.

And he was a problem, she admitted as she opened the breakfast-room door a few minutes later. He was waiting for her, his back to the tall window that framed a view of newly manicured parkland. Tall, tough, beautifully built, even more compellingly handsome than he had been twelve years ago.