The Billionaire Affair

He could no longer be remotely interested in her sexually. Been there, done that; his past history showed he was that kind of man. He had only insisted she come here so that he could demonstrate how well he’d done for himself, show her that he now had the upper hand.

Well, that she could handle, no problem; in fact she admired his financial acumen. As for the other, the unwanted sexual pull she was unable to hide from herself, well, she hated to admit it, but she was having difficulties.

And instead of being able to dismiss them from her wakeful mind she found herself lying in the darkness actually listening for his signal, the pebbles he’d lightly tossed against the window-pane, calling her down to him.

How willingly she’d gone…

She sat up, squirming to the edge of the bed, flicked on the bedside lamp and pressed her fingertips to her aching temples.

She had to pull herself together, stop remembering. They were different people now and she knew what a heartless bastard he really was. The man she’d loved all those years ago was nothing but a figment of her imagination, a silly romantic dream.

Her watch told her it was just gone two o’clock and she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Why lie sleepless in bed, agonising over the past, when she could be working, bringing the time of her departure that little bit closer?

The decision made, she slipped her arms into the aqua silk robe once more, tied the belt securely and reached for her notebook.

She’d visit the dining room first she thought as she slipped silently down the great staircase. The Regency dining table with its twelve chairs had been sold long ago. She’d been about fourteen years old, home for the Christmas break and, when she’d questioned him, her father had said sarcastically, ‘How else am I to pay your boarding school fees? Rob a bank? Ask the tooth fairy?’

Useless to tell him, for perhaps the fourth time, that she’d have been happier at the nearest comprehensive. He’d given that withering look he’d seemed to reserve for her alone. ‘Remember who you are!’

Who she was. Suddenly she had the unnerving feeling that she didn’t know. A successful woman in her own right or a rootless shadow, pining for a lost love? Being back here with the boy who had been forbidden in the grounds, now transformed into a hard-eyed man who owned everything around her, made her feel unreal.

Shrugging off the unsettling feeling she turned her mind back to business. The table had gone, never replaced because her father had never entertained. But there had been a mahogany serving table— George III she thought—and a large dresser of around the same period. Both would be valuable and would represent a sound investment.

Pushing open the double doors and quietly closing them behind her she unerringly found the light switch and stood for a moment, transfixed by what she was seeing, wishing she had swallowed her distaste at seeming to be interested, and had asked Linda what plans Dexter had for the house.

The ugly, dark red flocked wallpaper had been stripped away, replaced by warm primrose-yellow emulsion. The boards beneath her feet gleamed and two refectory tables, complete with long bench seats, took up the centre of the room while comfortable but functional armchairs surrounded the huge fireplace.

Remembering the catering-size kitchen equipment, the extra, functional bathroom that had been made in what had once been a bedroom next to her own, she began to put two and two together. But a country house hotel didn’t make real sense. Everything was too basic.

Hearing the double doors behind her open she stiffened, holding her breath, praying that it was Linda doing the investigating, not Dexter.

But her luck was out, as it always had been with him, and he walked into her line of vision, dressed in black, a soft V-necked sweater over well-worn jeans, his feet bare, as were hers.

Her heart thumped, a bolt of electricity zapping through her bloodstream. He looked so unfairly sexy, his dark hair rumpled, his jaw shadowed, his black eyes glinting beneath heavy, brooding lids. How well she remembered that look, the promise it offered—and delivered.

‘You couldn’t sleep? I wonder why,’ he uttered silkily, his eyes sweeping the length of her body, lingering on the soft curves and hollows that the tightly belted, slithery robe did precious little to conceal. He made her so aware of how little she was wearing.

‘Something I ate at dinner. Indigestion,’ she lied, desperately trying to ignore the quivers of sexual response that were careering right through her. She didn’t want this to happen to her, to feel anything for him other than utter contempt.

And, the pity of it was, no other man had ever had this effect on her. She’d dated, of course she had; she hadn’t turned into a man-hater. But no one had ever come near to invoking the intense emotions, the devastating physical needs Ben had awoken within her.

The notebook she was holding shook in her hands. She made herself open it, remove the pen that was clipped inside the spiral of metal that bound it together, and said, ‘As I couldn’t get to sleep I thought I might as well do some work. I hadn’t meant to disturb you.’

‘Meant or not, you did. And do,’ he responded drily. ‘And did you? Work?’

Wildly, she cast her eyes round the room that was now so different from how she remembered it, gathered her scattered mental resources and said, ‘There used to be a serving table. Father probably sold it, unless you’ve moved it somewhere else.’

‘Nope.’

She wasn’t looking at him but she had the distinct impression he’d moved closer. Much closer. Her skin prickled. She said, her voice thickening deplorably, ‘The dresser’s still here. Georgian. Valuable. Hang onto it if you’re looking for an investment.’

‘At the moment all I’m looking at is you.’

Caroline gulped, her breath fluttering in her throat. What he’d said was true. She could feel his eyes on her, burning her flesh. She wanted out of here. Now. But her legs wouldn’t move. Then she felt his hand on her waist, searing through the fine layers of silk, sending flickers of fire to her pulse points, each and every one of them. Don’t, she wanted to say. Don’t touch me. But her tongue was cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

‘You’re cold; the central heating’s turned down to the minimum. Let’s go. Warm milk should settle your—indigestion.’

The pressure of his hand increased, she could feel the exact placement of every fingertip. Now was the time to tell him she didn’t want his hot milk, or his manufactured concern, to take herself back to her room. But she didn’t. She simply went where he led, appalling herself by her mindless regression to that summer all those years ago when she would have followed him to purgatory and back if he’d asked her to.