The Billionaire Affair

No, she was no longer seventeen. His taunt came back to sting her. She was twenty-nine years old and should have known better than to let a deceitful, lying louse like Ben Dexter rouse her so effortlessly, rouse her to the point of being on the verge of pleading with him to make love to her.

A hot tide of shame raged through her, making her feel nauseous. Her own body had betrayed her as surely as he had done all those years ago.

She shook her head then pressed her fingers to her aching temples. So, OK, she thought wearily, she’d behaved like a fool, like the gullible teenager she’d been when she’d emerged from the cool canopy of the woods on that long-gone, hot summer afternoon to find Ben perched on the top of the drunken wooden gate that led to one of her father’s neglected hay meadows.

He’d been wearing cut-off shabby denims and, apart from scuffed canvas deck shoes, nothing else. The skin that covered his whippy frame had been nut-brown, glistening, his dark unruly hair flopping over his forehead, his black eyes dancing with a million seductive lights, his smile dangerous and sexy as he’d dropped to his feet and had walked with slow deliberation towards her.

She’d felt it then, the sizzling chemistry; it had made her breathless, so she could barely answer when he’d said, ‘So school’s out. Something tells me it’s going to be a great summer.’ His eyes told her he liked what he saw, her slenderness cloaked in soft summer cotton, her black hair tumbling down to her waist.

She’d never been this close to him before. The effect was shattering. Of course she knew that he and his mother lived in the decrepit cottage down by the stream, had done for several years. And she’d seen him in the village once or twice and heard the mutterings about his wild ways. And she could understand them, the mutterings, almost sympathise with the staid village matrons because Ben Dexter was something else: too drop dead gorgeous, too charismatic. An untamed male.

All she could do was give him a wide smile of glorious recognition and take the hand he held out to her. And so it had begun…

Caroline gave a shaky sigh then tightened her lips. She’d been such a gullible fool then, and last night she’d have gone down the same path if Ben hadn’t demonstrated that he wasn’t remotely interested.

But it was no use brooding about it or wishing it hadn’t happened. It had and she had to put it out of her head, salvage some pride, do her job and get out of here as quickly as she could.

A shower helped a little. No way was she going to dress in the old jeans and top Linda had lent her and scrabble around in the dusty attics. Today of all days she needed to have all flags flying, to retrieve some of her pride and somehow try to wipe away the shame.

Ben wouldn’t be around to see what she looked like but she needed to look her best for her own sake.

Teaming the elegantly cut linen trousers she’d worn to the restaurant with an oyster silk shirt and a narrow tan belt she spent far longer than usual on her make-up, achieving a discreet and perfect mask. Then she fixed her glossy hair into her nape with a mock-tortoiseshell comb.

Linda was at the kitchen table, a sheet of paper in front of her. She got up, smiling, as Caroline entered. ‘Good—I was just about to leave you a note; now I don’t have to bother. There’s cold stuff in the fridge and loads of tins in the wall cupboards. So help yourself. I guess the boss will do the same—he’s already left for Shrewsbury… And don’t tell me you’re going to tackle the attics in that outfit! Didn’t the jeans and top fit?’

‘I’m sure they will.’ Caroline followed her nose to the coffee pot. ‘I thought I’d give the attics a miss today and make a start on the first floor.’ She lifted the pot. ‘Like some?’

Linda wrinkled her pert nose. ‘Go on, then, twist my arm! I should be on my way, but another ten minutes won’t make much difference.’ She sat down again, watching as Caroline filled two mugs. ‘Tell me, how do you manage to look so flippin’ stylish? It’s something you’re born with, I guess. Me, I look all wrong whatever I wear!’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ Caroline sat opposite the other woman and handed her the milk jug and sugar bowl. She felt really mean; Linda obviously wanted to settle into girl talk but she herself had other ideas.

Last night she’d fully intended to satisfy her now burning curiosity and ask Ben what his plans were for Langley Hayes. And now, after what had happened, she would make sure that she had as little to do with him as possible during the remainder of her time here. So that precluded any conversation longer than one syllable.

So before Linda could start talking about clothes and make-up she said, ‘I can’t help noticing that the house has a rather institutional look. Comfortable and much brighter than it ever was when I lived here—but functional. What does Mr Dexter intend to do with it?’

‘Don’t you know?’ Linda widened her eyes then gave a wry smile. ‘No, of course you don’t, or you wouldn’t be asking!’ She took a sip of her coffee then added more sugar. ‘He’s set up a trust, put a whole load of his own money in, and the income from the golf club and leisure centre will help with the upkeep, pay the helpers’ wages. It’s for disadvantaged kids—holidays, weekends. It’s a brilliant idea— There’ll be indoor activities as well as outdoor, a small farm, organic-produce gardens, riding, boating, fishing— It will let inner-city kids know there’s more to life than hanging round street corners and getting into trouble.’

Long after Linda had left Caroline stayed in a mild state of shock. What the housekeeper had told her didn’t gel with the picture of Ben Dexter s

he had built up in her mind: an arrogant, self-serving deceiver—a picture reinforced by his behaviour last night; his announcement that he’d won round one, as if he’d brought her here to engage in a battle. An announcement she’d been too filled with shame and embarrassment to question.

Had she been totally wrong about him? Had she misjudged him?

She pushed herself to her feet, putting the enigma that was Ben Dexter out of her mind. She had a job to do and it was pointless to waste her mental energies on a man who had as good as declared himself to be her enemy.

Bracing herself, she climbed the staircase to the room that had been her father’s. The cumbersome Victorian wardrobes were empty as was the solitary chest of drawers, cleared out by the grieving Dorothy Skeet. The only piece of any value, the Italian, carved giltwood tester bed, which the housekeeper had sometimes shared, brought a lump to her throat.

She made a note of its likely value in the pad she carried and made a swift exit. Why had her father never loved her? Why had he actively disliked her?

Making a mental note to see Dorothy before she headed back to London she forced the memories of her troubled childhood to the back of her mind and carried on. The rooms that had been unused when her father had been alive were now cheerful and bright, either furnished with twin beds and colourful, functional chests and hanging cupboards, or made into bathrooms, ready for the youngsters who would be spending time here.

Ben must have invested a considerable amount of his private fortune in this charitable enterprise. Because he remembered his own deprived childhood?

The state had supported his mother, but only barely. Janet Dexter had tried to supplement her benefit by growing and selling fresh fruit and vegetables but the villagers, suspicious of the hard-eyed, grimfaced woman and her wild son, had refused to buy. Someone, she remembered now, had once threatened to report her pathetic entrepreneurial efforts to social security.

Life must have been tough for both of them, and what had brought mother and son to the village in the first place was unknown. Close as they had been during that long-ago summer, he had never talked about his earlier life. There were always things he’d kept hidden, even then.

Admiration for what he had made of himself, for his altruism where similarly disadvantaged children were concerned, made her bite her lip. She didn’t want to think well of him. She couldn’t afford to; she could so easily fall right back under his mesmeric spell, she admitted honestly. Last night had shown her that much.