The Billionaire Affair

She registered the irritated set of his wide shoulders, the impatience of his long-legged stride as he crossed the hall, and she shivered.

He was everything she’d ever wanted and the white heat of their young passion had ruined her emotional life for years as, so it would seem, it had ruined his. That being the case, she could understand and even forgive his cold-blooded attempt to get her out of his system.

But that hadn’t happened, had it? Their love-making this afternoon had been better than ever, spiced with a deeper, sweeter poignancy. So, to use that hoary phrase ‘marry or burn’ he had decided to propose.

And she was burning now, flames of forbidden excitement leaping inside her because despite knowing it would be emotional suicide she wanted to accept his proposal so badly it was like an invisible hoist, drawing her inexorably to him.

Perhaps, after he’d sent the caller away, they could sort things out.

If he should tell her he deeply regretted his behaviour towards Maggie and now gave her and the daughter he’d turned his back on all those years ago financial and moral support…

If he told her he had had every intention of returning the money her father had given him, admitting that he wasn’t prepared, after all, to stay away…

But he was holding the door wide, his inborn politeness to the fore as he said, ‘Of course you’re not being a nuisance. She’s right here. Please do come in.’

Dorothy Skeet emerged slowly into the lighted hall. The years had solidified her plumpness into corpulence and her once blondish fluffy hair had turned to dull pepper and salt. She said uncertainly, ‘I heard you were here, Miss Caroline, but I didn’t know for how long. It’s a bit late, I know, but I didn’t want to miss you.’

Caroline’s heart skipped a beat and, awkwardly at first and then more surely, she crossed the floor to hug the older woman. Her throat felt clogged with the tears that now seemed perilously and uncharacteristically near the surface. The only kindness—albeit casual—she’d known in this house had come from this lady.

‘Why don’t we all go through?’ Ben said into the ensuing, emotionally charged silence. ‘I was about to make supper, why don’t you join us, Dorothy?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t!—I mean, I’ve already had my tea,’ she said, flustered, her round face turning pink. ‘I didn’t want to intrude, I only came to hand over your dad’s things.’ She fumbled at the catch on her capacious handbag, suspiciously over-bright eyes now clinging to Caroline’s.

The older woman was clearly ill at ease and Caroline didn’t know what to say to make her feel more comfortable. It was Ben who came to the rescue, his smile as irresistible as ever as he suggested, ‘Then, come and sit with us while we eat. Enjoy a glass of wine—or coffee if you prefer, and spill all the village gossip. I know Caro wants to catch up with everything that’s been going on these last few years.’

That was news to her, but the fabrication was worth it, Caroline thought as Dorothy’s eyes lit up at the prospect and she became instantly more relaxed.

Her father’s former housekeeper had an incorrigible and unrepentant appetite for gossip and she wondered if the older woman had somehow found out about her and Ben’s secret affair, or had heard gossip in the village and had passed it on to her father. If so it would explain why she’d initially appeared so uncomfortable when encountering the two of them together.

Trailing behind Ben and Dorothy as they headed for the kitchen, Caroline dismissed the thought. It was no longer important. Let the past stay in the past.

Even if her father had remained ignorant of what had been going on and she and Ben had married quietly as soon as she was eighteen, as she’d suggested on more than one occasion, the result would have been the same: their relationship would have broken up in pain and disillusionment when the inevitable happened and she learned of his abandoned little daughter.

The sobering knowledge w

as something she was going to have to keep in the forefront of her mind. Something to stiffen her resolve to turn that astonishing proposal of marriage down flat and not give in to the weakness of her love for the deceiving monster that kept creeping up on her whenever she let her mental guard down.

How could she, even in a weak moment, contemplate marriage with a man whose past record made her cringe, whose only real interest in her was the slaking of a lust that hadn’t died, despite all their years apart?

But despite her angst-ridden thoughts it was hard to stay in a sombre mood whilst Dorothy Skeet, sipping at the mug of hot cocoa which was her preferred tipple at this time of night, regaled them with the latest village gossip, sometimes hilarious and often downright slanderous, while Caroline herself, finding an appetite that surprised her, tucked into the succulent grilled gammon and tomatoes Ben had rustled up.

‘Don’t believe half of it.’ Ben grinned as he refilled both their wine glasses and motioned Dorothy to stay where she was when she made to clear the table. ‘Every time a story’s told it gathers a whole new and highly coloured dimension!’

‘Too true!’ Caroline smiled right back at him over the rim of her glass. The relaxed atmosphere, the simple food and superb wine, the laughter, Ben’s comical mock-horror as he threw up his hands and rolled his eyes at some of Dorothy’s more wicked comments, had taken the stress out of the situation.

So when the older woman took a tissue-wrapped bundle from her handbag and handed it to her Caroline was able to view her father’s few personal effects without the familiar clutch of misery in the region of her heart.

The silver fob-watch he had always worn tucked into his waistcoat pocket complete with chain and onyx seal, the gold signet ring that had come down from his father and was now thin with age, two fountain pens—not much to show for sixty-odd years of living.

But her sense of loss was deep as she folded the tissue over the pathetic mementos. However she did her best not to let it show as she placed the package back into Dorothy’s hands.

‘I know my father would have liked you to keep these,’ she said gently.

Dorothy had been Reginald Harvey’s bed companion for many years. On her part it had been love, on his a blunt and probably infrequently expressed affection. Seeing the doubt in the other woman’s eyes, Caroline insisted. ‘He was fond of you, he was closer to you than anyone. He—’ her voice faltered, thickened, but she forced the words out ‘—he actively disliked me. I know he would rather you had these keepsakes.’

She heard the intake of Ben’s breath followed by a beat of a silence so thick she could almost taste it. Strangely, although she knew it should be otherwise, his presence gave her the strength to add, ‘In return, you could tell me why—why he never seemed able to stand the sight of me. You must have gathered some clues over the years. And maybe—’ she tugged in a deep breath, feeling Ben’s dark eyes on her, feeling his unspoken compassion ‘—maybe if I knew why, I could forgive him.’

‘Yes,’ the older woman concurred, her eyes darkening with sympathy even as her fingers tightened around the keepsakes. ‘He was close-lipped where his feelings were concerned but he adored your mother—anyone who saw them together knew that—he worshipped the ground she walked on. Jane Bayliss—you’ll remember her, she married old Hume the butcher—worked here at the time, cleaning and such; she said she was sure he had mixed feelings when your mum got pregnant with you. He didn’t want anyone, even his own child, to have any of her attention. He wanted it all for himself.’