Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

CHAPTER TWELVE

ATEIGHTO’CLOCKin the morning Duarte addressed the team Orla had been working with and updated them on her departure. The news that she’d left without so much as a goodbye was greeted with looks of surprise and expressions of disappointment. He, however, did not share either sentiment. He’d have only been surprised if she’d defied his order to go, and all he felt was relief.

Everything had turned out exactly as he’d planned and, as he stalked into the bustling kitchen of the Quinta in search of the coffee that he needed to get through the day after a largely sleepless night, he felt as if he could breathe for the first time in weeks. He was free. Of commitment, of responsibility, and, more importantly, of all the emotions he’d felt whenever he’d been with her.

He’d definitely done the right thing in sending her away, he told himself as he retrieved two cups from the cupboard, frowned, and returned one. He’d soon get used to being on his own again. He’d only known her properly for three weeks. By Monday he’d be back in Porto, back to work, and what had happened here would fade until it became nothing more than a distant memory.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t manage this coming weekend. He ran a billion-euro business. He could handle a two-day conference. How hard could it be? He didn’t need Orla and her unsettling insights. He wasn’t going to miss her in the slightest. He was perfectly all right. Couldn’t be better, in fact, and everything was going to be fine.

***

But it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all.

Thanks to Orla’s meticulous planning and preparations, the conference itself went off without a hitch. The weather had improved and the Quinta looked spectacular. The food and drink had been exceptional, issues had been discussed and problems had been solved. Any doubts anyone may have had about his ability to run his company had been well and truly squashed.

However, this boat trip up the Douro, to round off the weekend, was proving problematic.

Duarte hadn’t given much thought to the route. He’d left the logistics up to the crew. But he should have insisted on knowing the plan, because they were heading for the spot where he’d taken Orla for a picnic and now, no matter how busy he’d been over the last couple of days, no matter how hard he forced himself to focus on the tour and entertain his guests this afternoon, she was all he could think about.

Despite his intentions to the contrary, he had missed her. The Casa was quiet and empty without her vibrant, dazzling presence, yet filled with the memories that they’d created together, which fractured his sleep. To his intense frustration, he’d been seeking her out all weekend. Every time it hit him that she wasn’t there, bleak disappointment struck him in the chest, as confusing as it was unwelcome. And increasingly, when he thought of the way he’d sent her home, he didn’t feel relief. His stomach invariably knotted and a weight sat on his chest, the regret so intense it made his head spin. His appetite had disappeared and a dull heaviness had seeped into every cell of his body.

Yesterday evening, after his guests had retired for the night and the staff had returned to the village, he’d headed for the vines, hoping that the peace and tranquillity of the hills and the warm scent of the earth would soothe the chaos swirling around inside him as it so often did. But he’d found no solace there. In fact, with no guests to distract him, his unsettled thoughts had turned to Orla even more and she’d become a burr, sticking to his skin, impossible to remove.

Today, the creeping restlessness had expanded and spread, its tendrils reaching into every inch of him, and it was now crushing him on all sides. He stood at the polished wood railing that ran around the bow of the cruiser, staring at the bend in the river around which lay the beach, breathing in deep lungsfuls of air while inside his guests helped themselves to a sumptuous buffet. But nothing he did seemed to relieve the pressure. It was in his head. In his chest. Everywhere.

His knees shook and he gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles went white, but it was too much, and suddenly, unexpectedly, something inside him snapped. His defences splintered and a wild rush of emotions, thoughts and realisations rained down on him.

He missed her, he loved her, and he’d been the biggest of fools to have taken this long to realise it. He’d been thinking about her for months, long before he’d actually met her. Making spurious requests to fill in the time between the genuine ones, just so he could hear her voice. That was how he’d ended up with the helicopter. He could have easily told his secretary to liaise with her. He hadn’t had to get personally involved. But their conversations had triggered fantasies that had become addictive, fantasies that he knew now had come nowhere close to the reality, and he hadn’t wanted to let that go.

For three years he’d been petrified of a relationship. Of commitment. Of letting anyone get too close and then destroying them with his staggering self-absorption and emotional obstinacy. But there was nothing terrifying about what he’d been doing with Orla. He liked the way he’d behaved with her—before he’d screwed everything up—and the fact that traces of the man he used to be had returned. She was not Calysta and this was not the same.

For days he’d been resisting and denying the points she’d made about his marriage with every bone in his body because he was too afraid of the possibility of a relationship opening up and him wrecking it. But perhaps Orla was right. Perhaps none of what had happened had been his fault. The terrible day of the scan, the obstetrician had talked about a heart defect as the most likely cause of Arturo’s death in the womb, but he’d barely listened. He’d just recalled the savage argument two nights earlier, and the link between the events had seemed so damn obvious. He’d held himself to blame ever since, but maybe he had to accept that it had simply been nature at its most cruel.

And as for Calysta, after Arturo’s funeral he should have been around more instead of immersing himself in work. However much he’d despised her at that point, however much he’d been grieving for the son he’d badly wanted despite the circumstances of his conception, he should have considered what she’d been going through. But he would never have loved her the way she’d needed him to, whatever the circumstances, and she would never have been able to accept that.

So could he let go of the guilt? He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. Because he wanted Orla back. He wanted her trust and her love. He wanted it all.

But whether she’d even agree to see him was anyone’s guess. The look of devastation on her face when he’d told her he was sorry she’d fallen in love with him still haunted his dreams. Out of sheer fear, he’d been cruel and callous. He felt sick and his chest ached to think of it.

Could he fix the godawful mess he’d made of things? He’d do his damnedest to try. As he’d once told Orla, he too had goals, and this was his biggest, most important one ever. So he’d do whatever it took, however long it took, and this time he would not screw it up.

Releasing his white-knuckled grip on the rail, Duarte turned on his heel and stalked into the cockpit to address the captain.

‘The trip is over,’ he said, his jaw set and his entire body filling with resolve. ‘Turn the boat around.’

***

‘Orla!’

Orla had barely stepped out of the lift when Sam Hamilton, her co-CEO for the time being, accosted her in the lobby of their fifth-floor offices in London’s West End.

At his expression, the little hairs at the back of her neck shot up and her pulse skipped a beat. The last time he’d looked this serious, three days ago, in fact, he’d told her he planned to retire within the next twelve months, and if she wanted it the business would be hers. The news should have had her punching the air in triumph. Instead, she’d just about managed to muster up a weak smile and mutter a half-hearted ‘thank you’, but that had been it. Despite the endless talking-tos she’d given herself recently, she was still so damn sad about Duarte.

But enough was enough. A weekend of moping about, immersed in self-pity and misery, was plenty. Any more ice cream and she’d turn into a pistachio. Who needed a relationship anyway? How many of them failed? She didn’t know the statistics, but she knew it was a lot, and she wanted none of it.

No. Instead, she’d decided it was time for change. She was going to focus on her issues. She’d figured her insecurities and fears would exist whether she failed or succeeded, so she’d start with them. She’d always associated her sense of self-worth with a need to achieve, but why did it have to be that way? Why couldn’t she find it elsewhere? Say, from her job? From friends? From who she was, which wasn’t so bad really? So she was going to be less unforgiving. Of herself and other people. She’d learn to accept criticism without getting all defensive about it and start to build some proper, healthy relationships.

She’d forget about Duarte and the bittersweet memories soon enough. Just because she thought about him constantly didn’t mean that she would for eternity. She’d talk herself out of it eventually. She talked herself out of things all the time. And, quite honestly, so what if she had fallen in love with him? It was nothing to be ashamed of, although it was regrettable that she’d told him. Unfortunately, you couldn’t choose whom you loved and you couldn’t make them love you in return. You just had to accept things as they were, and try to avoid the chaos, mess and misery that was love for a very long time.

At least the super-loud, super-critical voice in her head had gone. She wasn’t perfect, nothing in life was, and that was OK. She was, however, utterly drained by all this self-analysis on top of everything that had transpired before and, quite frankly, she could do without the hassle of whatever it was that had Sam in such a state so early. But she was a professional, so she’d take it in her supremely capable stride.