A woman only interested in the balance of his bank account... Olivia bit her lip. Fantastic. Here she was, playing the role she had always abhorred. Judging a man by wallet size had been her mother’s gig.
Olivia had hated it. Hated that her mother was the quintessential gold-digger even whilst she’d known Jodie was looking out for the two of them the best way she could. Thrown out by her family, pregnant at sixteen, Jodie had used what she had. Her looks and her limitless sex appeal. Both of which had garnered her a more than respectable income and a less than respectable lifestyle.
‘Hey. You still with me?’
The deep voice tinged with concern rescued her from Memory Lane and snapped her to the here and now. To the opulent room with its fluted pillars and glittering glass chandeliers. To the noise of laughter, the pop of champagne corks and the clink of crystal, all indicating the guests were having a good time.
Enough. Shaking off the past, she relegated it to where it belonged. The past couldn’t be changed. But the present and the future...? They were firmly in her control.
So it was time to locate her backbone. All Olivia had to do was allow the world to believe her to be a billionaire-bagger in order to discover the whereabouts of Zeb Masterson. Then her unborn brother or sister would have a dad. A proper father. The kind of dad that Olivia had yearned for so desperately: a dad who acknowledged his child and wanted to be part of her life.
‘I’m right here,’ she said, with a clench of her nails into her palm to ground herself.
‘Then do you think you could smile?’
‘I’m not a smiley person.’
‘Well, it may be time to cultivate the art. Reporter at six o’clock and heading our way.’
He slid an arm around her waist and Olivia bit back a gasp, trying to ignore the snap, crackle and pop of desire that ignited in her at his touch. Instead she focused her attention on the blonde woman headed towards them with curiosity written all over her face.
‘We’d quite given up on you.’ The reporter put a hand on Adam’s arm. ‘Plus, we’ve all been dying to know who your mystery guest is. So introduce me.’
There was a heartbeat of silence.
Oh, hell.
Adam didn’t know her name.
The reporter raised perfectly threaded blonde eyebrows.
Olivia opened her mouth just as Adam’s hand tightened round her waist, twisting her body slightly so that she instinctively looked up at him. Not even a glint of alarm flickered in the brown eyes; instead liquid copper warmth melted over her. Her throat felt parched; he was gazing at her as though he couldn’t keep his hands off her, as if names were a mere bagatelle.
Then he smiled—the kind of smile that had her toes curling around the edge of her lime-green sandals. ‘Sweetheart, this is Helen Kendersen, columnist from Frisson magazine.’ He turned his gaze to the reporter. ‘And this, Helen, is my nomination for Frisson’s Most Beautiful Woman of the Year award.’
His arm pushed into the small of her back and she stepped forward, holding her hand out. ‘Olivia Evans,’ she managed.
‘So, how do you feel about having bagged yourself a billionaire for the night?’ The reporter’s voice was light, almost jokey, but her blue eyes were alert as she waited for an answer.
Olivia knew she should answer in kind—should have found time in the unprecedented disaster of this evening to prepare a witty, sophisticated comeback. But her brain refused to co-operate. Instead humiliation flushed her cheeks.
She heard a low laugh coming from her left and knew the question had been overheard.
Memories crowded her brain. There she was in the playground, surrounded by the pigtail brigade with their shiny shoes and perfectly packed lunches. ‘My mum says your mum is a tramp and you’ll be exactly the same.’ Noses in the air, holier than holy. ‘So I’m not allowed to play with you.’ The chant taken up as they circled her. ‘Tramp, tramp, tramp...’
Her hands balled into fists at her sides; if only the solution now was as easy as it had been all those years ago. Unfortunately punching Helen Kendersen on the nose wasn’t an option. Even more regrettably, her mind still hadn’t formulated a single witty rejoinder. The only words coming to mind and being transmitted to the tip of her tongue were wildly inappropriate.
She sensed Adam’s head turn and looked up to see his brown eyes rest on her face with an expression she couldn’t interpret. His arm moved from her waist to drape around her shoulders, the soft fabric of his tux brushing her suddenly sensitised skin. The gesture was totally, unexpectedly protective.
‘Wrong call, Helen,’ he said, his voice pleasant but with an impossible to miss steely undertone. ‘Credit me with a bit more sense. Olivia is not a billionaire-bagger; she is a bona fide date.’