Taming the Big Bad Billionaire

Until he heard the most unlikely scream of delight from his wife and cursed inwardly, because he knew. All his hopes had been in vain. Because whether Loukas revealed his involvement or not, he knew that Ella would find out. And she would never forgive him.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission, his inner voice whispered seductively, even though something in his chest cried foul.

Ella came running down the steps, pausing midway when she saw him in the grand hallway of their house in France. The pure joy shining from her eyes and lighting her features made his heart drop, even as a smile pulled at his lips.

‘Can we go to Fiji?’

‘What?’ he replied, not quite expecting her request.

‘Fiji—can we go? Célia can’t, and I...we might have a client, and I’ve never been and it would be—’

‘Of course,’ he said, willing in that moment to give his wife anything...anything but the honesty she had made him swear to.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind? I know that you must be busy with Kolikov Holdings and your own business.’

With yet another whip lashing against his conscience, Roman smiled through the self-recrimination. ‘When are we going?’

She looked uncertain for the first time. ‘Tomorrow?’

He laughed at this, not at Ella’s uncertainty but the speed with which his future could come crashing down upon him. The impending moment when his wife would realise that he would not, could not, be what she needed him to be. The moment she would realise that he was so irretrievably damaged by his past that he could not hope for his future.

‘Of course, Ella. Whatever you wish.’

Because he could at least give her this. He could ensure her future was secure, even if his was not.

* * *

Viti Yalo was a private island in the South Pacific that only allowed seventy visitors at any one point. As the private jet approached the small landing strip Ella peered at glimpses of paradise through the small round window. Turquoise sea and slashes of white sand bordered lush green patches peppered with tiny brown rooftops and the little square tiles of infinity pools that seemed unnecessa

ry when next to the beautiful South Pacific Ocean.

It was a patchwork quilt of the dreams of the rich and famous—and suddenly Ella felt neither rich enough nor famous enough to be here. But her husband descended the small steps of the aircraft, covered the short distance towards the sleek black limousine waiting for them and barely spared a glance for the uniformed driver holding the door open for him as if he did this kind of thing every day.

She marvelled at the inherent power and authority of her husband. Wished and wanted to borrow it for herself. Because despite the brave face she had worn since Ivan had turned them down Ella had begun to fear that, although he had given the reason as her husband, it was her business plan that was the problem. It was a fear she had kept to herself, not wanting to betray Célia’s confidence any further.

She had been relieved when Roman had agreed to her request that they arrive two days prior to the meeting with Loukas Liordis, so that she could prepare the pitch and the specifics and details and all the other minutiae that was in all likelihood unnecessary. But she would be prepared this time. Not willing to let herself, her business or Célia down. And, in some small way, determined to prove herself to her husband too.

But all Ella’s internal musings were cut short when they arrived at the one-storey dwelling where they were staying. At each corner of the main house sat triangular turrets of a sort, bamboo thatching topping the roof of the building that sat squat and wide, clinging to the edge of the ocean. Stone arches indicated several rooms with windows that looked out across the water, a small pathway at the side of the house leading towards a long stretch of white sandy beach, dotted with palm trees. A somewhat improbable glass-encased pool sat to the left of the house and the sweep of the bay ensured complete privacy from any other dwelling nearby.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, laughing at the look of concern—almost horror—that passed across Roman’s features. ‘I don’t want to live in France any more. My grandmother will be fine. Let’s just move here!’ she cried in delight as she ran to the doorway of the house, desperate to see what treasures she could find inside.

Every single room had large windows revealing the incredible view of the ocean. The two rooms bracketing either end of the house simply opened out onto the elements. Large hurricane lamps swinging gently in the breeze hung from the ceiling and swayed before large sprawling round benches that could easily have been the most exquisite beds covered in cushions and draped in throws that had her imagining a sunset with her husband beside her and... She broke off that train of thought as her cheeks heated and her pulse began to thump.

It was a luxurious fantasy, magical in the sheer opulence of it all. In the central living area, on the table had been placed a large vase of gloriously bright crimson flowers, beautiful in their bloom. A bottle of champagne, glistening with condensation, sat in a bucket beside two glasses, and a bowl of chocolate-tipped strawberries nestled on ice cubes. And that barely even began the welcome package the island had left for them.

As she moved through every room she saw signs of small gifts and touches that made her feel like a princess. Rose petals on the floor of the most beautiful bedroom she’d ever seen, swathes of richly patterned silk wraps for her to keep with ‘our compliments’. Local artisanal paintings hung on the pure white walls, adding splashes of colours Ella would never have imagined liking, spreading joy through her, covering over her fears and concerns about the upcoming meeting—and suddenly she wished they were there just for them.

Everywhere she looked, the hypnotic horizon of the ocean was displayed in the distance and she thought that she never wanted to leave.

Roman found her where she had dropped herself onto the plush sofa, gazing at her as if searching for approval. She smiled. ‘I think I could lower myself to spend a few days here,’ she said mockingly.

‘Very gracious of you,’ he replied and she loved the teasing tone in his voice, so different from the husband who had seemed pressed down under an invisible weight she couldn’t fathom since the night at the ballet.

‘We have reservations at the restaurant...’ and Ella couldn’t help but feel a little crestfallen at the idea of leaving this beautiful place, even in all likelihood for an equally beautiful place, but she didn’t want to share this. Share Roman. She wanted to tuck herself into this magical bubble and never leave. ‘But I’m sure we could ask them to bring the food here.’

It was startling how easily he could read her. She’d never thought herself that expressive, but Roman seemed to know, to sense what she was thinking—sometimes even before she did.

‘This is going to be impossible,’ she almost wailed, once again mockingly. ‘How am I supposed to focus on a business proposal with all this...?’ She gestured around her, searching for a word that would express even an ounce of the beauty she was staring at. But for once she wasn’t looking at the ocean, or the rooms, or the beautiful things contained within. She was looking at her husband. A husband who did not seem hungry for food in that moment.