How to Seduce a Billionaire (30 page)

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Authors: Portia Da Costa

BOOK: How to Seduce a Billionaire
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So they both chatted on, sharing funny stories from their vastly different working lives, confirming her travel plans, and swapping opinions – often wildly different – on news and current issues.

Things became a little more risqué when the talk turned to art, later in the week, and Ellis enquired about her progress with the self-portrait and the image of them on the ottoman, fucking.

‘I wish I was back there now … back inside you …’ he said huskily, and one thing led to another, and she never did get to report on the status of the drawings.

Ellis also sent Jess presents throughout the week, the naughty man, showering her with thoughtfulness. The hoard included a selection of gorgeous deluxe art books – some of them titles that he must have seen in her bedroom, on loan from the local library – and new supplies of her favourite pencils and drawing pads. She’d never even
noticed
him noticing these things when he was with her, but he clearly had, memorising the brands in order to gift her with them later.

He also sent her subscriptions to a number of journals she could never have afforded for herself, and he made her a ‘Friend’ of just about every major art gallery and museum in London, including the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, the Tate, and, most appealing of all to her, the Courtauld.

‘I’m afraid I’ll be busy with meetings on Friday and part of Saturday, so hopefully, you can fill in the time exploring art to your heart’s content. I’m sorry I can’t explore with you, but if I can get away, I will do, and we’ll do some culture together.’ He paused, and she could easily picture the wicked twinkle in his eyes. ‘Well, a little bit. There are other things I’d much rather be exploring while you’re here, as you can well imagine.’

Jess
could
well imagine, and she knew she’d happily forgo even the lure of the Courtauld, in order to explore the fabulous work of living art that was Ellis McKenna.

One thing Jess didn’t discuss in too great a detail with Ellis was her life class. She felt irrationally guilty, even though there was nothing to be guilty about.

The model this week had been a young woman with a very slight, almost emaciated physique. She’d seemed healthy and relaxed enough, but her body-shape was tough to draw without making her appear skeletal and, of course, there was no way Jess could draw Ellis instead this time. Something that Josh Redding, the guy who seemed interested in her had remarked upon, teasing her good-naturedly in the college canteen during the class break.

‘No fantasy man this week?’

‘No, he was just a passing fad,’ she’d lied, ‘He’s some rich supermodel guy I saw in a celebrity mag and fancied. I’m over him now.’ She grinned, but inside it was as if she’d betrayed Ellis in the most profound way.

‘Glad to hear that. These film star looking hunks make the rest of us ordinary guys feel inferior.’

Oh dear. He likes me. I should like him. I would have … before …

‘You’re not an ordinary guy, Josh. You’re a very talented artist to say the least.’ At least that wasn’t a lie. He
was
good.

‘Thanks. I think.’ He grinned back at her, but didn’t press the matter.

After that, they’d fallen into conversation about the difficulties with the latest model. Josh was fun to talk to, and he knew his art. He wasn’t bad looking either, in a quiet, buttoned-up sort of way.

If I hadn’t met Ellis, I think there really might have been just a bit of a flicker there. I might just have taken a chance, this time.

But as they’d been about to go their separate ways at the end of the class – Jess lived within walking distance of the adult education centre, and Josh came by car from the other side of town – Josh had asked, tentatively, if she’d like to take in a film at the weekend, at the local art house cinema.

‘The
Exhibition on Film
of
Munch 150.
I was going to buy the DVD, but I think it’ll be much better on a big screen. How about it? We could go for pizza afterwards, if you like?’

More guilt. It had been such a relief to have a ‘prior engagement’.

‘I’m afraid I’m away for the weekend. Staying with a friend … I’m sorry.’

She was. She wasn’t. God, she didn’t know what she felt. Josh was nice, but Ellis was … Ellis.

‘No worries. I think it’s on for a few weeks. Maybe another time, eh?’

‘Yeah … sure. Rain check?’

‘Rain check.’

They’d parted then, a little awkwardly, leaving Jess feeling very strange indeed.

Thrown into deep shadow by the brilliance of Dream Lover made flesh, a perfectly nice man like Josh Redding seemed merely a sketch compared to a dazzling, accomplished masterpiece. But would she be able to see him with more clarity … afterwards?

Because ‘afterwards’ would soon come, sooner than she wanted. Ellis had left her under absolutely no illusions about that, and much as she knew she loved him, she also knew that she just couldn’t crawl back into her burrow of celibacy and half-life when he was gone. She’d be letting herself down, and letting Ellis down, wasting the gifts of sensuality that he’d given her.

She would miss him terribly, but she wouldn’t pine and close herself off again. Ellis had chosen to turn his back on the life of the emotions forever … but she couldn’t do that. She owed it to herself to forge a new way, after him, and perhaps giving Josh Redding a chance would be a way to try and achieve that.

You’re just shadow-boxing with yourself, kid. It’ll be hard. It’ll be well-nigh impossible. Ellis McKenna will be a tough act to follow, if only because you love him to distraction.

21

But there had been no internal debates about Josh Redding once Jess began her London adventure. Her lover’s giant presence in her mind didn’t leave room for anything else, and even just thinking about her art class friend felt like being unfaithful.

Especially when she reached her destination …

Ellis’s London apartment was much more like the billionaire pad she’d initially expected him to have. Like a wonderland, a glossy photo spread made real. The colour scheme surprised her though, and made her laugh the instant her brain made certain connections. When he’d told her the location, she’d checked out properties in this same giant building, on Zoopla and Rightmove, and when the housekeeper had shown her in, she’d expected the classic sea of white and chrome, as in the illustrations.

Instead, to her delight, she found a warmer, much more welcoming palette. Tones of rich dark brown, near black polished wood, all lightened with sand and cream and fawn, and high-lit with zingy little accents of blue and green, in jewel tones. The more she looked at it, when the housekeeper had left, the more an impression formed. And then it clicked.

It’s got the same colour scheme as you have, Mr McKenna.

The blacks and browns for his hair, creamy tan for his skin, blue-green for his fabulous eyes. She wouldn’t see him until later, but somehow, his presence was all around her as she settled in and explored, strengthened by his colour aura.

The concierge/housekeeper had offered a dazzling array of in-house services, but Jess had wanted to be alone in Ellis’s space.

‘Of course,’ the quietly efficient woman had said, ‘you’ll find the kitchen is stocked with all the staples you’ll need, and just press 0 on the house phone if there’s anything else you require.’

And now Jess was taking five, sitting in a vast living room area that overlooked the Thames, sipping a reviving cup of tea.

And here comes the rain
again.
Why is it always raining? We met in the rain and it seems to follow us wherever we go.

The London weather was indeed disappointingly wet and grey, but somehow even that had an impressionist charm, imparting a misty blue-grey aura to the busy City view, that almost might have come from the brush of Monet. Or Whistler.

I can’t believe I’m here. It’s like stepping into a dream. Even more so than Windermere Hall.

Her tea finished, Jess decided on a quick snoop around the apartment before she ventured out onto the rainy streets of London.

Ellis had been right when he’d said he didn’t have a great many pictures and works of art in his London pad. But the ones he did have were much more to Jess’s taste than the few rather dull country scenes he had on the walls at Windermere, which she suspected had been in the house when he’d first arrived there.

Here though there were three rather nice, impressionistic London views that were vibrant and accomplished. Not by artists she knew though, and she cursed the limitations of her artistic education. She knew mainly those ‘greatest hits’ that she cherished, and the pre-eminent art movements and their exponents, but beyond that was a very great world of painting, still unexplored.

There was nothing on the bedroom walls, as yet, which surprised her. She’d half expected some gems of tasteful eroticism, art to set the mood when Ellis brought his temporary conquests here for seduction.

Conquests like you, kiddo. You’re just the latest.

Jess had blushed when the female concierge had shown her into this football-field sized room rather than a guest room, on her little introductory tour. But then she’d thought, what the hell, why worry?

She’s probably perfectly used to different women sharing his bed. It isn’t as if I’m the first. He’s never deceived me about that!

Back in the room shortly after, on her own, Jess couldn’t resist the siren call of Ellis’s wardrobes, curious about his clothes.

The sliding door glided on its track, revealing hanger after hanger. Suits. Shirts. Razor-sharp business attire such as the billionaires of film and fiction might wear. She tried to imagine him clad that way, so different from the casual, unstructured beach bum look in which he’d made such a stunning first impact on her. She loved that style. It just seemed so right for him. She’d always remember him that way … either that, or stark naked.

Checking the label on a shirt, she grinned.

I might have known.

Paul Smith. She checked another and another. It almost seemed as if Ellis had every flowered or patterned shirt the man had ever designed. She pulled out one adorned with tiny washed out cornflowers and held it against her face. The cotton was very soft, and it smelt of Ellis’s fresh yet spicy cologne. The lovely odour made her heart twist, and she was tempted to stash the shirt in her bag, as a keepsake, and hope he wouldn’t notice it was missing.

It was time to head out on her gallery pilgrimage now. Hanging around here, her thoughts were arrowing inexorably in familiar, dangerous directions that she knew they shouldn’t.

The pursuit of great art would distract her from the recurring and inconvenient truth that she’d fallen for a man she couldn’t have.

Getting around London isn’t nearly as time-consuming when you have a luxury hire car to take you wherever you want to go.

Great galleries were still great galleries, though, and each had to be lavished with all the attention its precious collection deserved. With hours outside Ellis’s bedroom strictly limited, Jess asked the driver to take her straight to the venue right at the top of her list.

The Courtauld.

The limo drivers of London clearly had the same knowledge that the world famous black cab drivers possessed, and knew all the same clever rat runs that lesser mortals simply weren’t privy to. Staring out at the rain and the scurrying crowds with their mackintoshes and umbrellas, Jess was shocked at how quickly the car drew up at the Strand entrance to Somerset House.

‘Would you like me to see you to the door with an umbrella, miss?’ the driver asked.

‘No, but thanks very much. I’ll be fine.’

‘If you’re sure, miss. Just give us a call on the number on the card when you want to move on. It won’t necessarily be me, but whoever it is will get you exactly where you want to go.’

As the long black car sped away, weaving neatly into traffic, Jess headed for the arches that led into the Somerset House courtyard. She popped out to take a quick look at the fountains, but just as she was doubling back, her phone rang, so she darted beneath cover again, just in front of the gallery entrance, to take the call.

‘Jess, it’s me. Where are you?’ Ellis’s voice. Her heart trembled every time she heard it. He’d only texted so far today, presumably in his meetings.

‘Just about to go into the Courtauld Gallery. I’m very excited. I can’t wait to see the Impressionists.’

I wish you were here to see them with me.

‘Good! You enjoy, sweetheart. Take your time looking around. I’m almost finished here, so I’m hoping I can get to you there, and we can maybe enjoy some of those pictures together.’

Jess’s spirits leapt. Sharing this experience with Ellis would be just as wonderful, in its own way, as making love.

‘That’s great! I’d love that. I’ll mooch around. There’s masses for me to see before you get here. Shall I wait for you in a particular room or something?’

He probably thinks I’m crazy. I sound like a giddy kid … but I don’t care!

‘I’ll find you, Jess. It’s a relatively small gallery. I shouldn’t be too long, but if I haven’t tracked you down in an hour and a half, keep doubling back to the Impressionists and I’ll look for you there. Does that sound like a plan?’

‘It does indeed. I don’t need any excuse to loiter around in front of
La Loge
or
A Bar at the Folies-Bergère
.’ She could hardly believe she was going to soon see those sublime artworks … with her sublime, albeit temporary lover.

‘Okay, Jess. Got to go again now. Enjoy the pictures.
Ciao
!’

The connection went dead, and Jess realised she was shaking. Was it the art? Or was it Ellis? Probably both.

I could spend days in here. It’s a house of treasures …

The Courtauld is a small gallery, but to Jess’s mind, it was perfect. The rooms are relatively small, and the atmosphere intimate, almost like viewing art in someone’s beautiful home rather than in a sterile, formalised environment. She moved from room to room, not ashamed to be open mouthed in wonder at the superb collection of works, doubling back on herself to look at particular pieces again, following no set pattern of viewing, entranced by the genius displayed.

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