How to Seduce a Billionaire (31 page)

Rubens. Botticelli. Gainsborough. Goya. Turner. Every one a jewel.

She was conscious though, of saving the best until last, so she could share her thoughts with Ellis. But finally, she had to give in and enter the rooms where the Impressionist paintings were hanging.

Manet. Monet. Degas. Cézanne. Renoir. Magical names.

It hardly seemed possible that she was seeing them for real. They were the stuff of her dreams, almost in the way Ellis was. They reminded her how barely formed her own artistic aspirations were, and yet at the same time they fired her with ambition. She’d never be famous, but she could try new things, push her skills, and learn and grow in the journey.

Ellis was the start of a journey too.

He’d prompted her to find her inner heart as a sexual woman. She knew he would not be with her much longer on the path, but she had no qualms about giving herself and her virginity to him. She was happy, in a bittersweet way, to have known him and loved him at all.

She stared hard into the face of the barmaid in
A Bar at the Folies-Bergère.
The face was enigmatic, weary, the eyes sad, resigned. Had she known a special lover? Had she lost him? There was regret there, Jess was sure of it, and she resolved not to ever, ever feel that way when looking back on her time with Ellis McKenna.

It was difficult to tear herself away from the great Manet masterpiece, but she felt tugged towards her other particular favourite. Renoir’s
La Loge.

A happier painting, yes, and prettier in a more obvious way, but although the central figure – the cocotte? – seemed to be confident, and to gaze out boldly, Jess still wondered … what was her background? Did she too hide some doubt about her status? And who was her male companion ogling at, in another theatre box?

Don’t you care? Or does he always do that? And it’s

As she stared at the details of the pretty girl’s hair, her face, and her striking black and white gown, Jess had the oddest feeling.

No … Nobody has sixth sense like that. You can’t just
know
he’s here.

And yet her body shuddered finely. Her heart began to race. She wanted to turn around, but somehow she couldn’t.

Knowing she’d see a sight more dear to her than any French Impressionist masterpiece!

She’s the masterpiece. Art pundits would throw up their hands in horror at me saying that. But she’s the sight I most want to see here, the most beautiful.

Ellis paused in the doorway, as entranced by the image of Jess standing before
La Loge
, as she was by that famous work. Her face was aglow with wonder, illuminated almost. He felt in awe of her and the pure communion between her and the great painting.

Seeing Jess like that made him glad to be in the gallery. He’d experienced a gut-wrenching shudder on entering, irresistibly drawn back to family plans that had once been made. Julie had been so keen to visit this gallery, and he was sure that even though Lily and Annie had been only little girls, they too would’ve been able to appreciate the experience. They’d certainly have loved the pretty opera box girl, with her black and white dress and her flowers. Lily had loved to dress up, and would probably have requested a dress like that for her next birthday.

The pang of pain struck him again, but ebbed a little when he focused on the woman who waited for him in the here and now, so slim, yet shapely, elegant in her simple summer outfit, cornflower blue cotton trousers and a short, toning jacket. He loved the way her dark hair hung shiny to her shoulders, and her face was so fresh with barely the lightest touch of makeup.

You know I’m here, don’t you?

Something subtle about her stance had changed, as if she’d sensed him in the way he was sure he’d have sensed her with their positions reversed. But she wasn’t giving in to the urge to turn around, the minx. She was making him come to her, like the goddess she’d become, and perhaps always had been, unknowingly.

Smiling, he lingered a moment longer, enjoying the invisible push-pull between them. It made him want her furiously, stirring the hunger that had gnawed him since Sunday last. The primal beast part of him wanted to hustle her imperiously from this wonderful gallery, bundle her into a limousine and speed back to the apartment to fuck her hard, then slow, then kinky, then gently vanilla. Maybe even start the process in the back of the car.

But most of him, perhaps even a greater part, just wanted to be with her, and to share experiences. This gallery. London. Simply being together.

He wanted to say,
Look, all you people, I
can
actually be happy. I can stop being an emotional cripple, at least for a little while, and take pleasure in the company of this wonderful, enviable woman.

Oh, what the fuck was he waiting for?

Ellis strode across the room, weaving through fellow Impressionists devotees. He walked softly across, and snuck up behind Jess, following her eye-line to the painting.

‘What do you think he’s looking at? If it were you and I in that box, my eyes would be only for you, never mind the audience, or even the opera.’

‘I knew you were there,’ she said, turning to him, her face provocative, smiling. ‘I was just wondering how long it’d take you to come across to me.’

‘Whoa, super powers now, as well as your many other talents.’ He reached for her hand, and drew it to his lips. The gesture felt perfectly natural; she was a queen, and he was her courtier.

‘I suppose so,’ she answered, then took his breath away, by leaning in towards him as he straightened up, and pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

Oh God. He stiffened in his underwear, suddenly glad of a loose, longish jacket. He’d have to focus on art appreciation or he was going to embarrass the both of them.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Jess. I’ve missed you. It’s been a very long week.’

She frowned a little, as if she didn’t quite believe him, but then smiled again, her face openly happy. ‘Yeah, I’ve missed you too, Ellis.’ She paused and winked. ‘Although all the presents have helped to ease the pain. You’re a very extravagant, but very, very kind man. Thank you so much.’ She reached up and touched his face, making his erection jerk again. ‘I’m not going to embarrass you, by saying I can’t accept your gifts. I think I know you enough to know that you don’t … um … mean anything by them. You’re not trying buy me or make me obliged to you. You’re a better man than that, and the books, and the pencils and everything … well, they make me feel happy.’

Emotion stole away Ellis’s voice. She was a wonder. So honest. So fresh. She played no mind games. For a moment that spear of pain pierced him again. Jess’s frankness and lack of guile reminded him of Julie, even though in most ways they were very different women.

‘I’m glad,’ he said at last. ‘Very glad. Now, shall we admire the art?’

‘Yes, isn’t this amazing?’ She turned back to
La Loge
. ‘I love it, but it’s a bit of an enigma, just like the best things always are.’ She turned back quickly to him, with a wag of her eyebrows. ‘Is she a lady? Or is she a prostitute? That’s what you always wonder … what they were trying to say, as a comment about their times. She looks contented enough, doesn’t she? Not like the girl in the
Folies-Bergère
…’ She nodded towards that other painting, not too far away. ‘She looks sad to me.’

Ellis stepped back a way, trying to think critically about the paintings when all he wanted to do was take Jess in his arms and hug her and kiss her. ‘I don’t know … I think she’s just a young woman out for the night with her boyfriend, really. And he’s being a bit of a git, as we mostly are.’

Jess turned from the picture and gave him an appraising look. Was she wondering about the word ‘boyfriend’?
Was
he her boyfriend? He’d never been anyone’s boyfriend since Julie. His relationships, or whatever they’d been until now, had not really merited that term.

‘Let’s look at this gal then,’ he said, resisting self-analysis and taking her by the arm and leading her towards the Manet.

‘So, what do you think?’ As they stood in front of the famous bar scene, he experienced an insane urge to hold her hand, or put his arm around her. But he resisted that too. Too possessive. Too mine, mine, mine. Too confusing for them both.

‘It’s hard to know what she’s thinking. Or what Manet wants us to believe she’s thinking. The whole thing is a bit unsettling. The reflection is all skew-whiff but he must have meant it to be that way.’ Jess pursed her lips, staring hard at the image. ‘It’s wonderful, truly, but it makes me uneasy. And even more so, seeing it for real.’

Wonderful but uneasy. That’s how I feel.

Suddenly Ellis wanted to get out of here, absurd as that seemed. He’d wanted to share this experience with her, but the provocative art was dredging up thoughts he didn’t want to face.

You bloody coward, man.

He glanced at his watch, and saw the perfect out.

‘When did you last eat, Jess? I hate to raise mundane matters in the presence of high art, but it’s way past lunchtime.’

Her frown wasn’t puzzled, but knowing. As if she saw right through him. Her perspicacity was far more unsettling than any Impressionist masterpiece. ‘I had some biscuits on the train.’

‘Biscuits? You can’t live on biscuits, woman.’ He did reach for her hand now. He needed the touch of her flesh to centre him, and return him to territory he felt secure on. ‘You need to build yourself up. You need fuel …’ He leaned in and whispered in her ear. ‘For later. For stamina.’

Jess turned her face towards him, still with that smart, all-seeing expression, and Ellis could have sworn she gave him the very faintest of nods, as if affirming their return to safer ground.

‘How about a late lunch?’ he continued, not nodding himself, except psychically. ‘I’m certain we can get a nice table somewhere … Maybe the Savoy Grill? Or somewhere quieter, if you prefer? I know plenty of restaurants.’

Jess regarded him steadily. ‘Would you think me ungrateful if I said I’m not very hungry? It’s been such an exciting day. My stomach feels too jittery for a proper meal.’

Me too. But I’m not sure it’s about food. And the only hunger I have is for you, Jess Lockhart, only for you.

‘But don’t you want to see more of the gallery?’ Jess enquired as they made their way out of Room 6, and then down the stairs.

‘I had a quick look around while I was looking for you,’ he lied. ‘Maybe we can come back tomorrow, eh? Although I’m sort of jealous of you spending so much time and attention on all these dead guys … when we could be doing other things.’

He was being crass, and he knew it. Despite his ground rules coming into this thing with Jess, it was more than just sex and bed, which was the problem. Getting back to the focus on the carnal was what they needed to do.

For both their sakes.

When Ellis had summoned a car, and like magic it had arrived in a couple of minutes, they piled inside, still not having settled on where to eat.

‘How about tea at The Ritz then?’ he said suddenly, sounding like an indulgent relative, offering a niece a delicious treat, but the way his thumb stroked the centre of her palm seemed to suggest something far more earthy. She was torn. She’d always wanted to take tea in a high class London hotel, but the sweetness of wild sex with Ellis was just as tempting.

‘I thought you had to book months in advance for afternoon tea in these big posh places?’

Ellis laughed, and waggled his dark eyebrows at her. ‘As you’ve pointed out before, I don’t tend to live like a billionaire. But I can, if I want to. They’ll find a table for me, don’t you worry.’

Such arrogance. But somehow it got to her, turning her on. She wanted to throw herself at him there and then, and test the veracity of his claim that the window-glass was completely one way. Yet, at the same time, she wanted to test his other claims too.

‘I’d love tea at The Ritz then,’ she said, lifting her chin, challenging.

‘Right-ho.’ Pulling his slim phone out of his inner pocket again, Ellis spoke to someone for a few moments, pausing every now and again whilst this person, presumably some PA or other, spoke to a third party on another line. Ellis beamed at Jess throughout, as if he completely understood that she was testing his billionaire credentials.

‘Great! Fantastic! Thanks so much … Tell them we’ll be arriving in about ten minutes.’ When he rang off, he slipped the phone in his inner pocket, and began fishing around in the outer pockets of his suit jacket.

‘What are you doing?’ It was Jess’s turn to laugh as Ellis drew a pair of fine-knit silk socks from one pocket, and a dark blue tie from the other.

‘I might be lord of all I survey, but I’ve got standards. And so has The Ritz.’ He kicked off his leather slip-on shoes and began pulling on his socks. ‘There’s a dress code in the Palm Court, and I’d hate to embarrass you by not adhering to it.’ Sartorially socked, he attacked his shirt collar and slid the tie into place, knotting it expertly without the help of a mirror. ‘How do I look?’ The knot was perfect, and the blue tie toned perfectly with the small flowers on his shirt.

‘Absolutely divine,’ said Jess facetiously, although it was true. ‘But what about me?’

‘Also divine. You look perfect.’

Dubiously, Jess looked down at her summer jacket and cotton trousers, and her fairly sensible lace-up shoes, which she’d chosen for walking. No fashion plate, but tidy enough she supposed. Somehow it’d been important not to look like a total scruff in the presence of sublime art. And the sublime man who was passing through her life.

Within a few minutes, they reached The Ritz, and the sense of being in a dream, the way she often felt with Ellis, intensified. They were greeted by the hotel manager himself and escorted personally to a prime spot in the Palm Court. Jess tried not to rubber neck, either at the sumptuous surroundings, the gilded mouldings and furniture, or the enormous floral display in the centre of the room, but it was impossible not to. She looked for celebrities too, but couldn’t spot anybody she recognised. It was mainly a lot of people just like her, tourists visiting the city. Well, perhaps not quite like her; all the other tea-takers had probably booked six months in advance for their table. Whereas she, in the presence of a genuine celebrity, her billionaire prince of glamour, had just swanned in on spec, like the Queen of Sheba.