The Billionaire Affair (4 page)

That had been common knowledge, he hadn't known that the people from the village had laughed at him behind his back. She didn't add that he'd been authoritarian, cold and unloving. He had been her father, after all. She owed his memory some loyalty.

‘I—well—' Linda was clearly embarrassed by her
faux pas
. ‘I don't go in for overalls, but I think the previous housekeeper left some behind. Hang on a
tick, I'll see what I can find in the box of stuff put out for the next jumble sale.'

Moments later she was back carrying a small pile of laundered, folded garments. Flimsy nylon, flower-patterned overalls. Very feminine, very Mrs Skeet.

‘Do you know where Mrs Skeet is now?' Curiosity and a slight, lingering affection for the woman who had looked after her—in a fashion—prompted Caroline to ask as she tucked the overalls under her arm.

‘Rents the cottage next to the village stores,' Linda supplied. ‘When the renovation work started here she came up two or three times to clear out your father's clothes. Nice woman, a bit prone to flap. You could tell she was gutted by your old man's death.'

The question, Why hadn't his daughter undertaken that sombre task? lurked at the back of the other woman's eyes but Caroline wasn't answering it. ‘I'll make time, one evening while I'm here, to visit her.' Her accompanying smile was small and social as she turned and walked away. She knew why her father had forbidden her the house, had said he never wanted to see her again. But she would never know why he had been unable to feel any affection for her at all. Maybe Dorothy Skeet could supply the answer.

 

Caroline hung up her suit and buttoned one of the overalls over her black satin bra and briefs. The skimpy fabric was virtually transparent and the splashy blue and pink roses were a nightmare. Plus, the thing itself was oceans too large.

Not to worry that she looked completely ridiculous; no one would see her and her suit would be saved from certain ruination.

Back in the airless space beneath the roof she began to work methodically, clearing an area at one end where she could stack rubbish, hauling boxes of chipped china and battered saucepans, a collapsed Victorian whatnot, over the uneven, dusty boards, wondering why people hoarded useless objects, then remembering how in her childhood she had found magic up here, the perfect antidote to many a wet and lonely day.

There had been a dressing-up box, at least that was how she'd thought of it: A tin trunk full of old clothes, probably once belonging to her great-grandmother and her mother, most of the things beautiful and all of them fragile. Period dresses could fetch big money, especially if they were in good condition and, remembering back, most of them had been.

After some searching she found the trunk, lifted the lid and found it empty, apart from a bundle of letters tied up with faded ribbon. Her father must have sold the things when money got tight. At Dorothy Skeet's prompting? She could remember the housekeeper's voice as if it was yesterday, ‘I thought I'd find you up here. It's time for bed. And mind what you're doing with those things—they can be really valuable. Still, if dressing up keeps you quiet and out of the way—'

Caroline sank down on her heels. Her shiny black
hair had come adrift from its moorings. She pushed it back off her face with a dusty hand, leaving a dark smudge on the side of her milky-pale face.

If only her father could have swallowed his pride and sold Langley Hayes instead of re-mortgaging it, moved to a much smaller place, then he could have spent his final years free from financial worry. But his sense of self-importance wouldn't have let him do that.

Sighing, she reached for the letters. They were from her father, written to her mother before their marriage. She selected the one at the top of the bundle and began to read. A few lines were enough to tell her that they'd been deeply in love with each other, a few more told her that the young Reginald Harvey had adored and worshipped his beautiful bride-to-be.

She slipped the letter back in its envelope and bound it back with the others, her fingers shaking. This was personal and private and showed her a side of her father she had never known existed. He had been capable of a love so strong and enduring it practically sang from the faded pages.

Clutching the letters, she got to her feet, her eyes blurred with sudden tears. And saw him. She couldn't breathe.

She hadn't given Ben Dexter a single thought for the last couple of hours but now he was standing in the open attic doorway, watching her. And he filled her head, the whole drowsy, dusty space. The atmosphere was charged with his presence.

If she'd explained to her father—the thought came fleetingly—just how deeply she'd been in love with Ben Dexter instead of stubbornly remaining mute, her eyes defiant, then perhaps he would have understood. He had known the type of love that could enthral, that could bind one person to another with a special kind of magic.

Just as swiftly that thought was replaced by something much more cynical: it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference. Even if her father could have been persuaded to approve of her relationship with the village wild boy instead of threatening fire and brimstone there wouldn't have been a happy ending. The black-eyed, half tamed, young Dexter had never loved her. Had just lied about it because he'd wanted sex with her, happy enough to go find it elsewhere when he'd had a fistful of her father's money as a pay-off.

Now the downward sweep of his eyes, the curl of his long, hard mouth told her that he'd noted her weird appearance and had fastened on what was obvious: the clear outline of her svelte body showing through the ghastly overall, modesty secured, but only just, by the tiny black bra and briefs.

Quelling the impulse to run right out of here, she lifted her chin a fraction higher and coolly asked, ‘You wanted something?'

‘You.'

Eyes like molten jet swept up and locked with hers and for a moment she thought he meant it. Meant just that. Her bones trembled, heat fizzing through
her veins, her breath lodging in her throat. Until a deep cleft slashed between his dark brows, the lazy, taunting smile wiped away as he moved closer.

Of course he hadn't meant he wanted her the way he once had. Wildly, passionately, possessively. He just wanted to check the hired help was actually working, not sitting somewhere with her feet up, painting her nails.

Which was just as well because she didn't want him, most certainly she didn't. Until he touched her, the merest brush of the backs of his fingers as he stroked the heavy fall of midnight hair away from her face and everything inside her melted in the shattering conflagration of present desire and remembered ecstasy.

Dry-mouthed, she could hardly breathe, the air tasting thick and heavy on her tongue as he touched the wet spikiness of her lashes with the tip of his forefinger and said heavily, ‘You're upset, Caro. I didn't mean that to happen, I truly didn't.'

Concern in those black, black eyes, a bone-melting softness. She remembered how that look could slice straight into her heart. Remembered that time, all those summers ago, a moonlit night, she'd collided with a sapling oak because when she'd been with him she'd seen nothing else. The same look as then, as he'd stroked the soft white skin of her shoulder, as if his touch, his love, could have stopped the slight abrasion from hurting, prevented a bruise from forming. She hadn't doubted the sincerity of his concern for her then.

But she should have done.

‘I thought there might be something here of sentimental value,' he told her softly. ‘Souvenirs of your childhood, photograph albums, whatever; things you might like to keep. Mrs Skeet has your father's personal effects. I know she intended to contact you. I'll arrange for the two of you to meet up while you're here.'

His hand lay lightly on her shoulder and her whole body tightened in rejection of what he was now and what he had been. Unwittingly, her eyes came up and levelled on his mouth. It looked as if he'd kissed more women than he'd had hot dinners. And as a well-worn cliché it probably hit the mark.

‘No need,' she answered, keeping her voice steady, hard, even. ‘I'd already decided to contact Dorothy. So far…' she shrugged his hand away ‘…I've found nothing of any value or interest apart from these letters which I intend to keep. But I'll continue looking.'

Oh, how she wished she didn't look so darned ridiculous! That Dorothy's cast-off overalls had been made from good, solid cotton, something, anything, that didn't reveal her skimpy underwear to eyes that were now hard, definitely ungiving. Because she'd rejected his concern as certainly as if she'd physically pushed the words back down his throat?

‘Not now.' He turned away from her. ‘Carry on in the morning. I told Linda we'd eat out this evening; she's got enough on her hands without having to feed
us.' He paused in the doorway, turned to look at her, his voice hovering between frustration and amusement, ‘Change out of that whatever it is—nightdress?—and be ready to leave in thirty minutes.'

‘I'
M SURE
you must be hungry by now. You barely touched your lunch.' No hint of that deeply unsettling caring in his voice now, just a smoky curl of amusement.

It was eight o'clock and the light was beginning to fade from the clear, evening sky. His teeth gleamed whitely against the olive tones of his skin as he switched off the ignition and gave her the self-assured, chillingly predatory smile that sent a rapid succession of shivers down the length of her spine.

She could have said with truth that she was absolutely ravenous, that it was his fault she hadn't been able to swallow more than a mouthful of her lunch. But she gave a brief dip of her glossy dark head and told him, ‘Slightly,' instead.

Expecting the village pub she'd dressed as down as she could, given the selection of clothes she'd brought with her. But they'd ended up on the forecourt of what looked like a formidably exclusive eating house in the depths of the country and if the female clientele were all wearing little black numbers she'd stick out like a sore thumb in her cream linen trousers, toning Italian sweater and Gucci loafers.

Not that she was going to let it bother her, she decided as her assumption proved correct. In any
case, Ben Dexter, immaculately suited, with his darkly virile looks, his obvious sophistication, stole all the attention. And sitting opposite him as they were handed menus as large and difficult to handle as broadsheets she wondered why he was bothering to try to impress her.

For the same reason he'd wanted to impress the locals when he'd bought the Langley Hayes estate—despised poor boy makes good?

He'd impressed her far more twelve years ago when he'd had two burning ambitions: To make her his wife and to achieve the financial success to keep her in style. At least, that was what he had said, and she'd believed him. Gullible fool that she'd been!

Oh, the success had come, no doubt about it, and she hadn't been interested in being kept in style—but as for making her his wife, nothing had been further from his lying, cheating mind.

She handed her menu to a passing waiter, glad to be rid of it. She said, lightly, coolly, ‘I'll be a little late starting in the morning. I need to walk down to the village to see if Angie Brown still carries a stock of jeans and shirts. I need something serviceable if I'm going to spend half my time rooting around in the attics. And I was wearing one of Dorothy Skeet's overalls. I don't go to bed in billowing yards of flowery stuff.'

Suddenly the black eyes were laughing at her, his mouth a sinful curve, and she knew it had been a huge mistake to remind him that he'd suggested she was wearing her nightdress when he said, ‘What do
you wear to bed these days? Tailored silk pyjamas? There was a time when our bed was the softest, coolest moss we could find, if you remember. Or, if it rained, and it rarely did, the sweetly rustling hay in your father's stable loft. Neither of us wore a stitch back then.'

And then, without missing a beat, while thick hot colour swept into her cheeks and something nameless twisted viciously inside her, he said, ‘The village store altered five years ago when Angie retired. The new owners don't stock clothing. But I need to drive into Shrewsbury tomorrow; you can come with me. You can shop while I keep my appointment with my solicitors.' He broke a bread roll with those long, strong fingers, buttered one ragged half and added softly, ‘There's a rather good trattoria in Butcher Row. We can meet there for lunch.'

Just like that! Oh lord, let me get my composure back, she prayed, willing her pulse beat back to normal. Dropping explicit reminders of the past into everyday conversation was going to do her head in if he persisted. Best to ignore it. Hope it was a one-off.

‘I would have thought you'd have used a firm of slick city lawyers.' She took up the conversational ball, ignoring his reference to the long, stolen nights they'd spent together, hoping that in future he would do the same. If he didn't then she'd be forced to have her say, and she didn't want to have a stand-up fight with him, risk him complaining to Edward, putting the job she loved in jeopardy. Much better to try to
hold her tongue on the vexed subject of their past and keep their present relationship as businesslike as it was possible to be under the circumstances.

‘No. I believe in supporting local firms—now.' As their waiter approached, he added, ‘What will you have?'

She recited her order of Danish tartlets followed by red mullet with mushrooms abstractedly. By referring to himself as local he'd made it plain that he intended to settle at Langley Hayes. Being surrounded by his company's golf course and leisure centre would be a small price to pay for the self-aggrandisement of living in the home of his former enemy.

A home large enough to house a wife, a growing number of children and an army of servants. The thought that he might be contemplating marriage made her feel almost terminally ill.

Though it shouldn't. He was less than nothing to her now and she pitied his future wife. Once a liar and cheat, always a liar and cheat where women were concerned. She refused his offer of wine, ate well, made banal conversation and was thankful when they left.

 

The headlights made a sweeping golden tunnel beneath the newly leafing trees that overhung the narrow lane. Soon the Queen Anne's lace would foam on the verges and the wild roses and honeysuckle would bloom, filling the air with fragrance.

Her childhood had been lonely and often miserable
but even so she loved this part of the country. But her life was in London now, her home, her work, her friends. She didn't want or need to feel this utterly surprising, aching pang of nostalgia.

Without thinking, as they swept onto the driveway of Langley Hayes, she said tartly, ‘I'm sure the area has a need for a golf course and leisure facilities—your company wouldn't have gone for it if they hadn't done their homework—but won't you mind being surrounded by people? Father would have had a fit if he'd found what he called the
hoi polloi
wandering around his property.'

‘I'm not your father,' he observed coldly and she tightened her mouth in mute acknowledgement. He was far more handsome and charismatic than her father had ever been, worked hard—he must do to have acquired what was obviously a massive fortune where her father had lived on dwindling capital, and had mismanaged what had been left of the once enormous estate. But both men possessed a streak of cruelty, a complete disregard for other people's feelings.

‘And I won't be here that often to be troubled by the masses,' he added sardonically. ‘However, I will keep a suite of rooms here.'

He parked the gleaming Jaguar perilously close to the builder's skip, the tyres crunching on badly targeted lumps of plaster and brick ends. Caroline, getting out before he did, wondered if he was always as careless with his possessions as he was with other people's emotions.

She entered the house before he did but he caught up with her. ‘Share a bottle of wine with me?'

His voice had lost that sharp edge and here in the soft silence of the house his presence was sensationally male and potent. And dangerous.

She shuddered inside. How easy it would be to give in to the temptation. Just be with him, get to know the man he had become. Wonder if he still made love as generously as he had done all those years ago or if he'd become jaded, taking his physical pleasure perfunctorily.

She slammed the door of her mind shut on that thought and shook her head slightly. ‘Thank you, but I'll pass. What time do you leave for Shrewsbury tomorrow?'

‘Ten. We should be back here by three. Are you sure about that wine?'

‘Perfectly sure.' The best part of tomorrow would be wasted if she went with him. Spending more time with him than was absolutely necessary wasn't on her agenda. Why hadn't she had the foresight to bring something rough-and-ready to wear? Because none of her clothes fitted that category.

She smothered a sigh and said, ‘I'll pass on the shopping trip, too. I'll manage with what I have.' Better to ruin her clothes than the image of a cool and collected professional. There was a limit to how much time she could spend with him without giving in to the temptation to tell him how much he disgusted her.

She turned her back and headed for the stairs and
heard him say softly, ‘Running scared, Caro? I wonder why?'

In her room she closed the door and leant back against it, breathing heavily, her heart banging against her ribs. She felt as if she'd run a marathon with the devil on her tail. And the devil was Ben Dexter.

Once she'd adored him; he'd become her sole reason for living and her life had fallen apart when he'd betrayed her. But that betrayal didn't alter his incredible physical appeal. It should do, but it didn't.

She pushed herself away from the door, more than annoyed with herself for the direction her thoughts were taking. Furious.

Selecting an aqua silk nightdress and matching robe she went to the bathroom and ten minutes later, belting the robe around her narrow waist, she walked back and found Linda tapping on her bedroom door.

‘I thought you might like to borrow these. They'll be too wide and too short, I guess, but they'll be more practical than those wispy flowery things.'

Caroline gave her heart-stopping smile. She could have hugged the other woman. She wouldn't have to ruin her own clothes and, more to the point, she wouldn't have to wonder when Dexter might walk in on her to make a point of looking at her underwear!

‘Thanks, Linda!' She accepted the neatly folded jeans and faded green sweatshirt, debated whether to ask why Dexter, with the whole house at his disposal, would be keeping just a suite of rooms for his oc
casional use, and then thought better of it. Questions like that would only display an interest she desperately wanted to deny, particularly to herself. ‘This is really thoughtful of you,' she said instead.

‘Think nothing of it,' Linda gave a slight shrug, asking, ‘Did you enjoy your evening?'

‘The food was excellent.' She evaded the question, one hand going to the doorknob, turning it, opening the bedroom door. She didn't want to talk about it.

‘Good.' Linda took her dismissal with an easy smile. ‘I'll say goodbye in case I don't see you again. I've got the rest of the week off—family christening; my sister's first and I'm godmother—so you might have finished here before I get back.'

So she'd be alone here with Dexter, Caroline thought sinkingly as she smiled and said all the right things, and closed her bedroom door behind her telling herself staunchly that the other woman's absence wouldn't really matter. She could handle Ben Dexter all by herself; she didn't need backup.

He could no longer be remotely interested in her sexually. Been there, done that; his past history showed he was that kind of man. He had only insisted she come here so that he could demonstrate how well he'd done for himself, show her that he now had the upper hand.

Well, that she could handle, no problem; in fact she admired his financial acumen. As for the other, the unwanted sexual pull she was unable to hide from herself, well, she hated to admit it, but she was having difficulties.

And instead of being able to dismiss them from her wakeful mind she found herself lying in the darkness actually listening for his signal, the pebbles he'd lightly tossed against the window-pane, calling her down to him.

How willingly she'd gone…

She sat up, squirming to the edge of the bed, flicked on the bedside lamp and pressed her fingertips to her aching temples.

She had to pull herself together, stop remembering. They were different people now and she knew what a heartless bastard he really was. The man she'd loved all those years ago was nothing but a figment of her imagination, a silly romantic dream.

Her watch told her it was just gone two o'clock and she knew she wouldn't sleep. Why lie sleepless in bed, agonising over the past, when she could be working, bringing the time of her departure that little bit closer?

The decision made, she slipped her arms into the aqua silk robe once more, tied the belt securely and reached for her notebook.

She'd visit the dining room first she thought as she slipped silently down the great staircase. The Regency dining table with its twelve chairs had been sold long ago. She'd been about fourteen years old, home for the Christmas break and, when she'd questioned him, her father had said sarcastically, ‘How else am I to pay your boarding school fees? Rob a bank? Ask the tooth fairy?'

Useless to tell him, for perhaps the fourth time,
that she'd have been happier at the nearest comprehensive. He'd given that withering look he'd seemed to reserve for her alone. ‘Remember who you are!'

Who she was. Suddenly she had the unnerving feeling that she didn't know. A successful woman in her own right or a rootless shadow, pining for a lost love? Being back here with the boy who had been forbidden in the grounds, now transformed into a hard-eyed man who owned everything around her, made her feel unreal.

Shrugging off the unsettling feeling she turned her mind back to business. The table had gone, never replaced because her father had never entertained. But there had been a mahogany serving table— George III she thought—and a large dresser of around the same period. Both would be valuable and would represent a sound investment.

Pushing open the double doors and quietly closing them behind her she unerringly found the light switch and stood for a moment, transfixed by what she was seeing, wishing she had swallowed her distaste at seeming to be interested, and had asked Linda what plans Dexter had for the house.

The ugly, dark red flocked wallpaper had been stripped away, replaced by warm primrose-yellow emulsion. The boards beneath her feet gleamed and two refectory tables, complete with long bench seats, took up the centre of the room while comfortable but functional armchairs surrounded the huge fireplace.