The Billionaire's Disgraced Virgin (Billionaire Knights Book 2) (2 page)

BOOK: The Billionaire's Disgraced Virgin (Billionaire Knights Book 2)
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Chapter 2

S
he rode
the Tube feeling dejected and out of sorts. The weather was unseasonably hot and the moment she’d left the air-conditioned office the heat had descended upon her like the blast from an oven. She wasn’t usually this susceptible to the heat but today she was. She didn’t like to be reminded of the dreadful events that had occurred five years ago, when she was barely eighteen and still on the cusp of adult life. Lewis Dixon had seemed so appealing, with his quirky charm and aura of artistry. She’d met him through a mutual friend and had instantly fallen under his spell. He had the Johnny Depp pirate look down pat, all black eyeliner, leather wristbands, dreadlocks and eccentric dress code. He’d even spoken with a slight drawl. He’d taken an interest in her from the first, declaring her genuine muse material. And his muse she’d proved to be.

What she hadn’t known was that he wasn’t really a painter or a sculptor as she’d initially thought but a budding photographer of artistic nudes, a freelancer aspiring to sell to publications like
Playboy, Hustler
or any of a number of adult rags. Of course he hadn’t mentioned this at the time. He’d quickly induced her to pose for him, all fully dressed sessions at the local park or his studio.

It had all seemed so very romantic to her back then, a life so far removed from her own rather tedious existence. She could barely contain her excitement that a man like Dixon would take an interest in a regular girl like her, even declare her a natural beauty.

She’d soon thought herself in love with him, and had given herself to him.

He’d been her first. First love, first kiss and the first she made love with.

After a magical and exceedingly romantic night he’d playfully taken some more snapshots of her, this time in the nude, and only for his own personal collection he’d assured her. She’d been so high on love and the flute of bubbly he’d offered that she’d happily posed for him, a celebration of their love. And even though she wasn’t normally up for this kind of thing, the artistic setting and the fact that she’d found a man who truly loved her had induced her to drop her usual inhibitions and even enjoy the empowering sensation of holding him in her thrall. The way he’d looked at her, circling her while the camera clicked away, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, had given her quite a buzz.

And then everything had come crashing down around her.

Quite abruptly he’d dropped out of her life, announcing that he wanted to move on, and even as she’d been nursing her broken heart her attention had been drawn to the publication of her very private and very embarrassingly nude pictures in one of England’s most popular tabloids, a Press Corp publication.

Her parents were mortified, and so was the college where she’d just started her master’s degree in accounting. She was promptly expelled and forced to go into hiding at her parents’ place when the scandal erupted, for wherever she went people hurled scathing comments in her face. Even some of her best friends dropped her, as did a fair number of members of the local community, shocked that a nice Catholic girl like her would debase herself like that.

She tried to get in touch with Dixon but he simply ignored her calls, and when her parents had finally contacted a lawyer it was discovered she’d signed a waiver and had no grounds to bring a case against Dixon. She remembered signing the document at the outset of their relationship, when the pictures had still been innocent. Dixon had assured her at the time it was simply standard procedure, to protect both her and himself from copyright infringement. In actual fact it now gave him far-reaching rights to do with her pictures as he pleased. Which was to sell them to the highest bidder and further his career.

And he’d done just that. Since the pictures had proved so popular they’d soon been published in other Press Corp publications across the globe, and now, five years later, they were still all over the Internet for the simple reason Roderick Holmes had decided to integrate a stylized version of her image in the masthead of Men’s Monthly, his most popular men’s magazine. Effectively she’d become the poster child of a magazine famous for its lurid pictures of scantily clad women. And there had been nothing she could do about it.

The few friends who’d stuck by her had tried to console her, telling her it wasn’t as bad as all that, and that very soon it would all blow over and people would simply forgive and forget. Unfortunately this hadn’t proven the case, her likeness so popular it was used to sell Men’s Monthly merchandising, promising fun and frivolity for every hot-blooded male, and making Dixon a very wealthy man, for he got a percentage for every mug, fountain pen or T-shirt sold.

She’d almost died of mortification at being some kind of mascot for a semi-pornographic magazine, but by then her parents had decided they couldn’t possibly afford to file a lawsuit against Press Corp, which employed the very best lawyers money could buy, and they couldn’t go to the press either, for Press Corp dominated the market, and the last thing Chloe wanted was to invite BBC reporters into her home and have her face splashed on national TV, adding to her notoriety and only making matters considerably worse.

And that was even before the letters and messages had started pouring in, and soon life had simply become unbearable, her plans for the future completely derailed by the whole affair. She’d decided to lay low for a while, maybe even leave the country and go and live with an old friend of her mum in Australia.

And then, just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, they had.

One night when she wasn’t home her mother, no doubt distraught over the whole affair, had forgotten to turn off the gas stove. The kitchen curtains had caught fire and when Chloe was finally alerted by the police department that something terrible had happened she’d only found smoldering piles of rubble and the charred remains of everything she’d held sacred. Her mum and dad had died in the blaze, as had her adolescence, her innocence and everything she owned in this world. After she’d recovered sufficiently to get her wits together she’d moved away from Dorset, traveling to London to start life afresh, away from the horrors of her past.

Not only was her life ruined, but the guilt she felt over the death of her parents was something she’d lived with ever since. If she’d never made the mistake of falling for the wrong man none of this would have happened and her parents would still be alive today.

In London she’d rented a dingy bedsit while she bused tables and worked as a cleaner—all undeclared, of course, until she managed to have her name officially changed. The moment the change came through she’d signed up for night school to earn her accounting degree, something which she’d always been good at. Not only that, but she’d promised her mother, in one of the last heart-to-heart talks they’d had, that she’d make something of herself. That she would follow her heart and pursue her dream of becoming a person she could be proud of and not let that one terrible error of judgment define the rest of her life.

She’d sworn that was exactly what she’d do, and to bury the pain of her past she’d buried herself in her studies, dedicating the degree she’d eventually earned to her parents—vowing never to allow a man or the treacherous ways of her heart to ruin her life ever again.

She’d been burned once, but nevermore.

Now, though, as the rattling Tube train carried her home to Tottenham where she rented a small apartment, the terrible events were haunting her once more. Her image was still featured on the cover of Men’s Monthly, though she made certain she wouldn’t be readily recognized. Arriving in London she’d dyed her hair a platinum blond and used makeup to alter her appearance, with some tricks she’d picked up from fellow waitresses. She still got the odd lascivious look from time to time but that didn’t necessarily mean she’d been recognized. Protected by her new name she didn’t think anyone would be able to connect her to her old self anymore, to the Gwen Parker she’d once been, the silly girl who’d been so foolish to trust a man and her love for him.

Love. She didn’t even believe in that treacherous concept anymore.

As she mused on the coincidence that Mike Knight would land the Roderick Holmes case in her lap she felt sick. The minute she’d come face to face with the publisher of Men’s Monthly she was certain he would recognize the face that had given one of his most popular magazines that propitious boost.

Her stop was finally announced and she made her way to the exit. As she was sucked up by the milling crowds she felt the tension of the events that had unfolded in Murray’s office weighing down on her, so that when she was spewed out onto the street, and the oppressive heat hit her like a sledgehammer, she couldn’t wait to arrive home and take a cooling shower. To rinse off the dirt of the city, but most importantly, to wash away the panic attack that had assaulted her when Murray had sprung his terrible announcement on her.

She arrived on the small street where her dingy apartment was located. It was a part of London best avoided, especially at night, when drug-addled young hoods terrorized the streets, violence rampant. Still, the place had become home to her, as many of the neighbors were elderly people who’d lived here all their lives, and who’d welcomed her in their midst. She’d struck up a friendship with quite a few of them, and was on friendly terms with the janitor as well, who could always be relied upon to fix a broken radiator or unclog a drain.

She’d completely severed all contact with her old friends back home, after watching the way they treated her after the disaster. They, too, apparently thought she was some kind of harlot after having her pictures published in sleazy magazines, and the male friends had treated her differently, wanting to have some of what they thought she now freely offered. And since they’d all seen her naked the lustful looks they awarded her was more than she could bear.

The moment she rounded the corner and arrived in the street where she lived she knew that something was terribly wrong. Parked in front of the high-rise was a car far too expensive for a neighborhood like this. It looked like something from a luxury goods magazine or a TV commercial for fancy cars.

And then she saw him.

The muscles of her stomach knotted into a tight painful ball.

He stood leaning against the hood of the car, a tall man, coolly detached from his surroundings, arms folded casually across his chest, silver-framed sunglasses perched on his nose. The moment she recognized him he turned and faced her.

He nimbly pushed himself off the hood and raised his hand in greeting.

“Chloe Ross!” he called out.

She wanted to flee—but now that he’d seen her, she couldn’t.

For no one fled when being summoned by Michael Knight himself.

Chapter 3

M
ike stared dismissively
at the young accountant. Even though he’d known of her existence, mostly through Murray’s praise, he’d never laid eyes on her. She was the type who worked quietly at her desk, preferring not to be seen, Murray had told him. What he hadn’t mentioned was how pretty she was, with the summer sun lighting up her flaxen tresses, infusing them with glittering streaks of gold, and those remarkably clear sky-blue eyes gazing back at him. She stood a foot shorter than him, and he had the distinct impression she was shivering in spite of the summer heat. There was a wariness in those pools of cerulean blue, dark clouds painting haunted circles beneath her eyes, hinting at a troubled soul. This was not the face of an accountant eager to work with him but the face of one dreading the prospect. It only confirmed his worst suspicions.

No accountant worth his or her salt turned down an offer like this, and most certainly not one as capable and obviously talented as Chloe Ross. The moment he’d picked up the phone to talk to Murray, the chief accountant told him Chloe had become physically ill and had gone home for the day.

It was enough to raise all kinds of alarms. There could only be one possible reason for her reluctance: she was working for the other side. Spying for Sir Roderick Holmes. Which meant that her report was probably biased—heavily skewed in Press Corp’s favor.

He’d immediately ordered Murray to double-check her numbers, but so far everything appeared above board. On a hunch he’d decided to pay her a personal visit. The woman’s bizarre behavior frankly fascinated him.

He eyed her disdainfully. If it wasn’t that he needed her expertise on this, and that she’d already immersed herself into the intricate maze that Press Corp was, he’d have ditched her on the spot. As matters stood, however, with negotiations coming to a head, he couldn’t afford to offload her. Besides, if he discovered that she was, indeed, working for Holmes, he might use her against the man. If she was a Press Corp stooge, seduced by Sir Holmes’s deep pockets, he might be tempted to lure her over to his side. Find out what Holmes was playing at. Why he thought he needed to hire Chloe Ross to do his bidding. So he’d decided to pay her a personal visit, and see what he was dealing with here.

He extended a hand. “Mike Knight. We spoke on the phone.”

She nodded, the turmoil that held her in its grip only exacerbating as she stood before him. “I know who you are,” she told him softly. She’d seen him in meetings, of course, even though she was certain he’d never seen her. Knight Enterprises employed hundreds of people, and she was but a very small cog in a very large machine, which was just how she liked it. Stand out and get your head chopped off, which was why she made certain she never did. Until today.

“You—you didn’t have to drive all the way down here.”

His steely gray eyes had a laser-like quality as they took her in. “Frankly I was surprised by your refusal to work with me on the Press Corp merger.”

“Yes, well, I…” She glanced down, her eyelashes concealing her distress.

Standing in front of the big boss was having a detrimental effect on her, she acknowledged. Mike Knight was an imposing male, standing a foot taller than her, with an impressive muscular physique. He was dressed casually, with smart linen slacks and a plain white shirt. He’d removed his tie and had unbuttoned the top button, dark body hair visible at the collar. His shirt stretched tautly over his wide chest, tapering down to a narrow waist and as she glanced up at him she was aware of his assessing eyes as they swept over her person.

He was curious about her—curious about the woman who’d said no.

She knew she wasn’t dressed to impress, but then she never was. Since the incident five years ago she’d vowed never to offer a man even a glance at her body, and these days wore her blouses buttoned up all the way to the top. Her bras were padded and her skirts long, except for casual Friday, when she got to wear her favorite costume: a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater, hiding her feminine curves entirely.

She knew she probably looked the worse for wear but she didn’t care. Or, as she had to admit to herself, she actually did. Or why else would she suddenly be acutely aware of the fact that her hair was hanging limply about her face, or that a bead of sweat was trickling down her nose. It was hot out, and Mike’s presence was adding to her acute discomfort.

He must have noticed, for he suggested, “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”

It wasn’t a question as much as an order, for he’d abruptly turned and was striding toward the entrance to her building, a steel-and-concrete behemoth that had seen better days and was crumbling at the seams, covered in graffiti tags.

She cringed when she saw him yank back the rusty old metal door which temporarily replaced the regular glass one, demolished by vandals. Even though she was a neat freak, she lived far more humbly than the likes of Mike Knight did, and for some reason she suddenly didn’t want him to see her modest flat.

There was no turning back, however, so she hurried after him, rummaging through her bag for her keys. Timidly, she glanced up at him. “I—I wasn’t expecting you, sir.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” he told her wryly.

He watched how her hands shook as she twisted the key in the lock. Why was she so on edge? A sure sign she had something to hide, he decided, and wondered if there was something in her apartment she didn’t want him to see.

He’d already ordered IT to check her emails for any correspondence with Press Corp, though he hardly expected her to use her company account to do so. From her personnel file he’d learned she was a conscientious worker, punctual and beloved by her colleagues. In her evaluations mention was made of the fact she was a quiet person, keeping very much to herself, rarely speaking her piece in meetings. She habitually opted out of team-building events, always giving some medical excuse, as she’d done now, and it was obvious she was a very private person. Not exactly the kind of woman to turn corporate spy, he allowed, but then spies came in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps she needed the money, and he was pretty sure Holmes would pay through the nose to have the edge on Knight.

They traveled up in the elevator, an old and dingy affair, and he was surprised at the dilapidated state of the apartment building in general. The neighborhood, his driver had told him, was one of the worst in London, crime-ridden and gangland-related, with gangs of hardened yobs terrorizing the locals.

It was even rumored the police considered it a no-go zone these days.

It certainly confirmed his theory she was in dire straits. He was aware of her pay scale, and even though she wasn’t raking in the big bucks like some at the executive level, her salary was fair. So why was she living in a dump like this?

Chloe gritted her teeth to prevent them from clattering. Anxiety was holding her in its grip. She’d never imagined when she started her day that morning that she’d be returning home with Mike Knight in tow. She was mortified at the thought of him seeing where she lived, as she’d be mortified if any of her old friends would see how she’d ended up. Still, she took some pride in the fact that she’d managed to move on with her life, and had made something of herself.

Putting herself through night school had been tough, and working three jobs to do it had been too. Now she lived as frugally as she could, and from the money she saved hoped one day to buy herself a small house like the one she’d lived in with her parents. When that happened she’d happily quit her job and return to a more rural and peaceful part of England, and work for a local business. Accountants were always in demand, so she didn’t have to worry about finding a position. She didn’t enjoy living in London, the big city too crowded, noisy and polluted for her taste. She missed Dorset. Perhaps in a couple of years she could return. Not her home town, obviously, but someplace similar.

She daren’t glance up at Mike, her eyes level with the column of his throat, and she was struck by a frisson of awareness of their proximity, the elevator allowing only scant space for two people to travel together. It was a rickety old thing, groaning and rattling as it staggered up the ten floors to her flat. It was known to break down from time to time, compelling tenants to take the stairs.

As they rose in absolute silence she caught a whiff of Mike’s cologne, something expensive and wholly masculine, mingled with the scent of his skin, and as she chanced a peek at his face she marveled at his chiseled features, the olive-toned skin drawn taut over sharp and forbidding bone. No one pulled a fast one on Mike Knight, she imagined. Not the way life had pulled a fast one on her, at least. She tucked a straying strand of hair behind her ear, quickly looking at her feet when Mike’s gaze swept down and briefly clashed with hers. God, she was totally checking him out! Not the kind of impression she wanted to give. She’d made it a habit never to look a man in the eye, for she knew how easily this kind of behavior could be interpreted as a come-on and lead to flirtation.

Finally the elevator jerked to a stop and she reached for the door. In her haste to get out she hadn’t taken into account the fact he’d want to hold the door for her and she collided with his large frame in the narrow doorway, her hand inadvertently striking his chest. The clean, crisp cotton of his shirt barely concealed the muscular wall it covered, nor the light smattering of body hair. The heat emanating from his body took her by surprise, and a slight tremor fluttered through her belly as she glanced up to meet his sardonic smile.

“After you,” he grunted, and she jerked her hand back as if stung.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

“Whatever for?” he asked smoothly.

She quickly let her gaze drop and hurried along the corridor, keys rattling in her shaking fingers as she made her way to the end, where her apartment was.

Mike strode after her, letting his eyes roam across the peeling paint of the walls, the stains on the carpeted floor, the flickering lights—the ones that worked, anyway—and the blooms of mold. This place was a health hazard, he thought grimly, as was the elevator that had only barely managed to drag them up to this floor. Why did she live like this? It wasn’t as if they didn’t pay her enough. Knight Enterprises prided itself in its competitive remuneration, figuring that if you wanted to attract the best you paid them accordingly.

The wood-paneled door bore the number 1013 and he watched as Chloe’s fingers trembled so much she was unable to turn the key the first two times she tried. His frown deepened. She was clearly extremely ill at ease in his company, which confirmed his suspicions. Finally he plucked the keys from her grasp. “Allow me,” he rumbled, and opened the door with a swift flick of the wrist.

The door swung open onto a small hallway, Oxfam furniture on obvious display, and he strode in without awaiting her invitation. What he saw told him all he needed to know: here lived a person who either took frugality to a new level, or who was living just above the poverty line. His lips thinned into a harsh line as he surveyed the small living room with its IKEA table and chairs, the kitchenette a sad excuse for a kitchen, and the sitting area where an old clunky tube TV stood at attention. This was no way for one of his staff to live, he swiftly decided as he turned to the woman who’d snuck in behind him, quiet as a mouse. Her face was pale, her shoulders stooped, and her hands nervously clasped in front of her. All the hallmarks of a woman fully expecting a rebuke.

BOOK: The Billionaire's Disgraced Virgin (Billionaire Knights Book 2)
2.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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