The Billionaire
&
The Princess
Katherine E Hunt
Follow your dreams.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
© 2020 Katherine E Hunt
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter-Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter One
Caitlyn
There is no excuse for this kind of behavior. I’ve promised, sworn and vowed never to fall for a bad guy again. Take some time out, I told myself, learn the real Caitlyn, love yourself before you love others. Why, oh why, then, am I half-naked in an airplane bathroom with a frickin’ drunken, horny cowboy? Why indeed? He’s hot, there’s that, like six-foot-two hot. You know what I’m talking about. The type of guy that makes you catch your breath when he brushes past you, hair a little unkempt, jaw a little too sharp.
In my defense, I’ve had a very strange year and frankly, life’s gotten really, really complicated. Then there’s the free alcohol, first time in Business Class, it’s all gone to my head. I might be forgiven for getting carried away. But still, no excuse, Caitlyn, no excuse.
A solitary finger traces the outside of my thigh. My leggings hang off one ankle, dragging on the floor. My other foot, placed firmly on the closed toilet seat, is the only thing holding me up.
I lift my hair, curl it up on my head with my hands, soft lips brush against my neck. “You’re so freaking hot,” he slurs.
At first, I’d thought he had a Texan drawl until he’d confessed, giggling as the words came out, that he’d stolen the cowboy hat from the guy in the next seat down.
He’s not southern; he’s just drunk off his head.
His fingers brush up my spine, circling the crux of my neck before gliding over my breasts, past the tips of my nipples, until they stop at the slick gusset of my undies. Fuck. For a man who smells like a brewery and has lost the capacity for coherent speech, he’s pretty deft with his hands.
Pressing tightly onto my pussy, like it’s the only thing holding us up, he fumbles with his trousers, pulling at his belt.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask.
“Uh…shi-it. Maybe?” He tries to grab his wallet with his one free hand and we rock back and forth as he tugs at his pocket.
Is this really happening? It was all going smoothly. Steamy, unexpected, drunken smooch in the corridor, unilateral decision to glide into the bathroom. Semi-naked foreplay.
It’s all so serious, all of a sudden. Sex with a stranger. That’s a sobering thought. Is this how I want to start my new life? It isn’t part of the plan, that’s for sure.
I’ve never done anything like this. I’m not an angel, but I’ve always been the wait a few days, get to know the guy kind of girl. Admittedly, they’d all turned out to be Mr. Emotionally-unavailable, Mr. Terrified-of-commitment and Mr. Sleeps-with-your-friends-plural-behind-your-back, but hey, I’d always kept my side of the bargain.
His fumbles prove fruitless. He takes his hand off me to grab his wallet, falls backward, slamming hard into the door and slides to the ground. Turns out I was holding him up after all.
I spin around. “You okay?” He doesn’t have any visible injuries, but he’s a tall man in a small space and his knees are around his ears. He still looks cute though. God, I need to get laid. My horny is showing.
“Oh shit!” He says it way too loud. Fuck, he’s going to get us caught. I’m not sure what the punishment is for kinky stuff in airplane bathrooms, but I know I don’t want to start my brand new life in America in an orange jumpsuit.
“Shh,” I whisper, placing my finger over my lips.
“Shh. Hee, hee.” That giggle again. He’s wasted. Like, actually out of it. This is rapidly turning into a very bad idea. Not that at any point sneaking around with a man I’ve just met had been a solid choice. Kissing him, that had been fun, but now it feels a little like taking advantage.
He flicks through his wallet, still sat, half on the floor, legs splayed either side of me. “Shit. I got nothing.”
I lean down and put my arms around him. His lips nuzzle into my neck. God, he smells delicious. Whoever he is when he isn’t half-naked and hammered he has incredible taste in aftershave. “Let’s get you up.”
“Wheeee!” With one hefty yank, he’s on his feet. The effort sends my back crashing against the toilet roll dispenser. It’s like getting a devastatingly handsome, six-foot-two, curly-haired, horny octopus to stand to attention. Impossible.
Stepping back to steady myself, I hear a crack. Shit. Hopefully, his phone isn’t super important because it has just smashed into a million pieces under my foot. I kick it out of sight, sit him down on the toilet seat and pull my leggings back up. My libido is fading. Fast.
I pull up my leggings and put my top back on. “You don’t wanna do it anymore?” he drawls, his face downcast.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you?” He can’t even stand up for a start; God knows whether he can get anything else up.
“You’re hot.” His hands snake up my sweatshirt.
“Thank you. You’re very, very drunk.” I fasten his belt for him, inciting more giggles, and hand him his wallet, which had flown into the sink. “I think I’m going to go back to my seat. It was very nice meeting you, Cowboy. Maybe we’ll meet again someday in better circumstances.” I might sound like I’m fobbing him off, but some part of me sort of wishes it’s true. I most definitely shouldn’t. The type of guy who allows himself to get in this much of a state is not boyfriend material. Not for me, anyway. But he’s a sweetie, and he’s cute when he giggles.
Oh, Caitlyn, you’re such a damn pushover.
The old lady in the seat next to mine looks very concerned. “Did you hear all that noise in the toilet?”
“Yes. Apparently, some drunk guy fell over.”
“Oh dear.” She cringes. “Some people do get carried away with the free drinks on these flights. I hope he’s alright.” She’s been reading a guidebook on New York for the last four hours and hasn’t even acknowledged my presence, but now I’ve got gossip she’s all ears.
“I’m sure he’s fine. So where are you flying to today?”
She closes her book and looks at me. “New York.” Her eyes widen with excitement. Bless her. She has to be at the very least in her seventies. I see a little of myself in her, always excited by new experiences, no matter how old you get. That’s the only way to live.
“Well, yes. I meant business o
r pleasure.”
“I’m going to see my son. He’s got a fancy job in Manhattan, going to show me the sights.” Her lips curl into the biggest grin.
“Oh, that’s lovely.”
Something loud crashes behind us. “Oh dear,” she mutters. “What now?”
A flash of white comes racing past our seats. A butt. A very naked butt attached to a very handsome, drunken, giggly cowboy.
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him to his own devices after all. He turns and waves his not-insignificant appendage at a room full of dozing passengers before a hand reaches through the curtain behind him and pulls his drunken, naked butt into First Class.
“Good lord,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen one like that since my Henry was alive.”
I turn to her and smile, hiding my deep regret at my rash decision not to get Cowboy’s number before I’d left him. “Lucky you,” I reply.
Chapter Two
Caitlyn
I swear, my heart skips a beat when the car pulls up in front of my new home. The sun is still shining down on this late June afternoon, reflecting off of the ocean, and I refuse to let the fact that I haven’t slept for twenty-four hours let me enjoy this moment any less.
I pause for a second to take in my bearings as the driver opens the door for me. He leads me up through a small front garden to a beautiful brick-built house. Hanging baskets and potted plants adorn the wooden front porch, on which I imagine at some point people have sat on rocking chairs and looked out at the sea behind me, waiting for a boat to bring their loved ones home. Orange and pink begonias fill the air with a light perfume and entice a couple of buzzing bees. A large, white, wooden sign swings silently over the front door on its black wrought iron fittings.
This will be my home and place of work for the next year. A fresh start. The life I want and not the life that has been chosen for me.
Turning to face the sea, I breathe in the familiar salty air. Boats clank and chime, moored along the bay only a hundred yards away. My phone in my hand, I immortalize this moment with a picture.
My heart is beating so fast, I can hardly breathe, this is so exciting.
Born in an Irish coastal town, the smell of the sea, the seagulls’ cry, it’s second nature to me. Salt water runs through my veins. Of course, you can’t compare this town and mine. No sticks of rock and arcades here. I’d only seen a few streets as we drove through the town to get here, but you can smell the exclusivity in the air. This is not your working-class seaside town, this place is elegant, clean, invested in.
The door opens, and a woman, about my age, welcomes me into my new abode. Long, dark straight hair and olive skin, she is strikingly beautiful. She flashes a perfect smile and opens up her arms. “Caitlyn? Hi, I’m Jen.”
“Hi.” No chance of getting past without a hug, I reluctantly oblige. American culture is already coming at me with two tight arms and a squeeze. She smells like freshly washed linen and vanilla, reminding me that I haven’t washed in a day. A quick spritz of deodorant at the airport might have been a good idea, especially if I’d known there were going to be hugs.
“Welcome to Sag Harbor. Come in, come in.” She ushers me into the house and thanks the driver, who places my two sad-looking suitcases inside the door. My whole, entire life is in those cases and they’re so battered it’s a wonder they survived the voyage. The journeys they’ve accompanied me on, the memories they hold. These are no ordinary suitcases. Ah, there’ll be time to get them repaired; I’m planning on staying a while.
He hands me my guitar and I sling it over my shoulder. Then leaves, as silently as he arrived, as if he was never here to begin with.
“Do we … should I have tipped him? I’m not sure how it works and I read that I’m supposed to tip everybody.” My mum would have tipped the milkman if she could. She was always getting out her purse to thank somebody for their good work. They need it more than us, she would say, even though quite often the opposite was the case. I like to think I inherited that quality from her, despite my grandmother trying to teach me otherwise. Ironic really, as she could afford it.
“No, it’s fine, he works for us.” Jen smiles in that slightly condescending way people do when explaining something to someone who should really know that by now. She looks at my guitar. I can see her mind whirring. I don’t look or dress very much like the qualifications on my CV. I’ve interned in some of the most prestigious newspapers in the UK, assisted some very important people and yet here I am, wild curly blonde hair that cannot be tamed, sweatpants and my faithful old guitar on my shoulder.
I smile reassuringly. It tends to put people at ease. I have the kind of face that relaxes people, makes them feel at home, or so I’ve been told.
“Ah, okay.” He works for us. Who is ‘us’? My new employer, The Baresi Corporation? Books with a capital B, that’s what they’re most known for now. The website which makes other online booksellers quiver in fear. They also own some of the biggest TV channels in the states, and around the world, and probably every newspaper and magazine everyone was reading on the plane over. But digital media is what everybody wants now.
Journalism, a dying art, or so everybody insists on telling me. But here I am, proving them all wrong.
“So, come on through. This is where you’ll be working and I’ll take you on up to your apartment.” She’s wearing the most beautiful fitted blue dress, which stops just below her knees, and nude heels which look like they cost more than my flight over. I regret, somewhat, my decision to have gone with the sweatshirt and messy bun combo which I save for traveling and binge-watching. I look down and pick Pringle crumbs off of my boob. Not the most auspicious start.
The inside of the building is as gorgeous as the outside. Exposed brick walls and original features. Two desks, fully supplied with laptops and printers, create an office space. Comfy chairs sit in the library corner, surrounded by bookshelves filled with leather-bound antique books, and a small kitchen with a rather expensive looking coffee maker finishes the room.
There’s a strong chance I’ll be spending my evenings poring over those books, my own collection having been shared amongst my friends at home. I miss all of them already, the books, not the friends, although I miss them too, just less. Only a couple of well-thumbed favorites sit at the bottom of my case, waiting to adorn the shelves of my new apartment.
“Has anybody gone into detail with you yet about what you’ll be doing?” I follow Jen up a tight spiral, metal staircase and imagine myself having to lug my two suitcases up here. I’ll save that for tomorrow morning.
“Yes, and no. Magazine start-up. I understand that I won’t be dealing with either the financial or advertising side of things, just reporting on events and writing articles about local businesses and products.”
“Perfect. That’s exactly it. Just the reporting side of things, we’ll do literally everything else.”
There’s that turn of phrase again. We, us, why not they? Is she the spokesperson for the entire company?
At the top of the stairs, a small entry hall leads to a beautiful open plan apartment, in much the same style as the office below. Restored antique furniture mingles with modern appliances. Someone has extremely good taste.
“When do my colleagues start?”
“Ha, ha! Oh, you’re not joking.” The perfect grin on her face freezes, like a rebooting robot, as she composes herself. “Yeah, no, there’s only two of you on this team and uh, let’s just say that your boss isn’t exactly known for his great work ethic.” Fantastic.
“So I’m basically on my own?”
“Not at all. The Baresi corporation is here for you. We can supply you with anything you need, material or otherwise. Think of it as being head of a very small department of one.” She laughs, drily, at her own joke. It sounds like I’ve been completely fucked over from where I’m standing.
“So have you worked for the Baresi family long then?”
&nb
sp; She gives me another flash of that perfectly practiced smile. “Since birth. I’m Ginevra Baresi.”
Ginevra Baresi? Presenter of the Morning Show. The Morning show. She’s a big deal over here. Live from The Gutzwiller House in New York, celebrity guests, big names. She’s a household name over here and only thirty years old at that.
Well, fuck me sideways.
“You,” I reply, unable to formulate a coherent sentence. Jen is the big boss’ daughter, the only daughter out of six children. Well, I say children obviously they’re all grown adults, living in the shadow of their father, Guillermo Baresi, the most powerful media mogul in the world. And my new boss. Well, my boss’ boss’ boss.
“Me.” She cracks a genuine smile this time. “Sorry, I should have said something sooner.”
Shit, now I’m just making it awkward. “No, that’s fine. You’re probably used to people knowing who you are. I have no excuse, except that I just changed time zones and I haven’t slept in a day.” I’m blathering on, but this is so embarrassing. I should have recognized her immediately. Great one Caitlyn, you’re only half an hour in and you’ve already made your first blooper. Normally it takes me at least a day before my unfiltered mouth insults or embarrasses myself or others around me.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry, you must be exhausted. Look, there’s food in the fridge and your bed is all made up.” I might have to forego food. That king-size bed is calling my name.
“That’s so kind. Really, you’ve been great.”
“I’m afraid you’ve been thrown in the deep end with this. My, uh, your boss should have been here to welcome you and set all of this up. I’m just filling in for him, really, this isn’t my field at all.” The way she keeps spitting out the word boss as if she hates the man, makes me very uneasy. “Here’s my card. Give me a call tomorrow when you’re feeling more human and I’ll show you around.”
I follow her down to lock up for the night. Walking back through the office I brush my hand along the perfect wood grain of my new desk. “Caitlyn Walsh, Editor.” The nameplate says it all.
The Billionaire & the Princess Page 1
