How to Undo the Proud Billionaire

by Joss Wood

  Carrying the last of the dirty glasses to the bar, she realised she had company: two dogs happily scooping up chips and other goodies carelessly dropped on the grass.

  ‘Jenna?’ she called out, and was not in the least surprised to receive no reply. Jenna, who was supposed to be manning the bar with Becky, had done another disappearing act, no doubt to watch the ongoing semi-final. Jenna was a major Emiliano Delgado groupie and the font of all Becky’s knowledge of the half-Spanish, half-Argentinian billionaire hunk.

  After checking that none of the handful of people mooching about outside the marquee were the owners of the dogs, Becky approached the pair armed with tiny chunks of hotdog sausages to tempt them. It worked. The dogs acted as if they were old friends, tails wagging and happily eating off her hand. Supplying them with a bowl of water, she took a seat at one of the outside tables and dialled the number that was on both their collars. It went straight to a generic voicemail.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Becky, and you can stop panicking because I’ve got your dogs with me. I work in the hospitality marquee opposite the fairground. It’s the marquee with the pink roof, so you should find me easily enough, but if you get lost just call me back. I’ll look after them until you get here. Okay then, bye.’

  Throughout her rambling message, the two dogs sat and watched her. They really were gorgeous things. The bigger one was a golden retriever with dopey eyes, the smaller one a beautiful mongrel.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she told them as she stroked their heads, ‘I’m sure your mummy or daddy will be here for you soon.’

  A thirsty passer-by entered the tent. Becky’s worries about what to do with the dogs were quickly dispelled when they followed her to the bar. Indeed, so obedient were they that when she commanded them to stay in a hidden corner of the bar area they curled up together and kept a watchful eye on her.

  Half an hour passed. Jenna returned mere seconds ahead of the next influx of customers. The match had finished, with the Delgado team winning the semi-final six-five, and the boisterous crowd was keen to celebrate. So busy did the hospitality tent get that Becky could only give the dogs the odd pat on the head here and there and sneak the odd bit of hotdog to them.

  ‘What the hell are they doing here?’

  In the midst of pouring five pints of lager for a rowdy group of young men and trying to tune out that they were all ogling her breasts, Becky hadn’t noticed the manager’s return. Mark was looking at the dogs as if they were the carriers of disease.

  ‘They appeared during the last match,’ she explained over the noise. ‘I’ve left a message with their owner.’

  ‘They can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why not? We don’t prepare food in here.’

  ‘This isn’t ruddy doggy day-care. Get rid of them.’

  Placing the third pint glass in front of the customer, she immediately started pouring another. ‘They’ve lost their owner.’

  ‘I don’t care. Get rid of them.’

  ‘Let me finish doing this round and then I’ll take them outside and wait for the owner.’

  ‘No, you’ll get rid of the flea-ridden mutts and get back to work.’

  ‘Have a heart,’ she beseeched, knowing as she spoke that she was wasting breath. Mark had proved in her short time there that he didn’t have a heart. ‘I’m sure...’

  He grabbed her arm tightly and snarled into her ear, ‘I’m sure that if you want to keep your job you’ll do as you’re...’

  A low growl cut Mark off mid-flow. The smaller of the dogs had joined them and was sitting on its haunches beside Becky, staring at the manager with its teeth bared.

  Whether he did it reflexively or deliberately Becky could never be certain, but Mark’s reaction to the small dog growling at him was to kick it. The dog yelped. Becky’s reaction to this cruelty was instinctive and immediate; she threw the full pint she’d just finished pouring straight into her boss’s face.

  The marquee fell into silence.

  His face like an overripe beetroot, Mark wiped the lager off his face with his hands. ‘Bitch.’

  Outraged at Mark’s despicable actions, Becky scooped the whimpering hound into her arms. ‘You kicked a defenceless dog, you monster.’

  ‘You’re fired.’

  ‘I don’t care. You’re despicable and I’m going to report you.’

  Through all the flurry of drama, Becky had failed to notice the reason for the crowd’s fall into silence, and that was the tall, lean figure dressed in the Delgado team green and white striped polo shirt, streaked with mud, who’d made his way to the front of the bar and was staring at Mark with unmistakable loathing. ‘You kicked my dog?’

  Mark, recognising him, paled. ‘It was more of a tap,’ he mumbled.

  Becky, too distressed and angry to care that the great Emiliano Delgado had appeared or that Jenna was having palpitations beside her, kept careful hold of the dog while she wiped a tear away. ‘He did,’ she said. ‘He was shouting at me, and this gorgeous boy—’ she kissed the top of the dog’s head ‘—was trying to protect me, and Mark kicked him.’

  There was a moment of stillness as Emiliano looked from Becky and the dog to the now cowering Mark. And then he pounced. With an agility that belied his size, Emiliano vaulted over the bar, grabbed Mark by the scruff of the neck and proceeded to drag him out of the marquee.

  As the golden retriever decided to follow his master, Becky hurried after him with the mongrel still in her arms, and got the retriever to heel.

  In the open air, Emiliano threw Mark to the ground. ‘I should kick you,’ he raged as he loomed over him, ‘see how you like being kicked, but you’re not worth it. Now I suggest you leave before I change my mind. You can consider yourself fired.’

  ‘You can’t...’ But, with one look at Emiliano’s face, Mark quickly stopped his protest to cover his own face.

  Emiliano laughed menacingly. ‘If I say you’re fired, you’re fired.’ Then, turning to the breathless, heavily made-up woman in hot pants and a vest who’d just run up to join him, he said, ‘And you’re fired too. I pay you to look after Rufus and Barney for me. They escaped on your watch.’

  The woman’s face paled as quickly as Mark’s had done. ‘It was an accident,’ she pleaded.

  ‘An accident because you were too busy trying to get into Juan’s jodhpurs to pay attention to them. Anything could have happened. Get out of my sight.’

  And then he turned to Becky, who’d watched the exchange with fascination.

  The retriever nuzzled against her leg. The mongrel licked her face. She wondered if they were sympathising for the tongue-lashing she was about to receive for not taking better care of them—after all, she really shouldn’t have kept them behind the bar so in a way was partly responsible for Mark’s gross overreaction.

  Clear brown eyes scrutinised her for what felt like for ever before a smile broke out on his face...

  Her heart slammed. What a smile that was. It lit the whole of his face and, with that smile, Becky understood why Jenna and the thousands of other groupies were so infatuated with him.

  ‘What are you doing the rest of the day?’ he asked, stepping over to her and holding his arms out for his dog.

  ‘Working...’ Between them they got the dog from her arms into his, a feat not made easy as Emiliano was a good foot taller than her dinky size. She caught a wave of faded cologne mingled with fresh sweat and found her nostrils twitching for another sniff. ‘Well, I was supposed to be working. I’m not sure if you firing Mark means I’m still fired or not.’

  ‘I’ll give you five hundred pounds if you’ll look after the boys for me.’

  ‘You what?’

  He gave a lopsided grin. ‘I’ve a final to play in three hours and I’ve just fired my dog-sitter.’

  Two months later

  Emiliano read the looping handwritten letter for a third
time before scrunching it into his pocket and storming out of his English home. A phone call to the woman who’d just ruined his day went unanswered. Scowling at the heavy clouds overhead marring what should be a quintessential summer’s day, he wasted thirty minutes searching for her, checking his world-class stables and the paddocks first.

  As if he didn’t have enough to contend with, what with the weekend at his Machiavellian mother’s villa in Monte Cleure coming up and having to share air with his half-brother. He hadn’t seen Damián since their father’s funeral nearly six months ago. If he had his way, he’d never have to share air with him again, but this time tomorrow he’d be stuck in his rotten company.

  When his phone rang he snatched it out of his pocket and scowled again to see his vet’s name pop up on the screen rather than Becky’s. Not even the excellent news that Matilde, a superlative mare he’d had to retire from racing, was pregnant, could bring a smile to his face.

  A figure walking over his pastureland in the distance caught his attention. Two smaller four-legged creatures bounding around it confirmed the figure to be Becky, and he marched briskly towards her.

  His boys spotted him first and ran over for some fuss.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded when he reached her, waving the letter in her face.

  She rolled her eyes and reached down to scoop up the dogs’ ball with the launcher in her hand. ‘My official resignation.’

  ‘I do not accept it.’

  She whipped the launcher through the air, sending the ball flying and the boys tearing off after it. Then she looked at Emiliano and shrugged. ‘I’m leaving whether you accept it or not.’

  ‘How can you do this to the boys? They adore you.’

  ‘And I adore them, but when I took this job I told you it would only be temporary.’

  ‘How am I supposed to find someone else at such short notice?’

  She folded her arms across her considerable chest and gave him the look of patience mixed with exasperation he’d become so used to. ‘Four weeks is hardly short notice, not when I told you two months ago I’d only be able to do the job for three months. I wrote the letter as a courtesy and a reminder for you to pull your finger out and find someone else. You’ve plenty of time to find a replacement.’

  ‘I don’t want a replacement.’ In the two months she’d been their live-in sitter he hadn’t had a moment’s worry about his boys’ care. ‘I’ll double your salary.’

  Rufus had dropped the ball at her feet. She scooped it up and launched it again then flashed the smile that always made Emiliano’s chest lighten and his loins throb.

  At first glance, Becky was ordinary-looking. The day he’d met her she’d been wearing a uniform of black shirt and formless trousers, her ordinary long dark hair tied back, ordinary face free from make-up. Had his boys not found sanctuary and protection with her when they’d run away from Greta, their previous dog-sitter, he would never have looked twice at her. He’d already offered her the job as Greta’s replacement when she’d smiled. And pow!

  She dazzled. She was beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous. Large green eyes, a snub nose and lips so wide and plump his mouth had yearned to feel if they were as soft as they looked. Days later, he’d seen her ‘ordinary’ hair loose and realised there was nothing ordinary about that either. A gleaming dark chestnut, it fell in thick waves halfway down her back. Added to the package was a friendly if occasionally fierce nature, a quick wit and a love of dogs that matched his own. If Becky Aldridge wasn’t in his employ and therefore forbidden fruit he’d have bedded her in a heartbeat.

  But she was in his employ and, if he had his way, would remain so.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to double it, starting now,’ she said lightly, ‘but I’m still leaving. I start my new job in six weeks.’

  ‘Six weeks?’ His outrage was immediate. ‘Then why leave me in four?’

  ‘Because I have things I need to sort before I start.’

  Like a place to live. Becky had viewed rental properties online close to the laboratory she was soon to be working at and had set the ball rolling on one of them, but she still needed to buy furniture and get settled before she started the job.

  ‘Tell them you’ve changed your mind.’

  She smiled sympathetically. Poor Emiliano. Born into unimaginable wealth, he’d spent his life believing whatever he wanted he could have. Reality could be twisted to suit his needs. When she’d agreed to take the job he’d obviously decided to ignore the temporary bit and assumed he could charm her into staying.

  ‘No.’ She hadn’t spent years working her brain to mush to throw it all away.

  Before he could explode at her flat refusal, his phone rang. He glared as if it had personally offended him before answering.

  While he chattered away in his native Argentine-Spanish, her resignation letter slipped from his hand. Clear brown eyes met hers and, with a malicious grin, he squished it with his boot.

  She rolled her eyes. Having a four-month window before starting her research role at the end of September, Becky had sought a temporary job that kept her busy without being mentally taxing. Her brain needed a break. The hospitality role at the polo venue had fulfilled both criteria but she’d taken no joy from it, so when Emiliano had offered her the job as his live-in dog-sitter she’d jumped at the opportunity, accepting it on the strict understanding that it would only be until mid-September.

  Becky had been raised with dogs and loved them. They were loyal in a way people never were and minding Emiliano’s wonderful hounds certainly beat dealing with drunk humans. They were affectionate too, always wanting to cuddle up to her, something that never failed to make her heart swell. Working for Emiliano and living on his busy estate filled with no-nonsense horsey people had been a joy. He was the easiest person she’d ever worked for. In fairness, her job could hardly be called work, more paid fun, but as she’d learned during their first meeting, for all his good humour, you crossed him at your peril. Only a week ago, he’d unceremoniously fired one of his grooms for not meeting the high standard of care he required for his horses. He was equally ferocious on the polo field.

  She’d finally got to grips with the game and even started enjoying it. By always wearing her shades, no one could see her eyes following Emiliano’s every move. It was never deliberate. There was something about the way he charged around the field on a horse—she would never understand why they insisted on calling them ponies—that captured her attention. Truth was, he captured her attention whatever he was doing. Truth was, even if she hadn’t intended the job to be temporary from the start, she would still be resigning.

  Long, lean and broad-shouldered, Emiliano’s long face could have been crafted by Michelangelo. Wide, clear brown eyes, high cheekbones and a wide firm mouth counteracted a too-long nose. Topping it all was dark brown hair cut short at the sides and long at the top, which he rarely managed to tame. Becky quite understood why he set so many fully-grown women’s pulses racing and it was becoming increasingly hard to keep her own pulse controlled around him or the jealousy that coiled inside her at the groupies who fawned over him wherever he went. A natural flirt, Emiliano had the ability to make any woman feel he only had eyes for her. Becky had to constantly remind herself that when he fixed those come-to-bed eyes on her and bestowed her with his lazy lopsided grin it wasn’t anything special. Her reaction to it was nothing special either, as all the fawning groupies would testify.

  It was the dreams that disturbed her most. Dreams from which she would wake flushed and throbbing. Meeting his eyes after one of those dreams was excruciating. Hiding her internal reaction to him was becoming harder by the day. The sooner she left the better. The sooner she started her new job and put her mind back to good use, the sooner she’d stop thinking of him and her life could return to normal.

  His mood was much brighter when he ended the call. ‘The Picasso they sai
d was not for sale? It’s mine,’ he told her triumphantly.

  ‘Congratulations.’ As well as being one of the world’s most successful horse breeders and a top polo player, Emiliano had a penchant for art and had opened galleries free to the general public in London, New York, Madrid and Buenos Aires filled with the exquisite work he’d acquired. ‘If you open a gallery in Oxford you can display it there and I can visit when I have time off.’

  ‘Oxford?’

  ‘Didn’t you read my résumé?’ When he’d offered her the job, he’d told her to email her résumé to his PA for the staff files. She’d assumed basic curiosity about the woman he was entrusting his precious dogs to would compel him to read it.

  He folded his arms across his chest and, face smug, said, ‘I didn’t need to. I’m an excellent judge of character.’

  With another exaggerated roll of her eyes she shook her head and patted her thighs for the dogs’ attention. The first drop of rain had landed on her nose and she wanted to get them inside before the heavens opened. ‘You’ve got four weeks. I suggest you get recruiting.’

  ‘I don’t need to recruit,’ he called as she strode away. ‘You’re staying.’

  She turned back to face him and walked backwards. ‘You’re delusional.’

  ‘Don’t you know I always get what I want, bomboncita?’

  ‘Then consider my leaving a much-needed favour to your ego.’ Giving him one last cheeky wave, she turned back around and, dogs running alongside her, jogged back to the pretty cottage he’d given her as a perk of the job.

  Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Smart

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