Submitting to the Billionaire: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Georgia Le Carre

  A thought enters my head. Yes, I will show Nikolai whatever his last name is the unvarnished version of me. Let’s see how much he still wants Nigel’s unglamorous wife. I will arrive not as a whore who has been chosen to be the dish of the day, but as the hired help. Maybe, he will find me so unpalatable, he will reject me.

  Then I will return and Nigel and I will work through this sorry mess together. There is so much work that needs to be done. So much trust needs to be restored, but if we both truly care for each other we’ll make it work.

  The knots in my stomach begin to loosen and I pull out a pair of baggy blue jeans and an oversized patterned shirt. I match it with a pair of worn trainers I use for gardening I find in a bottom drawer. Then, I spray my hair with water, so that it becomes a curly mess again. Haphazardly, I scrape my hair back and snap a band around it. Even if I say so myself, I look pretty unappealing.

  I smile with satisfaction.

  Let’s see how he feels when he sees this package standing in front of him. I stuff some cash in my bag together with a strip of my contraceptives, my toothbrush, my cellphone and its charger, and I go back downstairs.

  Nigel is hanging around the hallway and his eyes widen when he sees me. He strides towards me and grabs my upper-arms with both his hands.

  “I swear on the lives of our unborn children, that as long as I live I will never gamble again.”

  “Don’t swear on our children,” I scold automatically.

  “May I rot in hell if I break this promise to you.”

  I stare into his eyes and I see nothing but determination to beat this disease. “I believe you,” I whisper.

  “Thank you. I’ll never let you down again, Star. Never. You’re my wife and my life.”

  “Is it time?”

  “The car is waiting outside.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

  I swallow. What has this world come to when my own husband has to ask if he can kiss me? I nod.

  He bends his face and takes my lips. The kiss is gentle and sweet and I feel myself start to cling to him. I don’t want to leave him. He breaks the kiss and looks into my eyes. “They think they can break us. They can never. You are mine. You will always be mine.”

  “Take care of yourself, Nigel,” I say, then I walk swiftly to the front door.

  “I’ll call you,” he says as I open the door.

  My throat is so tight I am unable to answer him. I pull the door shut behind me. There is a black limo waiting on the street. As I take a shuddering breath, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform steps out of the car and walks to the passenger door. He opens it and stands next to it. He doesn’t look at me. Just stands there respectfully.

  A weird sensation overtakes my body.

  Nothing will be the same again. I turn back and look at my closed front door. For a second I want to open it and run back into Nigel’s arms, back into my enchanted house, where I have felt so safe, so loved, and protected. Then I steel myself, and walk down the pathway to the waiting car.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Star

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETxmCCsMoD0

  (Money, Money)

  The chauffeur nods and waits while I slide into the seat. Soft classical music is playing and the car smells of expensive perfume. The door closes, and the man walks around to his side of the car.

  I turn my head to look at the windows of my house. At the living room window, I see Nigel standing there staring at me. There is something so lost and forlorn about the defeated droop to his shoulders that I bleed inside.

  The driver gets into his seat and the car starts to move. I stare out of the window seeing nothing. All I can think of is Nigel standing at the window. As the car leaves Earls Court and takes the M4 out of London, I start to pay attention. We make steady progress until the car smoothly joins the M25. There is more traffic here, but less than twenty minutes later we take the slip road out of the motorway. After a little while, I see signposts for Virginia Water, Surrey. I’ve been there once. One of Nigel’s friends lives on the Wentworth estate.

  We pass the estate and keep on the main road until there is a sign for Windlesham. Less than a mile later we turn off into a tree-lined road. There are large houses on either side of it. The road takes another turn and we come upon two large stone pillars with lions on the top. The name of the house is craved into stone. I take my cellphone out and text Rosa.

  Knightsbrook Manor,

  Windlesham

  Rosa’s reply is instant: Jesus, I know that place. It’s a fucking palace.

  The car comes to a stop in front of the tall black gates. Video cameras swivel in our direction. The driver does nothing and after a few seconds the gates swing open noiselessly. The car starts up again.

  The driveway is long and curves though land dotted by glorious, old trees. The trunks are so thick it will take two or maybe three of me to embrace them.

  We travel at least one kilometer before I see the stately mansion set on elevated ground. The last rays of summer sun fall on it, giving the white stones a beautiful reddish glow. The effect is one of unbelievable majesty and splendor.

  My stomach is now doing cartwheels. A strange mix of fear and anticipation. Who the hell lives in a place like this and gets into the kind of arrangement that includes an unseen woman? Why would such a man need or even want to hurt a small fry like Nigel?

  We follow the road as it turns around in a semi-circle up to the frontage of the house. Wide, stone steps lead up to enormous double doors adorned on each side by beautiful topiary. I find myself awestruck by the extraordinary beauty and majesty of the house.

  The car comes to a halt, and I touch my stomach nervously. It is fluttering with anxiety and tension. The driver comes around to my side and opens my door. I slide out and thank him.

  “You are expected,” he says formally with a solemn nod.

  I begin to climb the steps. Before I reach the top, a large broad man with a head the size of a football, and almost no neck, comes out of the doors, and stands with his arms folded. His unfriendly, wary eyes make me feel uncomfortable.

  I reach the entrance, and he looks at my purse and says, “Do you mind? It’s just protocol.”

  I hand him my purse silently and he rifles through it quickly. Satisfied there is nothing there that could be a danger, he returns it to me, and steps back to allow me to enter.

  Inside, I stop and stare in amazement.

  The hallway is bigger than my whole house and the kind of wealth on display is astounding. It is like I have entered onto a film set in another period, a time gone by when Lords and Ladies rode in carriages and ruled the land.

  Pillars soar up to a Sistine Chapel type scene with half-nude muscular men and Rubenesque women; winged cherubs, and a horned demon or two. The floor, an intricate pattern of stone tiles, has been polished to such a high shine I can practically see my own reflection. The wide central staircase is made of white marble with intricately wrought balustrades. It has a red runner carpet on it that looks so pristine it makes me wonder about how many times a day it is cleaned. The walls are full of tall paintings, and higher up there are stained glass windows with elaborate designs. This is not a home. No one could curl up with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate here.

  Mr. Muscle clears his throat pointedly to get my attention.

  When I turn my dazed gaze towards him, he jerks his head sideways at me, to indicate that I should follow him. I nod and he starts swiftly marching towards a pair of duck-egg blue double doors. Our steps echo in the vast space.

  He opens the doors and we enter an elegant, many-windowed drawing room. It has fine carpets, antique furniture, and stunning period designer wallpaper. It smells of lavender polish. My eyes glance around the numerous beautiful paintings adorning the walls.

  ‘Take a seat,” Mr. Muscle barks from the side of me, and I jump. His tone is that of a Sergeant major instructing one of his recruits. I think it would
be safe to assume from his walk and his voice that he must be some type of ex-military guy. I take a seat on the brocade covered settee closest to me. He leaves the room without another word. His footsteps die away in the hallway outside.

  Alone in the vast room, I gaze at the paintings. Unlike other fine houses that display the ancestors of the current owners, all the paintings are modern works of art. One painting, the main one, positioned above the fireplace, and artfully lit up, catches my attention.

  I rise from my chair as if in a trance and walk towards it. It is of a child, a well-dressed, blond boy sitting on a chair. There is something strange about his face. I walk closer to him. His face is dirt streaked, his enormous green eyes dare me to pity him.

  I glance at the name of the painter embossed into a piece of metal on the gilded frame. It is a Russian name I do not recognize. Why would a man who owns all this splendor have a painting of such pain? My curiosity for the Russian increases. Instinctively I sense I’ve just had a glimpse of a complicated personality.

  I’m so engrossed by the painting I do not hear the footsteps heading towards the door. Suddenly the door opens. My stomach tightens. I do not turn around instantly. Instead, I take a deep breath.

  “Hello, Star,” a man’s deep voice says. There is supreme indifference in his voice.

  A vague recognition flashes inside me. I look at the face of the boy in the painting for another second, then I turn around, and my eyes widen in shock.

  “You,” I gasp.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Star

  Three Weeks Previously

  “You are the most beautiful woman in this room, Star,” Nigel says, looking into my eyes.

  “Oh yeah? And that brunette I saw you looking at just now?” I tease.

  “What brunette?” he asks innocently. The candlelight falls on his cheeks making him look even more irresistible than he normally does.

  I lift my wine glass and take a small sip. “Look. I really don’t mind if you look at a beautiful girl. I would look at a beautiful man too. There’s no harm.” I grin. “Looking at the flowers in other people’s gardens is allowed. You just can’t pick them.”

  “You would look at a beautiful man?” Nigel asks. He is still smiling, but there is a slight tension in his jaw.

  I shrug. “Just the same way I would look at a beautiful piece of art. I wouldn’t want to take it home with me.”

  “But if you’re looking at a man, you must be thinking sexual thoughts about him,” he insists. I can see that he is getting a bit annoyed.

  I look deep into his eyes. “I swear that from the day I met you I have never had a sexual thought about any other man. Not one. Ever.”

  He grins happily. “Good. That’s the way it should be.”

  “Bet you can’t say the same,” I challenge. I know men are different than women. They have sexual thoughts all the time about random women they meet on the street. I once read in a magazine that men will pass a woman in the street and get a hard-on thinking about having sex with her. Incredible!

  “Believe it or not, I haven’t thought of another woman like that since you seduced me at that party.”

  “I didn’t seduce you,” I protest. “You came on to me.”

  “Only after you batted your eyelashes outrageously at me.”

  “I did not,” I say with a laugh.

  He reaches for my hand. “No, you didn’t. That’s why I liked you. You were so innocent you blushed when I came up to you.” He pauses. “Look at you. You’re blushing now.”

  A waitress comes to our table. “Would you like to have a look at our dessert menu?”

  Nigel doesn’t let go of my hand. “No, I’m having my wife for dessert,” he says.

  “Nigel,” I gasp, and look up apologetically at the waitress.

  She smiles politely. “How about some coffee then?”

  “Nothing for me and a black coffee for my wife,” Nigel orders.

  The waitress moves away.

  “Why do you do that?” I scold. “It’s embarrassing for me and her.”

  “Why should either of you be embarrassed? It’s the truth. I’m having you for dessert.”

  “There is no hope for you,” I say.

  He grins and looks at his watch. “I have to make a quick call to New York. Can you amuse yourself for ten minutes?”

  I smile. “I have to go to the Ladies, anyway.”

  “Good girl,” he says, and leaves the table.

  I stand up and start to walk in the opposite direction he went. As I get to the corridor that leads to the toilets I turn back to see if I can still see Nigel and suddenly I slam into a wall. My head snaps back and I nearly die.

  It’s not a wall.

  It’s a tall, broad man with raven black hair, an arrogant mouth, sensual lips, and a square jaw. His clothes are expensive and yet his shirt is unbuttoned casually. His throat is brown. His shoes are immaculate.

  He is beautiful, not the way a male model is, but the way a sleek, shining panther stalking its prey is. His hooded silvery-gray eyes look down at me without any expression in their depths. There is something cruel and indifferent in his mesmerizing eyes.

  His presence is so powerful that I feel a shiver go right through me. He stares down at me with those strangely impassive eyes. Eyes that should belong to a predator cat. I stare back unable to look away. Something alive and electric sizzles between us.

  My lips part to apologize, but I am so shocked by him, no words come out. My tongue comes out to lick my dry lips, and his eyes drop to my mouth. My knees feel as if they will not support me. I realize then that his hands are curled around my upper-arms. What the hell am I doing? I should break away.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I whisper.

  “No problem,” he says, his voice deep and velvety, and supremely indifferent. He is foreign.

  His hands leave my upper-arms. He steps away from my body and the strangest thing happens. My body misses him. The way it has never missed Nigel. The desire for him is so strong, my hands claw: I want to reach out and press my body into his. I want him inside me.

  He nods distantly, and walks away.

  For a few seconds, I can do nothing. Shaken to my core, I draw deep, even breaths. Then, I take a step towards the Ladies. In that briefest of encounters, I have learned something about myself. I am not as pure as I imagined. Nigel is not as safe as he would like to believe.

  My resistance is nothing more than a house perched at the edge of the cliff top. One bad storm and the raging sea will tear my house to smithereens.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nikolai

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWOTdt9Bovk

  Me And Mrs Jones

  She stares at me in shock, her beautiful eyes wide, her mouth parted, and a river of primitive possessiveness rushes through my veins. I’ve got her. She’s mine now.

  “Did you … are you Nikolai?” she gasps.

  “If he’s not me, then he’s one lucky bastard,” I say.

  Her mouth snaps shut and she squares her shoulders.

  “Would you like a drink?” I ask.

  “No thank you,” she says stiffly.

  I smile and walk to the liquor cabinet.

  “Sorry, but can we please get on with this?” she shoots. Her eyes are combative. She wants to take control of a situation where she knows she has none.

  “We already have. You are here under my roof, are you not?”

  Her eyes regard me with hostility. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I wanted you,” I say simply, watching her.

  Her dowdy appearance cannot disguise her unique beauty. Her long golden hair tightly pulled back only serves to highlight her flawless skin. Even in this most intimidating scenario her eyes sparkle like brilliantly cut blue diamonds as she calculates her situation.

  “And if you want something you just reach out and take it.” Her voice drips with scorn.

  “That’s the genera
l idea, yes.”

  “Even if that person is already married?”

  “That does complicate things a little, but where there is a will there is always a way.”

  “So you’d have a woman who doesn’t want you,” she asks derisively.

  I place a short glass tumbler on the polished wood of the bar and look up at her. “Are you trying to imply that you don’t want me?”

  Her face floods with pretty color. She’s as delightful as a butterfly. “Did you somehow get the impression that I do?” she asks.

  “Yes, I got the impression you wanted to be in my bed.”

  Her eyes widen. “Is that why you went to all this trouble to get me here?”

  I hide a smile. “Yes.”

  She shakes her head, her forehead creased in a frown. “I’m so sorry. There has been a terrible misunderstanding. I don’t want to be in your bed. Not at all. I’m very much married. I love my husband with all my heart, and he is the only man I want.”

  Her words infuriate me, but I smile politely. “Prove it.”

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I lift a shoulder casually. “Show me how much you don’t want me.”

  She folds her hands in front of her. “Tell me how to and I’ll do it.”

  “Come over here and kiss me,” said the spider to the fly.

  She recoils, actually recoils as if I really am a spider. Her back becomes ramrod straight, and when she speaks her voice is hard and violent with anger. “I was given the impression that everything had to be consensual.”

  I nod. “That’s a pretty accurate impression.”

  Her shoulders almost sag with the relief that pours through her system. She takes a deep breath and prepares for a battle that she has already lost. “So I evoke my right to say no to such a repulsive request.”

  I lift the crystal stopper off the decanter, and pour myself a glass of cognac. “Are you sure I couldn’t interest you in a glass of something?”