Exclusive Love (British Billionaires Series)

by Sorell Oates

  ‘Am I boring you?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ protested Katy, continuing to nod and rub. ‘This music here is unreal though.’

  Using the opportunity to draw Oscar’s attention to the music, she swung her head to the other side to relieve the muscle tension. Her thick flowing hair swaying in rhythm to the beat sent her cocktail glass flying.

  The shattering eclipsed the DJ’s musical prowess. Not out of embarrassment, but because she’d paid for the drinks had Katy stomping her foot. Cheaper than the Rose Bar downstairs, the bill had dented her credit card nonetheless. The cost had her wanting to fetch a cloth to mop up the alcohol from the floor. Wringing the cloth into a new glass, she wouldn’t have to waste a drop of the expensive drink

  ‘I’ll get another,’ said Oscar.

  Replacement drinks in Oscar’s hands, the staff had expeditiously cleaned up the accident.

  ‘If you’re going to pander to my inane artistic ramblings from the knowledge I attained completing an A-level in fine arts at college, you should consider opting for a blank steady expression. Alternatively switch nodding sides as you take a sip of your drink, that way it won’t cause any long term damage to the muscles in your neck.’

  Katy chortled in spite of herself.

  ‘Okay, my knowledge of art is limited. I’m a heathen. I know nothing of painting and art. I love a musical romp on Broadway but tend to avoid plays. I adore mainstream chart music, especially R&B and I actually do love dancing.’

  ‘In clubs, not ballet,’ he smirked in reference to her earlier hairstyle.

  ‘Does it make me a bad person?’

  ‘Of course not. I was drawing on the art chatter to impress you. In fact, I only took the subject to increase my rapport with women. Art is about emotion, and women love emotional stuff. I thought it was an effective choice in my education as a teenager. It made sense. You know how reserved the British are.’

  ‘What you’re basically saying is, you took a course in Fine Arts to avoid having to express yourself emotionally to a woman?’

  ‘That’s correct. Does that make me a bad person?’ Oscar mimicked, holding his hands up like a man under arrest.

  ‘No, but it makes you unusual.’

  She raised a hand to block Oscar’s interruption.

  ‘Which isn’t a bad thing.’

  Katy meant it. Oscar wasn’t what she was expecting. Drawn to the fact that he was suave and sophisticated, the model of what a British billionaire should be, she was engaged because he was refreshingly open and didn’t appear to take himself seriously. If he’s this down to Earth, she wondered, why is he pursuing exclusive rich women? The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she was too captivated by his[LMB1] engaging personality to ask.

  ‘I guess that’s something else we have in common,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Being unusual.’

  ‘How do you figure I’m unusual?’ Katy was fluttering her eyelids.

  ‘Who would wear a winter dress in the middle of summer?’

  As soon as the words were out his mouth, Oscar knew it was the wrong thing to say. Without a doubt the most sensational woman there, he sensed she was self-conscious and alien in the environment. Airing commonalities had been his way of drawing them closer, but it had the reverse effect. Katy was uptight and nervous. Appreciating cultural difference, he was starting to think his humor wasn’t remotely funny to anyone but himself.

  Her awkwardness was visible as she fiddled with her sleeves. Hating her discomfort and bewildered expression, he was puzzled where the confident girl from earlier had disappeared to. Immersed in the confusion of what she undoubtedly perceived as an attack on her dress sense, Oscar was treading on dangerous ground. The lady’s feelings were paramount.

  ‘Look closely at everyone in here,’ he gesticulated. ‘All in summer frocks. All walking mannequins. You in your classic Chanel, stand out from the crowd. Boldly and beautiful. That’s unusual for a woman in this kind of hangout.’

  Did he actually mean what he said or was he phenomenally skilled in the art of conversational recovery? Upon explanation, the insult became instead, flattering. Katy bought it. Her unconscious fidgeting with her sleeves bought her arms to the table. Fortunately she steadied her nerves before her sleeve could catch fire in the candle. A spilled drink she could get away with. Two accidents and she might as well have the word ‘fraud’ tattooed on her forehead. Katy’s head was swimming. Relating it to stress, the onset of a migraine was edging its way into her head.

  ‘I think I might need some fresh air;’ she said abruptly.

  ‘We’re on an open rooftop terrace. There’s plenty of fresh air. Can I get you a water? Are you unwell?’

  Dashing from the table, thankful the bathrooms were clearly designated, Katy felt bile rising. Making it to a cubicle, she prepared to be sick. Grateful nothing was bought up, it didn’t stop the dizziness, nausea or hammer pounding in her skull. Her editor had been right. Katy was out of her league. She didn’t have the skills for the job. Creeping away without Oscar seeing her, then focusing on finding date number two was her optimum shot at recovery. Next foray she’d act on her editor’s instructions. Katy would be prepared for the type of men and settings she’d be contending with.

  I’ll write off this date as a practice one, decided Katy. Call it training for the real millionaire. Slipping out the door, she hoped to go unnoticed. There stood Oscar with a female staff member. A deer caught in the headlights, Katy hadn’t expected the search party awaiting her.

  ‘Mr. Woodruff was going to give you two minutes before I was to check on you,’ said the antagonistic waitress.

  From the tone of her voice, she was not impressed with task Oscar called of her. Raising her nose in the air, she sauntered off.

  ‘I’m guessing with that demeanor she was the waitress that had to clean up my spilled drink.’

  Snorting with laughter, Oscar guided her to the lovers’ bench outside the toilet door to pass her a glass of cold water.

  ‘As it goes she was. Sweeping up the broken glass, mopping the floor and wiping down the table—a hard day’s night!’

  Unbeknownst to Katy, Oscar was surreptitiously scrutinizing her, pondering the reasons as to her sudden departure.

  ‘I should’ve put on a finer performance when I exited for sympathy’s sake. She probably thought I was in there doing drugs.’

  ‘I’m sure she wasn’t,’ muttered Oscar, without a trace of a smile.

  Checking her temperature, his hand went to her forehead. Tipping her chin back, he checked the color and focus of her eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t taking drugs,’ she said meekly.

  ‘I know, but you certainly aren’t well.’

  The dizziness that had her swaying now was not related to a pending migraine so much as the fathomless, concerned blue eyes of Oscar. Why had he stayed? Why not wait at the table? Why make ducking out of this date insurmountable? Why make her long to close her eyes to let him kiss her?

  ‘What are we going to do about getting you home?’

  Preparing to be swept up and cared for by Oscar, the reality of Katy’s reliance on public transport cut harshly into her fantasy.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ she said waving a hand dramatically. ‘That’s why I spoke about fresh air. Once I’m out, I’ll be in shape to get home.’

  Knowing it was an act, Oscar was confused. Was she trying to fob him off? Had the illness been orchestrated for her to leave early and slip away from his company? Chewing the inside of his cheek, he tried to decide what was best. Frankly speaking, if she wasn’t enjoying his company, inflicting further would be painful to her and humiliating for him. If her need to escape was related to a different set of problems, he’d never forgive himself for leaving the damsel in distress.

  ‘You mentioned earlier your trip was trying. I assumed you’d had transport complications.’

  Whoever aligned this movement in the stars, and Katy knew it wasn’t from
her newspaper’s horoscopes, she gave a prayer of thanks. Oscar was going to provide her with private transport. No walking to the subway, no waiting with drunken louts getting the last train home, no prolonged commute. Her pulse quickened, when Katy should’ve flooded with relief. The beating in her forehead pronounced, light-headiness swamping her, the retching from her insides twisting her stomach, Katy passed out as she waited to accept Oscar’s invitation.

  Chapter Six

  Vision focusing in the dark, Katy knew she was not in her own bed. Instead, she was engulfed in a king-size mattress. Performing a full 360 degree turn left and right, with outstretched hands, she was unable to reach a bedside table. The mattress was a firm delight. The smell and feel of the crisp sheets had her comforted in a situation that would normally call for alertness and caution. Even with the dim glow of what she suspected to be a lamp, it took a minute or two before eyes became accustomed to the room.

  Dragging herself from the luxury of the bed was a strain. Forcing herself to sit upright, supported by the headboard, she realized she had no clue where she was. Opposite her was a modest-sized living room with a standing lamp. Lying on the sofa was the shape of another body. Sensing who she was with, she squinted hard trying to bring him into acute focus. Boring her eyes communicated with him on a subconscious level. The blurry form of Oscar shifted awkwardly on the sofa. Dropping a leg, his bare foot hitting the carpet jolted him from sleep.

  Positioning himself formally on the couch, automatically his eyes flew to Katy.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he whispered, triggering a reason for Katy to be scared.

  Her brown eyes were huge and afraid.

  ‘You passed out. I think it was a migraine. You had medication in your handbag. You asked me to fetch it. I gave you the tablet you asked for. You took it with water in my car. You weren’t able to manage to tell me your home address. It seemed sensible to take you here. You’ve been sleeping since.’

  Katy was nodding, letting Oscar know she’d heard and comprehended what he said with a calm, cool and caring voice.

  ‘Is my medication nearby?’

  Remaining rooted to the chair lest he frighten the half-awake young lady, he gestured to the right bedside table.

  ‘You had a blister pack with two tablets. I only gave you one.’

  Heavy-headed with the migraine lingering, Katy literally crawled across the mattress to retrieve her tablets. Her nails sliding over the table and crashing into the bedside lamp inclined Oscar to turn the lights on. He let her fumble half-blindly, concerned the reality of her whereabouts might shock her or the bright lights affect her headache. Having minor knowledge of migraines, he trusted Katy. Even in her sleepy coma-like state was confident treating herself.

  On the exploratory mission to find the remaining tablet, Katy’s hand careered into a glass of water. Lifting it to confirm she hadn’t knocked it over, she was glad to have liquid to swallow the pill. No sooner had she taken it then she rolled sideways into a heavy sleep.

  Waiting for her breathing to deepen, Oscar watched till he was certain she was asleep. He favored a cool room. Setting the air conditioner to a low temperature could be breezy to those not acclimatized to his preferences. Hauling the covers over her, he hadn’t meant to hesitate. Catching sight of her face, asleep Katy was only youth and innocence. Radiating an indescribable energy, the outspoken, quick witted journalist of earlier had been replaced by an angelic girl.

  Oscar knew when he’d initially met Katy he wanted to drink and run. As she’d opened up and lowered her barriers over the course of two drinks, he’d hoped the night would overrun. Certainly any intention that may have given rise later to her accompanying him home would not have been under these particular set of circumstances.

  Knowing he wouldn’t fall asleep for a while, he was tempted to unfold the pull-out sofa bed. Worried the noise would wake Katy, he settled on the couch hoping for rest.

  * * * *

  Waking brighter and revitalized, the room was flooded with light. Katy’s eyes were greeted by an expensive, contemporary furnished hotel room. The sycamore wood furniture complimented the neutral décor. The golden silk and velvet drapes visible from her bed gave the room character as opposed to a universal ambiance one might expect from traditional interior design.

  Knowing it was Oscar’s room, she was surprised it wasn’t grander. That the sleeping, living and dining area weren’t separate hinted this wasn’t the flashiest suites the Four Seasons had to offer. Unsure of what to do, she decided to explore. Throwing back the covers, Katy realized, while dressed, she was not in her clothes. Her black Chanel dress was hanging on the parallel wardrobe running the length of the king size bed.

  Comfortable in the oversized Cambridge university shirt, in order for her to be wearing it, someone (who could only be Oscar) would had to have got her out of her dress. The person undressing her would have caught sight of her near naked body.

  Her bra was flung on the floor by the side of the bed giving greater cause for concern. Had anything happened between the two that wasn’t honorable and decent? Preparing to deal with Oscar, the doorbell rang. Getting her bearings to navigate towards the door, Katy heard it open and the low tones of Oscar’s voice. There was the clattering of a trolley wheeled in. Bed hair and half-naked in a man’s t-shirt was not how she wanted to bid good morning to Oscar or the hotel staff.

  Racing to the bed, she hurdled the frame to hide under the covers. Mistimed, her toe caught on the end of the bed. Crashing face first on the mattress heavily, Katy remained frozen.

  Guiding room service to the terrace with the breakfast he’d rung downstairs for, Oscar was shocked to see Katy on all fours, face down on the bed. Shirt around her waist, Katy exposed a pair of peachy buttocks in French knickers on full show for the brigade of passing staff. Running to her aid would be unwelcome. Apologizing to the staff would draw attention to the bedroom calamity.

  Twice in twelve hours this beguiling creature had him bewildered and out of his depth socially as how to behave in the bizarre spectacles she created. Whisking her home from the club last night had been daunting enough. Responsibility pervading over general practice of escorting her directly home. The clash of breakfast and a bare bum was too much for the usually unruffled Oscar to contend with.

  Breakfast laid on an outdoor table on the terrace overlooking Central Park, Oscar led the undersized parade of staff out. Tipping them on exit he paid no reference to Katy on his bed. Counting slowly to ten he reentered.

  ‘Are you hurt or trying to seduce me?’ he called, closing the front door.

  The ice breaker was a relief and drained the awkwardness from Oscar’s reappearance. Standing on the bed, Katy braced herself to deal with the smirking billionaire as he prowled in.

  ‘How did I come to be wearing this shirt?’ she demanded, as he poked his head round from the corridor.

  ‘I sacrificed a night’s sleep by taking the couch in order that you had a bed to yourself. Please do not bring into question my integrity when it comes to a woman who literally threw herself at my feet.’

  ‘I passed out.’

  ‘That’s your story!’

  ‘Are you implying I faked it?’ snapped Katy.

  ‘Come down,’ he said, offering a hand for her to take.

  Oscar’s physical presence filled the room. His biceps bulged under his tight white t-shirt, the clingy material showing off a flat stomach. The gray jogging bottoms hung low on his hips. Even loose, they were unable to disguise the bulging package underneath. He wasn’t only handsome and dashing, but completely ripped in terms of his buff body.

  Stepping down from the bed she was greeted by floor to ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Gasping at the incredible view, they were so high up the people were the size of ants. The sight sucked the aggression she’d intended to use as a mask for embarrassment from her. Oscar found himself not letting go of Katy’s hand, taking her to the open door leading to the terrace with a table and chairs se
t up for the breakfast spread.

  ‘You hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘Am I ever!’

  Releasing her hand, he returned seconds later with a complimentary bath robe to allow her bountiful modesty to enjoy the meal. Oscar thought it sweet that Katy remained a statue, taking in the early morning city landscape.

  ‘If you fancy covering up—’

  Spinning round, she saw the plush white robe held open by Oscar. Allowing him to assist her, she tied the belt firmly round her waist. Venturing out barefoot on the terrace, she sat eating fruit salad and yoghurt in awe of the scene. Tackling the full English breakfast he’d ordered, Oscar watched Katy’s eyes flicker and dart, examining and assessing what was happening below.

  ‘It’s as if you’ve never seen the city from this height,’ he speculated, hoping to engage her in conversation.

  ‘Even if you looked at this city from the same point at the same time every day you’d never actually see it identically. It’s nature providing the light. Our body movements, however subtle or inconsequential, will shift the frame through which we view things.’

  ‘This coming from the girl who claimed to be a heathen. A journalist, or a writer I wonder.’

  He’d caught her attention. The billionaire had actually listened to what she’d said last night. Remembered it, paid attention to her. It wasn’t what Katy expected.

  ‘Sometimes I talk nice cause I learned to write real good at school,’ she said adopting the voice of a stereotypical, uneducated person commonly referred to as ‘trailer trash’.

  Oscar laughed. Her self-deprecating humor resonated with him. Unwilling to openly acknowledge what he strongly suspected to be the soul of a poet, she wasn’t fishing for compliments. Her self-mockery acknowledged her talents with the English language.

  ‘I’m glad you stayed for breakfast,’ the warm beams of sun hindered Oscar directly catching Katy’s eyes. ‘I thought you may have tried to depart unnoticed.’

  ‘Any chance I had of achieving that was stolen when I lost my balance trying to dive from the end of the bed to burrow under the covers to hide from the troupe you were marching in.’