Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep

by Michelle Douglas

  ‘Gloat?’ he repeated.

  ‘You told me this hotel wasn’t up to scratch. And you’ve been proved right.’

  His lips thinned as he glanced around the foyer—almost as if he was trying to pinpoint her robbers, though they’d be long gone.

  ‘I’d have rather been proved wrong.’ His gaze returned to hers with a sudden and startling sharpness. ‘You took offence when I suggested you should change hotels. Why?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t a suggestion—it was an instruction. It sounded patronising, and it implied that I couldn’t look after myself.’

  He was silent for a moment, his lips pursed, as if he was replaying their earlier conversation in his mind. Eventually he nodded. ‘You’re right. It did. I apologise. I didn’t mean it to.’

  Okay. Um...wow...

  ‘I’m glad you called. I’m the most logical person to help you as I’m the one who has a spare key to your grandmother’s apartment.’ He nodded, more to himself than her. ‘So, yes, I’m the logical person to escort you there.’

  He’d used the word logical twice. Right...they were going to be logical, then.

  She made a ‘logical’ decision not to ask why he was the keeper of the key—she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She just wanted to get away from this hotel. It was starting to give her the heebie-jeebies.

  ‘The thieves took everything?’ he asked.

  ‘Right down to my toothbrush.’

  ‘Was anything of value taken?’ He raised his hands. ‘And, before you take offence, I’m not implying that your clothes or suitcases aren’t valuable.’

  ‘But they can be easily replaced,’ she agreed. ‘As can my toiletries. Can you believe they didn’t leave me a single lipstick? They even took my shampoo.’ The sheer thoroughness of the robbery astounded her. ‘The room was picked clean. I didn’t want to carry too much cash, or keep all my cards on me—or my passport—so I put them in the room safe.’

  ‘And, let me guess, the safe is gone?’

  ‘Bingo. I’ve cancelled the cards and contacted the embassy.’ She glared across at the reception desk. ‘I asked the hotel if there was some way they could give me some cash against my card. I mean, they have my credit card details and they have charged me for my stay, but that’s too hard, apparently, and God forbid they should actually put themselves out to help a guest.’

  ‘They charged you?’

  That had irked her too. ‘Technically, I did stay the night.’

  ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  He strode across to the reception desk without waiting for her reply. She watched, wondering if he’d have any more luck than she’d had. Words were exchanged and, while she couldn’t make them out, the tone Owen used had her biting back a smile. The manager was summoned and before she’d realised what had happened she was being offered an apology and her bill was being refunded—in cash—along with a series of vouchers to an array of New York tourist attractions thrust into her hands.

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  He didn’t answer, just ushered her out of the hotel. ‘Let’s get you settled at your grandmother’s.’

  Ten minutes later she found herself standing in the small entrance foyer of an unprepossessing apartment building. He pointed to the stairs. ‘We’re heading to the top.’

  They trudged up to the fifth floor. ‘These stairs must’ve become difficult for Frances as she got older.’ Callie was breathing hard herself. ‘How did she manage them?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘There’s a lift?’

  His lips pressed into a tight line. ‘She didn’t go out.’

  Something he’d said back in the lawyer’s office clicked into place. ‘She was a recluse?’

  ‘Of sorts.’

  That wasn’t going to help her breadcrumb trail. She opened her mouth, but instinct warned her that questioning him further would be fruitless, so she snapped it shut again.

  Unlocking the door, he ushered her in, but didn’t follow. His grey eyes had darkened and she sensed a storm building in their depths.

  ‘You’re not coming in?’ she asked.

  Dear God, did she have to sound so needy? She wasn’t some distressed damsel.

  Chin up. Shoulders back.

  ‘How thoughtless of me. You must be busy...probably need to get back to work. I’m sorry to—’

  ‘There’s nowhere I need to be. I’m not working today.’

  Uh-huh... Right, then...

  She gestured behind her at the apartment. ‘Then would you like to come in?’

  He let out a long breath, coloured with something she couldn’t put her finger on. What she did know was that it wasn’t enthusiasm.

  ‘Fine.’ He marched in. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  For a moment she wanted to tell him to forget about it and go home, where he could be a grump on his own time rather than hers. But she bit the words back. The man had come to her aid without a murmur of complaint. He’d prevented a bad situation from getting worse. He didn’t deserve her rudeness.

  The apartment wasn’t cavernous. Callie had figured anyone with as much money as Frances would live in something wildly opulent, but while it was comfortable, the apartment was by no means luxurious. It was also painted a dull brown that certainly didn’t show it off to its best advantage.

  The front door opened onto a large room with one corner given over to a kitchen and dining area. To the left of that two three-seater sofas stood at right angles to each other on an enormous Persian rug. An entertainment unit with a TV and top-of-the-line stereo system rested against the far wall. Various dressers, side tables and bookcases were scattered around the room. It was unsophisticated, but comfortable, and not what she’d been expecting.

  Owen pointed at the two doors that stood either side of the entertainment unit. ‘They’re the bedrooms.’

  She peeked inside the nearest, which had a view over the street. It had evidently been Frances’s and she closed the door hastily, feeling like an intruder. The other, exactly the same size, was a guest room. She’d sleep there. It had a balcony, which was a bonus, even if it did only look out onto the backs of other apartment buildings.

  ‘And the bathroom is on the other side of the kitchen wall.’

  Just for completeness, she stuck her nose inside there as well. It was clean, and more generous than the bathroom she’d had at the hotel. It even had a bathtub. She made a mental note to grab some bath salts.

  When she emerged back into the main living area, Owen handed her a steaming mug. ‘It’s black, I’m afraid. There’s no milk. I’ll organise a few staples to be delivered.’

  She opened her mouth automatically to refuse, but closed it again. Who knew how long it would be before she had access to her own money again? ‘Please keep a record of all that I owe you. I’ll settle with you as soon as I can.’

  He gestured at the room. ‘What do you think?’

  The question was freighted with far more meaning than she could decipher. It made her hesitate, but eventually she shrugged. ‘It’s comfortable. I like it.’

  ‘You hate it.’

  ‘Not true.’

  It was just... The apartment might be generous by New York standards, but it was far too small for someone to have remained cooped up there as a recluse.

  ‘Did my grandmother die here?’

  He sipped his coffee, those grey eyes cool and reserved once more. ‘Would it bother you if she had?’

  It wasn’t her grandmother’s death that bothered her. It was the way she’d chosen to live her life. She sipped her coffee too. It was far stronger than she was used to, but she refused to grimace.

  ‘You just answered a question with a question, so I’m guessing that’s a yes.’

  She wished she could get a handle on him...read him better. Just a tiny little bit wo
uld help.

  ‘I’m not squeamish about staying in a place that somebody has died in.’ She sent him an apologetic smile, because the words felt as if they should come with an apology. ‘I’d just like to know, that’s all.’

  ‘Frances was taken ill here, but she died in hospital.’ He paused, as if fighting with himself. ‘If you’re not squeamish, why ask?’

  And there it was—the latent hostility that rose and bristled from him like a wolf’s hackles. It had raised its head a couple of times in the lawyer’s office, and she knew now that she hadn’t imagined it.

  She took another sip of her drink, her pulse picking up speed. ‘Because I know nothing about my grandmother’s last days.’ And she needed to find out everything she could about the woman. ‘Was she alone?’

  She wasn’t asking just in the hope of finding a contact who could help her fill in all the blanks in her family tree either. She sincerely hoped Frances hadn’t died alone. Nobody should die alone.

  ‘Did she have someone with her at the end?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She straightened when she realised who that person had been. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After leaving the lawyer’s office, she’d had every intention of having nothing more to do with Owen Perry, but it was beginning to dawn on her that he might be the only person who could tell her all she needed to know.

  She refused to let her shoulders sag. Refused to let her sudden exhaustion show. ‘Why don’t you want me staying here?’ The question blurted from her, but she needed to know.

  His mouth tightened. ‘Do you mind if we take care of a few housekeeping things before I answer that?’

  ‘Housekeeping?’

  He lifted his phone and punched in a number. ‘Rachel, I need a favour. I’ve an acquaintance who’s just arrived from Australia and, long story short, she finds herself with nothing except the clothes she’s standing up in.’

  And twenty million dollars she wanted to say, just to annoy him. Though she didn’t know why she wanted to annoy him. Except his using the word acquaintance had stung. It shouldn’t have. It was the truth. But that hadn’t stopped it from sounding so damn dismissive.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m hoping.’

  There was a pause while he listened to the person on the other end.

  ‘So if I text you her picture you’ll be able to gauge her size and have some essentials sent round?’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Excellent. Charge it to the company credit card.’

  He gave the address of the apartment and then rang off.

  ‘May I?’ He held up his phone as if to take her photograph.

  She tried not to focus on the way the thin woollen material of his jumper pulled taut across a pair of tantalisingly broad shoulders, or how the charcoal colour brought out the colour of his eyes.

  ‘Why don’t I just tell you my sizes?’

  ‘They can be different between countries. Rachel is a wizard. She’ll take one look at your picture and know your size.’

  She nodded. She did need some basic essentials ASAP, and it was just easier to go with the flow.

  He took the photo and then sent it to this unknown Rachel.

  She stared at him. And then realised she was staring, so forced her attention back to her coffee. ‘What do you do? For work, I mean.’

  His gaze turned sharp. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you have to be so suspicious?’ She set down her mug. ‘All I want to know is if your boss is going to be okay with you charging personal items—female personal items—to your company credit card. I’ve caused you enough inconvenience as it is.’

  He swung away, stowing his phone in his back pocket. ‘I’m a software engineer. I develop programs and apps for mobile devices. There won’t be any trouble.’

  Lucky him. His employer was evidently far more understanding and fair-minded than hers had been. Still, Owen was a man, and from where she was standing it seemed there were different rules for men.

  ‘Next,’ he said, his voice businesslike as he reached for his wallet, ‘how much cash do you have on you?’

  She wrenched her gaze from his strong thighs. Owen made jeans and a jumper—sweater in New York, she corrected herself—look like a work of art.

  ‘Oh, please, put that away! Thank you, Owen, but you’ve already done enough. I’m very grateful, but I have enough cash to last me a few days.’ If she was frugal. ‘I promise,’ she added, when he opened his mouth. ‘Especially with the refund you scored for me back at the hotel. And if I find I’m running low I’ll call on Mr Dunkley and make him earn the no-doubt outrageous fees he’s been charging Frances all these years.’

  ‘A fee he’s now charging you.’

  ‘Is there any other “housekeeping” we need to take care of?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ His nostrils flared. ‘Everything in this apartment now belongs to you. You’re free to do with it what you will.’

  And he hated that fact. That much was obvious.

  ‘Are you going to answer my question now?’

  He turned away, his jaw clenching. ‘I didn’t want you staying here because—’ He raked a hand through his hair, before swinging back. ‘Look, it’s not personal, okay? I miss Frances.’

  His intensity took her off guard. ‘Okay...’

  ‘And over the last few weeks I’ve been letting myself in here and sitting down in my usual spot on the sofa to watch Law and Order, like I used to do with her when she was alive. It...’ He trailed off with an impatient shrug.

  Her heart burned, because she could see the grief stamped on his face and, despite all her suspicions, she knew it wasn’t feigned. ‘It made you miss her less?’

  ‘Not really. It was a small comfort, that’s all.’

  And now she’d taken that away from him. She should leave...stay somewhere else. ‘I guess it’s too much to hope that there’s a vacant apartment in the building?’

  ‘They’re all tenanted.’

  Of course they were.

  ‘What?’ he demanded, when she continued to stare at him.

  ‘I just don’t get you. You obviously cared about Frances and yet you...’

  ‘I what?’ he bit out.

  ‘Took her for a ride—took advantage of her. Or is all of this resentment and hostility...’ she waved a hand at him ‘...because your meal ticket has run out?’

  * * *

  Owen’s head rocked back. What the hell...? Meal ticket? He didn’t need a meal ticket. He was a giver of meal tickets.

  But Callie obviously didn’t know that. She had no idea who he was—that he was the name and the brains behind Perry Apps. He was more than happy for it to stay that way too. Avarice was this woman’s middle name. He didn’t need the hassle of yet another gold-digging woman trying to infiltrate his life and his heart. Callie was pretty, but she wasn’t that pretty.

  Are you sure?

  He rolled his shoulders, angry with himself. He might have a weakness for her particular brand of fresh-faced wholesomeness, but he was neither a fool nor a masochist.

  ‘You’re accusing me of financially profiting from your grandmother, when it’s you who has inherited twenty million dollars?’

  ‘The fact that I’ve inherited part of Frances’s estate has seriously irked you—’

  You bet it had!

  ‘Despite the fact I couldn’t possibly have taken advantage of someone I’d never met and had no contact with...’

  Sing another song, sunshine.

  Her hands clenched, as if she could read the scorn in his heart. ‘You told me you’d fleeced her.’

  What?

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you said, “Frances gave me everything I needed while she was alive”!’ she shouted at him.

  He stilled at th
e fury in her eyes. He tried telling himself her anger was because she thought he’d stolen what was hers, but instinct told him otherwise.

  Instinct? Ha! What use were instincts? They’d proved so monumentally fallible where Fiona was concerned that they couldn’t be trusted or listened to or taken into account. He’d honestly thought Fiona had loved him for himself. Not his money.

  A vice tightened about his chest until he could barely breathe. If she’d succeeded in her plan he’d have been bound for the rest of his life to a ruthless, rapacious woman he couldn’t respect. He’d had a narrow escape. And it had been dumb luck, not reasoned deduction, that had revealed Fiona for the woman she was rather than the woman she’d wanted him to believe her to be.

  Instincts had no place in his world view any more, or in his decision-making, or in any course of action he embarked upon. He wasn’t making the same mistake twice. The only thing he’d rely on now was evidence and cold hard facts.

  And what were the facts? From the sparks flying from Callie’s eyes and the way her hands had clenched in white-knuckled violence... Callie was furious. Fact.

  ‘It seems like you preyed on a lonely old woman, which is a truly despicable thing to do.’

  It would be if it were true.

  Callie slammed her hands to her hips. She wasn’t some tiny, fragile-boned pixie girl—she had curves. Curves that had his groin tightening and a thirst rising through him. She had muscles too, as if she worked out or played sport. She didn’t have a large build, but he had a feeling that if she threw a punch there’d be enough force behind it to wind a guy.

  And she looked as if she’d like nothing better than to punch him. The realisation lightened some of the weight that engulfed him.

  Then her shoulders lost some of their tightness. ‘And yet you were with her when she died. You didn’t let her die alone.’ She cocked her head to one side and surveyed him. ‘Which I guess makes you a wolf with a conscience.’

  He was tempted to let her continue believing the worst. He neither needed nor wanted her good opinion. At that precise moment, though, Frances’s face rose in his mind, with that knowing eyebrow raised as if to ask, Really? and he found himself huffing out a breath.