Beauty in the Billionaire's Bed

by Louise Fuller

  He shifted back in his chair, his dark sweater stretching endlessly across his shoulders. ‘Stop fidgeting and eat something,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not fidgeting.’

  ‘Just eat,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t want you passing out on me.’

  ‘I’ve never passed out in my life,’ she protested.

  He stared back at her impassively, a comma of dark hair falling across his forehead to match the white scar on his cheek.

  ‘So?’ Leaning forward, he speared a piece of tomato on his plate. ‘You nearly drowned this morning. I don’t suppose that’s a regular occurrence, ergo there’s a first time for everything. Now, eat.’

  She stared at him, exasperation pulsing down her spine. ‘Have you always been this bossy?’

  He hesitated, as though seriously considering her question. Then, ‘I would say so, yes.’

  Picking up her cutlery, she rolled her eyes. ‘I bet you were a prefect at school.’

  There was a pause and, watching his lips almost curve, she felt the air leave her body.

  ‘Actually, no.’

  ‘Really? Finally, we have something in common,’ she said lightly.

  Their eyes locked, hers teasing, his serious, and then he nodded. ‘It would appear so.’

  Suddenly she felt as if the room had shrunk. Or maybe the table had. Either way, it felt as if they were sitting way too close.

  There was another small pause, and then he smiled. ‘Now, eat.’

  As he turned his attention back to his plate her fingers tightened around the knife and fork. Some people’s smiles—Johnny’s, for instance—were just a part of them. But Arlo’s was miraculous, transformative, softening the blunt, uncompromising arrangement of his features into something far less daunting.

  She silently fought against an urge to reach out and trace the swooping curve of his mouth. A mouth that held and delivered an urgency of promise...

  As if sensing her gaze, Arlo looked up and, not wanting him to notice her flushed cheeks, she bent her head over her plate.

  For a moment they ate in silence.

  ‘Good?’ He raised one dark eyebrow.

  She nodded. It was melt-in-the-mouth delicious, the pastry literally crumbling under her fork.

  In fact, it was all delicious. The main course of silky pappardelle with beef shin ragu was followed by a tart Amalfi lemon sorbet and then coffee.

  Leaning back in his seat, Arlo gave her a levelling glance, his dark eyes roaming over her face. ‘You were pale before. You have colour in your cheeks now.’

  Her heart started to beat very fast.

  He had the most intense gaze of any man she’d ever met. It felt as if it was pushing through her skin...as if he was inside her.

  Inside her.

  Her pulse twitched as the words repeated inside her head and blood surged through her, so that for a moment she forgot what they were talking about, forgot where she was, who she was.

  Looking away, she cleared her throat. ‘It’s been a long day and a lot has happened.’

  He nodded but didn’t reply. A few seconds ticked by, and then he said abruptly, ‘Yes, about that...’

  Her stomach dropped as if he’d just pushed her out of a plane. She stared at him, the skin on her face suddenly hot and tight. ‘What about it?’

  ‘We haven’t really discussed what happened earlier.’

  No, they hadn’t—thankfully.

  She glanced out of the window. Outside, the wind was rearranging the trees that edged the garden.

  It was unsettling enough having the whole episode playing on repeat inside her head. She didn’t need or want to replay it in front of this man with his dark, intent gaze.

  Unfortunately avoiding it might not be an option.

  Picturing his expression as he had carried her back to the car out on the causeway, the relentlessness in his eyes as he’d pushed back against the wind, she felt a tremor ripple through her.

  Arlo Milburn was definitely the tackle-things-head-on type.

  Turning her eyes to his, she shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. It was—’

  ‘A mistake?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded vigorously—perhaps too vigorously, she thought a moment later, watching his face harden. ‘Or maybe not a mistake...more a misunderstanding.’

  ‘You think?’ He shifted back his seat, his dark brows rising up his forehead. ‘It seems fairly unambiguous to me. You kissed me and I kissed you back.’

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,’ she said slowly.

  ‘What are the other ways?’

  Goosebumps skittered down her spine as she struggled to put together a coherent sentence, or at least one she could say out loud. In other words, nothing about feeling that he hadn’t only rescued her out on the causeway but claimed her...

  ‘I think of it as more of a cosmic chain reaction,’ she managed. ‘You know...when things collide...like stars, planetary forces...’

  ‘And lips?’ Her insides tightened as he held her gaze.

  ‘I suppose you believe Elvis is alive too?’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘I’m only interested in facts, not half-baked theories.’

  ‘Not everything can be explained by facts,’ she retorted, stung by his manner. ‘Some things just happen.’

  Except they didn’t, did they? Everything that happened, however ‘accidental’ it seemed, was the consequence of a collection of facts, decisions made, paths taken, feelings overruled...

  The details of the dining room were blurring around her in the silence. She shivered. And it didn’t matter if some of those facts stayed hidden, they were still true. They would always be true.

  ‘Like what?’ he asked.

  He was staring at her in silence and, momentarily trapped in his gaze, she held her breath. Should she tell him the truth? That he was right. That nothing was random. That there was always a reason, always something or someone responsible—

  Pushing back her chair, she stood up. ‘Look, Mr Milburn, interesting as this conversation is, I thought we had work to do.’

  ‘It’s Arlo—and we do,’ he said calmly. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the drawing room. To reassure you. You see, I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. It never ends well.’

  Frankie blinked. She took a deep breath. Just for a moment she had almost liked him. She’d even thought he liked her. And all because of one stupid, unthinking kiss.

  But that kiss hadn’t changed anything. It certainly hadn’t changed him. He was still the same rude, arrogant man who had turfed her out of bed.

  ‘That’s sweet of you.’ Angling her chin up, she smiled thinly. ‘But you don’t need to worry on my account. I’ve practically forgotten it ever happened.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LEANING BACK IN HIS CHAIR, Arlo extended his arm over his back, grimacing as he stretched out his neck. A pulse of frustration beat down his spine. They were back in his office, and as a gust of wind shook the house he stared out of the window to where the waves were flinging up foam.

  Usually, he found it easy to work. But not today, he thought, glancing down at the cursor blinking reproachfully at the top of the blank page on his computer screen. Today he’d struggled to find one word that could hold his attention long enough for him to forget that Frankie was in the room.

  His eyes narrowed on the halo of auburn curls that was just visible over the piles of books on the other desk. It was unconscionable to let a woman—this woman—distract him from work. Work that was, after all, the only reason she was here in his office. Although now he was finding it hard to remember why he had ever thought that was a good idea...

  Shifting back in his seat, so that he could no longer see the top of her head, he watched his screen go black.

  He hadn’t
been lying when he’d told Frankie that he was on a break from women. A long break, as it happened—maybe too long. But it was through choice rather than lack of opportunity. He’d deliberately let the expeditions, the lecturing, the research, take precedence over his love life.

  It was easier that way...less painful.

  Love was for fools. Or maybe it made people into fools. Either way, he’d decided a long time ago that it was too unpredictable to make it the basis of any relationship other than a familial one.

  Of course, familial love was no less painful. But at least it played by the rules. It was logical. Naturally, a mother might love and support her child, a father his son, a boy his brother. It was hardwired into their DNA.

  Love between a couple was different: dangerous. It didn’t matter if it was based on duty or desire, it lacked any real scientific foundation. Lust, on the other hand, was the engine in the juggernaut of life. It was a simple compulsive force—like gravity. Potent. Persuasive. Undeniable.

  Thinking back to the uppity put-down Frankie had thrown at him after lunch, he felt anger coil up inside him like a snake. He had felt like running after her and shaking her. Or, better still, kissing her. Kissing her until she melted into him as she had done that morning.

  ‘I’ve practically forgotten it ever happened.’

  Who was she trying to kid?

  Unclenching his jaw, he shifted forward.

  ‘Could you please stop fidgeting?’ Frankie’s voice floated up from behind the desk. ‘Some of us are trying to work.’

  A rush of heat tightened his muscles. ‘Are you talking to me?’

  She sighed audibly. ‘Well, I’m not talking to Nero.’

  As the dog lifted its head from the floor Arlo hesitated and then, pushing back his chair, stood up and walked across the room.

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if you were. You see, unlike you, he prefers it when people bark.’

  ‘And I prefer it when people are straight with me.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you wanted my help.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then what’s with all the huffing and puffing?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I was huffing and puffing,’ he lied. ‘It’s just transitioning back to working behind a desk...it’s hard after so many weeks out on the ice.’

  His jaw tightened. She was looking at him as if she thought that level of sensitivity was beyond him. But he could be sensitive when required. In fact, he could be anything she wanted—

  His body tensed as he remembered her breathless little gasp when he’d pulled her hips against his body.

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind. You’re doing a good job.’ Clearing his throat, he gestured towards the shelves behind her desk. ‘Actually, I need to check something in one of those files. The blue one,’ he said, pointing at one at random.

  She got to her feet, her eyes travelling over the haphazardly stacked shelves. ‘You have really great organisational skills.’

  He tapped his head. ‘It’s all up here. I know where everything is. No, I can get it myself. No, let me—’

  Reaching up, he made a grab for the file, but she was already tugging at it.

  ‘Ouch!’

  Books and files were tumbling from the shelf, and he swore as one hit him squarely on the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Why don’t you ever do what you’re told?’ The pain was making his eyes water. ‘I said I’d get it.’

  Frankie glared up at him. ‘You know, I’m getting really tired of how everything is always my fault with you,’ she snapped.

  ‘Not as tired as I am of nothing ever being your fault,’ he snapped back.

  ‘I didn’t say that...’ Pressing her hand against her head, she winced.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  She shook her head, but as she lifted her hand, he felt his pulse jump into his throat.

  ‘You’re bleeding—’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s not nothing.’ He led her to the sofa. ‘Sit.’

  She pushed against his hand. ‘I’m not a dog.’

  Damn, she was stubborn. She was also bleeding. He took a breath. ‘Please could you sit down?’

  With relief, he watched her drop down onto the cushions. Angling the lamp to see better, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Look up. Please,’ he added as she stiffened against his hand.

  He parted her hair. ‘Okay, it’s a small cut. It’s not bleeding much, but you’ll probably have a bit of a bump.’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t need a nurse.’

  ‘Lucky I’m a doctor, then,’ he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Of rocks. And ice. Not people. Now, if you’ve finished?’

  ‘I haven’t.’ He fished out a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Press this here. I’m just going to get the first aid box. And don’t even think about moving.’

  * * *

  Leaning back against the sofa cushions, Frankie closed her eyes and breathed out shakily. It was Arlo’s fault, she thought angrily. If he had organised his shelves like any normal person this wouldn’t have happened.

  Her head was throbbing and there was a metallic taste in her mouth, and she felt a nauseous rush of déjà vu. Clutching the arm of the sofa, she opened her eyes and steadied herself.

  That had been her first memory after the accident that had killed her entire family. Eyes closed, her head hurting inexplicably. She hadn’t understood at first. She had felt as if she was dreaming, only then she’d opened her eyes and realised the nightmare was real.

  ‘Sorry I took so long. How are you feeling?’

  Arlo was back. She gazed up at him, frowning. ‘Fine. It’s really not that bad.’

  ‘I’ll just spray some antiseptic on—’

  He was being so nice, and his touch was gentle in a way that made her throat ache more than her head.

  ‘What happened here?’ he asked.

  His fingers had stilled against her head, and she knew that he had found the thin line of puckered skin.

  According to the French media it was a miracle she had survived the crash. Afterwards, when she’d seen photographs of the plane, it had been hard to believe she had not just survived but walked away with just one tiny reminder of what had happened that night in France.

  Only one visible reminder, anyway.

  Balling the handkerchief in her hand, she shrugged. ‘I was in an accident. A couple of years ago.’

  She couldn’t see his expression, so she didn’t know what he was thinking, but she did know she wanted to stay in control of this particular conversation.

  ‘I banged my head. It left me with a healthy respect for safety belts and this scar.’

  That was true. Not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But she had never told anyone that except at the inquest, and that had been an experience that had taught her not to expect justice even from those charged with dispensing it.

  ‘So we have something else in common,’ she said lightly. Looking up into his face, she widened her eyes. ‘Oh, but you’re hurt too.’

  ‘What? This?’ Reaching up, he touched the dark bruise at the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s nothing.’ He smiled. ‘It’s hardly going to mar my good looks, is it?’

  ‘You are good-looking.’

  His forehead creased into a frown. ‘Maybe I need to take a closer look at that bump...’

  She bit into her lip and he held her gaze.

  ‘It’s okay. Johnny’s my brother. I know what beauty looks like.’

  Conventional beauty, she thought. Or perhaps it would be better named conformist beauty.

  Johnny was Michelangelo’s David. All perfect lines and symmetry. And yet for some reason she couldn’t quite picture his face anymore.

  Her heart smacked against her ribs.

  Ther
e was nothing symmetrical about Arlo. He was a rough draft, formed by a more urgent hand. An Easter Island profile chipped in bone, not rock. A man who corrected the course of everything in his path.

  Glancing up, she felt a jolt of electricity crackle up her spine as their eyes met.

  ‘Beauty is God’s handwriting. It’s not legible to everyone.’

  There was a long pause, and then his eyes fixed on her face. ‘But it is legible to you?’

  Her heart thudded hard. She felt something stir inside her, as if there was a storm building there...

  ‘Doctor’s daughter,’ she said, breaking the taut silence. ‘So, Arlo, tell me—what made you want to go to Antarctica?’

  * * *

  For a few half-seconds, Arlo didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t know the answer. He had been trying to work out why she had changed the subject, only the sound of his name on her lips seemed to have momentarily stopped his brain working.

  Just seconds earlier he’d been trying to remember why he’d thought it a good idea to give her a job.

  Something about putting her off-limits—that was it. An imbalance of power.

  Now that decision felt premature on so many levels...not least because he felt uniquely and perilously at a disadvantage.

  Hoping his silence suggested that he was taking her question seriously, rather than taking leave of his senses, he dragged his gaze away from her soft pink mouth.

  ‘When I was twelve years old, I read The South Pole by Roald Amundsen. I found it gripping. The menace and the mercy of nature. There’s a copy in the library if you want to read it. Second shelf on the level as you walk in.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Don’t worry. The books are a lot better behaved downstairs.’

  She smiled then, and suddenly it was his turn to change the subject.

  ‘So how are you finding the work? Not too dry, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She hesitated, then, ‘Actually, your notes are surprisingly interesting.’

  ‘Thank you. I think,’ he said, the corners of his mouth pulling up very slightly.