Bad Boys and Billionaires (The Naughty List Bundles)

by Synthia St. Claire

  “That’s all right. We all need a sounding-board.”

  “Hm.” She wanted him to go away. She started to gather up the papers on the desk and shove them into her bag. Take the hint, take the hint, don’t make me say it. Don’t make me into the bad one.

  “Anyway. I was just passing and saw you were here.” He sounded awkward and she glanced up, suddenly contrite.

  “I only popped up to collect the details I’d sent to the printer so I could ring them,” she said, trying to sound a little more approachable and less like a bitch queen from hell. “But it’s been a long day, and a long week. This was the shit icing on the turd cake.”

  “Speaking of shit…” he spread his hands wide and her fears were confirmed. “I’ve been sorting out the crew yards.”

  “The what?”

  “The closed yards where I keep animals, either in the winter, or sometimes in the summer if I need to get them off the pastures. I had some Shetland ponies a few years ago who ate so much grass they got laminitis, so I had to put them in the yard, where it just ends up piling up with shit and straw. It was time to dig it out. Hence…”

  “Don’t you dare come any further.” She held out her hand. “Get out.”

  He backed into the open stable yard behind him, laughing. “I know, I know, I stink. And you are busy. You need to go home and have a nice relaxing bath and a bottle of wine. Pamper yourself.”

  There he goes again. I’m not that sort of girlie primping preening self-obsessed… oh, whatever. “Yeah,” she muttered. “I think you need a bath more than I do.”

  “Can I call you tonight?”

  “Only if you’ve had a wash. I swear I will be able to tell, you know. Even on the phone. Your smell has visible edges.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ve gone, all right!”

  Richard disappeared, still laughing to himself, and Helena waited for a moment to be sure that he had gone before angrily pushing her mobile into her bag, slamming the door closed, and locking it.

  She strode down to her cottage, thinking dark thoughts about the vanity and lies of physical appearance. She hated compliments. His compliments; anyone’s compliments. They were hollow and false and transient.

  I don’t want to be admired for how I look because it’s only a matter of luck, how I seem on the outside, and it’s not the real me. And it will change and fade - what then?

  Praise my anger but not how I look when angry. Richard, you’ve got me all wrong.

  * * *

  She’s been working too hard. She’s taken too much on. Richard felt a pang of guilt as he waited for her to open her door. He clutched the enormous, extravagant bunch of flowers hard in his fist and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. It was frankly ridiculous that he felt so nervous about this.

  When she opened the door, he realised to his relief that she was as nervous as he was. She smiled tightly at him, not showing her teeth, and led him into her cottage.

  “For you.” He thrust the bouquet forwards, awkwardly, and she took it with a polite nod.

  “How lovely. Have a seat while I go put them in water.”

  He watched her shimmy away. He had been wondering all day what she might choose to wear to a Saturday night in a wine bar, as he’d never seen her in anything other than practical weekend wear or her office clothes of smart blouse and black trousers.

  But in the deep blue-purple dress that ended just above her knees, and fitted her body perfectly, she looked divine. In fact she put him in mind of chocolate waiting to be unwrapped. It contrasted well with her strawberry-blonde pixie cut hair, and her bright red accessories. He didn’t think he had much of an eye for colour but he could appreciate that she looked co-ordinated, like a model in a glossy magazine.

  He wanted to follow her through to the kitchen but he’d been told to sit down, so he perched on the edge of the sofa and looked around while he waited. When he’d called her the previous night, as he had promised, she had still sounded terse and tense on the phone. He had pressed on with his invitation to see the sights of Ingholme anyway, and she had grudgingly agreed.

  She came back into the living room, wrapping a pale pinkish-cream pashmina around her shoulders. “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “You’re welcome. I wanted to bring you a little bit of nature.”

  She quirked a slight smile. “By bringing me things that will slowly die?”

  “Er - oh. Well, yes, if you put it like that.”

  “It’s okay, I’m just messing with you.”

  “Right.” He stood up decisively. “You know, it’s a long time since I’ve been out to a wine bar, and I’ve never been to this new one, but I’m told it’s quite classy. Well, classy for this part of Lancashire, at any rate. And I’m quite looking forward to it, which surprises me.”

  “Really?”

  He studied her. He couldn’t tell what her “really” was referring to - his lack of wine bar knowledge, the alleged classiness of said wine bar, or something else entirely. Rather than push the issue, he let his gaze linger on her, creeping from her hesitant face to her delicious body and back up again, making eye contact as he said, “You look wonderful, Helena, you really do. So different to how I usually see you. You look amazing.”

  She frowned, and so he said hastily, “I mean it! Honestly. I’m not just saying it to get into your knickers or because it’s polite or anything like that. You just look simply stunning and I will be so proud to walk into the bar tonight with you on my arm.”

  To his consternation, the frown remained on her face. The corners of her mouth pulled back but the smile didn’t even brush the edges of her eyes and he knew he’d said something wrong, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what.

  He was about to ask her, when she stepped forward and picked up her clutch bag from the back of the sofa where it was lodged against a cushion. “So, what’s this place called?”

  “Um, Mimi’s.”

  “Right then. I’m ready.”

  “Sure?”

  She shot him a look that he couldn’t read.

  “Okay then. Um, the Landy’s outside…”

  Helena stopped dead and stared at him. “The Landrover?” She waved a hand vaguely at her legs. “I’m in a dress.”

  “You’re in a fine dress. But yes, um, that’s actually the only working vehicle that I have.”

  “You’re joking! I assumed that was just for farm stuff, and you had a more … socially acceptable one for everyday appointments and things.”

  “This is socially acceptable, if your social engagements revolve around sheep, dogs and chickens. I’m sorry. I can call for a taxi.”

  “No, it’s fine. Just, God, park so that when I get out, I won’t be flashing my knickers to a crowd.”

  “Of course, don’t worry.”

  He cursed himself all the way outside and helped her into the passenger seat with as much gentlemanly care as he could. She sat rigid and bolt-upright next to him, but after a short while she made an effort to thaw out.

  “It’s funny, really, isn’t it,” she said, very little humour actually in her voice. “I mean, neither of us are really into wine bars - we’ve both admitted that - and here we are, going to one anyway. I suppose it’s the expected thing for a date.”

  “We don’t have to,” Richard said impulsively, letting his foot ease off the accelerator. “Let’s be a bit crazy, and go off somewhere.”

  “Such as…?”

  “I don’t know. A stone circle or a deserted abbey or something. There’s a great abandoned village not too far from here.”

  “I’m not exactly in the right footwear. It’s okay. It’s good to try new things and get out of one’s comfort zone, isn’t it? For us, that’s a wine bar. We ought to go and see what we’re missing.”

  She still didn’t sound wildly enthusiastic but Richard thought that he should take her words at face value. He didn’t want to insult her by trying to suggest she meant something else. He pressed on the gas again and hurr
ied them into the lively town of Ingholme.

  He was pleased to find he was able to park up so that the passenger door was facing to a blank wall and alleyway, preserving Helena’s dignity as she clambered down out of the bowels of the Landrover. She took a moment to wrap her pashmina around her upper arms, before tipping her head back and saying, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  “You make it sound like we’re on a military campaign.”

  She tottered along beside him, uncertain on her high heeled shoes. “That’s how I’m looking at it, yes.”

  “Well, whatever works. Here we are, Mimi’s.”

  The bar had vast plate-glass windows that faced onto the street, and inside it was a riot of multi-coloured lights and music. “I have no idea who this is,” Richard, said, bending his head to speak into her ear. “The music, I mean. To be honest, I don’t think I can even tell you what type of music it is.”

  “Techno? House?”

  “Do they even still exist?”

  “I don’t know!” Helena laughed and he felt a small relaxation in his tense belly. “God, we are a pair of old fuddy duddies. Perhaps we should have stayed at home, listening to The Archers.”

  “I would just like to state, for the record, that I have never, ever listened to The Archers and you have my full permission to shoot me, if you ever catch me doing so.”

  “Fine by me.”

  He pushed his way to the bar. “What are you drinking?”

  “I guess I ought to have wine, as this is a wine bar. A white wine spritzer, please.”

  “Okay.” He nodded at the barman, adding, “and a lemonade for me, please.”

  They took their drinks to a high circular table in the corner, where Helena had to perch on a round padded stool. He found it easier to balance as his feet reached the floor, but they both had to lean their arms on the table for stability.

  “You could have one drink,” she told him.

  “I will, later, then back to softies.”

  “How socially responsible.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Sorry. No, I didn’t mean to be.” She hung her head and rotated the wine glass between her long, nervous fingers. “Honestly, it’s ages since I’ve been out like this.”

  “Yeah. Um, Helena, can I ask you something?” Richard’s mouth went dry and he took a sip of lemonade, letting it fizz on his tongue as he waited for her response. Eventually, she looked up.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, her words more definite than the tone of them.

  “It’s just that you reacted quite badly when I said you looked nice. Did I phrase it wrong? You do believe me, don’t you? Please don’t think I’m one of those men who just come out with bullshit compliments to anyone and everyone.”

  “I do believe you. I know you meant it. That’s not the problem. I’m flattered, honestly.”

  He wasn’t convinced and she kept her eyes on the slowly spinning wine glass between her hands. “Helena, you don’t take compliments very well, do you?”

  She shrugged and pouted and he wanted to grab her chin, tip her head back and kiss her furiously. He held himself back. It probably wasn’t the time. Instead, he said, “Tell me what the problem is.”

  For a moment he thought she was going to continue with her denials, telling him there was no problem, or that he ought to mind his own business. He stayed quiet, letting her find the words to explain. His patience was rewarded as she began to speak.

  “You’ve got to understand, Richard, that it’s not you. You’re just being nice.”

  He bit back his annoyance at that. I’m not being nice, you daft thing; I’m being genuine. I wish you could see that.

  “The thing is, don’t you see, that appearance is meaningless?”

  He shook his head, but continued to bite his tongue.

  “It is,” she insisted. “What if I had some terrible facial disfigurement? You wouldn’t be telling me I looked wonderful then, would you? Yet I’d be the same person. And one day I won’t look like I do now. It’s all so shallow, so wrong.”

  He sighed, but she didn’t look up at him. “Richard, I’ve told you a bit about my mother. I think it goes back to her. She’s always been so perfect, so focused on how she looks and how I ought to look. She always told me I had to smarten up, wear make-up, read stupid glossy magazines, all that rubbish. Basically she told me I was worthless unless I looked a certain way.”

  “She said that?” Richard choked out, appalled and ready to hunt the woman down.

  “Not in so many words,” Helena admitted. “But I know that’s what she meant. So of course I rebelled against that because I wanted to be appreciated for what I can do, not how I look.”

  “But you are. Surely.”

  She shrugged and almost sneered, her mouth twisting in disbelief. “Really? The one time I got all dressed up, just as my mother wanted, for my… my wedding, it wasn’t enough. So what was the point?”

  “Oh, Helena.” He pushed his lemonade glass to one side and reached over the table, gently prising her twitching fingers away from the stem of the wine glass and enfolding his hands over hers, stilling her. “You look wonderful because of who you are, that’s all. I mean, that’s not all, it’s not like I’m saying you’d be a moose if you weren’t so nice, but still, that’s sort of what I mean.”

  She finally looked up and met his eyes, surprised, and he ran his words back through his head and cringed as he realised how stupid he had just sounded.

  “You didn’t just call me a moose, did you?” she asked.

  “Er…” he thought desperately for the right answer, and gave up. “Maybe. Do you want to be a moose? Perhaps that’s the important thing.”

  “What, you’ll just say what I want to hear?”

  “I can’t win,” he said, glumly. I can’t tell you that you’re beautiful, even though you are. But I can’t tell you what you want to hear, either? He withdrew his hand slowly. This just isn’t going to work.

  There was a silence, or as much of a silence as there possibly could be, as the thumping bass line made Richard’s buttocks throb in time with the music. He threw back the rest of the lemonade and turned his attention to the crowd around him. People were laughing, arguing, talking, ignoring each other, all in their own worlds, all with one eye turned to the throng around them. We’re all a little bit worried about how everyone else sees us.

  “My round.”

  Helena’s voice surprised him and he whipped his head back round to see that she’d drained the glass of wine. “Are you sure? I’ve upset you. I can take you home. You don’t need to get pissed to have to endure an evening out with me.”

  She went red, contrasting unfortunately with her dress and hair. “It’s not that. I am a bit of an arse. I’ll buy you a drink to say sorry, and I’ll buy myself one to try and relax and stop worrying and just enjoy the evening. I don’t need to be drunk to spend time with you, Richard.” She slid her feet to the floor and stood up, reaching one hand to rest on his, echoing his movement of earlier. “I probably need to be a little bit drunk, though, to be able to spend time with myself. If you see what I mean.”

  “Not entirely, but I’ll have a lager.”

  She smiled, then grinned, and this time it did meet her eyes, and he melted all over again. He watched her, hawk-like, as she sashayed to the bar. Her hips were round and curved under the sheer fabric of her dress and he wanted to grab them and hold them against him.

  The way she seemed so uncertain of her own beauty - afraid, almost - cut him. He desperately wanted to protect her. From what? Her mother, who sounded like a cow of the highest order. Herself, obviously. Everything. Her callous ex-fiancé, and everyone who had ever hurt her.

  He longed to undo the damage that had been done to her self-image, and convince her that she was gorgeous, and that she would always be gorgeous, and it was a fact that went far deeper than her looks, her skin, her hair or her dress.

  He remembered how she had reacted on the hill, way ba
ck when she’d first moved to the area. Her amazing eyes, that had captivated him on that desolate hill.

  He straightened up and let himself admire her, openly and wantonly, as she made her way back carrying a pint of lager and another glass of wine. He would take on this challenge. He wanted her to see what he saw in her.

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass she passed to him. I won’t mention it again tonight, he promised himself. But I am going to change your world.

  Chapter Nine

  Grow the fuck up, Helena told herself sternly as she waited to be served. Get a grip. He’s a perfectly nice man and he’s trying his very best to say and do the right things. You have to believe him. If you don’t, then what’s the point? You may as well walk out of the bar right now, and go home, and never bother with people ever again.

  The evil demon on her shoulder started to protest: compliments are shallow. He’s like all the others. You’ve tarted up and led him on. You should never have come out.

  Shut up.

  She plastered a smile on her face as she made her way back to their table. He looked at her with a hesitancy in the way that he smiled, and she cursed herself. That’s my fault, that is. She jumped up onto the slithery seat and wriggled, getting comfy.

  “The barman says the music is ‘Electric House’ and it’s quite retro, apparently.”

  “Retro is code for old, isn’t it? How can stuff I’ve never even heard of already be passé?”

  “Yeah. You know, it’s growing on me. It’s kinda hypnotic, don’t you think?”

  They chattered about the music they could hear, and then music in general, and gradually the conversation moved from stiff politeness to their more usual warmth once more. They were both making such an effort; Helena could see it in his mannerisms, and the way he thought out what he was going to say before he spoke. Bit by bit, they thawed. Helena let the wine loosen her tongue but swapped onto soft drinks after her second glass. Loosening was one thing, but spilling everything out in an inelegant vomit of words was quite another.