The Billionaire Affair

by Diana Hamilton

  So she must have had something memorable about her, she thought wryly. Or did he remember the faces of all the women he had bedded and had discarded over the years?

  It wasn’t important, she told herself as she held her wrists under the cold tap to cool down. A few more minutes of his miserable company and she would never see him again. Then she took her mobile from her slim leather bag and called the cab firm she always used.

  Moments later, she slid back into her seat. Edward handed her the dessert menu but she closed it and laid it down on the table. ‘I’ll pass,’ she told him. ‘And leave you two to enjoy the rest of your meal. I’ve a hectic day tomorrow.’ No problem there, Edward knew what her workload was like, especially when there was an invitation-only viewing on the horizon.

  She got fluidly to her feet, putting on a polite, social smile. ‘So nice to have met you, Mr Dexter.’

  Both men had risen. Ben Dexter said smoothly, bland self-assurance in his dark, honeyed voice, ‘Humour me, Miss Harvey. My driver’s due to pick me up in ten minutes. I’ll drop you off. We’ll have coffee while we wait.’

  Once she would have tied knots in herself for him. Now she took great satisfaction in telling him sweetly, ‘How kind. But my usual minicab driver is probably already parked outside. Enjoy your coffee.’

  And allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction before she swept out.

  She had no idea why he’d offered to drive her home. She certainly couldn’t accuse him of having gentlemanly instincts! And he could hardly have wanted to reminisce over old times. Whatever, she had very politely pushed his offer back down his throat.

  It was high time Ben Dexter learned he couldn’t always get what he wanted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE alarm clock was a welcome intrusion. Caroline rolled over, silenced it, and slid her feet out of bed. She’d had a lousy night.

  Dreams or, more specifically, nightmares of Ben Dexter weren’t conducive to restful sleep. Especially when they featured such graphic images as his sweat-slicked olive skin against the white femininity of hers, his mouth exploring every inch of her body with hungry, all-male dominance. And his voice, that honeyed, sexy voice of his, telling her he loved her. Lies, every word of it…

  She made a rough, self-denigrating sound at the back of her throat, headed for her small bathroom and took a shower. She wouldn’t think about him again. She would not. No need. He’d bought the painting that had brought him briefly back into her life and today it would be crated and dispatched. End of story.

  The morning was just pleasantly hectic, leaving no room for brooding over those erotic dreams and she made time to accept Michael’s invitation to lunch. The new, much publicised restaurant lived up to expectations as far as the food went but the service was slow.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d better be getting back,’ she declined when he suggested coffee to round off the meal. She was on the point of rising but he reached out and clasped her wrist.

  ‘We’re already late, a few more minutes won’t make much difference. Besides, there’s something I want to say to you.’

  From the look in his eyes, the softening of his mouth, she knew what it was. And she didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t ready.

  His hand slid down to capture her fingers. ‘You must know I’m attracted to you,’ he said quickly. ‘We already have a good relationship and I want to take it further. I don’t know what you think about me, and I won’t put you on the spot by asking, but you’re all I admire in a woman. I’m pretty sure we could build something good and lasting together. You might not think so right now, but will you give it a try?’

  Carefully, she slid her fingers away from his. What to say? Only yesterday she’d caught herself listening to the ticking of her biological clock again, knowing her pleasant working relationship with her employer’s son was on the point of developing into something deeper, balancing the prospect of a lonely old age against the warm, emotional security of having a husband and family.

  Yesterday she would have been comfortable with what he’d just said, agreed to go with the flow, find out if they would make a compatible couple.

  So why the hesitation? What had changed?

  Something had.

  ‘You don’t fancy me at all?’ he muttered into the suddenly spiky silence.

  She smiled at him. He looked like a sulky child.

  ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she said soothingly, lying smoothly to cover the lack of enthusiasm that was obviously upsetting him.

  ‘But you will?’ He made it sound like an order. ‘Why not have dinner with me tonight? Since Justine left me I’ve learned to cook a mean steak. But, if you prefer, I could rise to beans on toast. Take your pick.’

  His sudden, boyish grin gave her pause. She didn’t know why his marriage had broken down after only a couple of years. Edward had voiced the general opinion that it was a blessing there were no children but apart from that he’d said nothing about the cause.

  Whatever, Michael didn’t deserve to be hurt again. She said with rare impulsiveness, ‘I’m allergic to beans! Make it Monday, shall we, after the viewing!’ She stood up, hitching the strap of her bag over her shoulder. ‘One condition, though,’ she warned. ‘Friends. Nothing more, not yet. Nothing personal, Mike. I’m simply not ready for commitment.’

  Not ready? When for weeks she’d often caught herself brooding about her long-term future. Children. Happy, family life. Not that she knew much about that…

  ‘Condition accepted.’ He stood up too, leaving folded notes to cover the bill. ‘But don’t blame me if I try to change your mind. Eventually.’

  She knew she’d made a mistake when she caught his satisfied smirk. Lunch was fine, but supper at his flat near the Barbican?

  Misgivings shuddered through her. A week ago she would have seen the invitation as a natural progression of their deepening comradeship, would have pleasantly anticipated getting to know him on his home ground. Now she’d accepted his invitation because he was her friend, a nice guy, and she hadn’t wanted to upset him with an outright refusal.

  Back at the gallery there was a message for her at the front desk. Edward wanted to see her. Now.

  Enclosed in the silver capsule that whisked her directly into Edward’s office she filed the problem with Michael away at the back of her mind. She’d handle it as smoothly as she’d learned to handle everything else since she’d left the parental home at eighteen.

  Handled everything except—

  ‘Ben Dexter,’ Edward said as the lift doors closed behind her. ‘He needs you to appraise the contents of a property his company—or one of them—acquired relatively recently. About eighteen months ago, if I remember correctly.’

  He arranged a few papers into a neat pile and then tapped it with the ends of his long, thin fingers, tilting his silver-grey head he asked, ‘Are you unwell? You look a bit green around the gills—lunch upset you? Do please sit down.’

  The shock of hearing that name slotted into her uncomfortable thoughts had driven what colour she did have out of her skin. It had nothing to do with what she’d eaten at lunch or her unfathomable change of attitude over her relationship with his son.

  Besides, what company was Edward talking about? From what she knew of Dexter it was probably dodgy. Should she warn her boss, confess she knew Dexter to be a cheat and a liar? It was something to think about.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she claimed, gathering herself, slipping into the chair on the opposite side of his desk. ‘You were saying?’

  She wouldn’t do it. If he wanted bits and pieces of antiques, paintings, whatever, appraised then someone else would have to do it. Her stomach churned over at the very thought of having to have anything at all to do with him.

  Edward gave her a long look and then, as if satisfied, told her, ‘His company, Country Estates, bought up this run-down house and land in Shropshire. They’ve sorted out the business end—planning permission for a golf course, clubhouse
and leisure centre and a small heritage farm, and now they’re turning their attention to the house itself.’

  Caroline felt the shock of that like a physical blow. There could be few people who hadn’t heard of the ultra-successful Country Estates, admired by big business and the environmental lobby alike. She must have misjudged him, having believed him to have obtained his wealth by nefarious means. The thought wasn’t comforting. The idea of Ben Dexter as a liar, cheat and betrayer had been with her for so long that having to rethink it was like an amputation.

  But what place were they talking about here? Suddenly she was sure she knew. Had Dexter’s company acquired more than one run-down estate in Shropshire around eighteen months ago? It was possible, of course, but not very likely.

  ‘Are we talking about Langley Hayes?’ The smile she manufactured was just right. Borderline interested. Only she knew how heavily her heart was pounding.

  ‘You know it?”

  The slightest nod would do. She’d been born there, had lived there—apart from when she’d been away at boarding school—until she’d been driven out by misery and one dictate too many from her authoritarian father.

  Of her mother she had no memory. Laura Harvey had died shortly after giving birth to Caroline. Only the occasional photograph in a barely opened album had shown her just how beautiful her mother had been.

  She had never been back. She’d been warned not to show her face again. Attending her father’s funeral out of duty, Caroline had not gone back to the house. It and the land had been sold to Country Estates, the bulk of the purchase price repaying the mortgage her father must have taken out on the property, the small residue going to Dorothy Skeet, his housekeeper, the woman who had also been his long-time mistress.

  Apparently her non-commital nod had sufficed. Edward said, ‘Dexter tells me the entire contents of the house were acquired at the time of the sale. Some of the things are fine, others definitely not. Though as he admitted, he’s no expert. Which is why he wants you to do an appraisal.’

  Careful, she told herself. Be very careful. Otherwise you might find yourself throwing your head back and howling out torrents of rage.

  ‘This was discussed last night, after I left?’ she asked levelly, crossing her long, elegant legs at the ankles, clasping her hands loosely together in her lap. They looked very pale against the dark sage of her tailored skirt. She knew what Dexter was doing—exactly what he was doing. And despised him for it.

  ‘No, he phoned this morning. He left last night almost as soon as you did. It’s been arranged that his driver will pick you up from your apartment at ten on Monday morning. I don’t think you’ll need to be away for more than three or four days. However, spend as much time there as it takes. Dexter’s a client I’d like to hang onto.’

  Just like that! ‘It’s my stint on the front desk next week, and with the extra work following a viewing I can’t afford to be away,’ she pointed out calmly.

  All the qualified staff took it in turn to man the front. Hopeful people walked in off the street, carrying things in plastic bags or wrapped in newspapers, hoping to be told that granny’s old jug or the painting they’d put up in the attic decades ago was worth a small fortune.

  ‘Edna will cover for you at the front and, as for the rest, we’ll cope without you. Dexter asked specifically for you, most probably because he’d already met you last evening.’ He steepled his fingers, his eyes probing. ‘Do I sense a certain reluctance?’

  Too right! A deep reluctance to do Dexter’s bidding, to let him pull her strings and put her in the position of sorting through the detritus of Reginald Harvey’s life. It wasn’t enough that the wild, penniless lad from the wrong side of the tracks who’d broken hearts with about as much compunction as he would break eggs, had bought up the lord of the manor’s property—he wanted to put her, Caroline, in the position of humble retainer.

  He wanted to turn the tables.

  ‘Only in as much as it affects my work here.’ She couldn’t tell him the truth. She had shut her troubled past away years ago and refused to bring it out for anyone now.

  ‘It won’t. You’re my right-hand man, but no one’s indispensable.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she conceded, her smile too tight. She could refuse to go, and earn herself a big black mark. Edward was a wonderful employer but cross him and he’d never forgive or forget. She’d seen it happen. Resigned now, hoping Dexter wouldn’t be at Langley Hayes, but prepared for the worst, she half left her seat but resumed it again, asking, ‘I gather Dexter has personal financial clout? The price he paid for the Lassoon wouldn’t be counted as peanuts in anyone’s book.’

  Know your enemy, she thought. And Dexter was hers. Leaving aside the way he’d treated her in the past, there was something going on here, some dark undercurrent. She felt it in her bones.

  Edward could have refused to discuss his client but thankfully he seemed happy to do so. ‘His cheque won’t bounce,’ he said drily. ‘Rich as Croesus apparently. Came from nothing.’ His smile was tinged with admiration. ‘That’s according to the only article I’ve ever read about him—financial press a year or so ago. He built a computer-software empire and is reckoned to be some kind of genius in the field. That’s rock solid and growing, but he needed more challenges. That was when he diversified into property and now he’s reputed to be a billionaire.’

  ‘And he never even got close to being married?’ She could have kicked herself for the unguarded remark. It wasn’t like her. Her descent into what her boss would term idle tittle-tattle shamed her and Edward’s displeasure was contained in his dismissive, ‘I know nothing about the man’s personal life.’

  Taking her cue, Caroline rose, smoothed down her skirt and collected her bag. Back to business, she asked, ‘Do you know whether or not he intends to dispose of anything of value?’ There had been some lovely things she remembered. Although if her father had been in financial difficulty he might have sold them.

  ‘From what I could gather he aims to keep the best in situ. It will be up to you to report on what could be kept as an investment.’ He began to shuffle the small pile of papers, a clear indication that her presence was no longer required.

  Caroline left, wondering why the unknown details of Dexter’s private life were like a burning ache in the forefront of her mind.

  That Langley Hayes was in the process of restoration was not in doubt, Caroline thought as the driver parked the Lexus on the sweep of gravel in front of the main door. Scaffolding festooned the early-Georgian façade. The parkland through which they’d approached the house—unkempt in her own recollection—had been smoothly manicured and, in the middle distance, she’d seen two men working with a theodolite.

  Surveying the land for the golf course? The clubhouse? The—what was it—leisure centre? Whatever, it was no longer any concern of hers. Her life here, largely lonely, hadn’t been a bed of roses. She felt no pangs of nostalgia or loss. Only that nagging internal anxiety—would Dexter be here?

  ‘A lot of work in progress,’ she remarked, as she stood on the forecourt in the warm April sun as the driver opened the boot to collect her baggage, saying the first thing that came to mind to smother all those uncharacteristic internal flutterings.

  ‘Mostly finished on the main house,’ he answered, closing the boot. ‘Structurally, anyhow.’ His bushy eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘You should have seen the state it was in. But the boss got everything moving—once he makes his mind up to something he don’t hang about.’

  He lifted her bags. ‘If you’ll follow me, miss, I’ll rouse the housekeeper for you—Ms Penny. She’ll look after you.’

  The rows of pedimented windows gleamed as they had never done when she’d lived here and the main door had been newly painted. So Mrs Skeet hadn’t been kept on, she pondered as she entered the spacious hallway. Ben Dexter obviously believed in making a clean sweep. His restlessness would push him towards the principle of out with the old and in with the new. And that went for his
women, too, she thought with a stab of bitterness that alarmed her.

  There had been no other car parked on the forecourt. Just the builder’s lorry and a giant skip. Which didn’t mean to say that his vehicle wasn’t tucked away in the old stable block.

  She asked, trying to ignore the tightness in her throat, the peculiar rolling sensation in her stomach, ‘Is Mr Dexter here?’ And held her breath.

  ‘Couldn’t say, miss. I generally take my orders from his PA. I’m just the driver. Now…’ he set the cases down ‘…if you’ll wait half a tick I’ll go find Ms Penny.’

  Caroline closed her eyes as she expelled her breath and slowly opened them again to take stock. The central, sweeping staircase had been freshly waxed, as had the linen-fold wall panelling. And the black and white slabs beneath her feet gleamed with care. All vastly different from the dingy, increasingly neglected house she had been brought up in.

  But echoes of the past remained. If she listened hard enough she could hear her father’s acid voice. ‘You will do as I say, Caroline, exactly as I say.’ And even worse, ‘I will not tolerate it. Village children are not suitable playmates. If you disobey me again you will be severely punished.’ And Mrs Skeet’s voice, pleading, ‘Don’t cross your dad, young Carrie. You know it isn’t worth it.’

  Her full mouth tightened. She had crossed him in the end. Monumentally. Had been forbidden the house. And had been glad to go, the legacy her mother had bequeathed her enabling her to continue her studies.

  Might things have been different if her mother had lived? If she’d been the son her father had wanted?

  ‘So you swallowed your Harvey pride. I more than half expected you to refuse to turn up.’

  The soft dark voice punched through her like a body-blow. Her breath tensed and trembled in her lungs as she turned reluctantly to face him. He had entered by the main door behind her and although the hall was large by any standards he dominated it.