The Billionaire Affair

by Diana Hamilton

  She could taste all the old need and raw desire on her tongue, here and now, not something left over from the past, sternly pushed away if it dared to float into her consciousness on the wings of memory. Here, binding her to him as it always had, here in the assured claim of his night-dark, compelling eyes, in the slight, slow smile that curved his undeniably beautiful mouth, a sizzlingly sexy smile that robbed her mind and body of all strength of character.

  ‘So…’ He expelled a long, slow breath, his thick lashes sweeping down as he gazed at her mouth. ‘No denials, Caro?’ His dark head bent, his mouth a breath away from hers. ‘Good. That’s good.’

  Her lips parted in helpless invitation. She could smell the fresh almost savagely male scent of him; it made her giddy. And then his mouth touched the corner of hers and she turned her head, instinctively, urgently seeking the remembered heady magic of his kiss, that total surrender to the ecstatically wild passion that no other man had ever come near to making her feel.

  But he merely touched her full lower lip with the tip of his tongue then lifted his head, both hands fastening lightly around her narrow waist, keeping his control where she had lost hers entirely, and she was almost sobbing with cruel frustration as he said wryly, ‘Like taking candy from a baby.’

  Ben released her, stepping back, his mouth compressed as his dark eyes swept over the evidence of her body’s arousal, from her peaking breasts, her softened, parted lips, the haze of sexual desire that clouded her deep violet eyes. ‘Round one to me, Caro,’ he added, then jerked his head towards the door, his voice clipped, impersonal. ‘Get some sleep. You’ll need it. At seventeen you could be up all night and still look ravishing in the morning.’ He gave a slight, humourless smile. ‘But things change, don’t they?’

  The implication was that she would look like a raddled hag in the morning, that she was over the hill and, just as shaming, that she had lost everything that had once driven him to wild passion, unable to look at her without needing her with a desperation that had consumed them both.

  How she managed to walk in a straight line, get out of the room, she didn’t know. The humiliation was so intense it turned her bones to water and filled her head with a fiery red mist that blinded her.

  When she woke Caroline was mildly surprised that she’d managed to sleep at all and not at all surprised to note the dark rings around her eyes. Her normally pearly translucent skin was grey and dull in the bright spring light that flooded the small bedroom.

  No, she was no longer seventeen. His taunt came back to sting her. She was twenty-nine years old and should have known better than to let a deceitful, lying louse like Ben Dexter rouse her so effortlessly, rouse her to the point of being on the verge of pleading with him to make love to her.

  A hot tide of shame raged through her, making her feel nauseous. Her own body had betrayed her as surely as he had done all those years ago.

  She shook her head then pressed her fingers to her aching temples. So, OK, she thought wearily, she’d behaved like a fool, like the gullible teenager she’d been when she’d emerged from the cool canopy of the woods on that long-gone, hot summer afternoon to find Ben perched on the top of the drunken wooden gate that led to one of her father’s neglected hay meadows.

  He’d been wearing cut-off shabby denims and, apart from scuffed canvas deck shoes, nothing else. The skin that covered his whippy frame had been nut-brown, glistening, his dark unruly hair flopping over his forehead, his black eyes dancing with a million seductive lights, his smile dangerous and sexy as he’d dropped to his feet and had walked with slow deliberation towards her.

  She’d felt it then, the sizzling chemistry; it had made her breathless, so she could barely answer when he’d said, ‘So school’s out. Something tells me it’s going to be a great summer.’ His eyes told her he liked what he saw, her slenderness cloaked in soft summer cotton, her black hair tumbling down to her waist.

  She’d never been this close to him before. The effect was shattering. Of course she knew that he and his mother lived in the decrepit cottage down by the stream, had done for several years. And she’d seen him in the village once or twice and heard the mutterings about his wild ways. And she could understand them, the mutterings, almost sympathise with the staid village matrons because Ben Dexter was something else: too drop dead gorgeous, too charismatic. An untamed male.

  All she could do was give him a wide smile of glorious recognition and take the hand he held out to her. And so it had begun…

  Caroline gave a shaky sigh then tightened her lips. She’d been such a gullible fool then, and last night she’d have gone down the same path if Ben hadn’t demonstrated that he wasn’t remotely interested.

  But it was no use brooding about it or wishing it hadn’t happened. It had and she had to put it out of her head, salvage some pride, do her job and get out of here as quickly as she could.

  A shower helped a little. No way was she going to dress in the old jeans and top Linda had lent her and scrabble around in the dusty attics. Today of all days she needed to have all flags flying, to retrieve some of her pride and somehow try to wipe away the shame.

  Ben wouldn’t be around to see what she looked like but she needed to look her best for her own sake.

  Teaming the elegantly cut linen trousers she’d worn to the restaurant with an oyster silk shirt and a narrow tan belt she spent far longer than usual on her make-up, achieving a discreet and perfect mask. Then she fixed her glossy hair into her nape with a mock-tortoiseshell comb.

  Linda was at the kitchen table, a sheet of paper in front of her. She got up, smiling, as Caroline entered. ‘Good—I was just about to leave you a note; now I don’t have to bother. There’s cold stuff in the fridge and loads of tins in the wall cupboards. So help yourself. I guess the boss will do the same—he’s already left for Shrewsbury… And don’t tell me you’re going to tackle the attics in that outfit! Didn’t the jeans and top fit?’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’ Caroline followed her nose to the coffee pot. ‘I thought I’d give the attics a miss today and make a start on the first floor.’ She lifted the pot. ‘Like some?’

  Linda wrinkled her pert nose. ‘Go on, then, twist my arm! I should be on my way, but another ten minutes won’t make much difference.’ She sat down again, watching as Caroline filled two mugs. ‘Tell me, how do you manage to look so flippin’ stylish? It’s something you’re born with, I guess. Me, I look all wrong whatever I wear!’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ Caroline sat opposite the other woman and handed her the milk jug and sugar bowl. She felt really mean; Linda obviously wanted to settle into girl talk but she herself had other ideas.

  Last night she’d fully intended to satisfy her now burning curiosity and ask Ben what his plans were for Langley Hayes. And now, after what had happened, she would make sure that she had as little to do with him as possible during the remainder of her time here. So that precluded any conversation longer than one syllable.

  So before Linda could start talking about clothes and make-up she said, ‘I can’t help noticing that the house has a rather institutional look. Comfortable and much brighter than it ever was when I lived here—but functional. What does Mr Dexter intend to do with it?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Linda widened her eyes then gave a wry smile. ‘No, of course you don’t, or you wouldn’t be asking!’ She took a sip of her coffee then added more sugar. ‘He’s set up a trust, put a whole load of his own money in, and the income from the golf club and leisure centre will help with the upkeep, pay the helpers’ wages. It’s for disadvantaged kids—holidays, weekends. It’s a brilliant idea— There’ll be indoor activities as well as outdoor, a small farm, organic-produce gardens, riding, boating, fishing— It will let inner-city kids know there’s more to life than hanging round street corners and getting into trouble.’

  Long after Linda had left Caroline stayed in a mild state of shock. What the housekeeper had told her didn’t gel with the picture of Ben Dexter s
he had built up in her mind: an arrogant, self-serving deceiver—a picture reinforced by his behaviour last night; his announcement that he’d won round one, as if he’d brought her here to engage in a battle. An announcement she’d been too filled with shame and embarrassment to question.

  Had she been totally wrong about him? Had she misjudged him?

  She pushed herself to her feet, putting the enigma that was Ben Dexter out of her mind. She had a job to do and it was pointless to waste her mental energies on a man who had as good as declared himself to be her enemy.

  Bracing herself, she climbed the staircase to the room that had been her father’s. The cumbersome Victorian wardrobes were empty as was the solitary chest of drawers, cleared out by the grieving Dorothy Skeet. The only piece of any value, the Italian, carved giltwood tester bed, which the housekeeper had sometimes shared, brought a lump to her throat.

  She made a note of its likely value in the pad she carried and made a swift exit. Why had her father never loved her? Why had he actively disliked her?

  Making a mental note to see Dorothy before she headed back to London she forced the memories of her troubled childhood to the back of her mind and carried on. The rooms that had been unused when her father had been alive were now cheerful and bright, either furnished with twin beds and colourful, functional chests and hanging cupboards, or made into bathrooms, ready for the youngsters who would be spending time here.

  Ben must have invested a considerable amount of his private fortune in this charitable enterprise. Because he remembered his own deprived childhood?

  The state had supported his mother, but only barely. Janet Dexter had tried to supplement her benefit by growing and selling fresh fruit and vegetables but the villagers, suspicious of the hard-eyed, grimfaced woman and her wild son, had refused to buy. Someone, she remembered now, had once threatened to report her pathetic entrepreneurial efforts to social security.

  Life must have been tough for both of them, and what had brought mother and son to the village in the first place was unknown. Close as they had been during that long-ago summer, he had never talked about his earlier life. There were always things he’d kept hidden, even then.

  Admiration for what he had made of himself, for his altruism where similarly disadvantaged children were concerned, made her bite her lip. She didn’t want to think well of him. She couldn’t afford to; she could so easily fall right back under his mesmeric spell, she admitted honestly. Last night had shown her that much.

  Needing to keep her mental image of him sullied she reminded herself of the child he had fathered and had callously abandoned. Her own father had told her that Maggie Pope was a slut, had warned her not to have anything to do with her, ever, because if she did she’d be locked in her room until it was time to go back to school. Yet during those last traumatic days he’d said, ‘Ask Maggie Pope who fathered that brat of hers. Dexter. You don’t believe me? Well, just go and ask her!’

  Caroline shuddered, her body suddenly cold, as if she’d been immersed in icy water. It had been the worst day of her life and she didn’t want to relive it, but couldn’t stop the pictures that flashed into her mind.

  The baby girl, around two months old at that time, had had silky black hair, just like Ben’s, and Maggie had said sourly, ‘Sure she’s his. Only he don’t want to know—that’s his sort all over. Drop a girl as soon as the novelty’s over, or someone tastier comes along—no sense of responsibility!’

  Swallowing hard, Caroline forced her mind back to the job in hand. At the far end of the corridor, where the old Tudor wing joined the main part of the house, there had been a handsome mahogany linen press. But, like most of the other pieces of any value, it had gone. Irritation pricked her. Her professional appraisal was unnecessary. The few pieces of any value would be obvious to anyone. Ben Dexter had got her here under false pretences.

  But why?

  Automatically, her hand lifted to the latch on the oak-boarded door that led to the old wing. These rooms, over the kitchen regions, had been forbidden to her as a child. ‘Full of spiders and creepy-crawlies, and the floorboards are rotten,’ Dorothy Skeet had warned, and she’d been eight years old before she’d plucked up the courage to poke her nose in.

  Now all was changed. Crumbling timbers had been replaced with silvery oak beams and sunlight streamed in through the windows, enriching the colours of the Persian rugs on the polished floor of what was clearly the sitting room of the suite Ben had reserved for his own use, the attractively furnished room dominated by the painting that had thrown them together again. First Love.

  She caught her breath, her heart starting to thud. If Michael hadn’t recognised the lost Lassoon masterpiece for what it was, or if Ben hadn’t wanted to own it, then her life would have gone on smoothly, the old, painful yearnings would never have resurfaced so strongly because she and Ben would not have met again.

  Her bones tightened rigidly as she stared up at what could have been her mirror image. She and Ben had spent a couple of blissfully happy, ecstatic months together and his betrayal had been cruel. But it had been twelve years ago, for pity’s sake. It should have been written off to experience, forgotten.

  But it hadn’t.

  ‘You approve?’ His voice was silky-soft.

  Caroline gave an involuntary jerk of her head, startled out of her tormenting thoughts. Then she turned reluctantly to face him, her violet eyes huge in the delicate pallor of her face.

  He was looking particularly spectacular in a beautifully cut dark blue suit, crisp white shirt and sober tie. At the back of the house she hadn’t heard his car draw up outside. If she had she would have taken evasive action. As it was she could only answer his question, ‘It’s your painting, it’s up to you where you hang it. Though I hope you have some sort of security system.’

  ‘There speaks the prosaic Caroline Harvey.’ He was smiling, just slightly, but his eyes were cold, like splinters of polished jet. ‘But let’s take the larger view, shall we? Don’t you agree that the portrait should be here, back at home, as it were?’ Laughter was lurking in the curl of his voice now. It incensed her.

  ‘Rubbish!’ she said stoutly. He was playing games with her and she wasn’t going to let him amuse himself at her expense. ‘You’re talking as if that’s a portrait of me hanging on that wall—and you know damned well it isn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

  ‘But it could be, couldn’t it?’ he inserted smoothly. ‘You, as I remember you. After I’d read the article about its discovery, saw the photograph, I knew I had to have that painting and hang it here. As a reminder that things aren’t always as they seem. The sitter looks like you, but she isn’t. Just as you, when I knew you, weren’t what I thought you were.’

  ‘That’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard one!’ she said in sharp retaliation. This was a man with a serious grudge. Had he resented so badly that letter saying she never wanted to see him again? Was his ego still smarting over being dumped for once, after all this time?

  This was getting far too deep for her. She was leaving. This very minute.

  ‘Mr Dexter,’ she said, schooling her voice to what she hoped would pass as icy coolness. ‘There is no point in my being here any longer. My professional services weren’t required in the first place. As far as I can see you’ve already disposed of most of the worthless furnishings and kept less than a handful of good pieces. I’ll let you have Weinberg’s evaluation of their worth in writing.’

  ‘How kind.’ One dark brow was elevated mockingly. He was blocking the doorway and to get out of here she’d have to brush right past him. Close to him. She couldn’t face that. Just being in the same room with him made her feel weak all over.

  Caroline swallowed convulsively and Ben drawled, ‘You were right about your professional services not being needed. But I have other needs, Caro, and you are going to satisfy every last one of them. Only then will you be free to go.’

  He gave her a slow, thoughtful look
, ‘I suggest we stop pussy-footing around and start right now.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘NOW, why would I agree to do that?’ Caroline queried, facing him with a poise she was miles away from feeling. Her heart was thumping wildly, her flesh quivering on her bones.

  A long time ago they’d satisfied each other’s needs completely—was that what he was suggesting? Had last night been a slow, cruelly teasing prelude to an inexorable seduction? The palms of her hands were slick now and drops of perspiration beaded her forehead, gathered in the cleft between her breasts as she was torn between jangling nervousness and helpless excitement.

  ‘Because you owe me,’ he retorted heavily, his narrowed eyes holding hers then dropping to rest on her mouth. ‘You owe me for twelve, wasted years.’

  Her brain told her to walk out of here, pack her bags and phone for a taxi. He couldn’t hold her here by force. But her heart was beating in compelling opposition, telling her to stay.

  That their long-ago tempestuous love affair had left an indelible mark on him too, given his love-’em-and-leave-’em attitude to women, was shattering. Perhaps it was mischievous fate that had brought them back together because it was finally time to close the circle and at last shut the past away where it belonged.

  She couldn’t walk away from this, this final confrontation, if that was what it was. ‘Judging by your impressive achievements, the last twelve years can hardly be called a waste,’ she managed to say, desperately striving to bring an air of factual normality into a conversation that was in danger of becoming unreal: Unreal to believe that she could have wounded his psyche as he, she now admitted helplessly, had so deeply wounded hers.

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about, and I think you know it.’ Two paces brought Ben to stand directly in front of her, his wide-shouldered stance overpowering her senses. Holding her huge violet eyes with the shadowed darkness of his he removed his suit jacket, slowly tossing it onto the nearest armchair, then loosened his tie.