Billionaires: They're powerful, hot, charming and richer than sin...

by Clare Connelly

  Carrie didn’t meet his eyes. Perhaps if she had, she would have seen the alarm signs she hadn’t heeded in his voice. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, wondering why she felt as though she was fighting back tears. “You have sex with woman after woman. The night we met, it took me less than ten minutes to get you in bed. You knew nothing about me. If your father was the same in his youth, what is the harm?”

  “The harm?” His tone was silky smooth, but his morals were repulsed. “He was married. That’s the harm. First my mother, and countless women after her, suffered because of his taste for as many women as he could screw.”

  He was right. Why had Carrie not seen it that way? She bit down on her lip and nodded in a silent acquiescence to his stand, but Gael was past being placated.

  “I am nothing like him. I would never marry. I would never make a promise that I couldn’t keep.”

  Carrie felt like a stone was dropping through her body, starting at the top of her head and falling through her chest cavity, to the pit of her stomach.

  “If we are to discuss children who morph into their parents, let us discuss your stunning transformation into your mother.” That metallic distaste passed through his mouth.

  “Surprised?” Carrie asked, for something to say. Her mind was reeling. She and Alexandra were polar opposites. Age had shown her that her mother, despite being the only true family she had left, was not a kind person. She’d given up trying to gain her approval many years earlier. Now, she just tried to avoid Alexandra’s attention altogether.

  “Mmm.” He stood, and her eyes clung to him with concern. Concern that he might be leaving. But he was simply shifting into the seat beside her. He reached over and lifted an olive. He placed it on her lips, and waited with searing eyes until her mouth opened, and then he pushed it inside. Carrie, her blue eyes haunted as they stared at him, chewed. It was nice. Flavoured with saffron, and coated in crispy crumbs.

  Beneath the table, his spare hand lifted the hem of her skirt, so that he could pad his fingers against the flimsy silk of her underwear. Carrie’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop him. The tablecloth would ensure no one else could see what Gael was doing. She bit down on her lower lip, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink.

  Her body was catching fire, as it always did when he touched her. She tried to focus her mind. “How well do you know her?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “She is my father’s wife.”

  Carrie moaned softly, as he pushed aside the fabric and touched her flesh. “That’s not an answer,” she responded breathily. It was becoming difficult not to visibly react to his sweet nearness.

  He had one hand on the table, he used it now to place another olive on her sweet pink lips. Carrie’s eyes widened; but she bit it between her teeth and then took it in her mouth. Conflicting emotions were tearing through him. Anger, desire, lust, need, fury, pity, worry. He didn’t understand half of them.

  He held onto his anger, for it served him best with Carrie. “Ask a real question then.”

  Her blue eyes showed her own pain and confusion, and briefly he regretted speaking to her so harshly.

  “I …” she shook her head, unable now to form the words.

  “You want to know if your mother and I fucked?” He leaned his head forward, on the pretence of whispering in her ear. He used the cover to slide a finger deep inside of her, and held her body steady when she would otherwise have arched her back instinctively. “You want to know if I took her breasts in my mouth, as I love to do with yours? If I took her to the room beside my father’s and held my hand over her mouth, so that her moans wouldn’t wake the sleeping old man?”

  He moved further inside of her and she made an involuntary sound of pleasure.

  “No, Carrie, your mother and I never slept together. I would not touch a married woman; particularly not one married to my own father.”

  Carrie felt a sob in her chest. She wouldn’t give into it. Her body was soaked with pleasure, but her mind was dancing on hot coals. If Gael had taught her anything, it was to obey her mind. To listen to her head’s commands over all the silly wishes of her heart. Beneath the table, she reached for his tanned forearm and squeezed into it with her nails, until he released his slow, sweet invasion of her. He lifted his head away, and saw the gentle pain in her expression had morphed into an ice-cold contempt.

  She lifted her napkin and wiped her mouth, then stood. Her skirt was high on her legs. She pushed it down without taking her eyes off him. She noticed, in a small recess of her mind, that she’d surprised him. And she was glad.

  There was no need for words.

  What could she say that would communicate her feelings better than her silence and absence? She lifted her bag and scooped it over her shoulder.

  “Carrie,” he said, when she turned to leave. She didn’t stop. She was terrified that if she did, she might cry. And she wouldn’t let him see her cry.

  8

  The Spanish sky was strangely blue and sun-filled. Strange only because her mood was so bleak. She weaved away from the restaurant quickly, grateful for the afternoon crowds. The group of people moved as one, absorbing her willingly into their multi-coloured fabric. She walked without destination, simply needing to get away from Gael Vivas.

  Her heart lurched painfully as she replayed their lunch conversation.

  She couldn’t understand why he’d become so furious. Why he’d taken her question and turned it into an accusation. Though she had been accusing him; doubting him.

  She’d seen Alexandra kiss him, and it had played on the corners of her mind ever since. Her heart broke at the memory and she let one stupid tear roll down her cheek before squashing it purposefully between her fingers and face.

  The things he’d said – the imagery of him making love to her mother –would now never leave her. He’d denied it, but in the worst possible way; in a manner that paved a path to even greater doubts.

  She hailed a passing cab eventually, and made her way back to her hotel. She would get their relationship onto a professional footing. If it weren’t for NewNetwork, she’d get up and walk away altogether. But she owed it to the project to see it through.

  Once back in the comfort and privacy of her hotel room, she lifted her computer out of her bag and flicked it to life.

  She had thirty seven emails waiting for her. Seventeen from Juanita with various ‘bridal emergencies’, such as whether cream frosting on both the wedding cake and the cupcakes would be too much cream frosting. Smothering an indulgent smile, Carrie tapped her finger through her inbox, briefly scanning her eyes over each email as she went. She’d reply to them later.

  I’m sorry.

  Her finger lifted off the keyboard, and she stared at the screen. Two words. No subject. No other explanation. Just I’m sorry.

  It made her even angrier. She deleted it and went onto the next email. Unfortunately, she couldn’t ‘delete’ the email from her brain so easily. Why would Gael possibly think that was worth sending? She felt like writing something pithy back, but she feared her pain would come across even on email.

  So she wrote nothing. As with lunch, she presumed her silence would send a clearer message than words ever could.

  Besides, she had work to do. While she suspected Gael would sign up to invest in NewNetwork by the end of the week, it wasn’t a done deal. It would be prudent to cover her bases. And so she tapped out a quick email to Noris Newman, enquiring after old Mr Newman’s health, and then did some market research on other apps that might serve a similar function to NewNetwork.

  Her stomach growled as the sun dipped down over the city, and Carrie contemplated dinner. She was hungry, but her emotions were in such a tangle that she wasn’t sure she could eat a thing. Instead, she grabbed her bathers out of her suitcase and pulled a cotton kaftan over the top.

  Fifty laps in the hotel pool still didn’t soothe her frayed temperament, and for the first time in years, she craved chocolate. Or ice cream. She shook her h
ead and pressed the button for the lift. It took an age to arrive, and that angered her too. Gael seemed to have lifts, cars, planes – everything – waiting to please him. Why was that?

  She stared at the burgundy carpet of the hotel, wondering why hotels always had such a homogenous décor. Why not timber floors or mosaic tiles? You’re grumpy, she chastised inwardly, rationalising that she must be in a foul temper if even the carpet was offending her. She pulled her keycard from the pocket of her kaftan and looked up to scan the corridor for her room number.

  “Oh.” She stopped walking, when her eyes landed on Gael. He was reclining against the wall, just beside the door to her room. His eyes were burning through her; he’d obviously been watching her since she got off the lift.

  “Oh, God.” She lifted a hand to her face, bare of makeup, and her hair, wet and straggly on her face. How dare he see her like this? She stopped walking and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You didn’t eat lunch. I thought you’d be hungry,” he said by way of explanation, lifting a plastic bag he held in one hand. Carrie didn’t look at it.

  “I’m not,” she lied, thinking of the room service menu inside.

  Her fingers were shaking as she lifted the key into the slot. She fumbled and dropped it. Gael bent to pick it up, crouching to his haunches and then standing; closer to her now. So close she could smell him. So close her gut clenched.

  He put a hand on her hip, his fingers strumming her through the fabric. “I have never touched your mother, princesa,” he said firmly. His eyes were unrelentingly glued to hers.

  But Carrie knew he was lying. She had seen the kiss.

  She blinked away from him. When the door made its buzzing sound, she pushed it inwards and then held it behind her. She stood just inside her room, making sure he didn’t follow. “I don’t care,” she responded finally, her voice surprisingly cold.

  A muscle flecked in Gael’s jaw. “I’ve chased you away again,” he murmured with a shake of his head. “Just when you were coming out.”

  “Huh?” She frowned, not sure what his riddle meant. She turned her head to look for the time, but her eyes landed on her appearance in the mirror instead. She swore inwardly. She looked disgusting. Hair a strange orange colour, face pale.

  He lifted the bag. “It doesn’t matter. Here, let’s have dinner. And a proper apology. May I come in?”

  Carrie squared her shoulders. She wanted him to. She really did. But the hurt she’d felt earlier was a cautionary tale she couldn’t ignore. Carrie didn’t line up to be hurt twice. She’d done it for Gael, though. He’d hurt her as a teenager and now? She was letting him do it again.

  “I’m sorry, I have plans,” she said, thinking again of the room service menu.

  Gael took great care not to overreact. He knew he’d pushed her too far that afternoon. That he’d let his anger dictate his behaviour, and his behaviour had been correspondingly rude and offensive. But was it possible she’d organised a date with someone else? The very idea of her seeking out another man spiked something sharp and agonizing in him.

  “I have to shower. Excuse me.”

  Gael was surprised. She was going to shut him out. And she was so firm; so intractable. She hadn’t smiled at him once. Out of nowhere, he felt a searing sense of panic, because he knew he had come very, very close to ruining everything.

  Everything what? The thought gave him pause. Was Carrie right to be pulling away from him? This strange intensity that thrummed between them was making thought difficult. What precisely could she ruin, given that they shared nothing? Nothing other than sexual attraction, chemistry, and parents who had decided to marry.

  He let her shut the door in his face, but he stared at it for a long time. He could hear the distant sounds of a shower running, and he forced himself not to picture her naked, her body slick with warm water.

  The hotel was your average five star high rise. A pool mid way up, a gym two floors from the ground, and in the lobby, a bar, a restaurant and a gift shop selling cheap and nasty tourist junk. He headed for the bar, rationalising that he would wait for a while, to see if she changed her mind. Just half an hour or so, to see if she called. He propped at a table that afforded a good view of the hotel entrance, and told himself he was definitely not waiting to see her leave.

  But time ticked, and there was no sign of Carrie, and eventually, the disappointment threatened to crush him. As he was getting up to leave, a good-looking young man sauntered into the hotel. He was smiling with anticipation, his head bent down, as he flicked through his mobile.

  I like sex. Not you. What we have is something I could have with any other guy I found attractive.

  Gael had never experienced jealousy, but he was pretty sure he was getting a crash course in it now. And that the emotion burning through him was a particularly virulent strain of the emotion.

  He watched the man as he entered the lifts, blood pounding through his body. He knew he should leave, and yet … He cursed angrily and stormed back through the lobby.

  He had to see for himself. At least then he could stop thinking about her.

  “It’s not like that,” Carrie said with a shake of her head. “I don’t like him. I’m not a high school kid, Win.”

  Far away, lying on the sofa watching True Housewives of New York City with the volume off, Juanita rolled her eyes. “It’s him. He’s got this power over you. First love and all that.”

  Carrie didn’t bother to deny it. Juanita had been along for the maudlin, hormonal journey first time around. “I thought I loved him, but I was just a kid. What did I know of anything?”

  “Well, what’s going on between the two of you then? I mean, you’re sleeping together. You’re in Spain together.”

  Carrie squeezed her eyes shut. “I told you. I saw him kissing my mother. And he’s … I don’t know. It’s such a mess.”

  “For a start, you haven’t told him what you saw. Maybe he’s not lying about what happened between them? Maybe it’s just different to what you witnessed. Maybe you misunderstood?”

  “Misunderstood? I told you. I saw them kiss.”

  “But you know it was a weird time for everyone. Diego had just been diagnosed; his health was poor. Maybe it was comfort, and nothing more.”

  “Does Alexandra strike you as someone who would stop at a kiss?”

  Juanita laughed quietly. “Okay, but what about Gael? Do you really think he’d flit between your mother and you? That’s sick.”

  “I know! That’s the problem.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. Trust me, you’re inventing an issue that isn’t there.”

  “Whose side are you?” Carrie asked angrily.

  “I’m on your side, babes. I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy,” Carrie snapped, rubbing her temples.

  “Care-Bear,” the old nickname slipped out before Juanita could grab it back. “I know you love to pretend you’re this strong, unemotional, high-powered wonder-woman, but it’s okay to have some feelings sometimes.”

  “I’m not pretending,” Carrie lied. “This is who I am now.”

  “Why can’t you admit that you like him? That you maybe even still love him?”

  “I’m hanging up if you’re going to keep going on like this.”

  Juanita swung her long legs over the side of the sofa, and focussed on the plush cream carpet of her Knightsbridge flat. “I’m your best friend. The one person you can trust to tell you the truth – always.”

  “I know that. But in this instance, you’re wrong.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Juanita had an annoying habit of being generally right, which made her insufferable to talk to at times like this.

  “Look, I have to go,” Carrie said shortly, trying to invent an excuse. A knock came at her door and she praised the heavens. “My room service has just arrived.”

  “Okay, doll. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Bye, babes.” Carrie disconnected the call and walked quic
kly to the door. She’d passed hungry about an hour earlier. Now, she was starving. But, by the time she’d showered, dried her hair, popped on a minimum of make up and made herself presentable, time had run away from her.

  She was now officially ravenous. She pulled the door inwards, a polite smile on her face.

  It was swept away by surprise, when she saw an obvious angry Gael staring back at her.

  “What are you doing here?” She gripped the door, not opening it more than a foot.

  His answer was a slow, deliberate inspection of her appearance. Carrie was infinitely glad she’d fixed up the mess she’d been straight out of the pool. She pulled her wrap dress self-consciously around her midsection, frowning a little at his possessive study of her. It was an automatic gesture, one that led her to relinquish her grip on the door.

  He pushed it inwards and walked confidently into the apartment.

  “Hey,” Carrie said crossly, watching as he went from room to room. “What are you doing, Gael?” Her affront was obvious in the tone of her voice.

  “You said you had plans.” He stood, rock solid and still in the middle of the lounge area.

  “I did.” She frowned. “I do.”

  “You’re going out?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then someone’s coming here,” he demanded coldly, looking around again as if expecting to find a mystery suitor hiding under the carpets.

  She shook her head once more, a frown of true bemusement on her face. “My plans are none of your business.”

  His eyes widened. She was right, of course, but her insistence in that moment infuriated him.

  He crossed the room, and kissed her with pressing urgency. “None of my business?” He demanded, wrapping his arms around her back and holding her to him. He was relieved when she didn’t resist. When her mouth opened and she kissed him back.

  His mind was buzzing, his body bursting, his soul at breaking point. He had a feeling of such momentous perfection – an understanding that life would never be sweeter than in that instant – that terrified him to his core. Still he kissed her, still he tasted her, still he ran his hands down her back, pressing her to him and soothing her, trying to apologise with his body for what he’d been unable to properly convey in words.