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

by Clare Connelly

  “Darling? Where are you?”

  He swore, as the realisation that his mother was in his house managed to punctuate his slumberous state.

  “Carrie,” he murmured, easing his arm out from under her. She stirred, and he regretted the necessity of waking her at all.

  “I saw the boat when I was on my way back from the market.” She spoke in Spanish. The words were foreign and clanged into Carrie’s dreams, like too-heavy stones being dropped into a bucket of river water. She frowned.

  “Princesa, wake up.”

  Carrie was so tired! The afternoon nap after a long day of love making had sent her into a slumberous state of stillness. She stretched like a kitten, and blinked her eyes into focus.

  “Hi,” she murmured with wonderment, lifting her hand to his chest.

  He shook his head slowly. He realised with a start that he liked waking up beside Carrie. That he loved that sleepy look in her eyes.

  “My mother the sleuth has discovered I’m on the island.”

  Carrie couldn’t help but giggle. “That’s her?”

  “Si.” His dark eyes probed hers. “You said you wanted to meet her?”

  Carrie swallowed, nervous suddenly. Only Carrie didn’t get nervous. She was beautiful and confident, wealthy and successful. She nodded, but spared a thought for her naked body. “I suppose I should put clothes on first though?”

  He laughed and kissed her hard and fast. “So long as I can rip them off you again as soon as she goes.”

  Carrie nodded, wide-eyed.

  “Good. Hurry.” He strode out of the bed, dressing with impressive haste. At the door, he paused to turn back and look at her. Carrie was sitting up, the sheet pooled around her waist. The milky afternoon sun bathed her in a soft light, and her body looked vulnerable and small. He ached to wrap himself around her and keep her safe.

  “Gabriella,” he said with a warm smile, when he emerged downstairs a moment later.

  “Hello, darling,” she greeted in their native language. “This is a pleasant surprise. I had thought to venture to the mainland next week to see you, but so much the better that you’re here now.”

  Gael dipped his head forward, and put an arm around her back. “Let’s have a wine.”

  She nodded. “I don’t have long. I’m meeting Maria for tea, but when I saw the boat, I had to stop in.”

  “I’m glad you did. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Meet?” Gabriella frowned, not comprehending. She knew her son occasionally used the island for business conferences, but it was exceptionally rare. And on those occasions, he never asked Gabriella to meet his staff.

  As if on cue, Carrie appeared, framed by the door and backlit by the pale sun. Her slender figure, encased in the pretty dress, her hair neatened, and her face relaxed – giving no hint of the way he’d been driving her to the edge of her pleasure boundaries all day. He smiled at her slowly, catching Gabriella’s breath. She had never seen him look at a woman in such a way, and it made something burst inside of her.

  “Hello,” she greeted the young woman, instinctively employing English. With her complexion and wide blue eyes, she had to be English. Or perhaps American.

  “Gabriella, this is Carrie Beauchamp.”

  Gabriella’s body momentarily sagged and Gael cursed his insensitivity. This was the daughter of the woman who had married Diego – the man Gabriella loved, to this day. She recovered quickly, but the pain had been sharp and acute.

  Carrie saw it and she too felt a stab of regret at being the unwitting instrument of hurt. A long-forgotten, but apparently still present, loyalty to her mother kept her from apologising – but only just.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said genuinely. Both women regarded one another with open curiosity.

  “Yes,” Gabriella nodded, trying to recall the social conventions of such a situation. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Carrie knew it was just something people said. It wasn’t true in this instance. It couldn’t be. The only person she could have heard reports of Carrie from was Gael, and she knew he hadn’t mentioned her. Not if the blindsided expression on the older woman’s face was anything to go by.

  Gabriella walked closer to Carrie, studying her pretty face as she went. The bitterness was an actual taste in her mouth. She tried to ignore it, but having seen photographs of Alexandra, she knew that Carrie was the spitting image of her. “You are so like her. So like your mother,” she said, her voice gravelly.

  Carrie would have considered that the ultimate compliment at one point in time. Now, she brushed it aside. People often observed it, but it wasn’t true. Their hair and eyes yes, but their features were completely different. Carrie didn’t let her smile drop by a millimetre. “Thank you.” It was the expected response to what people deemed to be a compliment.

  “We were just about to take wine. You’ll join us?” Gabriella said, slipping an arm through the crook of Carrie’s arm, and guiding her towards the kitchen.

  “Carrie doesn’t have a taste for wine, Gabriella,” Gael observed with a teasing drawl, as he fell into step behind the two women.

  “She will learn, no?” Gabriella responded with a shrug, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

  Carrie’s laugh was like music. “You’re as persuasive as your son, I see.”

  “Oh, he learned from the best.” The pride in Gabriella’s voice was obvious. She settled herself on a stool at the bar, and patted the seat beside it. Gael rescued a particularly fine bottle of Tempranillo from his wine storage area and poured out three glasses. He passed one to Carrie, though he knew she wouldn’t do more than taste it.

  Carrie was surprised to find herself relaxing in the company of Gael’s mother. In fact, as time ticked forward, she found that she was truly enjoying herself. Gael was quiet, only speaking every now and again, interjecting a statement or issuing a warning to his mother not to be so inquisitive.

  “And tell me, Carrie, how is Gael’s father?” Gabriella asked finally, wine glass finished and pushed across the bench.

  “Oh.” A crimson flush of guilt stole across Carrie’s cheeks and her blue eyes flew to Gael’s. But Gael simply looked at her, interested to hear how she would respond.

  “His health is poor but his spirits are good.”

  “I’m glad,” Gabriella said finally. “That his spirits are good, I mean.”

  “I know,” Carrie nodded gently.

  “How long will you be on the island for? Perhaps we could have lunch tomorrow? I will cook paella.”

  Carrie shook her head, on the brink of pointing out that they’d be back in Barcelona by then, when Gael surprised her. “Perhaps, Gabriella. We shall see.”

  Carrie’s lips twisted into a quick frown, but she smothered it when Gabriella looked at her happily. “Excellent. You will love it, Carrie.” The word was accented on her lips. Rich and hearty sounding.

  Gabriella was walked out by Gael, and Carrie left them to it. No doubt Gabriella would have something to say to her son about the surprise appearance of this woman in his life, and Carrie didn’t need to hear his awkward explanation. While Gabriella might have read wedding bells into the rare turn of events, Carrie knew better, and she wasn’t sure she could bear to hear Gael defuse those maternal expectations.

  He wandered back into the kitchen a few moments later, an apologetic expression on his face. “I’m sorry about the intrusion. My mother means well, but she does not always understand boundaries.”

  Carrie shook her head. “It’s fine. I enjoyed meeting her. She’s lovely.”

  “You’re not upset? You seem…?”

  “No, I’m fine.” But something was lodged in her throat. It felt like panic. “Um, what time will we leave? To get back to the mainland?”

  His smile was beautiful. And if she weren’t itching to be back in her hotel, she would have found it irresistibly sexy. “I thought we could stay here tonight. I have a special surprise planned.”

&nbs
p; “Another one?” She joked lightly, her heart racing at the idea of not getting back to her own things. Valiantly, she searched her mind, seeking an excuse, and finding nothing.

  “The best one,” he promised, kissing her forehead.

  “The thing is, Gael…”

  “What is ‘the thing’, Carrie?” He asked in a lightly mocking tone, trying –and failing – to keep his impatience at bay.

  “I just … I didn’t know we would be staying tonight. So I don’t have any of my things. And I really need …”

  “What do you need, princesa?”

  “Everything! Clothes, my computer, just … stuff.”

  He pressed a finger beneath her chin, so that he could stare into her eyes. “No, you need nothing. Your clothes can be washed here, I have a computer you may use to log into your emails.”

  But she couldn’t stay here with him! Not without her stuff. Her make up and straightener and perfume and stuff! She felt like she was suffocating; she shook her head from side to side. “That’s a lovely idea,” she said, striving for calm, and knowing she came off as ungrateful. “But I really would prefer to go back now.”

  Gael frowned. Confusion mingled with frustration. “What do you need? I can send someone out to buy it.”

  “No.” The idea of troubling a servant so that she could have her full array of Estee Lauder cosmetics was wrong. Even she knew how superficial it would seem. “It’s … It’s stupid,” she said quietly.

  “Come on, Carrie. Aren’t we beyond this kind of coyness? Tell me the truth. What do you need?”

  “I just …” She closed her eyes. Was there really so much wrong with wanting to look her best? Her mother would never have had to explain herself to a man; it would have simply been presumed that she needed time and equipment to maintain the visage of feminine perfection. Carrie’s eyes glinted in her face. “Fine. I would feel disgusting without my makeup and fresh clothes and hair dryer. Okay? I don’t want you to see me like that.”

  Gael’s eyes hardened with shock, surprise, and then sadness, as the fear that had been lurking the back of his mind was confirmed.

  “Like what?”

  “Looking like me,” she snapped. “That’s not who I am.”

  “This is not who you are,” he corrected, drawing an imaginary circle around her face. “All this dolly make up. You don’t need it.”

  “Oh, whatever,” she groaned with a roll of her big blue eyes. “This is the woman you took to bed before you even knew her name, so don’t act like you’re offended by my appearance now.”

  “No,” he grunted. “You always look fine. But you don’t need make up. Not all the time. And not with me.”

  Carrie stiffened her spine. “It’s not your place to tell me what I need. I hardly know you.”

  “I don’t need to know you to know there’s something wrong with a woman who can’t be in her own skin for even a moment.”

  His words cut through her, making her feel inferior and broken in some way. As though she should be ashamed of what she’d become. When she’d fashioned herself into what he, and the world, expected of her. “I am in my own skin,” she defended coldly.

  “Are you?” His lips twisted derisively, and he bent down and scooped her up, carrying her over his shoulder back into the hallway.

  “What are you doing, Gael?” She asked, her voice showing her emotions. It wavered and cracked.

  He didn’t answer. He was fuming mad. He had suspected that she had a strange obsession for vanity, but he had had no idea how deep it went.

  At the edge of the pool, he finally came to a stop. Gently, he tossed her towards the centre, watching as, as if in slow motion, her body sailed through the air and crashed into the water. Her eyes caught his from mid-air, and the hurt accusation in them was a look he knew he would never be able to wipe from his mind.

  She went under completely, and stayed there for a few seconds, before emerging at the edge of the pool. Her face was soaking wet, her mascara had run, her hair was hanging in dark blonde curtains, plastered to her face. Her dress was stuck to her body.

  His voice was sucked from him painfully. “You are beautiful to me, Carrie. All of you, all the time. Don’t you understand that?”

  But Gael had dramatically underestimated the level of Carrie’s vanity.

  At first he didn’t realise, but when he stopped fuming and actually looked at her, he saw that her face wasn’t simply wet. Tears were gushing out of her eyes, and silent sobs were wracking her body.

  “Carrie,” he groaned, walking towards her and crouching down on the side of the pool. “That might have been a bit extreme. I only wanted to show you …”

  Still, she cried silently. So silently, and it was worse than if she’d actually bawled and berated him. Her eyes clung to him as she pulled herself out of the water and, drenched to the core, walked back into the house.

  She was leaving puddles all over the tiles. She didn’t care. She found a bathroom and locked the door, then stripped her clothes off. There wasn’t a lot she could do about them. They were saturated, and wouldn’t dry before she left the island.

  And she would leave the island.

  She didn’t care how, she would get away from him immediately. She ran the shower, and stepped into it, her chest still wracking with her noiseless tears. She stood under the running water, lathering her whole body, as if she could wash Gael from her. She scrubbed the make up off her face – cosmetic-free was better than looking like a sad clown.

  Gael had a meagre assortment of toiletries in a draw – the kind one might find in a plush hotel. She rubbed moisturiser into her face and pinched her cheeks, to return some colour to them.

  She towel dried her hair and ran her fingers through it until it hung relatively straight. She wrapped a bath sheet under her arms and pulled the door open.

  A small pile of fabric was on the hallway floor. She scooped it up and looked at it dubiously. One of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts. They swam on her, but that barely seemed to matter. She hooked the towel back onto the bathroom door, and made her way through his home. Her sandals were on the grass lawn, where she’d left them earlier. She padded over to them now, and slipped them on her feet.

  She felt catatonic with rage; incapable of caring about anything except her hurt and embarrassment.

  She looked around to get her bearings, and then began to walk down the driveway.

  “Carrie.” His voice was an insistent shout. She didn’t turn around. Was she still crying? She must have been, because her face was wet again. She dashed away the tears and kept walking.

  “Hey!” He caught up with her, and when he looked at her face, she could see that he was truly worried. That he had no idea what to do. “Carrie, I apologise. From the bottom of my heart. That was wrong of me. I wanted you to see … to understand … that this is the most beautiful you have ever looked to me. I should never have pushed you like that. Please don’t go.”

  She focussed on a point past his shoulder.

  When he realised that she wasn’t planning on speaking, he put a hand on her arm. She ripped it away with a ferocity that could have torn it from its socket.

  He studied her with a sinking feeling, and then murmured quietly, “I’ll get the boat ready. Just … give me a moment.” He could use the return journey to explain. To atone.

  “Did you say you usually take a helicopter?” She enquired coldly, her eyes still not meeting his.

  “Yes, but with your fear of flying …”

  “There are some things I fear worse,” she promised, her heart aching. “I can’t go back on the boat.”

  His gut twisted. “I am so sorry.”

  “No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t apologise. Don’t explain. Just … leave it.”

  Gael had never, in his entire life, made such a monumental mistake. He’d acted on his first impulse, and it had betrayed him. Badly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and spoke in Spanish, his dark eyes not leaving her face.

&
nbsp; “It’s ready.”

  “Car?”

  He nodded.

  She crossed the lawn, moving quickly, to stay ahead of him. She opened her door before he could reach it, and slid into her seat.

  The short drive to the nearby air strip was made in total silence. Carrie stared out of her window, but she didn’t see the scenery. She saw the girl she’d been at seventeen; and that same girl was staring back at her now.

  As soon as Gael killed the engine, Carrie stepped out of the car. She felt physically ill.

  The saving grace of her present state of emotional turmoil was that she hardly felt a thing as the chopper lifted up into the sky. It sailed over the Balearic sea, showing turquoise waters far into the distance.

  Carrie closed her eyes and prayed it would all soon be over.

  11

  “And then what happened?” Juanita’s face was a study of shocked sympathy. She lifted a tissue from the box and wiped her cheek, amazed at how calm and serene Carrie was in the retelling of things.

  “He insisted on taking me to my hotel. He tried to talk more. To explain …” She spat the word derisively.

  “As if he could offer any explanation for such a barbaric, rude, chauvinistic act…”

  The rules of their friendship had been written in stone a decade earlier. Unwavering support was the first tenet of their sisterhood.

  “I know,” Carrie nodded, sipping her tea and clutching the mug to hide the way her fingers were shaking.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “That it’s over, obviously.” She shrugged. “I left him with my NewNetwork report and contracts and told him he could invest, or not. His decision.”

  “Woah.”

  “Yeah. Woah.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since?”

  Not in a week, Carrie realised with a pang. She’d kept busy. She’d avoided her phone. She’d gone out every night, wearing her make up proudly, dressed to the nines, and taking comfort from the fact that most people saw her slavish devotion to beauty as a positive attribute.