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

by Clare Connelly

“You’re naïve if you think that.”

  Apparently unused to being challenged, a mocking laugh tore from his lips. “Naïve? This coming from you?”

  She flinched, his words harsher than he’d intended.

  “Realism is not a brand of naivety. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

  She jutted her chin forward, refusing to be cowered. “It depends on the basis of your realism.”

  “And you think you have the right and experience to decide if my cynicism is well-placed or not?”

  Her cheeks felt warm, her ears glowed. They were fighting and she didn’t really know why, but she didn’t – couldn’t – back down. It felt important and she had no idea why, but she couldn’t simply let this drop.

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “Do I have to remind you that you were a virgin until recently?”

  She hadn’t expected that though. And perhaps he realised he’d gone too far, because he grimaced apologetically, lifting his hand in a gesture of surrender.

  Anger trilled in her chest. “How dare you? My lack of sexual experience doesn’t make me a child. It doesn’t invalidate my perspective.”

  “No,” he was quick to agree, his voice placating. “But you do have very limited experience with life outside of your own bubble.”

  “My bubble?” She repeated with obvious disbelief. “If you had any idea what my life has been like, you would never imply that it’s been easy –,”

  “Not easy,” he interrupted. “But by your own admission, you’ve avoided relationships. With the exception of one man who decided he loved you, you have no experience with relationships – physical or emotional.”

  Her jaw dropped, his words true enough, but unexpectedly hurtful. “I have enough experience with people to know when someone’s trying their best to cover up how they feel.”

  He swore softly under his breath, his face a mask of control even as she felt she was unstitching a part of his soul.

  “Once, I thought I was in love. Is that what you want to hear?”

  The words splashed between them, an accusation in his tone. “Do you want me to tell you that I thought I loved a woman and she destroyed me, bit by bit, until there was nothing left, and Jack and Veronica had to pick up the pieces? Do you want me to tell you that she made me more miserable than I have ever been? I cared for a woman once and she destroyed me, the papers eviscerated me, I became a man that even I despised.”

  He pulled away from her, moving towards the edge of the pool and pulling himself from it effortlessly, his muscles rippling with the simple movement. “Sometimes people cover up how they feel because talking about it serves no purpose. It’s not in your power to change the past, nor would I want you to.” He glared at her for several long seconds and she was at a loss for words. “I do not believe in love, cara, so much as I believe in its destructive powers.”

  She found her eyes could no longer meet his. This time, he didn’t implore her not to hide from him. He continued to stare at her for several long seconds, a deep frown etched on his handsome face.

  “You are my wife, not a therapist.”

  Her jaw dropped. “So, what? I’m not allowed to have an opinion?”

  “You can have an opinion, but don’t expect me to share it. Or to necessarily want to hear it.”

  She gasped, her heart pounding with anger now, rage surging through her.

  But before she could open her mouth to tell him what an arrogant piece of work he was being, he shook his head from side to side.

  “Just, let it go.” The words were said calmly enough, but she felt the undercurrent of emotions, she felt his anger and his hurt, and she wanted to say something, but had no idea what. He scanned her face, holding her gaze for several seconds before turning on his heel and stalking away.

  Cleopatra watched him go with a growing sense of confusion. It was like she’d been hit by a truck – their argument had come completely out of nowhere and she didn’t know how to process it.

  She would have said, prior to marrying Benedetto, that she didn’t believe in love either. She certainly didn’t look for it. No, she’d never believed that she’d meet some man and spend the rest of her life ‘happily ever after’. She’d seen too much of life’s realities and blown expectations to hope for anything so idealistic.

  So why did his continued pronouncements against love feel like he was inflicting a physical wound on her?

  Why did she care so much that they’d fought?

  Benedetto was a citizen of the world, a man who had his feet in many cities. Sydney, Berlin, New York, Berne, he was comfortable everywhere, but most of all here, in his native Rome. It was here that he felt all the pieces of his soul fit perfectly into place, here that he looked out on the city and felt the world made a perfect kind of sense.

  But today, hours after sparring with his wife in the pool, a pervasive feeling of discontent was infiltrating his body, making concentration impossible. His mind was weary but worse than that, he felt guilty, as though he’d completely over-reacted.

  And he had. He’d been a bastard to her and she sure as hell hadn’t deserved that. He closed his eyes and saw the hurt on her face, the shock, and guilt slashed him. What the hell had he been thinking, to speak to her like that?

  It wasn’t Cleopatra he had been angry with, it was Melinda - the woman he’d intended to marry, a year earlier. Damned Melinda who’d worked her way into every aspect of his life, who’d taken over his mind and soul and destroyed him completely, Melinda who had no place in his marriage or his life.

  Melinda who Cleopatra had unknowingly invoked, right when he had finally felt free of her.

  He glared out at Rome without seeing its sharp, glass sculptures. His mind was full of Cleopatra, and the hurt in her eyes, the way she’d reacted to his words as though he was slapping her.

  Christo. Why had her line of questioning bothered him so much?

  Because it had been like revealing a wound he preferred to keep completely covered, or because he’d actually found himself wanting to speak to her, to confide in her? And hope what? That she could make it better?

  Melinda was in his past; he no longer cared for her. But that didn’t change the reality of what their relationship had been. It didn’t change the fact that he’d trusted her and she’d lied to him, that he’d let his guard down with her and she’d made him regret it every moment since.

  He swore into the silence of his office, and turned his back on the view.

  Cleopatra remained in his mind; he couldn’t remove her, no matter how hard he tried.

  10

  “OH NO, FREDDIE! STOP!” She laughed in a way that somewhat lessened the stern delivery of her words, and the little boy laughed back, webbing his hands and splishing some more, so Cleopatra copped a huge splash right across her front.

  “Alfredo, you stop that this minute!” She was able to effect a cross voice more naturally now, as the water spread over her shirt. She reached for a towel and patted her front. “We don’t splash water out of the bath.”

  “Bath, bath, splash!” He disagreed, kicking his legs now.

  “Right.” A grim line formed on her face as she reached past him and pulled the plug. The unusually strict response met with a howl of disapproval from Freddie, who pushed his way to the end of the bathtub and tried to cover the hole with his hands, to stop the water from escaping.

  It was ineffectual and as the water line lowered, his expression soured until he was howling, huge fat tears inking down his face.

  Remorse filled Cleopatra, but she knew, despite a sadness at having upset him, that having been warned multiple times to keep the water in the bath, and having failed to do so, she needed to follow through on her threats to put an end to bath time.

  Even when she hated seeing him cry.

  “Come on, dearest, that’s enough.” She stood, holding the towel out for him to step into, as he did every night.

  But Freddie refused.

  He sat there, his face pink
and splotchy, his expression mutinous, as his glare flew from Cleopatra to the taps, to the now empty bathtub.

  “More bath,” he wailed, and she shook her head, an unusual tiredness seeping through her that made it even harder to cope with his tantrum with her usual cool.

  “Come on, Freddie. Out you hop.”

  “No! More bath!”

  “No, absolutely no more bath. You’ve turned this room into a lake, look at it.” She gestured at the water that had formed huge puddles on the floor.

  “More. Bath.” His voice was getting louder, and higher in pitch.

  “We can go swimming tomorrow,” she said with a kind firmness, designed to appease him. It was almost seven o’clock, he’d eaten dinner, and she was ready for him to go to sleep now. She was tired, and so was he, if this tantrum was anything to go by.

  “Now. Bath NOW.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “NOW.”

  “No.” She reached into the bath and lifted him into the towel, only he writhed and turned, a full-blown tantrum in effect, his little palms lashing out in an attempt to slap Cleopatra that broke her heart. Or would have, had she not understood the emotional eddies he had to navigate daily, coupled with the fact he was a three year old boy, experimenting with feelings and boundaries. She breathed in deeply, counting to ten inwardly before addressing him in a calm, no-nonsense voice.

  “If you keep carrying on like this, Freddie, there’ll be no book before bed.”

  “Bath!”

  She pressed her lips together and moved across the bathroom, towards the door. Freddie twisted in her arms, his body strong, and she had to hold tight to contain him. She was so completely focussed on him that she forgot, momentarily, about the state of the floor, and her foot connected with a huge puddle by the door and before she knew what was happening, Cleopatra was sliding backwards, a cry of surprise sounding from her lips right as her bottom connected with the hard, wet tiles. It was an awkward fall, made all the more so by having to contort her body to keep Freddie from being hurt. She held him tight to her chest, one hand firmly wrapped around his head, saving it from dropping to the tiles, meaning she had no hands left with which to soften her drop.

  Tears sparked in her eyes as an instant and unwelcome reaction to the sharp blade of pain that sliced from her ankle and radiated through her leg and into her rear.

  Freddie’s little face showed shock, the tantrum completely silenced, his eyes huge. He stared at Cleopatra and despite her own pain, she saw his fear and worry and knew she had to reassure him.

  “Oh, dear, what a clumsy Cleopatra. I’ve had a fall! Are you okay, darling?”

  But Freddie had been shaken back to his normal self, and lifted his chubby hands to grip her cheeks, holding her face in his. “Cleo ouch.”

  “Yes,” she laughed, but tears were wet in her eyes now. “Cleo big ouch. Can you hop off, little one, so I can stand up?”

  He nodded, and scrambled off her lap, his expression anxious, one little hand staying on her shoulder.

  “Cleo hurt,” he said tremulously, when she tried to stand up but couldn’t. “Cleo hurt.”

  She nodded. “But I’m going to be okay. It’s just a sprained ankle. Here, I’ll get up. You just stand over there – mind the water, don’t slip like I did, or we’ll both be in a state.”

  He took a step away from her, his expression doleful.

  She had to get up, regardless of the pain. It was imperative that she reassure him. Grinding her teeth together, she put her hands back, using them to support her weight as she tried to push to standing. The pain was intense.

  She let out an involuntary cry in response, but one look at Freddie’s worried face had her biting her tongue.

  It was too late. A second later, the sound of heavy footsteps sounded and Benedetto appeared in the doorframe. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  His dark eyes skimmed the room and despite her pain and embarrassment, she tried once more to stand. Benedetto moved quickly, bringing his body down beside hers, his expression so darkly forbidding that her emotions began to riot for a whole new host of reasons.

  They hadn’t spoken since that afternoon, and a strange shyness was moving through her, juxtaposed with anger – anger that they’d argued, anger that he’d been so completely unreasonable. Anger at herself for not seeing his red-flags and understanding that she was pushing him too hard, too fast.

  But now, her body hurting, his face so close, Freddie watchful in the background, she didn’t express any of that.

  “Can you help me up?”

  “Certo. Where are you hurt?”

  She hesitated a moment.

  “Cara?” The term of endearment spiralled through her.

  “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”

  His hands moved down her leg, finding the offending limb, where he ran his fingers over the flesh, probing it carefully. She winced, biting down on her lip then stopping when she saw the way he was watching the gesture. His eyes were so dark, swarming with feelings she couldn’t possibly make sense of.

  “Yes, I agree. Alfredo?” He said the young boy’s name with a strong Italian accent. “Move into the corridor.”

  The little boy did so quickly, no sign of his earlier disobedience to be seen.

  “I’m going to pick you up, bene?”

  She shook her head, panic flaring in her at the very idea. “Just help me to stand, please.”

  He reached across, pressing a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face to his so their eyes finally locked. A surge of adrenalin burst through her, and desire too, the need so strong it whooshed all of her breath out of her at once.

  “It will be easier if I lift you.” His voice was thickly gravelled.

  It would be. Her pain was getting worse, the ache spreading through her so she felt close to tears. She needed to lie down somewhere comfortable. She needed… she didn’t know what, but not to be in Benedetto’s arms when things were so strange between them.

  “I have to get Freddie into bed,” she said stiffly. “It’s late, and he’s tired. Please just help me up so I can …”

  “Basta, Cleopatra. Stop being absurd. You’ve hurt yourself.”

  “It’s just a sprain.”

  “Fine,” he said after a moment, his expression impossible to interpret. “Then stand up.” He crouched beside her, putting an arm around her back to offer support. She leaned into him and tried to scramble up. He pushed a little, in an attempt to make it somewhat easier, but the pain was too strong.

  Tears leaked out of her eyes.

  “Let me help you.” The words were beseeching, but he didn’t move.

  With an enormous sense of frustration, she nodded, her eyes focussed on Freddie in the hallway.

  Benedetto’s hands curled beneath her, one at her bottom and one at her back, and he stood effortlessly, cradling her against his chest easily. He smelled so good up close, like the woods on the outskirts of Rome, like pine needles and sunshine. His chest was broad, and every breath reminded her of his innate strength. He strode easily down the corridor, and then to the stairs, holding Cleopatra against his chest until they reached the large lounge area at the back of the house. One wall was completely made of glass, showcasing a breathtaking view of Rome, and the other was lined, floor to ceiling, with books. There was a fire against one wall, though it wasn’t lit now, given the warmth of the day.

  Benedetto settled Cleopatra on the sofa, removing his hands and placing a plump pillow beneath her ankle. She winced at the contact.

  She pushed up, her eyes chasing Freddie. “I have to get him in bed –,”

  “I will do it.”

  She frowned. “You?”

  He dipped his head forward. “Naturalmente.”

  “You?” She repeated.

  “Why? You think I cannot get a child into bed?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  He crouched beside her, lifting a hand to her face. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
<
br />   She pulled a face. “I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

  His eyes glittered and she felt as though there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t. She reached a hand out, turning her attention towards Freddie.

  He walked towards her, his lower lip jutting out. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  “Cleopatra ouch,” he said quietly, his eyes dropped.

  “Yes, but I’ll be better tomorrow.” He climbed up into her lap and she wrapped her arms around him, oblivious to the way Benedetto was watching, his eyes intent on the obvious affection between the two. Alfredo lifted his face towards Cleopatra’s and placed a kiss on her cheek.

  “Buonanotte, tesoro.”

  “Goodnight.” He wriggled off her lap and put his hand up, his expression so trustful. Benedetto hesitated for a moment before taking it, but he looked to Cleopatra once more.

  “Stay here.”

  She nodded, her heart racing inside her chest.

  He returned less than half an hour later, carrying a tray with two glasses of wine, something wrapped in cotton, and a platter of what a closer inspection revealed to be chocolates.

  Her heart kicked up a notch as he placed the fabric over her ankle – it was cold, she presumed an ice pack was inside.

  “You don’t have to nurse me.” The words came out stilted and cold. Their argument was still fresh in her mind; she didn’t know what to say to him, or how to be with him.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m serious. I just need to lay here a bit and then I’ll be fine.”

  “Perhaps,” he shrugged. “But consider me at your disposal until then.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Here.” He handed a glass of wine to her; she took it on autopilot. It was buttery and delicious. One sip seemed to warm her all the way to the pit of her stomach, but it did little to calm her frazzled nerves. She needed to tell him that he’d hurt her, but the words were stuck in her throat.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  The words caught her completely by surprise. Her eyes, saucer-wide, lifted to face him.

  “I was angry earlier, by the pool, and not with you.” His jaw was squared tight. “You had every right to ask your questions. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”