My Lonely Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 4)

by Serenity Woods

  “I’d rather do that than glue my gaze to the tarmac and never see the sky.”

  He looks down at me, but he makes no attempt to touch me. No hug, no kiss. I know I should make an effort to reach out to him. You get back what you give out, was another of my mother’s epithets. But I can’t bear to see him recoil, or to feel him stiffen when I slip my arms around him. I can’t bear the rejection. And so I turn away, pick up my purse, and slip past him.

  “What time will you be back?” he asks.

  “Not sure,” I reply, taking my jacket from the peg by the front door. Paula told me the hours are nine to twelve, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so I could be home by twelve-thirty, but I feel a stubborn refusal to admit it. This afternoon I might go to the movies. Try to cheer myself up a bit. Although we can’t really afford it. Maybe just go for a drive, then. Take in the beauty of the bay.

  I leave the house and close the door behind me.

  Ooh, it’s chilly today. Winterless north, my ass. I get into the car, start it, and put the heater on, blowing onto my hands as it warms up. The vehicle rattles and bangs like a clown car. Jeez, I hope it hangs in there; the last thing we can afford is a new car. “I hope the summer here is as good as everyone says it is,” I say to Peanut. That’s the nickname I’ve given to the baby, because the first time I saw it on the scan, it looked like a peanut. I’ll think of something a bit nicer for his or her real name.

  I head out of town and take the turnoff to the Waitangi Treaty Grounds. I haven’t been there yet. Tom’s not interested in history, and you have to pay to get in, so it’s a treat I’ll have to save for when I’ve started up the business again and I have a little extra money.

  I indicate at the turnoff for Noah’s Ark and drive slowly up the road. Paula told me Noah’s house lies beyond the Ark, and I can see the road curving around to a large house built high on a hill. It must have an amazing view of the bay.

  I slow the car as I drive past the Ark. It’s bigger than I thought. Paula said the cyclone damaged the corner of the building, and sure enough it’s just a scatter of bricks, and I can see where they’ve sawn off the big tree that apparently crashed through the roof.

  I stop the car by the entrance, leaving the engine running. The front of the main building is covered with a huge, colorful mural of different breeds of cats and dogs in an ark. The sign nearby says there’s a veterinary clinic, a daycare facility, and a grooming center. There’s also a petting farm to one side, and a cluster of office buildings. It’s an impressive site. Paula said Noah is the brains behind the project, although he has several cousins who work there, too.

  A woman of around my own age is approaching the gate to the car park next to the entrance, and she smiles at me, changing her direction to approach my car. I lower the window, embarrassed to be caught gawping.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “Can I help at all?” She’s tall and slender, with long dark hair in a braid. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with an SPCA badge, and underneath it are the words Animal Welfare Inspector. I like her already.

  “I’m heading up to Mr. King’s house,” I tell her. “I just stopped for a moment to have a look at the Ark as I haven’t been here before.”

  “Oh, you must be Abigail.” She holds out her hand. “Noah said you were coming. I’m Izzy; I’m one of the vets at the center.”

  “Oh, hello.” I shake her hand. “This place looks amazing. I’m so sorry to hear about the damage.”

  “Blessing in disguise,” Izzy says. “We’re redesigning. We really needed more rooms, and we’re going to open a boarding kennels as well.” She straightens as a man approaches from behind.

  “Jesus, it’s freezing out here.” He shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks up to us. He’s a big guy, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, in a boy-next-door kind of way. “Hi.” He smiles at me.

  “This is Abigail,” Izzy says. “Noah’s new friend. Abigail, this is Hal.”

  I flush at her use of the word ‘friend’ as I shake hands with Hal. “Abby, please. And I’m his housekeeper,” I correct. “I haven’t even met him yet.”

  “Oh, you’ll be friends,” Hal says. “Noah gets on with everyone.” He smiles again, warming me through on this cold day.

  “If you want to have a look around the Ark, I’d be happy to show you sometime,” Izzy says. “Most days when I’m not on call I’m free at lunch around one.”

  “Thank you, I might take you up on that.” I haven’t made any friends since moving to the bay, and her generosity touches me. My throat tightens—baby hormones again.

  “I’d better go,” I say, my voice a little husky. “Don’t want to be late on my first day.”

  Hal grins. “Just carry along this road and it’ll take you straight there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bye.” Izzy waves, and the two of them start walking back to the Ark. He puts his arms around her shoulders, and she slips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. It’s a familiar gesture you wouldn’t make with a colleague, so they’re obviously an item. For the first few years, there’s a need to constantly touch each other, to mark out your territory, to prove your love. Tom and I used to do things like that.

  I put the car into drive and head down the road to the house at the end.

  I pull up out the front and turn off the engine. The house is huge. Feeling as if I’m playing a role in a New Zealand version of Downton Abbey, I get out of the car and approach the front door. I’ve never cleaned for anyone before. Tom says it’s demeaning doing someone else’s dirty washing and scrubbing their floors, but it’s good, honest work, and I’d rather do it than move boxes in a warehouse.

  As I reach the front door, it opens. And this must be Noah. He smiles as I walk up to him. He’s moderately tall, maybe six foot, a little shorter and slenderer than Hal. He doesn’t look anything like him, really. He has gray hair, so he must be older, maybe forty or so, and lines at the corners of his eyes. He’s gorgeous, though, and his smile is warm. That’s a surprise. I was expecting someone weasel-like and nervous, cowering behind the door.

  “You must be Abigail,” he says, stepping back to let me in, and holding out a hand. “I’m Noah.”

  “Hello.” I slip my hand into his, and his warm fingers close around mine in a strong grip. His eyes meet mine briefly. His are an attractive violet blue, like the sky, late on a summer evening.

  He closes the door behind me and releases my hand. “Can I take your jacket?”

  “Oh, thank you.” I unzip it, surprised when he moves behind me to take it from me as it slides down my arms. A gentlemanly maneuver. Tom’s never done anything like that in all the years we’ve been together.

  He hangs it on the peg by the door and gestures for me to precede him into the house. I walk forward, forgetting everything as I take in the magnificent room in front of me. It’s all open-plan, the entrance hall leading to a large kitchen on my left, and down a slope to the living room beyond. It’s huge, with a high ceiling that makes it feel a bit like a cathedral. The whole of the front wall is glass, looking out onto a deck that stretches the length of the house. To the left is an octagonal conservatory housing two German Shepherds; I can see their noses pressed up against the glass, watching me.

  I walk across the living room and up to the windows, my jaw dropping at the sight of the Bay of Islands spread out before me. It’s truly magnificent.

  “Not a bad view,” Noah says, joining me by the window. I look up at him; he’s smiling.

  “It’s amazing,” I tell him. “Can you get down to the beach from here?”

  “Yes, there’s a pathway over there.” He points to a gate in the fence that runs around the garden. “It goes all the way down to the beach. I take the dogs there most mornings. They love the walk.”

  I’m surprised for the third time in as many minutes. I thought he didn’t go out of the house at all.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” I tell him, somewhat wistfully. I can’t imagine ever havi
ng the kind of money that would enable me to live somewhere like this. We rent a very small one-bedroomed cottage. We’ve been late on the fortnightly rent twice since we moved there four months ago, and we’re going to be late this time too.

  But there’s no point in worrying about it. Worry doesn’t pay the bills. Hopefully Noah will pay me for today’s work, and with this and Friday’s cleaning, and the little I have put aside, I should have enough to pay the rent.

  One thing at a time, I tell myself. It’s how I live now. Day to day. Minute to minute, almost. There’s no point in looking too far ahead.

  It only makes me sad.

  Chapter Three

  Noah

  Abigail’s lost in thought, staring out of the window, although I don’t think she’s seeing the view.

  She’s not at all what I expected. Paula said Abigail is her friend, and so I’d expected her to be older, maybe late thirties or early forties, pregnant with her third or fourth child. But she looks Izzy’s age, around thirty, with long glossy chestnut-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s wearing soft black pants and a blue T-shirt over the top. Her bump pushes the fabric out, but she’s actually quite thin, lacking the extra pregnancy weight most women seem to gain.

  She has dark shadows under her eyes, and I’m reminded once again of Paula’s comments, “she’s desperate for money,” “she’s struggling a bit,” and “she’s had a tough time.” I’m startled by the thought that she might not be eating enough. She looks sad, not at all how a pregnant woman excited about the birth of her baby should look.

  Despite this, there’s something beautiful and elegant about her. She’s like an exquisite painting, the Girl with a Pearl Earring, all pale skin and big brown eyes.

  Her gaze comes back to me now, and she blinks a couple of times as if she’s remembering where she is. “Sorry,” she says, “I zoned out for a minute. I keep doing that lately.”

  “They say every child you have destroys a quarter of your brain,” I tell her, wanting to see what she looks like when she smiles.

  Her lips curve up a little. “I struggle enough with a whole working brain, let alone three-quarters of one.”

  So it’s her first child. I push away the memories of Lisa hovering in the corner of my mind and gesture with my head for her to follow me across the room. “So, do you prefer Abigail or Abby?”

  “Abby’s fine,” she says.

  “Okay. Let me show you around and tell you what Paula liked to do. It’s up to you then. Anything you can manage will be great.” I don’t want to patronize her, but equally I don’t want her thinking she has to work her fingers to the bone to earn her money.

  She gives me a strange look. “You’re the boss. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  “If you have that sort of mentality we’re going to get along fine.”

  She gives a little laugh, the tension disappearing from her shoulders. Wow, she’s really quite beautiful.

  “Shall I call you Mr. King?” she asks, a little shyly.

  “Oh God, don’t start, you’re as bad as Paula. It’s Noah. Come this way.”

  I lead her into the large dining room that stretches the width of the house. It has a long wooden table that seats twelve, with a central section that can be lifted out to expand it to seat sixteen.

  “Wow,” she says. “Do you entertain a lot?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Do you do the cooking?” She wanders over to the window that overlooks the valley.

  “Sometimes,” I admit. “I have to be in the mood.”

  “Paula said she prepares you dinners.”

  “Yes, she’s been very good to me. She was worried I wasn’t eating enough. I tend to forget when I’m working.”

  She turns and surveys me. Her gaze slips down me like a silk scarf, sending a shiver down my spine. “You are a little on the thin side.”

  “You can talk,” I tease. “You’re supposed to be eating for two.”

  “Rent comes before food,” she says brightly, as if it’s a joke. I don’t laugh, though, so she turns and walks through to the kitchen.

  So I was right—it’s a money issue. I wait a moment, and then I follow her.

  “This is a beautiful kitchen,” she says, running her fingertips over the equipment. “Oh, what an amazing food processor.”

  It’s a top-of-the-range Sunbeam, with every shredding, grating, and slicing blade you could ever need.

  “I understand you’re a baker,” I say, not wanting to admit the processor cost seven hundred dollars.

  “Yes. I had a cake-decorating business down in Hamilton.”

  “You’ve moved up here recently?”

  “Four months ago.” She opens a drawer and checks out the utensils. “We’re having a fresh start.” She speaks without enthusiasm.

  So she has a partner, then. And they’ve had problems. Are continuing to, by the almost indistinguishable touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Come this way,” I say softly.

  I lead her across the kitchen and entrance hallway to the other part of the house. On the right is my office—an airy room with lots of light. My desk sits by the window, and there’s another table covered in plans for the rebuilding of the Ark. A couple of filing cabinets stand against the wall. That’s about it. I like space.

  “This is where the magic happens?” she asks with a smile. “I heard you were the brains behind the Ark.”

  “I was the initial spark. The light bulb, if you like. Everyone else did all the work.” I lead her out and across the hallway to the gym.

  “Jesus.” She stops in the doorway and stares. “Are you training for the Olympics or something?”

  I look at the various pieces of equipment, the weights, the treadmill. “I don’t go out of the house,” I point out. “It’s important to get some sort of exercise.”

  She lifts her gaze to me then. We’re standing quite close together, in the doorway, and I can see every detail of her face. Her skin is flawless, pale and smooth, apart from a scar, probably from chickenpox, on her chin. She also has a small mole on her right cheekbone. Her eyes are dark brown around the pupil, but light brown, like warm caramel, around the edge of the iris. She has long girly lashes.

  “You said you walk the dogs,” she whispers.

  “That’s true. But it’s more of a meander. Spike can’t go that fast on the sand. He’s in a wheelchair.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Your dog?”

  “Yeah, he was in a car accident and damaged his spine. I had a wheelchair made for him. He’s fine now, but sometimes his wheels get stuck in the sand.” I smile.

  She blinks a few times as if she has no idea what to make of me. “Paula said you have agoraphobia.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind talking about it?”

  I look at the floor for a moment. I’m not used to discussing it with other people. I’ve accepted who I am and that it’s not going to go away, and I’ve learned to live with it. Occasionally, I’ll get a gentle prod from Leon, my brother, or one of my cousins, to come to dinner, because they feel as if they should ask every few months, but otherwise, my friends and family don’t mention it. If I’m organizing meetings, such as the one with the architect, I tell them I’d rather it be at my house, and they rarely ask why. Sometimes I think it’s because Leon or one of the others has quietly told them, at other times it’s because people are rarely interested in anything but themselves. So it’s unusual for someone to ask me about it outright.

  “No, I don’t mind,” I reply, lifting my gaze to hers. It’s only fair, if she’s coming to work here. I can imagine how strange it must seem to other people.

  She nibbles her bottom lip. “You don’t go out at all, apart from the beach?”

  “I went to the Ark a couple of times after the cyclone to check on the building progress, but I haven’t been this week.” I have tried. I’ve stepped outside a couple of times, but each time my heart begins to race, and I’ve ended up going back
indoors.

  Her gaze is gentle as it brushes over my face. “How does it make you feel if you go outside?”

  “Panicky.” It’s a broad term. It ranges from mild anxiety to full-blown fear. I try not to let myself get to that stage.

  “Do you worry that something is going to happen?”

  I slide my hands into my pockets. “Not consciously. Subconsciously… maybe. It’s gone way past any rational thought. I just associate being outside with feeling fear. But it’s okay. I’m happy here. I have no burning ambition to change now.”

  “What about if you need to see a doctor or something?”

  “I pay for them to visit me.”

  “It helps to have money,” she says.

  “It does. I appreciate it. We didn’t have money when we were young.”

  “You’re not from a rich family?”

  “No, not at all. My mother married my stepfather when I was thirteen. You might have heard of him—Matt King. The author of the Ward Seven stories.”

  Her jaw drops. “Of course I’ve heard of him. I’ve bought several of his books to read to Peanut when he’s born.”

  My lips curve up. “Peanut?”

  She gives a short laugh and strokes her bump. “It’s what I call him. Or her. Tom didn’t want to know the sex.” She turns away and continues walking slowly along the corridor. I fall into step beside her. She doesn’t like talking about her husband. I glance at her left hand; she’s not wearing a ring.

  She stops by the next room. “My bedroom,” I tell her as we stand in the doorway. It’s a large room, spacious, with little furniture. The bed faces the window and has an amazing view of the Pacific. There’s a bathroom off to the side, with a spacious bath, although I tend to use the shower more.

  She gives me a quick smile and continues on. There are several spare bedrooms at this end of the house. Leon, Hal, and Albie, used to stay here sometimes in the early days, if we’d had a few drinks and they couldn’t be bothered to drive home. Occasionally, if I have a dinner party, someone will stop over. The rooms are all pleasant and light.