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

  Billionaires

  Clare Connelly

  Contents

  About the Author

  Join the Club

  Regret Me Not

  The Velasco Love Child

  Rakanti’s Indecent Proposition

  The Greek’s Marriage Revenge

  The Brazilian’s Forgotten Lover

  The Tycoon’s Summer Seduction

  Seducing the Spaniard

  The Billionaire’s Untouched Bride

  Now in Audio

  Join the Club

  Books By Clare Connelly

  About the Author

  Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.

  From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)

  Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.

  Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.

  Join the Club

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  Check out a full list of books and bio at

  www.clareconnelly.com

  Follow Clare on Social Media as @Clarewriteslove (because she does)

  And if you loved this book, please take a moment to leave a review once you’re done. Thank you!

  All the characters in the following books are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

  The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.

  First published as an anthology 2020

  This copyright notice covers all books contained within this anthology.

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: [email protected]

  Follow Clare Connelly on facebook for all the latest.

  Join Clare’s Newsletter to stay up to date on all the latest CC news. http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk/subscribe.html

  Regret Me Not

  Prologue

  Three years ago

  SHE WAS SILK BENEATH his fingertips, soft and smooth and his body craved hers again now, despite the fact they’d spent the whole night wrapped together, limbs entwined, mouths seeking. He’d been hungry in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time – if ever – and he was hungry for her now.

  He shifted carefully in the bed, angling his face towards hers so he could see her better, the soft light of dawn filtering in almost a sufficient amount to shape the features he knew so well by touch.

  It was her eyes he’d noticed first. Almost too-large for her face, and so shimmering brown they were like liquid gold. They’d been both trusting and cynical and if there was one thing in life Fiero Montebello understood, it was contradictions. He understood happiness and pleasure, like this, in the midst of extreme pain and shock. A night out of time, a night to revel in his body’s instincts and strength, when the body of the man who had raised him, his beloved grandfather, was simultaneously close to death. This night had been a reprieve, a release, a way to exist on a purely sensual level, to close off his emotions and thoughts and simply enjoy bodily pleasures.

  How long had it been since he’d done this?

  Lips that were full and pouting without her notice were parted now, her soft breath sounds filled the room. Her nose had a lift at the end, like a little ski-jump and there was a cluster of tiny, faint freckles which danced across her cheekbones – he’d laid kisses there the night before, wanting to kiss her all over, taste all of her, thinking he could do so and be done.

  But it had been years since he’d felt his body move with passion like this, years since he’d obeyed his body’s commands, and finally succumbing to temptation had driven him wild. He felt wild now, filled with needs and almost selfish enough to wake her, so that they might start answering them together.

  But it was wrong.

  Wrong to be here, wrong to have come, wrong to have gone to her bed, to have made love to her until she was crying his name – Fiero – as if the very flames of hell were at her back and he the only possible way to douse them.

  He was a married man.

  His lips stretched into a grimace as he thought of that – of his wife, and how little was left of their marriage. They’d agreed to separate. They’d both signed the divorce papers, in fact. But his grandfather’s illness made it impossible, for now. To pain the older man in the twilight years of his life meant they must – on the surface – continue to appear as a ‘married couple’, despite the fact she’d moved out of the home they’d shared, despite the fact their marriage was colder than a long-dead fish.

  He suppressed a groan of frustration. Which meant what, exactly? That this wasn’t wrong?

  It was a fine line. He could make his peace with it, but what of his young lover, who’d so willingly given her body over to pleasure, who’d opened herself up to him so trustingly? If she were to discover that he had a wife back in Italy, albeit in name only?

  And the press? If they were to discover this, and Gianfelice awoke to yet another scandal in the papers?

  No. He couldn’t risk it.

  His body screamed at him in regret, but Fiero knew what he must do. Pushing back the covers, he stood, taking the time to commit her appearance, at least, to memory, in the hope it would be sufficient comfort in the days to come – when he would no doubt kick himself for having done something so foolish and walked away from her without one last time, one last kiss, one last everything.

  He gathered his clothes and dressed quietly in the small lounge room of her flat. He took in the details on autopilot – the neatness and order, the books categorised by author surname on the shelves across the room, the fresh cut flowers on the kitchen bench, a glass bowl overflowing with fresh, fragrant fruits, a colourful rug on the floor.

  The décor was just like she had been, when she’d walked into the restaurant unable to secure a table and he’d offered for her to join him. Eclectic, beautiful, serene, bright, fascinating…

  He stifled a groan and reached for the notepad and pen she kept on the kitchen bench. The first page had a few items neatly penned, a grocery list that made him smile when he read the contents: olive oil, bread, tea bags, vegemite. The last brought her Australian accent to mind and his gut kicked in a strange sensual response.

  He flipped the page and hovered the pen over it for a moment, balancing his words mentally before committing them to paper.

  I had a great night. You were perfect. He paused, knowing he needed to walk away, to force a clean break. It had
been one night, there was nothing between them, no expectations, no promises. He’d been very careful there.

  Nonetheless, he found himself adding: If you ever need anything… and placing his business card beside the note. It was simple and discreet – FIERO MONTEBELLO and his cell number. Nothing more, no mention of his job title or industry. Then again, the Montebello name really needed no introduction. They owned airlines, hotels, fashion chains, and pharmaceutical interests. The name was synonymous with being a titan of industry.

  He left the card and then strode out of the apartment, pulling the door closed quietly behind himself, and mentally doing the same thing.

  It had been one of the best nights of his life, but now it was morning, and he had to get back to his real life.

  That didn’t include Elodie Gardiner.

  1

  IT HAD BEEN THREE years, almost to the day, but he could still see her perfectly in his mind, the mental snap-shot he’d taken of her before striding out of her flat in Earls Court embedded in his brain somehow, so nothing and no one seemed able to dislodge it.

  But she wasn’t that woman anymore.

  He stood rigid across the hospital room, his body completely still, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. Her face was badly bruised down one side, and blood was dry and clumped in the roots of her silky, dark hair. She wore a hospital gown. One arm was in a cast as was a leg, including an ankle. Her toenails were painted the palest pink, just like the night they’d slept together. Memories seared him, threatening to pull him out of the present, and he couldn’t let that happen.

  “What is the prognosis?” He spoke with the command that came naturally to him, a command that wasn’t a by-product of his birth into one of the world’s wealthiest families, nor was it because he was responsible for one sixth of that company’s empire. No, his command was innate to him, a part of his character and soul, a marker of the Montebello arrogance that ran through each of their veins.

  “Hard to say,” the nurse didn’t look up. “Her bones’ll mend, though she’ll be in a lot of pain for weeks, I’d say. She’ll likely need rehab to get back on her feet properly.”

  He narrowed his eyes, acutely aware of the fact the nurse was carefully hedging, choosing her words with care. “But there’s something else - something you’re not saying?”

  The nurse lifted her eyes to Fiero’s, her expression wary. “Who are you to Miss Gardiner?”

  Nobody. The word rattled through him but he rejected it out of hand. They weren’t ‘nobody’ to one another. It had been three years but that night was alive in his mind, as though it had been only yesterday. Apparently, the reverse was true. Why else would she have asked for him to be called? Three years, and yet she’d been in an accident and his had been the name she’d given.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, the last hour a blur. His meeting with the British Prime Minister, conveniently in Westminster, and then the call from the hospital.

  It’s Ang from the Royal High and Free in Kensington. Elodie Gardiner’s been in an accident and she’s put you as her emergency contact.

  The words had echoed through him, bringing to bear memories of a night he rarely let himself think about, of a woman who had been breathtakingly beautiful – all the more so for how forbidden she’d been to him.

  He didn’t know why she’d listed him as an emergency contact. Something about that hurt him low in his ribs, because it spoke of an intense loneliness and vulnerability. Was he truly the only person she could think of in a time like this?

  But then – that didn’t make sense. It had been three years, surely she hadn’t spent her life in a void of friendship and people? Not someone like Elodie who sparked from her every piece of her being.

  “She’s unconscious,” he murmured, taking a step towards the bed and wincing at how battered she was, at the pain she would be in when the morphine eventually stopped easing it.

  “Mmm.” The nurse was no longer drip-feeding information but that didn’t matter. Fiero was on his own path now.

  “Was she unconscious when she came in?”

  The nurse compressed her lips, clearly not keen to divulge anything to a man who might very well be a stranger.

  “I’m her emergency contact,” he said with authority even as the question of ‘why’ hung over his head.

  The nurse looked at him for several beats longer and then sighed impatiently. “Hang about. I’ll go see what I can find.”

  It was Fiero’s turn for impatience. “Where is her doctor?”

  The nurse reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “We’re waiting on the neurologist consultant to arrive. She’s on call; we’ve paged her.”

  He stifled a curse and swept his eyes shut. “Do you mean to tell me there might be neurological issues here and we are waiting?”

  The nurse flinched a little. “I can page her again.”

  “Do that.” But Fiero was already reaching for his own phone, pulling it out of his pocket and dialling his personal assistant, ignoring the ‘no mobile phone’ sign near the door of the room. The nurse clearly thought better of pointing it out. She moved quickly from the room.

  Fiero was alone with Elodie.

  Three years.

  His body radiated tension as he moved the rest of the way to the side of the bed. Of his own accord, his fingers lifted to the hand that wasn’t in a sling. He stroked it gently, his eyes sweeping shut, impossibly long, black lashes curling against his dark skin.

  His assistant answered his phone call.

  Instincts took over.

  Springing his eyes open, he spoke in rapid-fire Italian. Where is the best hospital in London? How quickly could a private helicopter ambulance be arranged? Clear his meetings for the week. Everything. Yes, the dinners too. He disconnected the call and stared down at her, knowing that for whatever reason she’d given his details to the hospital, he was glad for it. Glad because he was the right person to make sure she got the very best care. Cost was irrelevant.

  She would be well again.

  “Dr Hassan won’t be long,” the nurse breezed back in, holding a plastic cup half-filled with water. She passed it to Fiero and he took it without acknowledging it.

  “What happened?”

  “A car accident.” The nurse had now apparently obtained the authority to speak freely with him. “I don’t know the details, but she was lucky it wasn’t worse. She was nipped as she stepped onto the curb, thrown across the footpath. Her head collided with a shop window, hence the lacerations and bruising.” The nurse clucked sympathetically. “Caused quite a commotion.”

  His nod was tight.

  “She’s been in and out of consciousness since,” the nurse continued.

  He suppressed the desire to drill her on the hospital’s policy with neurological admits. His assistant would be arranging everything – soon Elodie would be getting proper care.

  “And she asked for me?” He prompted, that piece of the puzzle making little sense at the same time it somehow did. Wasn’t that how it had been, on their short night together? Contradictions everywhere. How right it felt even when he’d known it to be wrong. How he’d felt as though he’d known her forever when they’d only just met.

  The nurse frowned. “No.”

  He jerked his gaze away from Elodie. “But the hospital called…”

  “You were listed on her admissions paperwork.”

  “She had time to fill out paperwork?”

  “From last time,” the nurse corrected.

  “Last time?”

  “Mmm. A previous admission.”

  “And she listed me as her emergency contact then, not now?” This was making marginally more sense. If she’d been admitted some time shortly after they’d met, perhaps he’d been all she could think of.

  She’d only been in London a short while before he’d met her. She hadn’t known many people, she’d said, as they’d walked to her apartment.

  “Must have done.”

&nb
sp; He turned his attention back to Elodie and something clutched in his chest. He hated hospitals with a passion. He’d spent too much time in them. Too much time seeing people he cared for being crushed by life.

  “So she didn’t ask for me now?”

  “She wasn’t in a state to ask for anyone, love.”

  Love? Christo. When had anyone called him such a thing?

  His eyes flashed with his searing sense of frustration. This nurse was moving so slowly, acting as though nothing was the matter. His nostrils flared as he exhaled a harsh, disapproving breath.

  “I want that neurologist immediately.”

  “She’s on her way.”

  Dr Hassan entered the room a moment later, a clipboard in her hands. She walked quickly, efficiently, urgently, and Fiero appreciated that. This was an urgent situation.

  She spoke in clipped tones. “Swelling in the brain is going down nicely, though it’s going to be days before we can do a proper assessment.”

  Nausea ran through Fiero. Elodie had been sharp as a whip that night, and so funny. Any kind of brain injury was terrible and traumatic but somehow the idea of it affecting Elodie was so much worse.

  “In your experience, though? How does it look?” His voice was surprisingly gravelled.

  “I can’t comment.”

  “I’m not going to hold you to it, Doctor. I’m simply asking for an insight into what you’ve seen before and your best guess.”

  Doctor Hassan shifted her gaze to Fiero’s. “I don’t deal in guesswork, Mr Montebello. I will tell you it’s not the worst brain injury I’ve seen, and that I’d be optimistic for a full and meaningful recovery. But naturally there can be unforeseen complications. It’s a long road ahead, with no guarantees.”