The Deal--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 13

  There it is again. What do I want? For her to be jealous? That’s kind of petty.

  And stupid, given that I’m moving home in a few weeks with every intention of turning my lifestyle on its head completely, meeting someone who I can see a future with. A future that will look nothing like this. I’m not looking for someone I can laugh with and make love to all night long.

  ‘Do you ever think how different your life would have been if your fiancée hadn’t...?’

  ‘Left me at the altar in front of our nearest and dearest?’

  She winces. ‘That must have sucked.’

  I laugh, just a short, sharp noise of agreement. ‘That’s one word for it.’

  ‘I’m serious. You must have been livid.’

  ‘I was many things.’ I drain my beer and place it on the edge of the hot tub.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Livid, sure. Hurt. Heartbroken.’ I catch the speculation that sweeps across her expression. ‘That surprises you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You don’t think I have a heart?’ I can’t resist probing, my voice light.

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘When I said I was heartbroken you looked surprised.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You were getting married. It goes without saying you were in love with her.’

  I give Manhattan my full focus for a minute, studying the beautiful, sparkling high-rises. Something inside me pulls tight—the thought of leaving this behind is not something I relish, even though I know the time has come.

  ‘I wasn’t really.’ The admission isn’t one I’ve ever made, even to myself. ‘I wanted to love her. I suppose I thought that loving her would mean my parents hadn’t masterminded the marriage. That it would have come down to Saffy and me being right for each other.’ I grimace. ‘At least she figured it out before we made it official.’

  Imogen sits up a little higher, so her beautiful breasts in that lace bra float on the surface of the water.

  ‘Do you think you’d still be married, if she hadn’t?’

  ‘Probably. I didn’t love her but I liked her a lot, and I respected her. We enjoyed one another’s company. Our marriage made sense.’

  ‘Do you ever speak to her?’

  ‘No. Not for any reason—but I bear her no animosity.’

  ‘You’re far kinder than I would be. I mean, to leave someone on their wedding day—’

  Her indignation is palpable.

  ‘You think she should have married me just to avoid creating a scene?’

  ‘Well, no. I guess ideally she should have realised how she felt before it was your wedding day.’

  ‘It was a hard decision to make. She thought the wedding day would come and she’d feel okay about it. She didn’t. She didn’t know until she was living it.’

  ‘Still.’ Imogen’s lips twist with disapproval and I want to bottle this part of her—her indignation and spark are so uniquely her, she is incredibly fiery. ‘She deserves for you to hate her.’

  I grin. ‘To what end?’

  ‘Because she embarrassed you?’

  ‘I’m not so easily embarrassed,’ I say with a lift of my shoulders. ‘It sucked at the time. It was pretty shitty. So I went and got hammered. I got laid. And then I got on with my life.’

  Imogen’s eyes flare wide and I feel as if she wants to say something, but then she lets out a small sigh. ‘Selfishly, I’m very glad she didn’t marry you. It’s been very nice having you as my sex toy for a while.’

  It’s so completely not what I expect that I burst out laughing. I’m still laughing when she crosses the hot tub and sits in my lap, and I laugh right up until she kisses me. I stop laughing, and I kiss her right back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SEVEN DATES. WE’VE had seven dates and more soul-bursting orgasms than I can possibly keep track of. I shift in the bed and look at Nicholas with a feeling that is a lot like dread.

  He’s sleeping, lightly, and I can’t really blame him. It’s some time before dawn, the night wrapping around New York even as the city insists on twinkling with its sparkly lights. We went to a Broadway show last night and I teased him beforehand, that it was a bit predictable.

  He insisted it was a quintessential New York date and that I hadn’t really lived until I’d been taken to a Broadway show. I prepared to tease him all night, that it was cheesy or schmaltzy or something, but then he went and made it all ‘next level’ and I got caught up in the fairy tale of the whole thing.

  When he came to pick me up from my place, he brought a single red rose and a box of chocolate truffles—he’s very cleverly discovered how much I love them. We rode in his limousine with classical music playing, and, on arrival at the theatre, we were escorted to a private box where champagne and sushi were brought to us. We had our own butler for the duration. Afterwards, we walked back to his place, talking and laughing the whole way.

  He was right.

  It was a new experience, a different experience, and one I’m so glad to have shared with him. I mean, I’ve been to shows before, obviously, but never like that. It was...lovely.

  No, that’s so bland. It was perfection. It was heart-stopping.

  As was what happened after. My body hums and sings with the pleasures I experienced. Pleasures he gave me like gifts, beautiful little explosions of delight that have weaved their way into my soul.

  The Christmas gala is one week away. I’m looking down the barrel of workplace mayhem as I make sure everything is organised for our biggest event of the year. While every Billionaires’ Club party is a big deal, this is the one that draws almost the entire membership. It is our biggest fundraiser, a night not to be missed, and every year there’s an expectation that it will get bigger and better.

  And I think this year will be pretty epic—but I can’t risk anything going wrong. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let anything rob me of my focus. And yet, Nicholas definitely does that, and I wouldn’t, for all the stars in the sky, put a premature end to this.

  I’m already dreading the gala purely for the fact it’s our line in the sand, the end to what we’re doing. I know how fast this week’s going to go.

  I contemplate reaching for him, running my hand over his taut stomach, and lower still, waking him with my hands or my mouth, drawing him none-too-gently from his sleep. But he’s so peaceful and despite the fact tomorrow—no, today—is Sunday, I have to go down to one of the Chance facilities to give a talk. As tempted as I am for round two hundred, I know where my duties lie.

  I push the sheet back with serious regrets and tiptoe out of his bed, out of his room, and I tell myself not to look back.

  * * *

  I sleep until midday then dress quickly—jeans and a sweater, a simple black coat and flats for today. I don’t dress up for Chance sessions. The whole thing is to be relatable to these guys. They have enough adults in their lives that don’t get them. I want them to see me as a friend, someone they can trust.

  One of the things that’s become harder as the charity’s grown is that I get to do way less of this hands-on stuff than I’d like. I don’t get to talk to as many of our kids, I don’t get to meet them all. I’ve hired amazing staff, though, and I check in with them with enough regularity to know when things are working, and when they’re not.

  Where’d you go?

  The text message from Nicholas comes through as I arrive at our Brooklyn Chance headquarters. I smile.

  I didn’t want to wake you, Sleeping Beauty.

  I add an emoji with its tongue poking out.

  Why didn’t you stay?

  But we’ve talked about that. I feel better not actually sleeping the night—which is a silly distinction, but one that somehow makes sense. Boundaries will be my saviour when all of him is a sink hole, drawing me closer, making me want him, making me need him in
a way I definitely didn’t expect.

  I have a thing today.

  A thing?

  Alicia Waterman, the manager of this Chance facility, walks towards me, her no-nonsense air instantly reassuring. I only have time to dash out a quick reply.

  I’m giving a talk to some Chance kids in Brooklyn. I’ll call you later.

  ‘Alicia.’ I stuff my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘All good to go?’

  ‘All ready.’ She nods crisply, falling into step beside me. ‘There’s a huge turnout. Over two hundred.’

  I let out a low whistle. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Will you have time afterwards for a quick sit-down? I need to talk to you about some of our vocational partners.’

  ‘Uh oh. That doesn’t sound good.’

  Her smile is tight. ‘I’m sure it will be fine; just a hiccough. I just need to go through some options.’

  A presentiment of concern moves down my spine. ‘You’re sure?’

  She grimaces. ‘It’ll wait.’

  ‘Okay, fine. After.’

  ‘You need anything?’

  I survey the disused warehouse we’ve converted into a loft space. The high ceilings give it a feeling of freedom, and the office partitions are all on wheels, meaning for events like today we can move them around to open it right up.

  My heart bursts as I step into the building.

  Pride, unmistakable, is like a firefly dancing through my system. I did this. All these people are here because of me, and all of them have a chance because of me. And because of Abbey. I close my eyes and picture Abbey, and the ever-present sense of purpose has me pushing up towards the stage at the front of the room.

  There’s a lot of chatter but as I take the steps it quietens down a little. I stand at the lectern, push my phone onto silent, sip the water and begin to talk.

  I love this—speaking to these kids. I used to get nervous but very quickly I realised that it’s not about me, it’s about them. I’m here to tell them what they need to hear, to give them what has been missing in their lives.

  I speak from the heart, and close everything else out.

  * * *

  I didn’t plan to come here, but when Imogen messaged to say she was speaking at a Chance function, curiosity got the better of me. Before I knew it, I’d done a quick search and was flying my helicopter towards Brooklyn.

  It doesn’t occur to me until I’m almost inside the warehouse that she might not have wanted me to come. I contemplate waiting outside, but that’s just dumb. She won’t care.

  Besides, I want to see this. I want to see what she does when she’s not facilitating a club where the world’s super-rich elite blow off steam.

  The room is completely silent, despite the fact it’s full of kids. They’re older kids, teens, mostly. I move to the back of the room.

  An efficient-looking woman with a clipboard and short black hair regards me with a look of curiosity and scepticism. I nod at her, as if I belong, and stand against the wall.

  My eyes fall on Imogen and something locks inside me.

  ‘My meemaw used to have a saying.’ She smiles, naturally, comfortably, her eyes skimming the room, and I can tell that she has a gift with this, with making every single person in the space feel as though she’s talking only to them. ‘You can’t see a dolphin when the water’s choppy but that don’t mean it’s not there.’ She does a perfect southern accent, as she did the day I came looking for Miss Anonymous. It makes me grin.

  ‘I know you’re all here today because the waters around you are choppy.’ She takes a minute to let that sink in, her expression shifting so it’s serious, sympathetic. I feel compassion bursting from her every pore. ‘Maybe it’s worse than choppy. Maybe you feel like you have a tsunami bearing down on you with nowhere to go. But that’s not the case. Chance is your port in the storm, your anchor, your home and your family. You belong here with us, you’re one of us, and we will do everything we can to help you.’ Her eyes scan the room once more, and this time, they pass over me then skid back, surprise showing on her face for the briefest of moments so I feel a wedge of guilt, as if maybe I’ve driven her off course.

  But she smiles, right at me, and my stomach soars, then she continues seamlessly. ‘Just because the water’s choppy doesn’t mean there isn’t a dolphin—you have a dolphin inside you, your future is out there, bright and waiting for you to grab it with both hands. I’m so proud of you all, and I’m thrilled you’re a part of the Chance family. You belong here. Merry Christmas.’

  The audience erupts, a huge applause that is almost deafening in this cavernous space. When she smiles, she looks so sweet and young, not at all like the founder of The Billionaires’ Club.

  She waves a hand and steps off the stage, and my pride in her catches me completely by surprise. I can’t take credit for how good she is at this; it has nothing to do with me. And yet I feel an immense wave of warmth.

  The woman with the clipboard takes the stage. She speaks for a few minutes, directing everyone to a table set up against the wall, loaded with pastries and hot chocolates. A better look shows there’s a second table, which looks to be overflowing with coats and jumpers, all neatly folded, ready for new owners to take them home.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She comes up from behind me, her smile bright and perfect.

  I can’t help it. I dip my head down and kiss her, so overwhelmed by how great she did, by the words she spoke, by the power she wields to make a true difference.

  But she pulls away quickly, her eyes skittering around the room. ‘Nicholas.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not here. There are people here who know me.’

  Shit.

  We’re dating secretly. And I completely forgot. I forgot this is all kind of pretend. Not real. It’s not my place to act like the doting boyfriend, which I’m definitely not.

  I forgot myself for a second.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, sincerely. ‘I was just so proud of you.’

  Her smile is back, her eyes twinkling. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pull it together, you soppy bastard. ‘Christ, you were amazing up there.’

  She blinks quickly, as if she’s trying to combat tears or something. ‘I have to talk to Alicia. Can you wait?’

  ‘Yeah.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘I can wait.’

  She squeezes my hand discreetly. ‘Mingle.’ Her smile is pure sensual promise. ‘Eat something yummy.’

  I lean a little closer. ‘Oh, I intend to.’

  Her cheeks glow and I laugh as she walks away, before doing just as she instructed, and find myself talking to a sixteen-year-old called Isaac, whose parents kicked him out of home when he came out to them as gay. He’s smart and polite, and, when he tells me he was living on the streets until three months ago when someone told him about Chance, I feel like finding out where his parents are so I can go and give them some hard truths.

  He introduces me to one of his friends, a girl called Bryony, whose parents died when she was thirteen. She was taken in by her aunt, but they fought non-stop. She ran away from home and ended up in Brooklyn, working as a prostitute until she found Chance.

  My gut tightens.

  These poor kids.

  And their guardian angel, Imogen.

  It’s hard to fathom the effect this has on me—seeing for myself what she’s doing, how hard she’s worked to make a difference. I feel immediately impotent and completely selfish. I’ve worked my arse off these past five years but for what? To make myself richer? To make my family’s already considerable fortune greater?

  When this is how people live?

  ‘Hey.’ She appears at my side, and her smile is a little tighter now, her eyes less sparkly.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her eyes run over the room and before she can say anything else, a young teenager, ma
ybe thirteen, comes bounding up to her.

  ‘Imogen!’ She puts her arms around Imogen’s waist and Imogen dips down lower to wrap the girl in a proper hug.

  ‘Sasha. I was hoping I’d see you today. How are you, sweetheart?’

  ‘Good. I got something for you.’

  ‘You did?’ Imogen frowns. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.’

  ‘I know. But I saw it and I thought of you. Hang on. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  Imogen slides a glance at me. ‘She’s twelve. She became a part of Chance four years ago, when her parents were going through a divorce. Her mom was living in a car at the time. Sasha was stealing stuff from bodegas to get by.’ She shakes her head wistfully.

  Sasha appears a second later. ‘Here.’ She hands a small bag over. Imogen opens it and laughs, pulling out some saltwater taffy. ‘I remember you saying you love it.’ Sasha grins and Imogen nods.

  ‘I do. So much. You’ve spoiled me.’

  Sasha beams. I’m completely transfixed by Imogen’s look of gratitude and surprise—that someone who does so much for so many should be genuinely chuffed by such a token gift. It’s...charming. And...beautiful. No. Lovely.

  She’s lovely.

  She quizzes Sasha. ‘Did you get something to eat?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And a jacket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go pick one out, honey.’ Imogen waves towards the table. ‘The forecast is for more snow this week.’

  ‘I know. Merry Christmas.’

  Another hug, and as Sasha disappears into the crowd again Imogen’s eyes are moist. ‘You ready to go?’ she asks, looking up at me.

  ‘Sure. You can leave already?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her smile is dented. I wait until we’re outside before I ask her what’s going on.

  I like that she doesn’t try to fob me off. She could have, but, then again, I’ve come to know her pretty well and I don’t think I’d be convinced by a lie. Something’s bothering her, something other than the sight of so many kids in need of Chance’s support.