Romancing the Undercover Millionaire

by Clare London

  Tate blinked hard and waited with bated breath for Hugo’s response.

  “So if he’s the boss’s son, he’s got lots of money now, right?” Hugo said. “That’s great. He can get me and Hattie new footballs.”

  “Only at Christmas,” Alex said, with a wink at the H’s.

  “Sensible boy,” Gran murmured by Tate’s ear.

  What could Tate do? It was all too much, too much love, too much hope, too much confusion and shock.

  He turned and left the kitchen.

  GRAN came and found him in the living room. For once, she didn’t immediately turn on the TV.

  “Gran?” For the first time in a long while, he turned to her as his own parental figure. “What should I do? It’s all been a shock. He’s not the person I thought he was.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy,” she snapped back. “That’s exactly what he is. A real diamond. It’s just the setting that’s changed.”

  Tate couldn’t disagree with that. “It wasn’t real. He lied to me.”

  “He was playing a game, like one of Amy’s ridiculous 3D puzzles. But, unlike her, he’s a grown man and realizes how stupid he was. He’s seen the error of his ways.”

  Tate found himself smiling, unbidden. “How do you know? How can I know?”

  “Tate, you have to let go.”

  “Of what?”

  Gran’s voice was soft. “Of your pride, your fear. Of a misplaced desire to be your parents. They would want us—you—to live your own life. We’re a team now, and we’re finding our own strengths.”

  “I miss them so much.” Tate could barely whisper.

  “I know. They’ve gone from life, my darling boy, I know that as well as you do, and I mourn it every day. But they’re still in our hearts. And now you have a chance to bring a new heart into your life.” She looked at him with fond, teary eyes and grabbed him in a huge, warm hug. Then slightly spoiled the sentimentality by hissing in his ear, “Don’t fuck it up, boy!”

  ALEX had shamelessly embellished the tale of their intrepid adventure—about the speed he’d driven to and from London, the blinding moment they discovered Stuart’s pass had been used, Tate’s courage in tackling Jamie, and Percy’s even more courageous one—in every retelling.

  “When I believe Percy’s never even played rugby!” Alex told the kids, having acted out the tackle. “Astonishing innate knowledge of back row strategy, I must say.”

  Now he and Tate were left alone in Tate’s room. No one had suggested setting out the sofa downstairs, though Gran had ostentatiously rushed the kids to bed before the issue arose. Tate and Alex undressed slowly, stopping to touch each other’s hand now and then, to sneak a tired kiss by Tate’s wardrobe as they hung up their shirts.

  “What do we do now?” Tate said quietly.

  “I was sort of hoping for reunion sex,” Alex said frankly.

  Tate chuckled. “Maybe soon. But I mean about you and me. How we make this work.”

  Alex swallowed hard. “Does that mean… you want to? Make it work, I mean?”

  Tate let his grin grow. “Yes. God, yes!”

  Alex grinned too. “I’m on the case, then. I’ve already appointed an agent to sell my London property. If you don’t want me to stay here, I can buy somewhere in town instead. I also have Papa’s PA working on a fully equipped office in Bristol, so I can work near you, if not with you.”

  “That’s fast!”

  “Tina is very good, I owe her a lot as a friend and colleague. Even if she ratted on me to Papa as soon as she got back from her holiday and discovered I wasn’t anywhere to be found.” He sat down on the bed and drew Tate down beside him. “If this is all too fast, tell me. But I’m not going away. Papa was right, I want to be my own man as well as a Bonfils one. And that means not letting go of the best thing I got out of this daft scheme of mine.”

  “You mean the dark hair?” Tate said slyly. When Alex laughed, he ran his hand through Alex’s silky hair, then leaned his head onto Alex’s shoulder. Slowly, their breathing settled into a similar pace.

  “You stood up to my father,” Alex murmured in an awed tone. “For me.”

  “Yeah. I protect my own,” Tate whispered and tugged Alex tighter.

  Alex sucked in a breath. “Can you… possibly… bear the money thing? Because I want us all to enjoy it.”

  “No spoiling, though.”

  “Jesus, Tate. I understand that for the kids, but all I’m talking about is a Game of Thrones box set for Gran—”

  Tate glared up, but Alex was wiggling his eyebrows and, dammit, Tate had to laugh. “Am I going to be some kind of kept man?”

  Alex looked unusually serious. “I want to keep you, but not like that. Not like a bribe.”

  The time had come, Tate realized, to reassure the usually so assured Alex Bonfils. He shifted on the bed, took Alex’s face in his hands, and kissed him firmly. “You don’t need money. I love you already.”

  “I… what? You do?” Alex’s eyes lit up. “So you don’t have a wish list like the rest of the family?”

  Tate couldn’t have described how happy he felt when Alex said “the” family, rather than “your” family. Maybe Alex didn’t even realize how he’d absorbed them—and been absorbed by them—so joyously. “Um. Wish list?”

  “Box sets for Gran, like I said. Footballs and guitar lessons for the twins. A robot for Amy, preferably one with full AI, she says, but at the least a fully interactive vocabulary. And luckily Freddie can’t write, or I suspect there’d be dog toys specified as well.”

  Tate laughed, and Alex hugged him closer.

  “See? No Somerton jet planes, no holiday homes, no designer knickers. This family will keep our feet on the ground. Though now I can revert to being sickeningly rich, there will be a few things on my own behalf….”

  “I can guess,” Tate said. “A decent coffee machine at the warehouse. New socks every time there’s a hole, so you can give up darning. A car.”

  They laughed together now, long and hard, and that somehow morphed into deep kissing. When they broke for a breathless moment, Tate found Alex had a final question for the day.

  “If I could bribe you, what would it take?”

  Tate gave it serious thought. Who hadn’t dreamed of winning the lottery, or inheriting a huge sum? “Contributions to local causes. A donation for the playground equipment. Better shower facilities at the warehouse for those who cycle to work. A range of quality but less expensive Bonfils wines, so the staff can drink as well as the management.”

  “Maybe monthly wine tastings. Excellent idea! I’ll look into it as a staff perk.” Alex’s eyes gleamed with the advent of ideas. “Nothing for you, personally?”

  Tate licked his lips and gathered up his courage. “Well…. You, staying here with me.”

  Alex’s gaze held him for a long, long moment. Then, “Consider it done,” he said softly.

  Tate’s heart leaped. “And maybe one night,” he added slyly, “I’d like us to smuggle ourselves back into the warehouse, turn off the CCTV, and meet in my office.”

  Alex flushed, very deeply, and very attractively.

  “And you know what would happen next,” Tate murmured into his ear, then nipped at Alex’s ear lobe. “Let’s start practicing that tonight.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later

  “SO. Tell me what you think.” Alex leaned over the carved white table on the tree-lined patio and gently tapped a fingernail on the glass of wine in Tate’s hand.

  “Give a guy time to think about it,” Tate said with a cheeky smile. It was late afternoon and the air had settled into a peaceful stillness. They sat in the charming garden of the Fairweather Vineyard, after all the tourists and almost all the staff had gone home. This was where the grapes for Angel’s Breath were grown, and Alex had confessed it was one of his favorite places to unwind.

  Tate could understand that. The countryside around Bristol was lovely, but this was farther into Devon, nearer the coast, and fur
ther from any city influence. They’d arrived in the afternoon, and Alex had taken Tate on a tour of the site. The sky was clear of all but wispy cloud, and the smell of the countryside was sharp and sweet. Tate had seen pictures of all the vineyards that supplied Bonfils wine, but had never actually strolled among the vines, ambling on the rich grass between the rows, watching the leaves ripple in the breeze and the bunches of grapes hang pendulously on stalks that looked barely up to the job.

  “They’re almost ripe and ready for picking,” Alex said. “That’ll happen later in the summer. Maybe we could come and help out, like Henri and I used to do.”

  “I’d like that,” Tate said.

  “Now, back to the tasting.” Alex gestured sternly at the small selection of glasses in front of Tate, each one half-full of sparkling white wine. “Don’t make me wait for my dinner any longer. Do you know what powers of management I had to conjure up in organizing time away from our darling family? Just so that we could have these few days together.”

  Our family. For Tate, that was never going to get old. “Hurts me to admit it, but I couldn’t have done it as efficiently.” It was the start of the summer holidays, when everybody would usually be at home full-time, but somehow Alex had arranged for the H’s to stay at a friend’s house for the week, Amy’s acceptance on a science tutoring course much to her ecstatic delight, and Gran’s delighted inclusion on a residential Sounds of the 50s trip at the local Butlins.

  “That’s because you don’t delegate,” Alex said promptly. “You run yourself ragged trying to juggle priorities, and you see any slip of control as a personal, potential failure.”

  Tate stared at him. A few months ago, if someone had said the same to him—and, in fact, Louise often had—Tate would have leaped to the defensive. Yet now he could see that he probably had been setting himself an impossible standard and ignored everything else he needed in life. Like time to be himself; to read a book all the way through; to pursue the sommelier course he’d recently been accepted for, and without any help from the Bonfils family themselves; and to be with Alex.

  But right now, he didn’t resent Alex for saying it. Alex was almost as bad on the self-sacrifice, after all. He’d sat up with Freddie the night the dog was ill. He was first along the landing to comfort Amy when she had occasional night terrors. And he attended many of the school meetings as the children’s co-guardian when Tate had a late shift. In fact, rumor had it that the school were begging him to be a governor. Alex couldn’t help charming people, Tate knew that as well as anyone. His frankness and enthusiasm were captivating. But only Tate had Alex to himself in the evenings, to wind down with and take to bed.

  He took his time over the three wines. He looked first, admiring the shine of them, the clarity, the delicate yellow. Then he swirled them slowly inside the glass, watching how the droplets clung to the sides, judging the alcohol content.

  “For God’s sake,” Alex muttered, though he was grinning. “You don’t have to show off for me. I don’t want to miss the entrees, remember? The crème fraiche is made on a nearby farm, and with smoked salmon it’s heavenly.”

  Tate crinkled his nose, then smelled the wines slowly, one by one, savoring the light fizz under his nose.

  “Sip the damned things,” Alex said. His eyes were alight now with anticipation. “You’re a bloody tease.”

  Tate sipped each slowly. He swallowed—he liked to do that, to feel the texture in his throat as well as his mouth—and took a mere sip of water between each one.

  “Well? Well?”

  “This one.” Tate pointed at the third glass. “It’s by far the best. Smooth, yet an exciting sparkle on the tongue. The grape flavor is richer, too, without adding to the weight of the bouquet.”

  “Yes!” Alex punched the air, then pulled his arm back down, embarrassed. “That’s the Angel’s Breath, you know.”

  “I guessed,” Tate said with a smile. The sun here caught the highlights in Alex’s blond hair, though darker strands still lingered. Tate liked them: it was a fitting illustration of the many layers to his lover’s personality. “It’s the very best taste. You know why?”

  “Years of blending and experimentation? The English soil? The relentless rain at certain times of the year?”

  “It’s the taste of you,” Tate said simply, and shockingly frankly. Alex had brought him happiness and friendship and adventure, alongside a freedom Tate had never thought he’d find again. One day he’d pluck up the courage and say all that aloud. In the meantime, he lifted his glass in a toast of love to Alex Bonfils. And from the besotted look on Alex’s face, he didn’t think he needed the words anyway.

  AFTER dinner, they sat back out on the patio, finishing a bottle of the esteemed Angel’s Breath. Alex reached into the bag he’d left on the table.

  “Whose is that videocam?” Tate asked.

  Alex was swamped with sudden guilt. “You know, don’t you?”

  “What? That it’s Hugo’s? That you bought it for him? Of course I do.”

  “It wasn’t too expensive,” Alex rushed to justify himself. “He’s got a really good eye for video composition, and it’s good to have a record of all that’s happened in the last few months—”

  Tate’s hand on his arm stopped him. Then Tate’s mouth on his stopped him for even longer. “I know. I’m not angry. Hugo loves it. Though we may have to restrict usage—he filmed me yelling at the football on TV last week, then Freddie on Gran’s lap the other evening, both of them slack-jawed and snoring. But do you really think I’m such a spoilsport I’d stop you treating the kids?”

  “I know you’re awkward about my money—”

  “Only when it’s wasted. Or you spoil the kids too much. And while we’re on the subject, what about all the other gifts?”

  “I’m sorry?” Alex had hoped for a greater impact, exposing the undercover boss thing, but unfortunately most people seemed to know all about it by the time he confessed, so there wasn’t a lot to expose. But what he liked most of all in the TV program was when the boss then rewarded people for their good service, so he’d thrown his full efforts into that bit.

  “Percy has his promotion, but you still treated him and Mrs. Grove to a seaside holiday.”

  “We’ll go and visit them there, too,” Alex said eagerly. “There are apparently machines where you can slide pennies down a chute and they nudge novelty prizes over the edge. Hattie’s going to show me the best technique.”

  “Then Stuart got an F1 experience, he hasn’t stopped talking about it since. And Penny in Packaging has an all-expenses paid evening at the club of her choice—”

  “But that’s got a secondary motive, because it’s for two—”

  “And yes, she’s going to take Louise.” Tate grinned. “Then there are the staff showers you had installed. The secure bike racks. A day off for everyone on their birthday. Free cakes at break times. A staff children’s Christmas party. And the kitchen you put in so that we can make our own hot lunches, plus have decent tea and coffee instead of vending machines.”

  “I mean, that’s a Health and Safety issue, isn’t it? Those plastic cups are a scalded lap waiting to happen.”

  Tate frowned slightly. “The only problem is when you try and make me wear ridiculously expensive clothes.”

  “God, but you looked good in London. I could hardly keep my hands off you.” Alex found it difficult to speak steadily when he remembered Tate at the Heritage Wine Awards, just a couple of nights ago. The way Tate had stood his own ground, proudly by Alex’s side all evening, the way he’d answered boldly and knowledgeably to all that nonsensical industry small talk. Alex hadn’t pulled any strings at all to get Tate accepted on a management fast track at Bonfils—with another pair of helping hands in the family, and the bliss Alex insisted he brought to Tate’s life nowadays, Tate had taken that opportunity as soon as he could.

  “Is that what you’re watching now?” Tate asked, gesturing at the camera.

  The UK Heritage Wine Awards c
eremony had been too long, too stuffy, with warm wine and bland buffet food. But Alex was inordinately proud that Bonfils scooped the Gold Award for Angel’s Breath, and also several other wine awards. Charles Bonfils had been seen to greet Edward Fenchurch with politeness, but a certain amount of coolness. Edward Fenchurch’s son Tristram had not accompanied him.

  However, Charles Bonfils’s sons had. Henri and his wife were glowing with pride, and networked with the industry professionals in their usual, smooth, sophisticated way. And Alexandre had been unusually well behaved, and escorted by his new partner Tate Somerton, with a new sexy haircut and wearing a Hugo Boss suit that looked like it had been made for him—which it had, despite Tate’s protests.

  But both Alex and Tate had been glad to escape the venue at the earliest opportunity. They’d politely refused to attend any of the post-award parties, and instead they had a quiet steak meal with the family, who’d traveled to London with them. Then they stayed in a modest London hotel for the night—Alex had insisted on an overnight stay so the adults could all drink—and the next morning, Gran took the children home. He and Tate had a short break planned on their own. It had all been arranged in secret, partly to escape any media interest from them venturing out to this red-carpet event, but mainly because they needed some time alone.

  “Let me see.”

  Alex snuggled up closer to Tate so they could share the screen.

  They’d snuck out of the awards venue by the side entrance to meet up with everyone. Hugo’s video started with an alarming close-up of Tate’s face as the twins ran forward to meet him, accompanied by peals of laughter from Hattie behind the camera. Then Hugo had adjusted the zoom and taken a panoramic view of the group on their way to supper.

  Gran wore a surprisingly sophisticated velvet skirt suit, though Alex assessed the style as around twenty years out of date, and her hair was an alarming shade of copper. Hattie was beside her now, grinning at the camera. The H’s had worn matching trouser suits in a vividly bright tartan fabric, with the familiar—to Alex, at least—eclectic trademarks of a Vivienne Westwood design. After Alex’s introduction to the designer, and their fittings at the studio, the twins had been fawned over by the whole Westwood team. Alex wondered, slightly nervously, how long it’d be before the H’s were on the pages of celebrity magazines themselves. He and Tate would fight that as long as they could, and should.