Innocent in the Billionaire's Bed

by Clare Connelly

  ‘A lie how?’

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You’re still upset? Too upset to talk about it?’

  ‘No, it just serves no purpose,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I have learned again and again that people who lie don’t get second chances.’

  ‘How did she lie to you?’ Tilly pushed, her heart hammering painfully in her chest, guilt at her own deception becoming a maze she needed to find her way out of.

  ‘You really want to know?’

  Tilly nodded, but panic was weighing her down.

  ‘We had been seeing each other for nearly a year. I was busy. My business was taking off and, while I liked her, and even thought myself on the way to being in love with her, I had no real plans for her to be a serious or permanent part of my life.’

  He looked towards the ocean, catching the glistening sun as it bounced off the sea.

  ‘Marina perhaps began to sense this and, concerned, took matters into her own hands.’

  ‘How?’

  His smile was grim. ‘By faking a pregnancy.’

  Tilly froze, the look on her face pure shock. ‘She did what?’

  ‘Mmm...’ he agreed. ‘Very poor form, no?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘She knew I would propose. And I would have. But too much didn’t add up and eventually she confessed. She was very apologetic—and I understood, to some extent. Marina grew up with everything she ever wanted landing in her lap. She wanted me, and my reluctance to commit was not something she was willing to accept.’

  ‘But to lie about being pregnant...’ Tilly said angrily.

  ‘Si. It was very foolish. I ended our relationship the day I found out and I have not spoken to her since.’ His look was loaded with dark emotion. ‘I do not invite betrayal twice.’

  A shiver ran down her spine and her own predicament swirled through her like a raging tsunami. The imperative to get through to Cressida was growing by the moment, suffocating her with urgency. She had to fix this somehow.

  ‘I don’t like to think about you with other women,’ she said, but the words were difficult to find in her brain and they came out sounding forced and strange.

  She didn’t miss the look of intense speculation on his face. ‘Jealous?’

  Tilly was more than jealous. She was...devastated.

  She needed time and space to process this. She sipped the wine he’d topped up automatically, desperate to blot the pain from her mind.

  ‘It’s not like my social life is quiet.’

  ‘And, again, when you say “social life” you mean sex life?’ he clarified.

  She was Cressida—in that moment, at least.

  ‘Sure. Yeah. You know—sex is sex,’ she said, with an attempt at a blasé flick of her wrist. ‘Speaking of which...’ She leaned forward, placing her hand over his. ‘Can we go back to the island now?’

  His eyes lanced her. But when he stood and took her hand it was with pure, sensual determination.

  This was happening.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘THIS ISN’T GOING to happen.’

  Tilly stared at him, her mind foggy. The afternoon sun was bright overhead. In fact it was sultry, and the air was thick. The boat lurched as he pulled it towards Prim’amore, slowing to meet the shore.

  ‘What?’

  He stared pointedly at her hand. Without her permission, it had landed on his thigh. No—half on his thigh and embarrassingly close to his arousal.

  Wine had made her slow; her mind lagged. ‘I...’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he said darkly, and with such arrogant disbelief that she was spurred into denying the accusation.

  ‘I am absolutely not,’ she snapped, standing up to prove the point.

  The boat rocked and, just like the first day they’d met, she began to topple forward. With a muttered curse he caught her, holding her tight around the arms.

  ‘And you are trouble,’ he said, without a hint of the affection that had warmed her over lunch.

  ‘You are,’ she retorted childishly.

  ‘Sit.’

  ‘“Sit”,’ she mimicked, but she did as he’d said, planting herself back on the seat.

  He returned his concentration to the boat, driving it close to the sand and then jumping easily over the front. He used his hands to guide it to the shore and she leaned over the edge, watching him and studying the water at the same time. A school of fish swam beneath them.

  The boat thudded as he rolled the tip of it onto the sand before coming around to her side. He held a hand up to Tilly but she stared at it mutinously.

  ‘I can manage.’

  He made a derisive noise. ‘I’ve heard that before. Take my hand.’

  ‘No way. Not until you apologise for calling me drunk.’ Her demand was somewhat ruined by the hiccough that sliced the sentence in half.

  ‘You had two glasses of wine. How can you possibly be intoxicated?’ he asked in exasperation.

  ‘I don’t...’ Don’t drink very often. The admission died on her lips. ‘I don’t know,’ she finished lamely. ‘And I’m fine, thank you very much.’

  ‘Like hell you are,’ he snapped. ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘You think I’m going to drown in two inches of water?’

  ‘If anyone’s capable of it...’

  She poked her tongue out and moved to the other side of the boat. He was quick, but she had the advantage, for Rio had water to wade through before he could reach her. She stepped out, nailing the landing.

  It was the pirouette that she made in order to gloat that undid her.

  She knocked her hip on the edge of the boat and it jolted her backwards—into the water. A brief recognition of his angry expression was the last thing she saw before landing in the water.

  Again.

  She spluttered, pushing up onto her elbows, but Rio was there, lifting her out of the ocean and hoisting her over his shoulder.

  ‘Put me down!’ she said crossly, but she didn’t try to wriggle out of his grip. Not when her hands were dangling over his curved rear. Curiously, she let her fingers move towards his waistband, separating it from his shirt until she found skin.

  ‘And let you fall into a hole or be eaten by a crab? No, Cressida. I think you need to be chained to a bed for a while.’

  The image was startling. She froze and he let out a noise from deep in his throat. ‘Or a chair. Anywhere out of harm’s way.’

  ‘I like the bed idea...’

  He mounted the steps and kicked the door open, carrying her through the hallway and depositing her unceremoniously so that she was sitting at the kitchen bench.

  ‘Do not even think about moving,’ he said, with such determination that she was pretty sure the smart thing to do was what he said.

  As soon as the front door slammed shut again she wriggled off the bench. Stars flashed in her eyes and she steadied herself by pressing against the fridge. Water. She needed water.

  But she was already wet.

  She needed to not be wet.

  She swore angrily, mentally shaking herself.

  Get changed, then drink something.

  She nodded.

  It was an excellent plan.

  Only Rio wasn’t gone long, and her fingers were fumbling too much to perform anything efficiently.

  When he walked back into the cottage and found the kitchen deserted, he checked her room.

  The door was wide open, and standing by the window was Tilly, in the process of pulling a dry dress on. He saw a glimpse of her naked back, her curved bottom and pale hips. Enough to fuel his fantasies for years to come, he thought grimly.

  ‘Dio...’ he groaned.

  She spun around, and had he been looking at her face he would have seen how unexpected his intrusion was. But his eyes were trained on the body that he’d just caught a tantalising glimpse of, and he possessed her with his gaze when he didn’t dare touch her.

  Her fingers dropped to the hem of her dress, lif
ting it, her eyes trained on his, her meaning clear. If he didn’t act quickly she was going to be naked again, and he sure as hell wouldn’t make any promises about how he’d respond to that.

  ‘I told you,’ he said with grim determination. ‘This is not going to happen.’

  It didn’t make sense. He felt it too; she knew he did. He wanted her. ‘But I...’

  ‘You can barely stand up, Cressida. Do you think I am the kind of man who would take advantage of a woman so inebriated?’

  Alcohol had apparently robbed her of any inhibitions. She walked towards him, her curves hypnotising him as she moved.

  ‘How about letting an inebriated woman take advantage of you?’ she suggested quietly, wrapping her arms around his neck, lifting her body higher, pressing her soft round breasts to his torso. ‘I want this to happen. Sober or not, I want this.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment and then stepped backwards. ‘Well, I do not. Especially not like this.’

  His words cut her to the quick. Even alcohol couldn’t dull the throb of pain.

  ‘Oh.’

  He expelled a long, slow sigh, as if taming himself while subduing her. ‘Lie down,’ he commanded in a dictatorial tone that was softened by a small smile. ‘You’ll feel like hell in a few hours.’

  ‘I need water,’ she said belligerently.

  ‘I’ll bring it.’

  She didn’t thank him, even though she knew she ought to. She practically stomped to the bed and lay down, not bothering to pull the covers back.

  She was asleep when he returned a minute later, glass of water in hand. He placed it quietly on the bedside table then left her in peace—before his will-power finally deserted him.

  He deserved a bloody medal of valour for that act of self-torture.

  After a month of celibacy a gorgeous woman offered her beautiful, perfect self on a platter and he walked away? Hell, it was two glasses of wine—not even half a bottle. How many times had he slept with a woman who’d drunk champagne at a party?

  But she hadn’t just had two glasses of wine. Or rather, she had, but they’d had the effect he would have expected two bottles to have. She’d been completely addled. Cressida Wyndham, he had been led to believe, was a sophisticated woman who moved in socially elite circles. A couple of glasses of wine over lunch should not have affected her like that. And yet undeniably they had.

  The moment they’d stood up from the table he’d realised that she was no longer herself. It had become more apparent as they’d made their way through the marina and he’d practically had to carry her past the shops. Then there had been the boat ride. The way she’d stroked his thigh the whole way. He’d been tempted to throw the thing into neutral and make love to her then and there.

  Had she any idea how much stamina it had taken to turn her down?

  And what had happened to make her so utterly affected by the wine?

  He added that question to the pile of things that simply didn’t make sense.

  Cressida Wyndham was a mystery. And he was going to solve her.

  * * *

  He’d been right.

  She felt awful when she woke. Not least of all because of the sense of temporal disorientation that had made her jerk awake. It was dark, but it didn’t feel like the middle of the night. She reached for her phone, pressing the button so that she could see the time.

  It was just after nine o’clock.

  Why was she asleep so early?

  And what was that furry feeling in her mouth?

  And just like that it all came flooding back to her.

  ‘Oh, God.’ She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Embarrassment curdled her blood. She screwed her eyes up tight, but that only made it worse. With her eyes closed, the whole day played out like a movie reel. She’d fallen in the water. Again! And... Her skin burned. She’d practically begged him to make love to her. And he’d told her he wasn’t interested!

  Tilly jerked her head around, her eyes landing on the glass of water. She lifted it up and drank from it quickly.

  The only problem was that then she needed to use the restroom.

  And that meant leaving her bedroom and possibly facing him.

  She could hold it.

  Or not.

  She stood up and tiptoed towards the door. The handle was an old Bakelite one and she turned it slowly, so slowly, wincing as it creaked a little. She kept her eyes shut as she pulled the door inwards and then poked her head out quickly.

  Left, right—he was nowhere in sight.

  Phew.

  She practically ran to the bathroom. She felt as fresh as a ten-year-old toothbrush, and a cursory inspection in the mirror showed she looked little better.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and splashed water on her face, pinching her cheeks before brushing her teeth and rubbing in face cream. Her skin was warm, perhaps from the sun...or embarrassment. With a grimace, she pulled the door inwards, forgetting to be quiet.

  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Rio was lounging against the wall opposite, his lips twisted in the hint of a knowing smile.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said quietly, her eyes dropping to the floor. ‘Don’t lecture me.’

  His voice was thick when he spoke. ‘I have no intention of it,’ he promised. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘How do you think?’ she whispered.

  He reached out for her hand but she stepped backwards. ‘Please, don’t,’ she said softly. ‘I...’ What? What could she say? ‘I just want to forget today ever happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that is not possible. At least, not for me.’

  She groaned, mortification chewing through her.

  ‘Come and eat something.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You will feel better in the morning if you go to bed with food in your stomach.’

  ‘Please,’ she said sharply. ‘It was two glasses of wine. I’m hardly hungover. I just need privacy.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Eat something and I will leave you alone.’

  ‘Are you bribing me with food?’

  He shrugged. ‘It is your choice.’

  Her stomach twisted. She was actually hungry. ‘Okay,’ she said ungratefully. ‘Fine.’

  He turned on his heel and walked towards the front of the cabin, holding the door open for her.

  The night was as balmy as it was beautiful. A thick blanket of stars danced overhead, and the sky was as dark as an inkpot. Streaks of cloud ran like frail fingers towards the moon.

  ‘Here.’ He handed her a plate and she looked at it with an unimpressed frown.

  ‘Crackers?’

  ‘Just something light.’

  She wrinkled her nose but, truth be told, she wasn’t sure she could stomach anything else. She sat down and curled her knees under her chin, biting into a biscuit while her eyes roamed the ocean.

  She ate, and silence surrounded them but for the occasional sound of a night bird and the throbbing of the ocean. Once the plate was emptied, she stood again.

  ‘I’m going to bed. Unless you have any objections?’

  ‘Not a one,’ he replied. ‘Sweet dreams, cara.’

  The words followed her all the way down the hallway, mocking her.

  She’d have sweet dreams, all right, and they both knew who’d be starring in them.

  * * *

  The air smelled different when she woke.

  The light had changed too.

  Her room felt thick and damp. She turned over in bed, angling her body towards the window. It had blown open during the night and mist had burst in, wrapping around her.

  ‘Lightning,’ she said to herself, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  It was raining heavily, the sound of it falling on the roof adding to the depth of the ocean’s thunder. A tremor of emotion built inside of her. Thunderstorms had always stirred strong feelings in her, even as a girl.

  She pushed the sheets off and stood, pacing across to the window and standing on tipt
oe to see out. The geraniums were in disarray, their blooms drooping indignantly, covered in water. She reached out and flicked at one reassuringly, sending droplets of water scurrying.

  The beach looked entirely different. The sand was grey, not white, and the waves were leaden, topped with angry white curls of temper as they hammered against the beach. The sky was steel-like, brightened only by the brief flash of lightning, and then a roll of thunder rattled past her.

  Even in her sleep she’d been dreading facing the music with Rio. The weather was heightening the drama of that confrontation. She checked herself in the mirror, pinching her cheeks for colour and brushing her hair so that it was slightly less wild, then skimmed her eyes over her phone to check the time.

  It was still early.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t yet be awake?

  The thought of a strong black coffee before she had to see him was cause for optimism.

  What would she say?

  Memories of how she’d behaved almost made her groan aloud. She’d been rude, provocative, flirtatious, demanding...drunk.

  Embarrassment made her skin crawl. Sucking in a deep breath of storm-soaked air, she made her way quietly to the kitchen.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ he said quietly, his eyes appraising her from where he stood, looking impossibly virile and unforgivably not hungover.

  He had a coffee cup in one hand, and was wearing only a pair of shorts. A swirl of desire almost drove the mortification from her mind.

  ‘Hi.’ She cleared her throat, eyeing the coffee machine and realising she’d have to perform penance first. ‘I’m...sorry. About yesterday.’

  He arched a brow, and she couldn’t tell from his expression if he was still angry. Out of nowhere she saw his face as it had been when she’d fallen in the water. He’d been furious with her.

  Tilly dropped her eyes, staring at her brightly painted toenails with earnest concentration.

  ‘I think it was because I hadn’t eaten breakfast,’ she said quietly. ‘And it was hot...and I was thirsty. I just drank too fast,’ she finished weakly.

  He made a noise of agreement. ‘Do you do that often?’

  Her eyes were wide. Torn between playing Cressida and defending Tilly, she couldn’t say what she wanted. Cressida was practically a professional drinker—and goodness knew what else she indulged in when the party spirit took her.