Innocent in the Billionaire's Bed

by Clare Connelly

  Her voice was a loud cry and her hands pummelled his back. She gripped onto him for dear life, but nothing could stop the wave. It carried her until she was limp and breathless, but the pleasure didn’t stop. He moved harder, shifting her with him, moving his mouth to her breast, rolling her nipple in the warmth of his mouth, and she sobbed at how good it felt. Her nerves were already over-sensitised.

  He drove into her harder now, and she knew a second wave was coming. She could feel it building, as loud as the thunder outside. She tilted her head back and he kissed her neck, grating his teeth over the exposed flesh. She caught his mouth, tasting him, kissing him with all her passion and all her truth. Kissing away the lies she’d told him, making sure he understood.

  This—this was who she was. This was real.

  She wrapped her legs around him and he thrust deeper. She cried out, and the second her world began to shake he chased after her, linking his fingers through hers and lifting them above her head as their bodies ascended to the heavens together.

  It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t making love. It was something else entirely. An experience unique to the two of them and to that moment.

  She held him inside her, her legs tight around his waist, her hands pinned by him, their bodies in utter unison. Complete agreement.

  His chest was moving with the force of his breathing. He brought his head closer, pressing his forehead against hers.

  ‘Worth the wait,’ he said, and smiled, his eyes so full of feeling when they met hers that a new wave of guilt lashed her.

  ‘The wait was pretty excruciating,’ she whispered.

  ‘For both of us.’

  He shifted, and she felt him move inside her, sparking new recognition and desire.

  She expelled a shaking breath. ‘Yesterday...’ she murmured, hiding her eyes from his.

  He brought his mouth to hers and kissed the corner of her lips. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You...you said you didn’t want me.’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t want you like that. I didn’t want to be just another man who’d taken advantage of you.’

  Tilly crashed her eyes shut, still hiding herself from him. The lie of who she was had begun to eat at her gut, but he mistook her gesture as one of embarrassment.

  ‘I don’t care who you were with before me,’ he said seriously. ‘I hate the idea of you being out of control drunk and asking men to sleep with you. I hate the idea that a lot of men probably give in to you.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘But that’s not me. It’s not us. And what’s happening between us is all that I’m interested in.’

  Her heart turned over at the words that meant so much to her.

  She resolutely ignored the other words—the suppositions that had no reference to her, Matilda Morgan. The assumptions that should be laid at Cressida’s feet, but not at hers.

  ‘You were angry outside.’

  His laugh was a deep rumble. ‘Si.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, carina maldestra, I do not like seeing you hurt. Wet. Cold. Or in any danger. It is the first time I have looked at a woman and wanted to...’

  ‘What?’ she asked, pushing at his shoulder, needing to hear the conclusion of the sentence.

  ‘Keep her from harm,’ he admitted with a self-deprecating smile.

  Her stomach squeezed. She tried not to read too much into the admission, but how could she not? She smiled up at him, and her voice was weakened by emotion when she said, ‘You don’t need to protect me.’

  His laugh was rueful. ‘No. I am starting to realise that you are not the one in danger here.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘IT’S NOT CALMING DOWN,’ she said, leaning forward, scanning the sky.

  He stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, bunching the sheet she’d donned toga-style at her middle.

  ‘No.’ He dropped his lips to her neck, kissing her softly.

  She spun in the circle of his arms, her smile radiant. Her hair was wild around her face and her eyes were a glorious green. Her neck was pink from his stubble. He leaned down and kissed her mouth gently, smiling against her lips.

  ‘I used to be terrified of storms,’ she confided, dipping her fingers into the elasticised waist of his boxer shorts, revelling in the sensation of his smooth buttocks, almost unable to comprehend that she was free to touch him so intimately.

  ‘They can be frightening.’

  ‘Yes. Though I think I’ll always have a special liking for them after this.’ Her grin was shy. She reached up and cupped his cheeks, staring at him, trying to see if there was any regret in her heart or on his face.

  There was none.

  ‘I should go and check on the generator,’ he said, with obvious reluctance.

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded, stepping away from her. ‘Really. It should be on by now. There could be more of a problem than I anticipated.’

  ‘But you’ll get soaked again.’

  ‘And I know just how to get warm and dry,’ he pointed out, turning towards the front door.

  Tilly watched him walk out with a sigh, but as he reached the door she called after him. ‘Rio? Where are those plans? I might as well have a look at them.’

  His face clouded with something she didn’t comprehend, but his nod was curt.

  ‘Of course.’

  He moved back into the cabin, disappearing into his bedroom. Curious, she padded closer to the door and peered in. There was a desk against the wall, with a large drawer. He pulled out some old pages, and a yellowed piece of paper smaller than the rest which, she saw as he brought it closer, showed hand sketches. The others looked as if they’d been professionally put together.

  His eyes held hers as he handed them over, his jaw set.

  She didn’t notice. ‘Thanks.’

  He spun and left the cabin while Tilly moved into the kitchen. A cursory inspection showed the bench was clean, with the exception of a couple of crumbs from the toast he’d presumably made that morning. She wiped it with a cloth anyway, and then placed the drawings down.

  It took her several minutes to comprehend what had been drawn, to orientate herself to the angle of the plans and imagine the buildings that the architect had envisaged.

  They were brilliant.

  Instead of a large-scale hotel, several cabins had been drawn—some with one bedroom, others with several, allowing for families or groups. The architect had marked an area of the beach to be roped off for activities. On the other side of the island the architect had sketched in a ten-storey building with a pool that ran right to the sand of the beach. And there was the cable car over the volcano, with a restaurant perched right on top, so diners could peek in as they ate.

  The door slamming heralded Rio’s return.

  ‘These are incredible,’ she called, flicking to the next one, which showed the elevations for the buildings.

  He made a grunt of agreement and she turned to face him.

  ‘You’re wet,’ she said, the words breathy.

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes glittered when they met hers. He lifted a finger and pulled it through the air, beckoning her towards him.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  He pushed at the sheet, discarding it easily, and lifted her to sit on the edge of the kitchen bench. Her legs were naked and he moved between them, moving his mouth over hers. She pushed at his jeans, loosening them, and he stepped out of them. Naked and so close to her. She edged forward, wanting him again already, needing him.

  His hands pulled at her legs and she lay back on the bench, her voice a hoarse cry as he took possession of her, running his hands down her front, teasing her skin, delighting her breasts.

  He took her as though his life—and hers—depended on it. He gripped her hips, holding her as he pushed deep into her core, and then his hand moved to the entrance of her womanhood. His fingers brushed against her as he moved and her body shook and trembled with the potency of need.

  She exploded just as the lights flicked bac
k to life and everything was bright again. She wrapped her legs around him and he came with her, chasing her, whispering to her in his own tongue, imprinting himself on her for evermore.

  She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her mind slow, her eyes heavy with spent desire, her pulse racing. She stared and waited for her breathing to return to normal.

  He pressed a finger against her lips and she looked up at him, a smile on her face. ‘The power’s back.’

  He nodded. ‘Apparently.’

  She pushed herself up to sit, but didn’t relinquish the grip her legs had around his waist. She curled her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers into the hair at his nape. His lips sought hers and they were gentle, sweet, curious.

  She breathed in deeply, smelling him, tasting him. Loving him.

  ‘These plans are amazing.’ She pulled away just enough to see his face. ‘Have you looked at them properly?’

  Again his jaw clenched, and this time she did notice.

  It wasn’t until an hour later, after they’d showered and changed into dry clothes, that she began to suspect why.

  ‘Rio?’ she called, her head bent over the yellow page with the sketches. ‘This is a house,’ she murmured. ‘Not a hotel.’

  He was reading the book she’d bought him, and the sight did all sorts of funny things to her equilibrium.

  ‘Yes. It was an option that was being considered, apparently.’

  ‘A beautiful house,’ she said wistfully, turning it over to view the floor plan that was on the back. ‘Though quite the change from this little cabin,’ she quipped, for the house was three storeys with tremendous glass windows overlooking the ocean.

  He was watching her, as if he sensed that she was about to discover something. Something he had guarded carefully all his life.

  ‘Rio?’ She frowned as her eye caught the corner of the plan. ‘What was your mother’s name?’

  He was quiet, so she lifted her gaze to him. ‘It was Rosa, wasn’t it?’

  She looked at another page and saw the same name printed neatly in the corner.

  Rosa Mastrangelo

  ‘Your mother did these plans.’ She moved away from the bench and crossed to him, sitting on his lap so that she could wrap an arm around his neck and hold him. Instinctively she knew that this changed things. That she’d found something that would be hard for him to talk about.

  ‘And you were left this island.’ She stroked his cheek, lost in thought. ‘By your father...’

  His expression gave little away; it made it impossible for her to forget that this was who he was, first and foremost. A successful tycoon who could control his emotions easily—who’d made a fortune in his ability to do just that.

  ‘Am I right?’

  Only the pulsing in the thick column of his neck as he swallowed showed that her supposition was correct.

  ‘A month ago,’ he said, by way of confirmation.

  His expression was a firm mask, emotionless and resonating with strength. But she knew him too well to buy it. He was hurting. This strong, powerful man was in pain and she wanted to fix it.

  She shifted, straddling him so that she could stare straight into his eyes. ‘Tell me.’

  His face shifted. A small shake of his head, a twist of his mouth. ‘There is not much to tell. As a rule, cara, I do not speak of him. Ever.’

  ‘I feel like you and I are people who would break rules together,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Who was he?’

  His expression was contained. Still, she understood his struggle.

  ‘You don’t trust me?’ she prompted quietly, padding her thumb over his cheek.

  ‘The strange thing is that I do.’ His lips quirked into a downward twist as he studied her thoughtfully. ‘For the first time in my life I want to confide in someone about this.’

  Warmth spread through her. She waited, enjoying her closeness to him as he searched for words.

  ‘My father was Piero Varelli.’ He looked at her, waiting for comprehension to dawn.

  He saw the moment recognition lit her eyes. ‘The shipping guy?’

  ‘Ships.’ He jerked his head in a small nod. ‘Planes. Si.’

  Outrage fizzed in her gut. ‘You’re saying your father was a multi-millionaire...’

  ‘A billionaire,’ he corrected.

  ‘And he let you and your mother...?’

  His smile was without humour. ‘You see, perhaps, why I do not have time for him.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed with true anger. ‘But I don’t understand. How could he refuse to help you?’

  He expelled a harsh sigh. ‘He was married when he met my mother.’ The words rang with bitterness. ‘He tricked her into loving him because it suited him—or perhaps he thought he loved her. But he didn’t. Not enough to tell her the truth—to tell her he was married.’

  With an enormous effort she kept her own guilt far from her mind. There would be a time to reckon with her choices and the consequences of them. She didn’t want to face it yet. But already remorse was washing over her, no matter how she tried to keep it at bay. She was lying to him. She was lying to him just as his father had lied to his mother.

  Only this was different. Wasn’t it?

  ‘And she didn’t know?’

  ‘She was young and in love. My father was rich and charismatic. She’d never known anyone like him. It was not difficult for her to lose her heart.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Right here, on this island. She spent some time here with him, touring it just as you have been.’

  The notion of history repeating itself filled her with a strange sense of wariness.

  ‘And she got pregnant?’

  ‘Right. And that’s when he offered to pay for an abortion.’ His face shimmered with determination.

  ‘Your mother must have been so upset.’

  ‘I’m sure she was. But she focussed on making a life for us.’

  ‘I don’t understand why he didn’t pay child support. And I don’t understand why your mother let him get away with that,’ she said quietly.

  His eyes were hard in his handsome face. ‘I think she knew she could have. But she was proud. So proud. He made it obvious he didn’t want her—or me—and she was not going to beg.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rio.’

  He brushed away the apology, shifting a little and reminding Tilly of their powerful attraction.

  ‘He got in contact with me about five years ago, trying to “connect”, as he called it.’

  Indignation rushed through her. ‘How dare he?’ she said fiercely. ‘After all that time! And what you’d been through! What did you tell him?’

  His laugh was short. ‘Exactly that. His explanation helped me understand, I suppose, though ultimately it just proved how selfish he was.’

  ‘What did he say? How did he explain it?’

  His eyes clouded and he shook his head.

  She dipped her head forward and kissed him, letting her mouth tell him what was in her heart and soul.

  ‘What did he say?’ she murmured, keeping her face close to his.

  ‘That he was married. And, yes, he loved his wife—very much, he said.’ Rio’s scathing tone showed how little he believed that. ‘Carina—that’s her name—and he were high school sweethearts. They had been trying to conceive a child for ten years. He told me that it took its toll on their marriage. That he met my mother and was captivated by her.’

  Tilly was quiet, but inside she was raging against this selfish man who’d conned Rio’s mother into an affair. ‘And she didn’t know he was married,’ Tilly clarified.

  ‘No. Not until she told him about me. That’s when he told her that he and Carina had been trying for a baby. News of my mother’s pregnancy would have been devastating for her.’ His smile was flat. ‘My mother actually felt sorry for Carina. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tilly said honestly. ‘I can tell what kind of woman your mother was, and I imagine her heart would have been easily touched.’

  His
eyes flashed with unknown emotion as they met Tilly’s. ‘He told my mother that he would never acknowledge me. That he would never speak to her again. So she was left devastated instead of his wife,’ he said softly.

  ‘How awful.’ She frowned. ‘You said he contacted you a few years ago?’

  He made a noise of agreement. ‘Eventually they adopted. A boy. Then, six years ago, their son died. And a year after that he left Carina. Or she left him. I do not know. Only that he suddenly felt a compulsion to meet with me, his biological son.’ His expression was harsh.

  Tears, unwanted and hot, stung Tilly’s eyes. ‘You must have been—’

  ‘Furious?’ he interrupted. ‘I was. But by then I had established myself. I had a fortune behind me, and I had learned to live without my mother. And, obviously, my father. What did I need from him? A man who had given my mother only heartache?’

  His bitterness touched Tilly deep in her heart. She understood it, and yet it was impossible not to grieve for both Rio and Piero.

  ‘I could not look at him without seeing my mother’s pain. The way she’d been when she was ill. Weakened by cancer and chemotherapy, pale and hollowed out, as if all the living had been scooped from inside her. I wanted nothing to do with him. Nothing. And I told him so. I particularly did not want him to have the satisfaction of claiming me as his prodigal son.’

  His eyes were loaded with enmity.

  ‘How did their son die?’ she murmured softly.

  ‘An accident. Drink-driving.’

  ‘He was hit?’

  ‘He was the drunk. He collided with a tree. Thankfully it was only him who died.’

  How awful for Rio—to have discovered his father and also a brother he might have known and loved if only things had been different.

  ‘When you met with your father, did you feel anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Niente.’

  ‘And yet,’ she said softly, cautiously, ‘she loved him. And he is in you.’

  She tapped a finger against his heart, her lips pressing against his gently.