Christmas Angel for the Billionaire

by Liz Fielding

  ‘They did have another one in the shop,’ she said, turning those stunning blue eyes on him. ‘Do you think they’d deliver it to King’s Lacey?’

  ‘If you were prepared to pay the carriage, I imagine they’d deliver it to the moon, but what would your grandfather say?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but the estate children would love it. In fact, I might see if I can hire a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sleigh ride for the Christmas party.’

  ‘You have a party?’

  ‘Of course. It’s expected. A party for the local children, with Santa in attendance with presents for everyone. The tenant farmers in for drinks on Christmas Eve and then, on Christmas Day, my grandfather and I sit in state in the dining room for lunch before exchanging perfectly wrapped gifts. The only thing that’s missing is conversation because, rather than say the wrong thing, we say nothing at all.’

  ‘I find it hard to imagine you tiptoeing around anyone’s feelings. You certainly don’t tiptoe around mine.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled at him. ‘You can’t imagine how relaxing that is.’

  ‘So why do you put up with it year after year?’ he demanded, suddenly angry, not with her grandfather but with her for enduring it rather than changing it.

  ‘Duty?’ she said. ‘And my grandfather is all the family I have.’ Then, in a clear attempt to change the subject, ‘What about you, George? Are you really going to stay on?’

  ‘You suspect I might be pining for my beach bum existence?’

  ‘That would be George Saxon, the beach bum who designed a series of computer programs that helps to reduce wear and tear on combustion engines?’ He waited, knowing that she had something on her mind. ‘Who’s since designed a dozen applications that have made him so much money he never has to work again?’

  ‘Does Rupert Devenish work for a living?’ he asked.

  ‘Rupert runs his estates. Holds directorships in numerous companies. Works for charity. He’s not idle.’

  ‘It’s no wonder the press are so excited,’ he said, wishing he hadn’t started this. ‘You sound like the perfect match.’

  The colour drained from her face but, without missing a beat, she said, ‘Don’t we?’ Then, briskly, ‘Okay. The lights are done and we’ve just got time for that motorcycle lesson you promised me before your father gets home from the hospital.’

  ‘For that we’d need a motorcycle,’ he pointed out thankfully. ‘I thought perhaps, this year, I might break with tradition and, instead of a bank transfer, I’d let Xandra choose her own present. No prizes for guessing what she’ll choose.’

  It was meant to distract her and it did.

  ‘It’ll be a cheap Christmas, then. The only bike she wants is yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘The one in the barn?’

  George glanced at the stone long-barn, all that remained of the original farm buildings. Over the years it had served as a stable, a depository for tack, garden tools and every item of transportation he’d ever owned since his first trike, then crossed to the door and pushed it open.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked as he stared at a familiar tarpaulin.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘History. A heap of rust.’ But, unable to help himself, he pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the motorbike he’d bought on his sixteenth birthday.

  It wasn’t a classic. Nothing like the high-powered one he rode in California, but he’d saved every last penny of money he’d earned or been given for birthdays, Christmas, to buy it and it had represented freedom, independence. He’d ridden it home from Cambridge that first Christmas, high on his new life, full of everything he’d done and seen.

  Four weeks later, when it was time to return to his studies, Penny had refused to ride on the back because of the baby and they’d taken the train.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘I DON’T see any rust,’ Annie said.

  ‘No.’

  The bike had been sitting in the barn for fifteen years and for fifteen years someone had lavished care on it, keeping it polished, oiled, ready to kick-start and go.

  There was only one someone who could have done that-his father-and he slammed his fist against the leather saddle, understanding exactly how angry, how helpless Annie had felt as she’d lashed out at him.

  He wanted to smash something. Roar at the waste of it, the stupidity.

  ‘Why didn’t he say? Why didn’t he tell me?’

  ‘That he loved you? Missed you?’

  Annie reached out for him and, wrapping her arms around him, she held him as he’d held her. And he clung to her because she understood as no one else could. Clung to her, wanting never to let her go.

  In the end it was Annie who made the move, leaning back a little, laying warm lips against his cold cheek for just a moment, before turning to the bike.

  ‘Will it start?’ she asked.

  He didn’t care about the damn bike. He only cared about her but, just as he’d kept his distance in the last few days, protecting himself as much as her, now she was the one wearing an aura of untouchability.

  Standing a little straighter, a little taller, even wearing a woolly hat and gloves, he had no doubt he was looking not at Annie Rowland, but Lady Rose.

  And still he wanted to crush her to him, kiss her, do what she’d asked of him and make her so entirely his that she could never go back.

  And that, he discovered, was the difference between lust and love.

  When you loved someone your heart overrode desire.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he said, unhooking a helmet from the wall. He wiped off a layer of dust with his sleeve and handed it to her, unhooked a second one for himself, then pulled the bike off its stand and wheeled it out into the yard.

  It felt smaller than he remembered as he slung a leg over the saddle, kicked it into life, but his hands fitted the worn places on the handlebars and the familiar throb of the engine as he sat astride the bike seemed to jump-start something inside him.

  Or maybe it was Annie, grinning at him in pure delight. Somehow the two seemed inextricably connected. Part of each other, part of him. Pulling on the helmet, he grinned back and said, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go for a ride.’

  She didn’t need a second invitation, but climbed on behind him.

  ‘Hold tight,’ he warned and, as he took off, she hung on for dear life, her arms around his waist, her body glued to his.

  It was beyond exhilarating. The nearness to everything, the road racing beneath them, the closeness, the trust, their two bodies working as one as they leaned into the bends of the winding country roads. It was as if they were one and when, far too soon, they raced back into the garage forecourt, he seemed to know instinctively the exact moment to ease back, turn, put out his foot as they came to a halt in front of the barn door.

  Coming home, exactly as he had done countless times in the past.

  For a moment the engine continued to throb, then everything went quiet. It was only then, when she tried to move, dismount, that Annie realised that she was not just breathless, light-headed but apparently boneless.

  ‘Oh,’ she said stupidly, clinging to George as he helped her off the bike and her legs buckled beneath her. He removed her helmet as if she were a child. ‘Oh, good grief, that was-’

  George didn’t wait to hear what she thought-he knew. Despite the fact that she was so far out of his reach that she might as well be on Mars, that in a few days she would walk away, taking his heart with her, and he would have to smile and pretend he didn’t care. Knowing that each touch, each kiss, would intensify the pain of losing her, he kissed her anyway.

  He kissed her not to test her probity, not as a prelude to the kind of intimacy that had overtaken them in the kitchen.

  It was a kiss without an agenda, one that would endure in his memory and maybe, on the days when Annie felt alone, in hers. A kiss given with a whole heart.

  And that was as new for him as it was for her.

  Th
at she responded with all the passion of a woman who knew it would be their last made it all the more heartbreaking. Finally, breathlessly, she broke away.

  ‘No,’ she said, backing rapidly away, tears streaming down her face. ‘I can’t do this to you.’ Then she turned and ran into the house.

  ‘Annie!’

  George’s desperate cry still ringing in her ears, Annie raced up the stairs and by the time he caught up with her she had her cellphone in one hand, calling up the taxi firm while she emptied a drawer. She’d never wear any of the clothes again, but she’d bought them with George and they held precious memories.

  She’d crammed a lifetime of ordinary experiences into a few days. She’d laughed more than she had in her entire life. She’d loved more. And been loved by Hetty, Xandra, called ‘lass’ by George senior, which she recognised as a mark of acceptance. While George…

  George had made it his purpose in life to give her what she most wanted-to be ordinary-even while taking the utmost care to keep a physical distance between them.

  And then he’d found the bike and, overwhelmed by what that meant, for a precious moment he’d let down his guard. It was then, when he’d kissed her in a way that made her feel like the woman she wanted to be, when tearing herself away from him had been beyond bearing-

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded, bursting into the room, taking the cellphone from her and breaking the connection.

  ‘Leaving,’ she said, taking it from him and hitting Redial, throwing the clothes into her bag. ‘Now. I should never have stayed.’

  George Saxon had a real life, a family who wanted him and nothing on earth would allow her to inflict even the smallest part of her life on them. Somewhere, deep down, she’d hoped that they would be able to remain friends. That she could, once in a while, call him, talk to him. But, if she’d learned one thing this week, it was that for someone you truly loved you would sacrifice anything, even love itself.

  Forget Thursday. She couldn’t wait until then. She had to leave now. Tonight. Never look back.

  George stood there, watching her fling her clothes into a bag and feeling more helpless than he had in his entire life. He said her name, as if that would somehow keep her from leaving. ‘Annie.’

  She looked up.

  ‘I love you.’

  The hand holding the phone fell to her side. She opened her mouth, took a breath, shook her head. ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘I know what makes you laugh,’ he said, lifting a hand to her face, wiping his fingers across the tears that were running unchecked down her face. ‘I know what makes you cry.’

  She didn’t deny it, just shivered as he put his arms around her, drew her close, resting his own cheek against her pale hair.

  ‘I know how your skin feels beneath my hands,’ he continued, more to himself than to her. ‘The taste of your mouth. The way your eyes look when I touch you. I know that you’re kind, generous, caring, intuitive, smart.’ He looked down at her. ‘I know that, no matter what I say, you’ll go home. What I’m asking is-will you come back?’

  ‘This isn’t a fairy-tale, George. Will you call me a taxi? Please?’

  There was a note of desperation in that final please, but she’d given him his answer and there didn’t seem a lot to say after that.

  His mother and Xandra had gone shopping before going to the hospital to collect his father and he left a note on the kitchen table, explaining that a family emergency had called Annie home.

  ‘How long will it be?’ she asked when she followed him downstairs. ‘The taxi.’

  ‘There’s no taxi. The deal was always that I’d take you home.’

  She didn’t argue, just surrendered her bag, got into his car. Neither of them said another word until they reached the motorway, when she looked at him.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘No…’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘It’s Lydia’s car. Could you…Would you find a replacement?’ She took a paper bag out of the big shoulder bag she carried everywhere, placed it in the glove compartment. ‘There should be enough.’

  ‘Just how much money were you carrying around with you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Don’t you mean where did I have it all stashed?’

  His knuckles whitened as his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Don’t you have some little man who does that kind of thing for you?’ Then, ‘Oh, no. My mistake. You can’t ask anyone at home. You wouldn’t be allowed out on your own for the rest of your life if your grandfather found out what you did.’

  ‘Red would be good, if you could manage it,’ she said, her voice even, controlled. Holding everything in. ‘I’ve left her address with the money.’

  ‘Roadworthy. Red. Is that it?’

  ‘I’d like her to have it before Christmas.’

  ‘Do you want me to put on the Santa hat, climb on her roof and push it down the chimney?’ He banged the flat of his hand against the steering wheel. ‘I could start hating Christmas all over again.’

  Annie could understand why he was angry. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but nothing that would help either of them.

  ‘If there’s any money left, will you give it to some local charity?’

  ‘Anonymously, of course. That’s it? All debts paid?’

  No. Not by a long shot but there was one thing she could do. ‘Would you like me to speak to Mrs Warburton? At Dower House. In case Xandra changes her mind about going back.’

  ‘She won’t be returning to boarding school.’

  ‘Her mother might not take the same view,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Her mother lost her vote when she switched off her cellphone.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll be happier living with you and her grandparents.’

  He shook his head. ‘I left home when I was eighteen, Annie. I’m not about to move back in with my parents. What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Are you going to go home and grovel to your grandfather for being a bad girl?’ he asked, driven by helpless anger into goading her. ‘Beg his forgiveness and promise never to do it again?’

  ‘George-’

  ‘Go on playing the part that he wrote for you when you were six years old?’

  ‘Wrote for me?’

  ‘Isn’t that what he did?’ He’d read her story on the Net, wanting to know everything about her. ‘From the moment you stepped into the limelight. Isn’t he the one pushing the wedding bells story?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I saw that photograph of the two of you together on the day it was first published. Your mouth was smiling, but your eyes…You looked hunted.’

  He saw the slip road for a motorway service station and took it. Pulling into the car park, he turned on her. ‘You told Xandra that you’d only marry Rupert Devenish if you loved him. Do you?’

  ‘George…Don’t do this.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No…’ The word was hoarse, barely audible. ‘Before I met you…’

  ‘Before you met me-what?’

  ‘I might have been that desperate.’

  She was no more than a dark shape against the lights. He couldn’t see her face or read her expression and that made it easier. One look from those tender blue eyes and he’d be lost.

  ‘What do you want, Annie?’ he asked, fighting the urge to just take her in his arms, tell her that it would be all right, that he would make it so. But he knew that this was something she had to do for herself.

  She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ he said a touch desperately, wanting to shake her. ‘Just speak. Say the first thing that comes into your head. What do you really want?’

  ‘I want to be the person I would have been if my parents had lived,’ she blurted out. Then gave a little gasp, as if she hadn’t known what she was going to say. ‘A doctor,’ she said
. ‘I was going to be a doctor, like my mother.’

  That was it? Something so simple?

  ‘So what stopped you?’ he asked.

  ‘It was impossible. You must see that.’

  ‘I see only a woman who had a dream but not the courage to fight for it. A quitter.’

  ‘You don’t understand-’

  ‘Oh, I understand.’ He understood that if she went back like this, afraid to admit even to herself what she wanted, she’d never break free. She’d forced him to take a look at his life, to straighten it out, and now, because he loved her, he was going to fight for her whether she liked it or not. ‘I understand that you were enjoying being the nation’s sweetheart a little bit too much to give it up,’ he said, twisting the knife, goading her, wanting her to kick out, fight back. ‘Being on the front page all the time. Everyone telling you how wonderful you were, how brave…’

  Her eyes flared in the lights of a passing car and he knew he’d done it. That if she’d had the room to swing her arm she might have slapped him and he’d have welcomed it, but he didn’t let up.

  ‘If you’d wanted to be a doctor, Annie, you’d have been one. I’m not saying it would have been easy, but you’re not short of determination. What you wanted was your mother,’ he said, ‘and being her was the closest you could get.’

  ‘No!’ There was the longest pause. ‘Yes…’ And then, with something that was almost a laugh, ‘Instead, I became my father. Good works, duty. Everything by the book.’ She looked at him. ‘Until he met my mother.’

  ‘She was a bad influence?’

  ‘That depends on your point of view. Without her, he’d have been like my grandfather, like Rupert. But my mother came from another world and she stirred his social conscience. Together they used his money, his contacts, his influence to help change the world.’ In the darkness he heard her swallow. ‘That’s why they were targeted, killed. Because they were the kind of people whose death mattered enough to make headlines.’

  She didn’t say that her grandfather had blamed her mother for that. She didn’t have to. But it explained why he’d kept her so close, so protected. Not just from unnamed threats, but so that she wouldn’t meet someone like him. Someone who would take her away, as her mother had taken his son, and, from disliking the man on principle, he found himself pitying him.