The Billionaire Affair

by Diana Hamilton

  Wondering whether to ask him for ten minutes of his time before she showered and changed, or afterwards when she’d look less messy and ridiculous and just might feel more in control of emotions that were getting more dangerously unstable by the moment, she filled the electric kettle and plugged it in.

  Assembling the tea things on a tray was almost impossible, her hands were shaking so much. One of the cups slithered from her fingers and shattered on the tiled floor, when Ben walked in and shouldered the door shut behind him.

  The silence after she’d muttered something distinctly unladylike was intense, prickly, painful. A silent accusation hanging in the air, so many things to be said, retracted, so many questions to be asked.

  Feeling gauche and incredibly clumsy, tongue-tied because there were so many things to be said and she didn’t for the life of her know where to start, Caroline hunted for the dustpan and brush, found it eventually and swept up the mess.

  And all the time he said nothing, watching her with those cold, narrowed eyes. The kettle was boiling furiously as she tipped the shards into the waste bin.

  At least the question of when they would talk had been taken out of her hands. It was Ben who broke the silence that was making her feel like a halfwit on the edge of hysteria as he went to deal with the kettle, pour the boiling water onto the leaves she’d already spooned into the pot. ‘If you’d been ready to leave with your gallant rescuer before I got back, would you have left me another Dear John letter, I wonder?’

  He arranged the milk jug and sugar bowl on the tray with neat precision, his hands perfectly steady, his voice like an arctic night as he answered his own question before she had a chance to make any reply, ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t. As your partner has already let slip, you can’t wait to get way, you wouldn’t have wanted to waste the time putting pen to paper. You’d already told me exactly what you thought of me.’

  The tea preparations finished, he picked up the tray and Caroline said tautly, ‘I know you’re angry, but I’m not feeling too euphoric, either.’ She searched his impressive but chilling features for some sign of the closeness they had so recently shared. She found none. So she reminded herself that she was a grown woman of above average intelligence and said emphatically, ‘We really do need to talk.’

  The look he turned on her said he found her statement completely incomprehensible. His head tilted slightly to one side, he uttered, ‘I can’t think why, when there’s nothing more to say.’ He gave a slight, insouciant-seeming shrug. ‘But if you insist I’ll give you five minutes of my time when you’re ready to leave.’

  He walked to the door then turned to face her, ‘I’ll serve tea to your partner while you get your things together. Oh, and just one more thing, I spoke to Maggie Pope this afternoon. She admitted that your father paid her to name me as the father of her child, should you ask.’ He gave her a mocking smile that was totally devoid of humour. ‘He certainly put the money I refused to take to good use.’ His beautifully shaped mouth hardened, ‘Not that you’ll believe me, of course. That would be too much to ask. You’ve probably already decided that I somehow twisted her arm to persuade her to say that.’

  He left as swiftly and silently as he’d appeared, left before she had time to even begin to respond to what he’d said.

  It was the best she could do, Caroline thought as she nervously scanned her reflection half an hour later.

  Deciding against the suit she’d arrived in as being too formal, too much like the hard-nosed career woman she’d done her best to portray when she’d arrived here, she’d dressed in a sleek-fitting, beautifully tailored sage green skirt, topped by a lighter toned fine cashmere sweater. But not even her skilled application of make-up could disguise the haunted look in her eyes or the lines of strain around her mouth.

  Ben’s stress on the word ‘partner’ told her a lot. He thought her relationship with Michael was much closer than it was. Bleakly she recalled what he’d said earlier when he’d asked her what last night and this morning had been about, implying that she’d been missing regular sex and he’d been handy.

  Implying that she was some kind of nymphomaniac!

  Michael’s words and attitude would have reinforced that rock-bottom opinion.

  Casting a final look around the room that had been hers for the first, almost eighteen, years of her life she told herself to think positively.

  She loved Ben and, more importantly, she trusted him now, implicitly. What he’d told her about Maggie Pope made perfect sense, made everything else slot into place.

  Her father’s plan to buy Ben off had failed; so what better way to blacken his character and put an end to what he’d thought was his daughter’s infatuation with an unsuitable man than to use the spurned money to pay Maggie to tell those lies?

  The girl wasn’t too bright and ever since the drink-drive laws her father had barely scraped a living, only the immediate locals using the bar at The Poacher’s Arms. Money was tight and Maggie’d had a small baby to care for.

  Yes, it did make perfect sense; it was just a pity Ben had been too angry to hang around long enough to hear her tell him she believed every word of what he’d said.

  Still, he’d promised they’d talk before she left. They’d work things out; they had to. Then maybe she could stay—unless Ben needed some time to think things over. She loved him so desperately and, even if he hadn’t said he still loved her, he did have deep feelings for her. He’d asked her to marry him, to share his life, and he wouldn’t have done that if all they had was fantastic sex.

  Ben would be waiting. Caroline picked up her bag and walked through the door. A trillion butterflies were performing acrobatics in her stomach.

  ‘That’s more like it—well worth waiting for!’ Michael’s warm hazel eyes swept over her with male approval as he laid the newspaper he’d been reading aside and got to his feet, levering himself out of the deep armchair. ‘If you’re ready, we’ll get moving.’ He took her bag from her suddenly nerveless fingers. ‘It will be good to have you back at base. I’ve missed you.’

  Caroline ignored that. ‘I can’t leave yet,’ she stated firmly. ‘I have to speak to Ben.’ She scanned the study, as if expecting to see him emerge from behind the shabby furniture, but only the used tea cups testified that he’d ever been here.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Michael relayed blithely as he walked to the door. ‘No worries—he said to tell you goodbye and thanks.’

  Goodbye? A final goodbye? And thanks? For what? A few sessions of out-of-this-world sex?

  Her heart plummeted down through the soles of her shoes and the butterflies in her stomach went into panic mode. ‘Gone where?’ she demanded hoarsely, pattering after Michael as he crossed the main hall.

  He’d promised they’d talk before she left. He couldn’t have simply gone. Unless he’d been so disillusioned and disgusted by her lack of trust he’d decided he never wanted to have to set eyes on her again, much less to have to listen to her accuse him of being a liar.

  Michael shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say. He said he’d just remembered an appointment and shot out. And we’re not to worry about locking up. Apparently he was going to ask the site manager to do it before he leaves this evening.’

  This evening? Did that mean she could sit around waiting for him all night and he still wouldn’t turn up?

  Probably, she conceded numbly. If he really had suddenly remembered an appointment too important to cancel, if he really had wanted to thrash things out with her—as he’d intimated much earlier—then he would have left a different message, something along the lines of getting in touch at a later date.

  He’d invented that appointment, she was sure of it, she decided, feeling limp and sick to her stomach. He just couldn’t be bothered to argue his case with a woman who’d made it plain what she thought of his morals.

  And Michael confirmed it when he joined her in the car. ‘Dexter asked me to invoice him for your time, but you’re not to bother with an evaluation. He can d
ecide for himself what’s worth keeping and what’s not.’ He fastened his seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. ‘I don’t know why he wanted you up here in the first place. Still, if he wants to waste his money, that’s his affair.’ The car drew smoothly away. ‘Was there much of interest around the place?’

  ‘Not much.’ Automatically, Caroline mentioned the pieces that would be worth keeping as an investment, her mind functioning on a different level entirely.

  Was there a hidden meaning behind his statement that he could decide what was worth keeping and what was not? Meaning she was not worth keeping?

  Probably. But there could be no doubt that his instruction regarding her written evaluation meant he wanted no further contact.

  Ben Dexter had washed his hands of her and, looking at the sorry mess from his point of view, she couldn’t blame him.

  He had finally done what he’d set out to do. Got her out of his system.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SITTING opposite Michael in the small but elegantly appointed restaurant on the outskirts of Banbury, Caroline wondered miserably how she could ever have imagined that their close and friendly working relationship could have developed into something so very much more. Marriage, home-building, children—leading eventually to a companionable old age.

  She would never have been able to love him. How could she love him, or any other man for that matter, when Ben had captured her heart and had never let it go? Michael deserved far better than that.

  She stared unseeing at the plate of green salad she’d ordered, bleakly looking into a lonely, loveless future and Michael said, ‘Aren’t you going to eat that? I must say, it certainly looks pretty boring to me—you should have gone for the duck, it’s brilliant.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Caroline gave him a wan smile and picked up her fork and speared a dressing-slicked leaf without any enthusiasm. ‘I’m tired, I guess.’

  Although drained was more like it. Drained of energy and hope. Too listless to have been able to tell Michael she’d much prefer to get straight back to London rather than take an early supper break. Besides, that would have been selfish. Michael must have been ravenous if the way he’d demolished his meal was anything to go by.

  ‘Tired? What brought that on?’ A sandy brow lifted enquiringly as he laid down his cutlery and relaxed back in his chair. ‘From the little of real interest you say you found at Langley Hayes, I wouldn’t have thought you’ve been overworked exactly.’

  There was no getting around that. It was time to be honest and open, to explain why his suggestion that they get to know each other better on a personal level was a non-starter. She owed Michael that much at least.

  Caroline laid down her fork and confessed numbly, ‘I don’t want this to go any further, but Ben—Mr Dexter—and I go back a long way, Mike. We had an affair twelve years ago. It ended after a couple of months or so. I didn’t see him again until he came to look at the Lassoon painting.’ She pulled in a breath then went on doggedly. ‘The last few days have been pretty traumatic.’

  ‘Good God!’ He looked stunned. He stared at her for long, assessing moments then stated bluntly, ‘You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?’

  Her throat too tight to allow her to speak, Caroline nodded and Michael said slowly, ‘If it’s lasted that length of time, with nothing to feed on, it has to be the real thing.’ He gave her a twisted smile. ‘I guess that puts me right out of the frame.’ He lifted his shoulders then slowly let them drop. ‘But then, I don’t suppose I was ever really in it, was I? And you were too polite to tell me. Still friends, though?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered, on a rush of gratitude, glad he was taking it like this, even more relieved to know that his feelings hadn’t taken a thorough battering. As hers had done. She wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy.

  But she wasn’t going to think of that, of bruised and battered feelings; she wouldn’t let herself. If she allowed herself to think of what she had almost had and thrown away with her lack of trust, she would put back her head and howl like a dog and embarrass both of them. But then Michael asked, ‘Does he feel the same?’

  An iron fist clenched around her heart, the pain unbearable, her voice a ragged whisper as she got out, ‘Once, perhaps. Not any more.’

  ‘I thought I detected a bit of an atmosphere. Had a fight, did you?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She didn’t want to say any more on the subject but Michael wouldn’t let it go.

  He inched towards her, his forearms on the table, his fingers touching hers, just briefly, as he told her, ‘He’ll get over it—whatever you fought about. Caroline, he isn’t a fool. And—’ he cleared his throat and added uncomfortably, his face going pink ‘—I don’t know, but I might have put my foot in it. Well, we were talking while we waited for you. He was asking questions, about your position at the gallery, whether you were wedded to your career—that sort of stuff.’ He fell silent as their waiter approached to clear the main course and Caroline gave an inner groan of despair.

  Had Ben, even at that stage, still wanted to marry her? Why else should he have tried to find out how much her work meant to her? He’d given her a free choice earlier, when he’d made that stunning proposal of marriage: continue with her career, live in London and use the cottage for weekends, or make it their permanent home.

  Her throat clogged with tears. She made a determined effort to swallow them. Of course he hadn’t still been thinking of marriage. He’d been disgusted by her, by her total lack of trust.

  Michael was saying something. Caroline hauled herself out of her pit of misery and said thickly, ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I asked if you would like the dessert menu.’

  She shook her head, unable at the moment to trust her voice. She couldn’t eat, she simply couldn’t. She just wanted to get out of here, get back to London and lick her wounds in private.

  But Michael had ordered coffee. Caroline smothered a sigh of sheer impatience and Michael mumbled, ‘I feel a fool. I had no idea you and he—well, why would I? I’m afraid I gave him the impression you and I were an item. That when Dad retires next year and I take over you’d be a full partner.’ His face turned bright red. ‘And my wife. Well,’ he said brusquely, on the defensive now, ‘I did have hopes in that direction, and I guess I was jumping the gun. Over-confidence is my one big failing, or so the old man keeps telling me. Look,’ he offered grimly, ‘if it’ll help heal the rift I’ll swallow my pride and call Dexter first thing tomorrow to put him straight.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Caroline returned stiffly. It was over. Ben had already let her know in no uncertain terms how disgusted he was with her before that conversation had taken place.

  The wrong impression Michael had given Ben made her stomach churn queasily but it wasn’t anything to make a song and dance about. It would have been nothing more than the final nail in the coffin of their already doomed relationship.

  ‘It wouldn’t make a scrap of difference,’ she said dismissively with a fatalistic sigh. She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘If you’re ready, could we make a move? I need a good night’s sleep if I’m going to be fit for anything in the morning.’

  A good night’s sleep was difficult to come by, Caroline decided edgily four weeks later, as she ran a duster over the uncluttered surfaces in her minimally furnished small sitting room.

  By armouring herself in designer suits and the mask of her make-up, absorbing herself in her work, she got through the days. And weekends she spent with whichever of her friends happened to be free. But the nights…

  The nights were unadulterated torment. Ben took the starring role in dreams that grew ever more sexually explicit and she would come partially awake and reach for him, but he wasn’t there, and never would be.

  And she’d spend the remaining hours until daylight telling herself that it was over, making herself accept it, facing the fact that Ben would have put their ill-fated relationship firmly behind him, finally ridding himsel
f of her, of his memories of her. Because what man in his right mind could want a woman who openly stated that she didn’t trust him?

  She was coming dangerously close to hating herself, unravelling round the edges, unable to eat or sleep, tormented by the thoughts of her lost love.

  She tossed the duster aside, angry with herself. If her life was a mess she had only herself to blame. So something had to be done about it. And no one else would do it for her.

  When Edward Weinberg had said, ‘You look dreadful. You’re either terminally ill and not telling anyone, or I’m working you too hard. I’m inclined to believe the latter, so take two weeks off. Go to the continent and lie on a beach’, she’d wanted to dig her heels in and refuse to do any such thing.

  But perhaps the enforced break was just what she really needed to straighten herself out, to do something positive. But what?

  Lying on a beach held no appeal. Too much time to think, to brood. She needed hard, physical work.

  Casting a look around her sterile living quarters, she made up her mind, grabbed a jacket and walked out.

  And two hours later she was back, weighed down with tins of paint, brushes, fabric swatches, cheap denim jeans and T-shirts from the local street-market.

  The apartment she’d previously viewed simply as a place to sleep was going to be turned into a proper home.

  ‘Talk about a sea change!’ Danielle Booth, Caroline’s neighbour from across the hall, poked her sleek brown head around the open door. ‘You’ve worked your socks off all week so how about a girls’ night out—you’re not going to work all weekend, I forbid it! You’ll give yourself painter’s elbow!’

  Warm apricot emulsion had transformed the vestibule—formerly an uninspiring pale grey—and the partly open door through to the sitting room revealed the same colour but in a slightly deeper tone.