Behind the Billionaire's Guarded Heart

by Leah Ashton

Hugh was not part of her decision-making, and he was not part of her future.

  * * *

  On Friday Hugh brought lunch again.

  Although it grew cold, forgotten on the kitchen counter, as April and Hugh made up for lost time.

  Later, Hugh closed his eyes, breathing heavily, his cheek resting against the top of April’s head. April, pressed up against the closed pantry door, was taking in long swallows of air, her breath hot against his neck. His hands lay against the luscious skin beneath her shirt...her hands had shoved his T-shirt upwards to explore his back and chest.

  ‘What, exactly,’ he managed, his voice gravelly, ‘are we waiting for?’

  ‘Time,’ April replied, and he sensed her smile. ‘Tomorrow.’

  He groaned.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she repeated, pushing gently against his chest. ‘I need to get back to—’

  ‘Work,’ he finished for her. ‘I know.’

  * * *

  Finally it was Saturday.

  A cab was arriving at three p.m. to collect April.

  Hugh was once again playing tour guide—but a mysterious one today, having only hinted at their destination with a dress code: a bit fancy...no jeans.

  Another package had arrived from Perth from one of her suppliers: stunning hand-painted silk dresses that would have been perfect if it hadn’t been December in London.

  So April had spent the morning searching for a more season-appropriate dress along the High Street and at the many vintage clothing shops that Shoreditch had to offer. In the end she’d chosen a mix of modern and vintage—a new dress with a retro feel, in a medium-weight navy blue fabric with a full skirt, short sleeves and a pretty peekaboo neckline.

  She’d also bought new stockings and heels, and spent more money than she had in weeks. Although she realised, as she walked out of the store, bags swinging from her fingertips, that this was the first outfit she’d ever bought with money she’d earned herself.

  The realisation was both a little embarrassing and also incredibly satisfying.

  Right on time, Hugh and his cab arrived.

  She rushed to the door with her coat slung over her arm and swung it open.

  Hugh was wearing a suit of charcoal-grey and a tie—something she’d never imagined him wearing. He looked amazing—his jaw freshly shaven, his hair still just too long and swept back from his face. His eyes were dark, and he was silent as his gaze slid over her from her hair—which she’d curled with her roommate’s curling wand—to her red-painted lips, and finally down to her dress and the curves it skimmed.

  He stepped forward and kissed her—hard. ‘You are stunning,’ he said against her ear.

  April shivered beneath his touch.

  Twenty minutes later they arrived at The Ritz Hotel. The building was beautiful, but imposing, stretching a long way down Piccadilly and up at least five or six storeys.

  Inside, Hugh led her into the Palm Court—a room with soaring ceilings decorated in sumptuous shades of cream and gold. Tables dotted the space, each surrounded by gilded Louis XVI oval-backed chairs, and everywhere April looked there were chandeliers, or mirrors, or flowers, or marble. It was opulent and lavish and utterly frivolous.

  ‘What do you think?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘I love it,’ she said.

  Hugh smiled.

  They were seated at a corner table. Around them other tables’ occupants murmured in conversation to the soundtrack of a string quintet.

  ‘I thought you might like to experience a traditional British afternoon tea,’ Hugh said.

  A waiter poured them champagne.

  ‘You thought correctly,’ April said. ‘Although I wouldn’t have thought this was really your thing.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Hugh said. ‘So this is a first for me, too.’

  ‘Really?’ April said, quite liking the idea that this was new to them both.

  Hugh nodded. ‘Surprisingly, a reclusive computer science nerd doesn’t take himself to afternoon tea at The Ritz.’

  April took a sip from her champagne. ‘I wouldn’t say you’re a total recluse,’ she said. ‘You have to interact with people to run your company, even if not face-to-face. You spend time with me. And with the other women you date.’

  Her gaze shifted downwards, to study the clotted-cream-coloured fabric of the tablecloth.

  ‘Selectively reclusive, then,’ he said. ‘Generally I prefer my own company.’

  ‘So I’m an exception?’ April said, unable to stop the words tumbling from her mouth. What was she even asking?

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply.

  But before he could elaborate the three tiers of plates housing their afternoon tea arrived, and the moment was lost. Or at least April decided it was best not to pursue her line of questioning as she didn’t like what it revealed. Not so much about Hugh, but about her.

  She didn’t need to be special, she reminded herself. This isn’t about special. It’s about fun. Special is irrelevant.

  Afternoon tea was lovely.

  They ate delicate sandwiches that didn’t have crusts; scones with raisins and scones without—both with jam and cream, of course—and pretty cakes and pastries with chocolate and lemon and flaky pastry.

  They talked easily, as they always seemed to now, in a way that made their first kiss seem so much longer than eight days ago.

  Today their conversation veered into travel. April had, of course, done a lot—Hugh very little.

  April buried uncomfortable feelings as she deftly edited the stories she told him. She didn’t lie, but rather didn’t mention details—like the fact that she’d often travelled in the Molyneux private jet, or that her grandfather had once owned his own private island in the Caribbean. Instead she told him only about the experiences: the Staten Island Ferry, the junks in Halong Bay, a cycling tour through the French countryside. Which were the important bits, really, anyway.

  She took a long drink of her champagne.

  ‘Why haven’t you travelled more?’ she asked. He’d travelled to the US—Silicon Valley—and that was about it.

  ‘I run my business entirely remotely, so I don’t need to interact with people or leave my house,’ he said. ‘If I did travel the world, wouldn’t that seem more surprising?’

  April studied Hugh as he drank his champagne. The isolated man he described did not align with the man she’d shared the week with.

  ‘But you love the museum,’ she said. ‘And that’s all about learning and discovering new things. You brought us here today. And you ride your bike. Don’t you ever ride somewhere new?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘So are you sure you wouldn’t enjoy travelling? You just need to avoid crowds—but that wouldn’t be too hard with a bit of planning. There are these amazing villas in Bali...’ She paused a split second before she said where I’ve stayed. ‘That I’ve heard of where you have your own private beach. It would be totally private. You’d love it.’

  ‘Would I?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I think so,’ April said. ‘We could explore the nearby villages and swim in—’

  Too late she realised what she’d said, and her cheeks became red-hot. She’d done it again—mistakenly stumbled into a fanciful world where she was special to Hugh—where with her he broke the shackles of the insular world she suspected his mother’s hoard had created.

  ‘I mean, you could. Of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and when he met her gaze his expression was as frustratingly unreadable as it had been when they’d first met.

  The tension between them had shifted from charged to awkward, and April rushed to fix it.

  ‘I can’t wait to travel again,’ she said, possibly slightly too loudly. ‘My credit card is almost paid off, so
once I finish working for you I’m going to start saving for my next adventure. I’ve never been to Cambodia, and I’ve heard that Angkor Wat is really amazing.’ She was talking too quickly. ‘Plus, accommodation is really cheap, which is good. And I’ve heard the food is fantastic. A friend of mine was telling me about Pub Street, which is literally a street full of restaurants and pubs, so you’d probably hate it, but I—’

  She talked for a few more minutes, grasping at random remembered anecdotes from her friends and things that she’d read online. She didn’t really care what she said—she just wanted to fill the silence.

  ‘So you’ve got it all sorted?’ Hugh asked, and his gaze was piercing now. ‘Your plans after you stop working for me?’

  ‘Yes—’ she began, and then she took a deep breath. She was sick of all these half-truths. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have no idea. I have no idea where I’ll work or what I’ll do. And if I travel—who knows when?—I am as likely to go to Siem Reap as Wollongong or Timbuktu.’

  She swallowed, her gaze now as direct as Hugh’s. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he was studying her with intent.

  ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘about all I know right now is that I’m sitting here with you, the hot, charmingly odd British guy I met at work, who is absolutely perfect as my rebound guy. I know that you make me laugh, and I know that you love to show me London as much as I love you showing me.’

  She lowered her voice now, leaning closer. Her hand rested on the tablecloth. Hugh’s was only inches away.

  ‘And I absolutely know that I really like kissing you,’ she said. ‘I also know exactly where this night is headed. So...um...’ Here her bravado faltered, just slightly. ‘I’d really like to just focus on the things I know tonight. If that’s okay with you?’

  Hugh’s hand covered hers, his thumb drawing squiggles on her palm.

  ‘Do with this information as you wish,’ he said, his voice low, ‘but I know that I have a key card in my pocket for a suite upstairs.’

  His words were so unexpected that April laughed out loud in surprise. But it was perfect. As simple and uncomplicated as their non-relationship was supposed to be. It was what they both wanted—right now and tonight.

  Tomorrow, or after she’d finished working with him, or after Hugh had walked out of her life—in fact anything in the future—she had absolutely no clue about. But that didn’t matter—at least, not right now. As she sat here in this remarkable room, with this remarkable man.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, lacing her fingers with his.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT WAS DARK when Hugh awoke, although a quick check of his phone showed that was due to the heavy brocade curtains rather than the hour. In fact, it was midmorning. Usually by now he’d already be home from his Sunday morning bike ride, showered and about halfway through the newspaper, and probably his second cup of tea.

  Right now he had no urge to be doing any of those things.

  April lay sleeping beside him, her back to him. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and now he could see the curve of her shoulder, waist and hip in silhouette beneath the duvet. She was breathing slowly and steadily, fast asleep.

  He sat up so he could observe her profile and the way her dark hair cascaded across the pillow. She was beautiful. He’d always thought that, but she seemed particularly so right in this moment.

  It was tempting to touch her—to kiss the naked shoulder bared above the sheets and to wake her. But they’d already kept each other awake for most of the night, and she needed her sleep. She was working two jobs, after all.

  It had actually been her job stacking supermarket shelves that had inspired him to choose The Ritz. He’d already known he’d need to book a hotel room—April’s house was clearly not an option and his definitely was not. A hotel had been the obvious solution for where they’d spend the night together. Clearly he would always have selected somewhere nice. Very nice. But The Ritz—The Ritz was a whole other level.

  And he’d liked the idea of choosing somewhere so grand and iconic, to give April a London experience she otherwise wouldn’t have experienced on a box-emptying, supermarket-shelf-stacking income. Something to remember after all this had ended.

  Afternoon tea had been offered by the reservations office when he’d rung to book, and he’d known instantly that April would love the idea. He’d surprised himself by very much enjoying himself too, getting as caught up in the pomp and ceremony as April had.

  Hugh’s stomach rumbled—a reminder that they’d skipped dinner. Although he certainly hadn’t minded the trade-off. He wouldn’t have passed on one touch or one sensation for literally anything last night.

  It had been nothing like he’d ever experienced. More than just sex. And, considering sex had always just been sex to him, that was...

  Unexpected, Hugh supposed.

  Although really had anything that had happened between Hugh and April in the past week or so in any way indicated that when they made love it would be anything but raw and intense and intimate?

  No.

  He’d told himself as he’d driven in that cab to collect her that tonight would be it: one night with April and then they’d go their separate ways. It would be simpler that way, he’d decided. He’d simply give April his word that he would keep out of her way at work.

  But that had been just as big a lie as telling himself that making love to April would just be sex.

  April stirred, maybe under the relentless stare of Hugh’s attention, and rolled onto her back. But she didn’t wake. Now she was just simply closer to him, an outflung hand only centimetres from his hip.

  In her sleep, she smiled.

  April was always smiling, he’d discovered, and when he was with her he smiled too.

  He wanted more than one night.

  He needed it.

  Hugh had never watched a woman sleep before. His usual protocol was a swift exit the morning after, and he’d always done so with ease. He’d never simply enjoyed lying in bed with a woman, watching her sleep: he’d never felt compelled to.

  And compelled was the right word when it came to April. In fact since he’d met April so much of what had happened had felt almost inevitable—and certainly impossible to resist.

  Not that he was complaining.

  But if he wanted another night with April—in fact, many nights—what did that mean?

  Did he want a relationship with her?

  As he considered that question he waited for the familiar claustrophobic sensation he’d always associated with the concept of relationships: that visceral, suffocating tightening of his throat and the racing of his heart. Similar to the way he felt in pubs, or bustling crowds, or when he was surrounded by his mother’s hoard. As if he was trapped.

  But it didn’t come.

  April stirred again, reaching towards him. Her hand hit the bare skin of his belly and then crept upwards, tracing over the muscles of his stomach and chest with deliberate languor.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said softly, and he could hear that smile she’d worn in her sleep. ‘Please don’t tell me we need to check out anytime soon.’

  ‘We have until two p.m.,’ he said. ‘Hours. But we should probably eat.’

  Her hair rustled on her pillow as she shook her head. ‘Later,’ she said firmly as she sat up, and then she pushed against his shoulders so he was lying beneath her.

  As her hair fell forward over her shoulders to tickle his jaw and she slid her naked body over his he said, ‘That works for me.’

  ‘I thought it might,’ she said, smiling against his lips.

  And then she kissed him in a way that sent all thoughts of anything at all far, far from his mind.

  He wanted April. Now, and for more than one night.

  The details he’d work out late
r.

  * * *

  April discovered that walking out onto Piccadilly after checkout, wearing the dress she’d worn the day before and with a biting wind whipping down the street, worked as a seriously effective reality check.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth slightly on her heels.

  What now?

  Hugh stood beside her. He hadn’t shaved today, and she’d already decided that the way he looked right now was her favourite: the perfect amount of stubble, dishevelled hair and bedroom eyes.

  They’d left their hotel room for the first time that day when they’d walked to the reception desk to pay. In fact it had been Hugh reaching for his wallet that had been the first fissure in their little ‘April and Hugh’ bubble of lust.

  ‘Oh—’ she’d said, with no idea what she’d actually planned to say next.

  He’d looked at her reassuringly: he had this. Which of course he did—he was wealthy. A billionaire.

  But she wasn’t used to a man paying for her. Yes, Hugh had bought her dinner and lunch before, but April had bought him breakfast, and had insisted on paying for their lunch at the British Museum. It had felt as if they were equals.

  It was just that she knew how much hotels like this cost per night—she’d stayed at many of them. Not The Ritz, for which she was immensely grateful—she couldn’t have stomached pretending if she had. And she’d paid for many of those rooms. With Molyneux money, of course, not her own. Evan had never paid—it would have been crazy. His income was a mere drop within the Molyneux Mining money ocean.

  For the first time she wondered if that had been problematic for Evan. Maybe it had? She’d refused to let him pay whenever he’d tried...

  Well, there was her answer.

  Anyway, April thought she understood money now. Or at least appreciated it more. So Hugh paying thousands of pounds for a night with her made her in equal parts thrilled and flattered and terribly uncomfortable.

  He didn’t even know her real name.

  But then he’d leant forward and kissed her cheek before murmuring in her ear, ‘I had a wonderful time last night.’