She thought about her refrigerator at home and its meagre contents. There was plenty of champagne but little else—a tub of Greek yoghurt, which was probably growing a forest of mould by now, a bag of oranges and those soggy chocolate biscuits which were past their sell-by date. Her cheeks growing even hotter, Amber scrabbled around in her purse for some spare change and found nothing but a solitary, crumpled note.
‘I’ll just take the cigarettes,’ she croaked, handing over the note but not quite daring to meet the eyes of the assistant as she scuttled from the shop.
The trouble was that these days everyone glared at you if you dared smoke a cigarette and Amber was forced to wait until she reached home before she could light up. Whatever happened to personal freedom? she wondered as she slammed the front door behind her and fumbled around for her lighter with shaking hands. She thought about the way Conall Devlin had snatched the cigarette from her lips yesterday and a feeling of fury washed over her.
On a whim, she tapped out a text to her half-brother, Rafe, as she tried to remember what time it was in Australia.
What do you know about a man called Conall Devlin?
Considering they hadn’t been in contact for well over a year, Amber was surprised and pleased when Rafe’s reply came winging back almost immediately.
Best mate at school. Why?
So that was why the name had rung a distant bell and why Conall’s midnight-blue eyes had bored into her when he’d said it. Rafe was eleven years older than her and had left home by the time she’d moved back into their father’s house as a mixed-up fourteen-year-old. But—come to think of it—hadn’t her father mentioned some Irish whizz-kid on the payroll who’d dragged himself up from the gutter? Was Conall Devlin the one he’d been talking about?
She wanted to ask him more, but Rafe was probably lying on some golden beach somewhere, sipping champagne and surrounded by gorgeous women. Did she inform him she was soon to be homeless and that the Irishman had threatened to have the locks changed? Would he even believe her version of the story if he and Conall Devlin had been best mates?
There was a ping as another text arrived.
And why are you texting me at midnight?
Amber bit her lip. Was there really any point in grumbling to a man who was thousands of miles away? What was she expecting him to do—transfer money to her account? Because something told her he wouldn’t do it, despite the fortune Rafe had built up for himself on the other side of the world. Her half-brother had been one of the people who were always nagging her to get a proper job. Wasn’t that one of the reasons why she’d allowed herself to lose touch with him—because he told her things she preferred not hear?
Her fingers wavered over the touchpad.
Just wanted to say hi.
Hi to you, too! Nice to hear from you. Let’s talk soon. X
Amber’s eyes inexplicably began to fill with tears as she tapped out her reply: Okay. X.
It was the only good thing which had happened to her all day but the momentary glow of contentment it gave her didn’t last long. Amber sat on the floor disconsolately finishing her cigarette and then began to shiver. How could her father have gone away to India and left her in this predicament?
She thought about what everyone was saying and the different alternatives which lay open to her, realising there weren’t actually that many. She could throw herself on people’s mercy and ask to sleep on their sofas, but for how long? And she couldn’t even do that without enough money to offer towards household expenses. Everyone would start to look at her in a funny way if she didn’t contribute to food and stuff. And if she couldn’t buy her very expensive round in the nightclubs they tended to frequent, then everyone would start to gossip—because in the kind of circles she mixed in, being broke was social death.
She stared down at the diamond watch glittering at her wrist, an eighteenth-birthday present intended to console her during a particularly low point in her life. It hadn’t, of course. It had been one of many lessons she’d learnt along the way. It didn’t matter how many jewels you wore, their cold beauty was powerless to fill the empty holes which punctured your soul...
She thought about going to a pawnbroker and wondered if such places still existed, but something told her she would get a desultory price for the watch. Because people who tried to raise money against jewellery were vulnerable and she knew better than anyone that the vulnerable were there to be taken advantage of.
The sweat of earlier had dried on her skin and her teeth began to chatter loudly. Amber remembered her father’s letter and the words of Mary-Ellen, his assistant. Speak to Conall Devlin. And even though every instinct she possessed was warning her to steer clear of the trumped-up Irishman, she suspected she had no choice but to turn to him.
She stared down at her creased clothes.
She licked her lips with a feeling of instinctive fear. She didn’t like men. She didn’t trust them, and with good reason. But she knew their weaknesses. Her mother hadn’t taught her much, but she’d drummed in the fact that men were always susceptible to a woman who looked at them helplessly.
Fired up by a sudden sense of purpose, Amber went into her en-suite bathroom and took a long shower. And then she dressed with more care than she’d used in a long time.
She remembered the disdainful look on Conall Devlin’s face when he’d told her that he didn’t get turned on by women who smoked and flaunted their bodies. And she remembered the contemptuous expression in his navy-blue eyes as he’d said that. So she fished out a navy-blue dress which she’d only ever worn to failed job interviews, put on minimal make-up and twisted her black hair back into a smooth and demure chignon. Stepping back from the mirror, Amber hardly recognised the image which stared back at her. Why, she could almost pose as a body double for Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music!
* * *
Conall Devlin’s offices were tucked away in a surprisingly picturesque and quiet street in Kensington, which was lined with cherry trees. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but it certainly hadn’t been a restored period building whose outward serenity belied the unmistakable buzz of success she encountered the moment she stepped inside.
The entrance hall had a soaringly high ceiling, with quirky chandeliers and a curving staircase which swept up from the chequered marble floor. A transparent desk sat in front of a modern painting of a woman caressing the neck of a goat. Beside it was a huge canvas with a glittery image of Marilyn Monroe, which Amber recognised instantly. She felt a little stab at her heart. Everything in the place seemed achingly cool and trendy, and suddenly she felt like a fish out of water in her frumpy navy dress and stark hairstyle. A fact which wasn’t helped by the lofty blonde receptionist in a monochrome minidress who looked up from behind the Perspex desk and smiled at Amber in a friendly way.
‘Hi! Can I help you?’
‘I want to see Conall Devlin.’ The words came out more clumsily than Amber had intended and the blonde looked a little taken aback.
‘I’m afraid Conall is tied up for most of the day,’ she said, her smile a little less bright than before. ‘You don’t have an appointment?’
Amber could feel a rush of emotions flooding through her, but the most prominent of them all was a sensation of being less than. As if she had no right to be here. As if she had no right to be anywhere. She found herself wondering what on earth she was doing in her frumpy dress when this sunny-looking creature looked as if she’d just strayed in from a land of milk and honey, but it was too late to do anything about it now. She put her bag down on one of the modern chairs which looked more like works of art than objects designed for sitting on, and shot the receptionist a defiant look.
‘Not a formal appointment, no. But I need to see him—urgently—so I’ll just sit here and wait, if you don’t mind.’
The smile now nothing but a memory,
a faint frown creased the blonde’s brow. ‘It might be better if you came back later,’ she said carefully.
Amber thought of Conall walking into her apartment without knocking. About the smug look on his face as he’d held up the key and warned her that she had four weeks to get out. She was the sister of his best friend from school, for heaven’s sake—surely he could find it in his hard heart to show her a modicum of kindness?
She sat down heavily on one of the chairs.
‘I’m not going anywhere. I need to see him and it’s urgent, so I’ll wait. But please don’t worry—I’ve got all day.’ And with that she picked up one of the glossy magazines which were adorning the low table and pretended to read it.
She was aware that the blonde had begun tapping away on her computer, probably sending Conall an email, since she could hardly call him and tell him that a strange woman was currently occupying the reception area and refusing to move—not when she was within earshot.
Sure enough, she heard the sound of a door opening on the floor above and then someone walking down the sweeping staircase. Amber heard his steps grow closer and closer but she didn’t glance up from the magazine until she was aware that someone was coming towards her. And when she could no longer restrain herself, she looked up.
The breath dried in her throat and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, because yesterday she hadn’t been expecting him and today she was. And surely that meant she should have been primed not to react—she was busy telling herself not to react—but somehow it didn’t work like that. Her heart began to pound and her mouth dried to dust and feelings which were completely alien to her began to fizz through her body. On his own territory he looked even more intimidating than he had done yesterday—and that was saying something.
The urbane business suit had gone and he was dressed entirely in black. A black cashmere sweater and a pair of black jeans, which hugged his narrow hips and emphasised his long, muscular legs. His shadowy presence only seemed to emphasise the sense of power which radiated from him like a dark aura. Against the sombre shade, his skin seemed more golden than she remembered—but his midnight eyes were shuttered and his unsmiling face gave nothing away.
‘I thought I told you to make an appointment—although I can’t remember if that was before or after you told me to go to hell.’ His lips flattened into an odd kind of smile. ‘And since you can see for yourself that this place is as far from hell as you can imagine—I’m wondering exactly what it is you’re doing here, Amber.’
Amber stared into his eyes and tried to think about something other than the realisation that they gleamed like sapphires. Or that his features were so rugged and strong. He looked so powerful and unyielding, she thought. As if he held all the cards and she held none. She wanted to demand that he listen to her and stop trying to impose his will on her. Until she reminded herself that she was supposed to be appealing to his better nature—in which case it would make sense to adopt a more conciliatory tone, rather than blurting out her demands.
‘I’ve been to the bank,’ she said.
He smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly friendly smile. ‘And the nasty man there informed you that your father has finally pulled the plug on all the freebies you’ve survived on until now—is that what you were going to say, Amber?’
‘That’s exactly what I was going to say,’ she whispered.
‘And?’
He shot the word out like a bullet and Amber began to wonder if she should have worn something different. Something shorter, which might have shown a bit of leg instead of her knees being completely covered by the frumpy dress.
Well, if you’re going to dress like a poor orphan from the storm—then at least start behaving like one.
Her voice gave a little wobble, which wasn’t entirely fabricated. ‘And I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she said.
His lips twisted. ‘You could try going out to work, like the rest of the human race.’
‘But I...’ Amber kept the hovering triumph in her voice at bay and replaced it with a gloomy air of resignation. ‘I’m almost impossible to employ, that’s the trouble. It’s a fierce job market out there and I don’t have many of the qualities which employers are seeking.’
‘Agreed,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘An overwhelming sense of entitlement never goes down well with the boss.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Things are really bad, Conall. I can’t get hold of my father, my credit cards have all been frozen and I can’t...I can’t even eat,’ she finished dramatically.
‘But presumably you can still smoke?’
Her head jerked back and her eyes narrowed...
‘And don’t bother denying it,’ he ground out. ‘Because I can smell it on you and it makes me sick to the stomach. It’s a disgusting habit—and one you’re going to have to kick.’
Amber could feel her blood pressure rising, but she forced herself to stay calm. Be docile, she told herself. Let him believe what he wants to believe.
‘Of course I’ll give it up if you help me,’ she said meekly.
‘You mean that?’
Chewing on her bottom lip and making her eyes grow very big, Amber nodded. ‘Of course I do.’
He gave a brief nod. ‘I’m not sure I believe you, but if you’re just playing games, then let me warn you right now that it’s a bad idea and you might as well turn around and walk out again. However, if you’re really in a receptive place and serious about wanting to change, then I will help you. Do you want my help, Amber?’
It nearly killed her to do so but she gave a sulky nod. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Good. Then come upstairs to my office and we’ll decide what we’re going to do with you.’ He glanced over at the blonde and Amber was almost certain that he winked at her. ‘Hold all my calls, will you, Serena?’
CHAPTER THREE
CONALL DEVLIN’S OFFICE was nothing like Amber would have imagined, either. She had expected something brash, or slightly tacky—something which would fit well with his brutish exterior. But she was momentarily lost for words as he took her into a beautifully decorated first-floor room which overlooked the street at the front and a beautiful garden at the back.
The walls were grey—the subtle colour of an oyster shell—and it provided the perfect backdrop for many paintings which hung there. Amber blinked as she looked around. It was like being in an art gallery. He was obviously into modern art and he had a superb eye, she conceded reluctantly. His curved desk looked like a work of art itself and in one corner of the room was a modern sculpture of a naked woman made out of some sort of resin. Amber glanced over at it before quickly looking away, because there was something uncomfortably sensual about the woman’s stance and the way she was cupping her breast with lazy fingers.
She looked up to find Conall watching her, his midnight eyes shuttered as he indicated the chair in front of his desk, but Amber was much too wired to be able to sit still while facing him. Something told her that being subjected to that mocking stare would be unendurable.
So start clawing some power back, she told herself fiercely. Be sweet. Make him want to help you.
He was rich enough to give her a temporary stay of execution until her father got back from his ashram and everything could be cleared up. She walked over to one of the windows and stared down onto the street as two teenage girls strolled past, chewing gum and giggling—and she felt a momentary pang of wistfulness for the apparent ease of their lives and a sense of being carefree which had always eluded her.
‘I haven’t got all day,’ he warned. ‘So let’s cut to the chase. And before you start fluttering those long eyelashes at me, or trying to work the convent-schoolgirl look—which, let me tell you, isn’t doing it for me—let me spell out a few things. I’m not giving you money without something in return and I’m not letting you have an apartme
nt which is way too big for you. So if the sole purpose of this unscheduled visit is to throw yourself on my mercy asking for funds—then you’re wasting your time.’
For a moment Amber was struck dumb because she couldn’t ever remember anyone speaking to her like that. Up until the age of four she’d been a princess living in a palace, and then she’d been catapulted straight into a nightmare when her parents had split up. The next ten years had been several degrees of horrible and she hadn’t known which way to turn. And when she’d been brought back to live in her father’s house after her mother’s accident—seriously cramping his style with wife number whatever it had been—everyone had tiptoed round her.
Nobody had known how to deal with a grieving and angry teenager and neither had she. Her confidence had been completely punctured and so had her self-esteem. Her moods had been wild and unpredictable and she’d quickly realised that she could get people to do what she wanted them to do. Amber had learnt that if her lips wobbled in a certain way, then people fell over themselves to help her. She’d also realised that rubbing your toe rather obsessively over the carpet and staring at it as if it contained the secret of the universe was pretty effective, too, because it made people want to draw you out of yourself.
But there was something about Conall Devlin which made her realise he would see right through any play-acting or attempts at manipulation. His eyes were much too keen and bright and intelligent. They were fixed on her now in question so that, for one bizarre moment, she felt as if he might actually be able to read her thoughts, and that he certainly wouldn’t like them if he could.
‘Then how am I expected to survive?’ she questioned. Defiantly she held up her wrist so that her diamond watch glittered, like bright sunlight on water. ‘Do you want me to start pawning the few valuable items I have?’
The Billionaire's Defiant Acquisition Page 3