Billionaires: They're powerful, hot, charming and richer than sin...

by Clare Connelly

  “I see.” His eyes were narrowed when she risked a look at his symmetrical face.

  He didn’t speak for several moments and the silence was far from comfortable. It pulsed around them, but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say or do to break it.

  He took another drink of his wine, then placed the glass down between them, his finger tracing the rim of the glass. “There is so much I don’t know.”

  Her heart turned over in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  A dark emotion flashed in the depths of his eyes. “How old was he when he said his first word? Took his first steps? Does he get nightmares? Is he a happy child? Does he like clowns? Dinosaurs?” His eyes were loaded with accusation and she felt it, all the way down to the pit of her stomach.

  “There is so much I don’t know, and you are the only person who can give me these answers, but talking to you—,” He shook his head and pain lanced her. “I hate that I have to ask you questions like this about my own son. I hate that you’ve done this to me.”

  Crap.

  She swallowed, but the tears still formed on her eyelashes. “I know.” She reached for her wine, but the acidity of the drink combined with the aching in her throat, making her cough a little.

  “So? Is he afraid of anything?”

  Her eyes jerked to his. It was a mistake. So many feelings slammed into her. Regret. Hurt. Anger. Frustration. Desire. The last was particularly problematic because it complicated everything and she needed, desperately, to conquer it.

  Her body wanted him but everything between them was too complex, too muddied by betrayal and resentment.

  “Elodie?” There was a warning in his voice, but all she heard was her name on his lips and a kaleidoscope of butterflies battered her insides.

  “He’s afraid of spiders,” she whispered, nodding, turning back to the mushrooms and chopping them as a way to avoid having to meet his eyes.

  “That’s all?”

  “He’s generally pretty fearless.” Her voice sounded better. More normal. She kept going. “He walked early – nine months. He was a very chubby baby, all rolls and he weighed a tonne – I carried him in one of those papooses for as long as I could but I swear he weighed almost as much as I do,” she laughed softly at the memory. “So it’s just as well he walked young. I hardly needed a stroller which, in London, was a godsend.” On autopilot, in the rhythm of normal conversational habits, she flicked her gaze to him once more and wished she hadn’t when she saw the look on his features – the same look she’d observed in the hospital earlier that day.

  Devastation.

  She swallowed, but didn’t look away. He was right, he deserved to know this – every last detail.

  “I bought him a little bike. You know those ones that don’t have pedals? You sit on the seat and use your feet to push you forward? He loved it so much, and he was terrifyingly nimble and fast, so it turned out to be a bit of a double-edged sword. He would go so fast, weaving in and out of people, that most of the time I had to jog to keep up with him.” She shook her head as a warm sense of nostalgia moved through her.

  It was a sense that brought with it a growing sense of guilt, because Fiero was right – he had missed so much. The delight of discovering who and what Jack would become had been hers from birth. She’d seen him grow from a tiny little bag of bones into a Jabba-the-Hutt style baby and then an active, exhausting, happy toddler. Fiero just got to meet the toddler, without knowing all the other iterations of their child.

  Remorse tightened inside of her. “I am sorry, Fiero.” And for no reason that she could think of, she reached across and put her hand on his, her tones pale and creamy, his tanned like mahogany. “I wish…” she couldn’t finish the sentence, because she didn’t know what she wished.

  She wished he’d been honest with her about his separation?

  She wished he’d finalised his divorce?

  She wished she’d found a way to speak to him and left it up to him decide whether he told his wife or not?

  His lips pulled downwards, a gash in his handsome face. “Wishing is beside the point.” He freed his hand. “It changes nothing.” Bleakness infused his words. “Nothing will.”

  “No, I know.” She bit down on her lower lip and his eyes dropped to the gesture, so that sadness was now at war with need, a need that was so strong it hurt her insides.

  He straightened, as if mentally pulling himself away from her and their conversation. “I want to know everything. Every detail. You are going to tell me about our son so that when I look back I almost feel as though I was there. You say you are sorry? There is no atonement for what you have done, but at least this will go some of the way.”

  She nodded, but a sense of pride had her reminding him, “You were married, Fiero. I wish you’d try to understand why –,”

  “I do understand.” His eyes glittered with a dark pain. “I understand that you had no idea I was married, nor that I was in the midst of a divorce. I understand your feelings were hurt by my disappearance. I understand that you hated me for what you believed I had done to you, and to Alison. You thought me capable of a duplicitous behaviour that isn’t, frankly, in my DNA. I understand that you chose not to tell me about him and I understand why – I believe you truly thought you were doing the right thing.”

  He was quiet, letting his words sink in.

  “I understand all of that and in time perhaps I will eventually come to accept it. But you need to understand this, Elodie. He is my son, and I met him for the first time six weeks ago. Right now? There is no understanding. No forgiveness.” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple shifted in the column of his throat.

  “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

  5

  I’M GOING OUT. Don’t wait up. The words were like acid against her insides, and despite his instructions, she found herself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and the intricate pattern formed by the moonlight against the glass, casting shapes against the white ceiling, her eyes straying to the bedside table and the clock there frustratingly often.

  He’d made it clear, again and again, how unwelcome she was in his life – what had she expected? That her being there would change things for him? Of course it hadn’t. He was Fiero Montebello, a law unto himself. He had plans, and so he’d gone out, never mind that it was her first night in his home, never mind that she was uncertain and nervous.

  Why hadn’t she seen the danger here? The danger of letting herself trip into his orbit, to become a piece of flotsam in his galaxy, to place herself so close to him? He was too much, too overpoweringly masculine, too…everything he’d been three years ago, but it was so much worse this time. She’d borne him a son, she’d raised a little boy who was a miniature version of Fiero, and every time their son had looked at her, she’d seen his father in those distinctive eyes, so she had the agonising sense that the person she loved most in the world, the only person left to love, predisposed her in some way to think well of Fiero.

  To love him, too.

  It was a preposterous notion and she understood the psychology behind it; she understood how a part of her heart was buried in Fiero if only because together they’d created Jack – that was a bonding event, it was special, but she could never acknowledge it. Nor could she read anything into it, beyond the biological fact that they’d spent one night together.

  She wasn’t here because he liked her or cared for her or wanted her. He’d disappeared out of her life and with good reason.

  He’d been married then. But once he’d divorced? He hadn’t contacted her. And why would he have? He’d probably forgotten all about her the day after he’d left.

  What was a one-night stand to a man like him?

  Nothing.

  With a sound of frustration, she punched her pillow, trying a different arrangement in an attempt to get comfortable. She did fall asleep, but it was a light sleep, fractured by memories.

  Memories of the way he’d gestured towards her that night, wavin
g his hand towards the empty seat at his table, folding his newspaper away at the same time, as though her acquiescence was a foregone conclusion.

  The waiter had been at her elbow, and Elodie had hovered, a little like a deer in the headlights, staring at him, uncertain as to his meaning.

  “You may have this seat, if you’d like.” And when she hadn’t moved, had only stood there, staring at him, unable to process the appearance of this man – so handsome, so immaculately dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt, he’d smiled, and it had blown the moon out of the universe. “I don’t bite. Much.”

  Her stomach had squeezed and she’d found her legs propelling her towards the empty seat as though she was being reeled in, a fish on a line, unable to free herself, not wanting to, really.

  At the table though, she hesitated. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t like to intrude.”

  His eyes had dipped, for the smallest fraction of a second, to the black silk sheathe she wore. “You’re all dressed up,” he murmured. “It would be a shame to leave without having dinner.”

  Her stomach had squeezed. On a night when she so badly needed kindness, Fiero had offered it, and it had meant everything.

  She opened her eyes, listening, wondering if she’d heard something – but it was just the opening of a car door. Her eyes slipped to the clock and a frown formed on her lips. It was the middle of the night.

  I’m going out. Don’t wait up.

  After dinner, she hadn’t wanted to leave him. Their plates had been cleared, the restaurant emptied, but they’d sat, knee to knee beneath the table, talking, laughing, and Elodie’s soul had been fit to burst. She hadn’t told him about her parents – she hadn’t needed to. The grief she’d carried in the months since their premature deaths had eased, and she didn’t want to invoke it again by speaking of them.

  But the restaurant began to set the tables for the following day, the waiters lingering nearby, and he lifted a hand to call for the bill. She’d reached for her bag and pulled out fifty pounds. He’d shaken his head. “Not necessary.”

  Her lips had twisted. “Don’t be silly. You’ve already done too much, letting me join you.”

  He’d reached across the table, laying his hand on hers. Such a simple gesture but one that had rocked her to the heart of her being. She’d jerked her eyes to his, wondering if he felt it too – that fiery throbbing in the pit of his abdomen, a need that was searing her blood and soul.

  When he’d spoken, his voice was husky. “Having you join me has been a high point in an otherwise disastrous month. Paying for dinner is the least I can do to thank you.”

  “I could say the same right back,” she murmured, unable to move her hand beneath his, desperately wanting him to stay like he was. Her eyes had dropped to the table, to the intimate gesture, and her stomach had swooped at the sight. Without looking at him, her heart in her throat, she’d said, “I’m sorry you’ve had a disastrous month. Do you want to talk about it?”

  His thumb had begun to stroke her hand slowly, painfully slowly. “No.” The word was soft though, not a rejection so much as a question. She lifted her eyes to his face, a sinking feeling inside of her.

  “I do not want to talk about it.”

  Bubbles of excitement had been super-charged by adrenaline. “Do you want –,”

  Oh, God. Was she really going to do this? She’d been so nervous, so unbelievably uncertain. In her other life, before her parents had died, she’d had a high level job – she’d given boardroom presentations, run investor meetings, she’d managed a big team of senior-level employees, many of whom were at least a decade older than her, and she’d conquered her nerves each and every time. But she couldn’t tame them in that moment, they were overtaking her.

  “Do I want to?” He prompted, but there was a sensual gravel to his words that buoyed her, because he felt this too. Dropping her eyes to their skin again, she let her thumb begin its own exploration of his hand, lightly, curiously.

  “My place is just around the corner.” She’d squeezed her eyes shut then, balking at the cliché turn of phrase.

  “Is that so?”

  She didn’t know why he wasn’t making this a bit easier for her. Surely he must have known where she was going.

  “I’m renting a flat, in Earls Court. It’s small, but quiet, and the neighbours are nice. I don’t know if I’ll stay there long term or move –,” she was babbling. It was something she’d stamped out of herself a long time earlier, so why it had chosen that moment to resurface was beyond her. “I want –,” She looked at him, but the intensity in his eyes had made her feel like she was spinning in the centre of a hurricane, unable to grab hold of anything secure.

  “You don’t want,” he muttered, shaking his head, and for the first time all night, she got a sense of the darkness that he’d alluded to, when he’d referred to his disastrous month.

  “You shouldn’t want,” he’d amended. And then, with a small shake of his head. “And nor should I.”

  Her mouth had felt bone dry. “But you do.”

  His eyes scanned her face slowly, landing on her lips last of all, where they hovered for so long her mouth began to tingle. “Yes.” As though he were agreeing to sell his soul in some way.

  She’d bit down on her lower lip; she hadn’t been able to help it, and his eyes had narrowed at the gesture, his features tightening. He’d lifted his hand, breaking their contact, but only to usurp it with one far better. His thumb shifted across her pale pink lip, freeing it from her teeth’s imprisonment, and then curved at her cheek, holding her there, steadying her as though he knew she needed it.

  “Come home with me.”

  Something had passed between them. A heat. A fire. A promise.

  It had rocked her to the edges of her sanity.

  And now he was doing the same thing to someone else.

  Jealousy had no place and yet that didn’t stop it from burning the edges of her being. She threw the covers back with a groan of impatience and paced to the window in her room. There was a small balcony jutting off it. She opened the French doors and stepped out. In the distance, Rome glittered like magic, its golden glow beautiful, beautiful in a way that should have offered comfort but didn’t.

  Nothing did.

  The night was warm, the breeze gentle. She curved her fingers over the balcony rail, her long hair pulling away from her face. At the time, she’d believed their night together was somehow fated. It had been easy to imagine that – everything about it had been perfect. A warm night, just like this one, she’d shivered when they’d left the restaurant, and despite the balmy evening, he’d shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulder, so she’d been enveloped by him, by the masculine scent of him, and it had served as a prelude and yes, a promise of what was to come. She’d inhaled deeply, relishing in everything about that small gesture – the chivalry, the hyper-awareness of her actions, the feeling of the silk lining against her naked arms, the pleasant warmth – still warm from his body. Everything.

  It was unspeakably erotic.

  Now, she saw it differently, of course.

  Elodie had dated before, but never seriously, never for long. She didn’t like the way boyfriends seem to expect her to have endless time to binge watch Netflix shows on weekends when she’d had work to catch up on. She hadn’t liked the way they’d silently disapproved of the hours she kept, the long days, the constant presence of her phone at her side, her willingness to let it make incursion on any time of her day or night.

  She’d had no real experience to speak of. Not with someone like Fiero Montebello. He’d overwhelmed every single one of her senses.

  Or maybe it was that losing her parents as she had, so unexpectedly and in a way she couldn’t absolve herself of guilt from, had woken her up in some way.

  She’d made wholesale changes to her life almost immediately, unable to believe the decisions she’d made, the ways she’d treated them. She’d sworn she wouldn’t let life pass her by, th
at she’d do what they’d always wanted her to – get out and see the world.

  Meeting Fiero had been in the midst of the ‘gap year’ they’d wanted her to take, which she’d refused to have any part in. Mum, you don’t get it. This internship is like a one in a billion chance. I’m not going to stuff it up to go backpacking and stay in feral hostels.

  She cringed now at how dismissive she’d been of their wishes. How unwilling she’d been to listen to them, to see that there was wisdom in their experience, and to recognise that they knew her better than she knew herself. Life is a marathon, Rosie. Your career will wait. Go and explore. Open yourself up to new opportunities.

  Rosie. Her lips curved in a wistful smile.

  Her mother had always used her middle name, only calling her Elodie Rose when she was in trouble. Otherwise, it had been Rosie, and every year, there’d been a beautiful bunch of roses on her birthday.

  Roses just like the ones she’d looked out on from the hospital as she’d recovered, roses that had almost seemed like a sign from her mother, a hug, an embrace, a reminder that they were still with her.

  Not in a spiritual way, so much as the way all great parents were with their children, always and for all time. They were a part of her soul, her decisions, her life – their biology had informed hers, and their attitudes had shaped who she was. And now, they were a part of Jack.

  Her eyes swept shut as she pictured her son, their son. She and Fiero had created him; he was a reflection of them, even when he looked as though he had been cast solely in Fiero’s image. She knew she was in him, in his smile and laugh, and that her parents were there too.

  She’d given him her father’s name, so he’d grow up to know of them, to understand his grandparents had been wonderful people, even though he’d never get to meet them.