My Roommate, the Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 3)

by Serenity Woods

  His eyes are astute. He’s not just telling me about himself. He’s trying to explain why Albie is the way he is.

  I look across the dance floor to where Albie has stopped to talk to Hal, his cousin, who’s dancing with his partner, Izzy. Suddenly, it all makes sense: Albie’s often ham-fisted attempts at conversation, and how he comes out with comments I’ve thought rude or arrogant. And equally, the way he sometimes stares at me when I’ve responded with irritation or frustration, his expression carefully blank, as if he has no idea why I’ve reacted like that.

  I look back at Charlie, who’s sipping his whisky, watching me. “It does not seem to have stopped him getting girlfriends,” I tell him softly. Izzy told me that when she used to live in the house, if Albie brought a girl home, she was sometimes woken in the night by the headboard banging against the wall.

  “First dates are easier than maintaining a relationship,” Charlie advises. A nice way of saying that Albie has had a series of one-night stands. “It’ll take a special woman to understand that and help him through the minefield of communication.”

  I give him a wry look. “You are a rogue, Mr. King.”

  “Charlie, please. And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. I can see right through you. I’m only here for another three weeks, Charlie. Albie is lovely, but the timing is not right, you know?” I’m being polite. Even with his explanation of his son’s behavior, Albie King is not the sort of guy I’m looking for. My experience with rich, spoiled, arrogant playboys hasn’t been good, and I’m not keen to replicate it.

  “I understand,” he says. “You can’t blame me for trying, though. It’s rare to see my son so dazzled by a woman.” He smiles as Albie approaches, leaving me blinking at his words, and takes the glass of whisky as Albie offers it. “Thanks, son.”

  Albie hands me the glass of wine. I sip it, conscious of his warm gaze on me. He’s the type of guy who asks out anything in a skirt. His dad’s got the wrong end of the stick, I think.

  “Dance with me,” he says.

  The band are currently playing Michael Jackson’s Thriller. “I don’t think so,” I tell him, even though the beat is a tad sexy. “I’m not in the mood for doing the zombie dance.” Right then, though, the song finishes, and the band declares it’s time for a slow one, and start Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red.

  Albie grins and gestures at my dress. “It’s a sign,” he says.

  I glance at Charlie, who’s sipping his whisky and trying to look as if he isn’t listening. I don’t want to dance with his son. I don’t want to have Albie’s hand holding mine, to feel his other hand warm on my hip, to have him close to me. I know he’s going to smell good because his aftershave lingers in the house after he’s showered. I’ve sneaked a look at the bottle—it’s called Ambre Topkapi, it’s hugely expensive, and it’s beautifully spicy—cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, and a touch of grapefruit. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

  He kissed me once. It was right in the middle of a fraught moment, when our friend Nix had been abducted by a stalker, and I came up with the idea of tracking her using her iPhone. Albie pulled me to him and crushed his lips to mine for a moment before releasing me and concentrating on finding our friend. He’s never mentioned it since, and neither have I, but I haven’t forgotten it, and I suspect he hasn’t, either.

  If I dance with him, I know he’s going to have that look in his eyes that promises if I go to bed with him, there’ll be untold delights waiting in store, and I definitely don’t want to start thinking about going to bed with Albie King.

  But I’m too polite to turn him down in front of his father, so I place my glass on a nearby table, take his hand, and let him lead me onto the dance floor.

  I half expect him to put his hands on my butt and stick his tongue down my throat, but he holds my right hand with his left and places his right on my hip, leaving a couple of inches between us.

  It’s all very proper, and the dance floor is busy so we’re hardly alone, but I have an odd feeling of everyone fading into the background, until all I can see is the man before me. He’s larger than life, is this guy, assaulting my senses and making sure nothing else competes for my attention. All the King men are like this to some extent, but although I like Hal and Leon, they don’t give me this… frisson down my spine.

  And now the time is ticking by, and we still haven’t spoken. I’m tongue-tied, mesmerized by the feel of his warm skin on mine, his shoulder muscles beneath my fingers. One day I came home to discover him in front of the garage, stripped to the waist, working on his motorbike. The man was all muscles and light-brown skin that shone with sweat and grease. I walked straight into the doorpost and nearly knocked myself out. Luckily, he didn’t see me.

  If I stand on tiptoe and reach up, I could kiss his jaw. It looks smooth tonight, with no sign of the scruff he often sports. He’s made a real effort for his father’s birthday. He’s even tied his own bow tie—it’s not on a piece of elastic.

  His warm brown eyes have been studying my face for a long time, and his lips bear a small smile. Is he aware of how I’m feeling? Because of his teasing and playful attitude, I tend to think of him as a naughty boy, irreverent and mischievous, but he’s not. He’s twenty-eight, and now, with my hand in his and our bodies so close I’m sure I can sense the heat radiating from him, I feel the full power of his sexuality. I’m being stalked; he’s a tiger, closing in on its prey. Any minute now, he’s going to sink his claws into me.

  I’m beginning to think I’ve had a few too many glasses of wine this evening. I really have to say something and break the spell.

  “I like your dad,” I come up with.

  Albie chuckles. “He certainly turned on the charm this evening.”

  “We had an interesting chat.”

  “Oh?”

  “About you.”

  He raises his eyebrows, looking amused. “Has he been telling you awful stories about me?”

  That makes me smile. “Not at all. He adores you, Albie. No, he was actually telling me how his parents had him assessed for Asperger’s Syndrome when he was young.”

  Albie’s smile fades a little, and he doesn’t reply.

  “He told me how he has trouble understanding the nuances in conversation, and how it made dating difficult.”

  Albie looks away, across the dance floor, frowning. I think I’ve upset him. Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t get annoyed with his father, especially tonight.

  “Clearly, you don’t have the same problem,” I tease, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

  He looks back at me then. “I do.”

  His admission surprises me. “Oh.”

  “Most girls don’t get me. They think I’m being too forward, or rude, or insensitive. I don’t mean to be outspoken. I say what’s on my mind because it’s the only way I know, and I don’t have the ability to play the mental games everyone else seems to enjoy.”

  “I did not mean to upset you,” I say softly.

  “You haven’t.”

  “And please, do not be angry with your father. I think he was trying to help.”

  “I’m not angry,” Albie says. “Dad understands me better than anyone else. He’s tried to explain how sometimes it’s best not to say anything when you don’t know what to say. I’m just not very good at it.” His thumb caresses mine—I’m not sure he knows he’s doing it. “I know I’m too blunt, too in-your-face sometimes. Like when I asked you out. It wasn’t very romantic. But I don’t understand subtlety. I can’t read between the lines. It makes me like a…”

  “Cow in a china shop?”

  He laughs. “It’s a bull. But yes, it’s who I am. I don’t know how to be any other way. I’m sorry.”

  I look up into his eyes, melting a little inside. Vulnerability is written on his face—he’s not used to admitting this to girls. It’s rare to see my son so dazzled by a woman. Maybe he really does like me. It still doesn’t mean I’m going to date him, but I fee
l as if I’ve peeked behind the rood screen in church. I’ve been given an insight into this man few have a chance to see, and I like the guy who’s hiding behind the screen.

  Albie begins to sing to the chorus, his hand sliding from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me a fraction toward him.

  I don’t complain.

  Chapter Three

  Albie

  I don’t see much of Remy for the rest of the evening. I don’t ask her to dance again. I daren’t. If I do, I think my head might explode. It’s the first time I’ve been that close to her, and it made me all hot under the collar. Okay, so I know I kissed her a couple of weeks ago, but that was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I regretted it afterward. Well, I didn’t regret the kiss, but I did regret doing it without her permission. Although if I’d asked her permission, she’d have said no, so maybe I don’t regret it.

  Jesus. My brain hurts.

  “Are you all right?” It’s Leon, come to lean on the bar beside me while he orders a round of drinks. “Haven’t seen much of you this evening.”

  “He’s brooding,” Hal says, leaning on the other side of me. “Or trying to. He thinks it makes him look mysterious.”

  “I’m really not,” I tell them. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “Want some Panadol?” Hal asks. “Izzy’s got some in her purse, I think.”

  “Nah, I’m okay.” I just need to stop thinking, but my brain is racing at a million miles an hour, churning up words in my head that threaten to pour out of my mouth like M&M’s tipped from a giant packet. I have to clench my jaw to stop them falling out.

  Leon frowns. “Is it just a headache that’s bothering you?” He glances over his shoulder. “I saw you dancing with Remy earlier.”

  I wait for him to tease me. I know I deserve it. Not that long ago, I pretended I had a thing for his girlfriend—who wasn’t his girlfriend at the time—to try to make him jealous. It was Hal’s idea, although it was me who ended up being on the receiving end of a right hook, courtesy of an outraged Leon. I’ve apologized, and so has he, but he’s been a bit bristly toward me since.

  Tonight, though, he just looks concerned. I scratch at a mark on the bar. “Yeah. It scrambled my brain a bit.”

  “What happened?” Hal asks softly.

  “Nothing, really. Dad told her about us being a tad Aspergic. For the first time, she looked at me as if she… understood me.”

  “And that freaked you out?” Leon asked.

  “Well, yeah. I’m not used to girls looking at me with anything other than impatience and frustration.”

  Hal and Leon exchange a glance and smile.

  “If you’re gonna take the piss,” I tell them, “just get on with it, will you?”

  “We’re not going to take the piss,” Hal insists. “We’re here to help you.”

  “Yeah, because that’s what I need. Two overly large Cupids, one of whom took two years to come to his senses and the other an impressive eighteen years to realize he loved his girl.”

  “I’m a late bloomer,” Hal says. I laugh and have a mouthful of whisky. I love these guys as if they’re my brothers. I’m glad both of them have found girls to settle down with—they deserve it.

  “Nix says Remy likes you,” Leon tells me.

  “What are we, thirteen? You want to pass her a note in gym class?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “It’s bullshit,” I reply. “Tonight was a one-off. She’ll go back to thinking I’m a major pain in the ass tomorrow.” I feel a surge of frustration at the thought. When she was in my arms and we were dancing, I found it difficult to stop myself pulling her hard against me and crushing my lips to hers. I’m sure it’s only because she’s the one who got away, but I want this girl more than I’ve wanted any girl for years.

  After she turned me down, I’ve done my best to keep my distance. It’s hard, though, when we live in the same house. We’re a bit like ships that pass in the night, but it doesn’t stop her leaving her presence around the place. I’m used to girls being around—Izzy and Nix also lived in the house for a few years, and there’s always been lettuce in the fridge, Tampax in the bathroom cabinet, and scented candles on the table. But Remy’s different. I guess it’s because she’s French.

  She wears Chanel No. 5 L’Eau perfume—I mean, can you get more sophisticated than that? It fills the house with the smell of lemon, rose, and jasmine, and makes me long to touch my lips behind her ear and inhale her warm skin.

  Izzy and Nix used to throw their laundry in the tumble dryer and have done with it, but Remy hangs everything on the washing line outside, and consequently I’m treated to an eyeful of the most exquisite underwear on a weekly basis—silky camisoles and lacy teddies and something I’ve heard her refer to as French knickers that are like incredibly sexy shorts with lace at the bottom. Seriously. Now I can’t stop myself wondering which piece she’s wearing on any given day, and my hands itch to slide underneath her clothing and discover what they feel like.

  I think about her constantly. I hunger for her. And it’s killing me not being able to have her.

  “Girls know this stuff,” Hal insists.

  “You should ask her out again,” Leon suggests. “Maybe she’s changed her mind.”

  “Guys, she’s going back to France in three weeks. She told me she doesn’t want a relationship while she’s here.”

  “If you married her, she’d get her residency,” Hal says.

  “Jesus. Will you two fuck off?”

  Leon chuckles. “Don’t listen to him. You don’t have to marry the girl. But it seems a shame to pass up on the chance to get to know her if she does like you.”

  I gesture to the bartender to pour me another and flick my fingers at my cousins as if brushing them away. “Duly noted, thanks for the advice. Now don’t you both have a woman waiting to look up at you adoringly?”

  “Good point.” Hal pushes off the bar. “Hope the head gets better.”

  He and Leon walk off carrying their drinks. I mutter to myself, pick up the whisky, and walk over to the doorway.

  The hall is filled with people, and I have no wish to join them. I feel hot and restless, my blood thundering through my veins, my heart banging on my ribs. I haven’t had sex since Remy started at the Ark, that’s the problem. Every time I’ve come close to asking a girl back to the house, I think of Remy being there, and the words freeze on my lips. I don’t want just any girl—I want Remy. I want to strip off her clothes and that luxurious underwear and kiss her all over. I want to slide inside her and hear her sigh my name as she comes.

  I’ve got it really bad.

  Glowering, I turn away and walk over to a secluded table in the corner. Pulling out my phone, I sit with my back against the wall, put my feet up on the chair next to me, plug an earbud into one ear, and close my eyes as I lose myself in a gaming podcast I’ve been meaning to listen to for a few days.

  It’s pretty good, and it soon absorbs me. It’s about twenty minutes later that I open my eyes and immediately see Remy standing at the bar.

  She’s holding a glass of wine, but she’s leaning on the bar, watching me. By her pose, I think she’s been there a while.

  She turns, picks up a tumbler of what looks like whisky, and brings it over. “Laphroaig,” she says in her beautiful accent, showing me the glass. “Your favorite, no?”

  “That’s right.” I’m touched she knows that.

  She gives it a delicate sniff and pulls a face. “It smells disgusting.”

  I laugh. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  She holds it out to me, and I take it, feeling the brush of her fingers against mine.

  “It smells like the ointment my mother used to put on our knees when we scraped them as children,” she says.

  “Who’s we?”

  She sips her wine. “My brother and sister.”

  “I didn’t know you had siblings. I know so little about you, Remy.”

  “I am a mystery, it’s true.”
<
br />   I smile. “Sit down and talk to me for a bit.”

  She hesitates and bites her lip, looking over her shoulder at the dance floor.

  “Unless you have someone waiting for you,” I suggest. “I should point out that if it’s a man I’ll be tempted to slap him with a glove and challenge him to a duel.”

  “You are not wearing gloves.”

  “I’m sure I can find one somewhere.”

  Her lips curve up. “No, Albie. Nobody is waiting for me.”

  I take my feet off the chair next to me, dust it down, then move it out for her. She sighs and lowers herself, graceful as always.

  I’m tempted to cheer, but I retain my composure and just lean back, taking out my earbud and placing it on the table with my phone. Dad would be proud of me. As a youth, I was constantly getting into trouble at school for talking too much, or at inappropriate moments, because I didn’t understand the social cues teachers gave me to be quiet. I didn’t understand why you were supposed to speak in hushed voices in the assembly hall, or why in the classroom you were meant to give others a chance to speak, even if you knew the answers. I’m better now. Dad spent a lot of time explaining how we’re different from most other people, and how it was important for us to work hard if we wanted to fit in. It’s helped, knowing he’s the same, and that he went through similar issues when he was young.

  “Tell me about your brother and sister,” I say. Dad says it’s important to ask other people questions about themselves and not just talk about yourself all the time, but that’s not why I’m asking her. I want to know more about her.

  “Actually, they’re my half-brother and sister. Like Summer is to you, yes?”

  “That’s right. Same mom or dad?”

  “Our mother is the same. She married my stepfather when I was six.”