Her Young Millionaire Lover

by K S Augustin

  Sophie is English, divorced, living in Singapore…and bored, Bored, BORED! But is she ready for handsome, exotic, young Adrian Pereira?

  Several years ago, Sophie Ogden moved to Singapore with her banker husband, Tim. However, when they got divorced, Tim moved back to the UK, leaving Sophie to carve herself a new life in the modern Asian metropolis. Unfortunately, things haven’t turned out the way she hoped. Although she has a rewarding career, she’s restless, wondering if this is as good as life gets.

  Cajoled into attending a masquerade ball for charity, Sophie meets a charming stranger and spends the night with him, indulging in hot steamy sex. The problem comes when he wants to see more of her, and Sophie has to confront her own insecurities. After all, she’s more than ten years his senior. Is there any hope for a relationship between them? Or was the sizzle a mere flash in the pan?

  2016 update : This book, previously titled SINGAPORE SIZZLE, has been re-edited for this edition. Additionally, a compact list of people, places and things has been added.

  People

  Sophie Ogden / Tim / George Chua / Joanne / Evelyn / Tony / Arnold / Adrian Pereira / Roz / Sir Stamford Raffles

  Places

  Singapore / Singleton Hotel / Bugis / MRT / Arab Street / Hong Kong / Bangkok / Orchard Road

  Things

  wonton / hookah / shisha

  Chapter One

  The invitation taunted Sophie when she got home. She had left it on the side table just inside the main door soon after receiving it. She thought she'd eventually forget about it but, every evening, she had to walk past its heavy cream card, embossed with the logo of one of Singapore's most famous charities. Maybe she should have turned it upside down, so the heavy black letters couldn't be seen, but she hadn't thought of that when she'd first ripped open the thick envelope.

  Your presence is requested...

  The plastic shopping bags knocked against her shins as she headed for the kitchen. Lifting, she put them on the counter and patiently began unpacking the contents, moving each item to its designated place—fresh vegetables to the crisper, that brand of frozen wonton that she now considered her personal addiction to the freezer, various tinned goods to the overhead cupboard she'd designated as her mini-pantry.

  Washing her hands afterwards, she pulled out a frying pan and set it to heat on one of the stove's gas rings.

  It hadn't always been like this. At one time, the most difficult decision to make was which restaurant to eat at. But that was when Tim was around. Ambitious, astute Tim. When he was playing at investment banker, he could charm the birds from the trees.

  “You have to play the part, Sophie love,” he'd say in his deep baritone. “There's nothing like success to attract success.”

  And he was right. It had paid for a large black-and-white colonial house they'd rented in one of Singapore's most exclusive eastern suburbs. It had also paid for a driver and credit cards with unlimited spending. It had paid for photos in glossy social magazines, where she would always be seen in the latest fashions, direct from the catwalks of Paris or Milan.

  What it hadn't paid for was the prescience to know when it was all going to crumble. Neither the gossip papers nor the fashion shows had intimated that there was an economic crisis coming that would engulf the small island-state like a paper tsunami, decimating careers with broad strokes of red ink.

  Even now, several years later, Sophie still couldn't believe how their safe, dependable lives—ones that had taken years, decades even, to build up—could be obliterated in the space of a few weeks.

  ...at the Masked & Masquerade Ball...

  With steady hands, Sophie quickly brought together an assortment of ingredients—the all-important garlic, chopped spring onions and greens, juicy prawns—and set them to fry. The smell of food hitting the hot oil filled the small kitchen. Even after years of living in Asia, the savoury aroma of it made her salivate. In quick succession, she added noodles, then an oyster-based sauce, mixed it together and slid the whole thing into a shallow, white porcelain bowl. There was a brief scramble while she tried to find a matching pair of chopsticks in the cutlery drawer, then she settled at the dining table.

  When the economic crisis tsunamied over Singapore, more than Tim's job suffered. It was as if their entire lives had been crushed, squeezed, steamrollered, then held up to the light to see what survived. Not much had. Not even their marriage.

  ...to be held at the Singleton...

  The bowl clinked on the glass-topped table. Sophie knew she should've retrieved a placemat to put her dinner on but, with only one person living in the apartment, how much damage could she do? She deliberately didn't switch on the television set, with its usual choices of a news program or eternal reruns of a popular—now tedious through constant repetition—comedy show. She appreciated silence while she ate. It helped calm her after the sometimes frenetic days at the business academy. Later on, she might spend some time watching an American medical drama. Or she might spend it reading.

  A few years ago, she wouldn't have had such choices. It would have been dinner here, a few drinks there, and turning up for one important event or another every weekend.

  When it all fell apart, Sophie had been forced to look across the dining table at her husband, night after night, and admit to herself that there was nothing holding them together anymore. From being something that Tim initially looked upon as duty, the constant entertaining had gradually morphed to become the focus of his entire life. Sophie didn't go so far as to think that Tim had ever cheated on her, but she knew that it hadn't really mattered who stood by his side in the latest designer gown, as long as it was someone with poise who dressed well and knew when to keep her mouth shut.

  ...on the first of December...

  She finished her meal and took the dish back to the kitchen, washing it carefully and putting it on the rack to dry. Then she went to the fridge to pour herself a glass of wine from the half-opened bottle rattling in one of the door shelves.

  On the way to the living room, she deliberately didn't glance at the front door, or at the side table, but could feel the weight of the heavy, cream card pressing on her mind, almost a physical presence. She settled into an armchair, sipping at her drink while she looked out the window. Her two-bedroom home was ten storeys above the ground, which afforded her a nice view across to the public housing in the middle distance—towers of flats, looking serene in the glow of their lights.

  She owned the apartment outright—it was part of the settlement with Tim—and was content with her life. But the card on the side table nagged at her. Was it enough? Was this all she was? A middle-aged woman teaching English business courses, sharing her home with nobody? The truth was, when Tim told her that he was moving back to the United Kingdom, pursuing opportunities with well-placed friends, she was tempted to follow suit. Their son, Harry, lived in Jersey, with his wife and two children. Sophie hadn't countenanced anything as extreme as moving in with them, even as a temporary measure, but it might have been nice settling nearby, so she could spend her now copious free time playing the indulgent grandmother.

  So what had made her stay, rootless and alone, in south-east Asia instead?Was it the latent wanderlust, the feeling that she wanted to achieve something in life, and how better than to spend some years living in an exotic locale, with opportunities to go travelling through the region, to be fascinated by food she had never tasted before, languages she'd never previously heard?

  But while she was still mulling over her options, Tim made the decision to return to the UK. Alone. Sophie bought her condo and was settled in a life that was pleasant, rewarding but a little...empty.

  “Come over here,” the card mocked her in the silence.
“Pick me up. Read me again.”

  Not that she needed to. She knew exactly what had been written, every word burnt into her neurons.

  …RSVP...

  The invitation had come from George, of course. Jolly George Chua, fellow instructor at the academy. A friendly sort, who thought his mission in life was to interfere in everyone else's lives with the excuse of making them happier. Well-meaning, interfering Georgie. She didn't know he contributed to charities but a person didn't have to be in Singapore for very long to get to know everyone and, with his affable manner and friendly demeanour, she was sure George had met everyone of importance in the city-state years ago.

  The problem was, as irritated as she was with George inveigling an invitation for her, Sophie had to admit the entire event sounded rather tempting. What did she have to show for her life over the past couple of years except for satisfied students, glowing performance reviews and a spotless flat? She was sure Tim hadn't descended to the depths of isolation, at least not from the snippets of news Harry relayed to her during their regular phone calls. So, really, was there any excuse for the living mausoleum she'd constructed for herself over the past two years?

  “Oh, that's not fair,” she murmured, arguing with herself.

  After all, didn't she have a group of friends she regularly went out with? Outdoor movies at the Botanical Gardens, book readings at the mega-stores, retail therapy during the annual extended sale period? Yet, she somehow felt that the cream card invitation mocked all of this, daring her to take a step out of her comfort zone.

  …RSVP...

  She shouldn't reply. After all, it wasn't that she had anything to prove. It was just George interfering in her life, as he often did with everyone else who worked with him. And she didn't know the charity ball organisers. Chances were she'd end up standing, alone and forlorn, at the event, a glass of wine warming alarmingly in her hand.

  Still, there was the chance to meet new people. To find a lover perhaps?

  Sophie snorted, but couldn't quash the errant thought. The past few years had been barren in that regard as well. She had gone down to a well-hidden sex shop off Orchard Road and purchased a vibrator, but it hadn't been a good enough substitute. The shallow release she got couldn't compare to the touch of a man on her body. The wide, rough hands caressing her curves and resting on her taut nipples. The strong fingers invading her, increasing her wetness.

  Just the thought of it made Sophie wet and she shifted in her chair. It wouldn't really hurt, would it? After all, the nearest block of flats looked to be more than half a kilometre away. And the thought of what she wanted to do, sitting there in the chair, made her even wetter.

  After carefully putting her glass down on the floor beside her, Sophie peeled off her panties and let them drop to the cool tiles. Then, hoisting up her knee-length skirt, she spread her legs until the underside of each knee rested on a thickly upholstered chair arm. If anybody looked through the window now, they would be able to see her, laid bare from the waist downwards, her arse shimmied forward on the seat while her head was thrown back, a thatched shadow between two legs stretched akimbo.

  They wouldn't be able to see the moistness that gathered in her brown curls, just the fingers of one hand plunging into a receptive hole, while the fingers of the other rubbed vigorously just above it. Sophie hadn't had a shower when she got home—she had put away the groceries then cooked herself dinner. As a result, she felt a bit...dirty. Slovenly. Slutty. As if the dust of the day had somehow sullied her reputation as much as it had sullied her clothes. As if she couldn't expect any courtesy or consideration and that the fingers sweetly torturing her were trying to punish her by pushing her to an orgasm she didn't really want. She parted her knees even more, imagining soft rope and weights attached to them, pulling at her muscles, forcing her to expose herself to the rising tide of illicit pleasure that began to overwhelm her. She imagined her fingers as the stiff rod of someone pumping in and out of her, the energy from his thrusts blowing air against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

  With a muffled shout, sooner than she wanted but still too slow for her body's demands, she orgasmed, her body trembling with shudders of delight, her bare buttocks skipping across the embossed fabric, and her cream spilling over her fingers, slick and sticky. She could only sit there after she was done, breathing heavily, curved fingers around her groin, feeling as limp as a soaked rag.

  It had been too long. Sophie knew she had tried to ignore her baser instincts, but her gasping breaths, and the lingering pleasure still coursing through her system, told her that she'd been ignoring a very pleasurable part of her life. She thought again of the invitation. A masquerade ball. People with their faces covered. Strangers. Attractive strangers? Her fingers twitched at the thought. Might she? Could she?

  She rose in one swift movement, letting the skirt fall over her bare skin to swish against her calves, and walked to the bathroom. Her expression was curious and measured as she showered. Hadn't she shut herself away enough? How long was she going to be in mourning for her marriage? Tim had left to go back to the United Kingdom and she had remained in Singapore, only half a woman—intellect, experience and skill, but little else. She was sociable and went out with friends, but she had buried the womanly part of her deep inside, the female sexual animal, and it was about time she let it out to play.

  Yes, she decided as she dried herself and prepared for a relaxing evening. She'd say yes. She'd go to the masquerade ball, and any attractive men there had better watch out!

  “It was you, wasn't it, George?” she asked the following day.

  The morning had been exhausting—Thursdays were always high-activity days for her—and it was only in the late afternoon that she managed to catch George Chua in the staffroom. Like her, he had his own low-rise cubicle within the miniature farm of workspace cubes, but he was much closer to the door and was easier to spot if he was at his desk. He was a slightly chubby Chinese of tall build, with a round face, flyaway hair that always fell over his eyes, and a wide, engaging grin. At her question, he looked up from his desk and frowned.

  “Me, what?” he asked, all innocence and light. Sophie didn't think he knew what she was talking about. Georgie always had his fingers in several prank pies, and she was sure he never knew from one moment to the next exactly what he was protesting his innocence of. Still, because of him, the energy level at the academy remained high and light, and she didn't know how she would've survived the first six months in Singapore by herself if it hadn't been for his cheerful presence.

  “The invitation,” she offered, deciding to help him out.

  George frowned. “Are you sure you have the right person?”

  “For the masquerade ball,” she added, a touch of asperity colouring her voice.

  George jumped out of his seat and looked around, alarm on his face. He grabbed her arm, hurrying her out the door. “Come, come,” he said. “Let's talk outside.”

  The staff room was at the end of a breezeway that separated it from the rest of the campus buildings. George stepped off onto the springy tough grass, beckoning to Sophie to follow. He stopped at a concrete bench under a tall tree, facing the academy. Sophie faced him. Beyond him, ever-present traffic streamed along immaculately marked roads.

  “Don't tell anybody about that,” he told her, his voice still low. “Do you know how difficult it is to get invited to that ball? Tickets are sometimes pre-ordered two years in advance!”

  “So it was you,” she remarked with satisfaction.

  George made a tch 'ing sound with his tongue. “Of course it was me, lah. Who else could it be?”

  Sophie thought of the director of the academy, Bertrand Stokes. And she thought that a few members of the board might have enough clout to gain access to this much vaunted event. On the other hand, George knew everyone.

  “You think I don't see you, spending weekend after weekend on your own,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to object but he spoke over an
y forthcoming objections.

  “Yes, yes, I know you have friends,” he countered, “but what you really need is a man. Preferably, a rich man.”

  Sophie stared at him. She should've been used to this, the stark unsubtle niceness of the locals. They meant well, even though they sometimes lacked the...restraint she was used to, growing up in England.

  “So I thought to myself,” George continued, “what can we do for Sophie?” He lifted a finger, as if directing a class at the start of an assignment, and shook it several times. “Where can we find Sophie a man? Someone with manners, lots of money and who isn't using a walking frame yet.” He paused. “And Evelyn came up with the idea.”

  Sophie's face flamed, although she hoped George didn't notice the difference between the usual reaction from standing outside in the unforgiving tropical heat and plain old embarrassment. Evelyn was George's wife's sister. Sophie only had to close her eyes momentarily to see the four of them—George and his wife, Joanne; Evelyn and her boyfriend, Tony—sitting around the dining table, steaming bowls in front of them, chopsticks flashing like juggling pins as they dipped into one dish, then another, and all the time discussing... her!

  “She suggested the masquerade ball,” George continued, “and Joanne agreed. Tony said he knew one of the organisers and would see what he could do.”

  The polite smile on Sophie's face started to strain at the edges. Was George going to involve the entire island in her lack of a love life?

  He beamed at her, obviously delighted with what he'd accomplished.

  “And Tony did it. He's a man with contacts,” George concluded, obviously gifting Evelyn's boyfriend with the highest accolade he could think of.

  “Will, ah, you and Joanne be attending as well?” Sophie asked, her voice faint.

  “No no, we'll be staying at home,” he replied jovially. “No need for me to go gallivanting about looking for a piece of action. Unlike you.” He gazed at her with a look of fond exasperation. “We all agree, you really need a man.”