Her Young Millionaire Lover

by K S Augustin

  Levering herself up on one arm, she looked over to the opposite side of the bed, where a shadowed form told her Adrian slept. The white sheet was draped over his hips, but one long, brown leg emerged from the rumpled heap. He looked like a slumbering angel. The face of an angel, but the mind and enthusiasm of a horny devil.

  With only a slither of the mattress betraying her, Sophie slid to the edge of the bed and got to her feet. She tiptoed to the doorway and picked up her pair of discarded knickers, getting into them as quickly as she could and grimacing as a couple of her bones clicked. She didn't want Adrian to find her skulking like an errant child, but she couldn't help but look around as she retrieved articles of her clothing.

  The previous evening, her mind had correctly registered that Adrian had led her to a suite but she hadn't taken in the extent of luxury that had confronted her. Too nervous at first, she admitted, then way too horny!

  Now, as she stepped into her dress and did up the zip, she looked around, goggling at the size of the place. In fact, she was sure that his hotel room was bigger than her entire apartment. The curtains hadn't been drawn in the expansive living room area and she looked past an elaborate dining-room set to the floor-to-ceiling windows and out onto a newly sparkling day dawning on the island capital.

  Which reminded her, it was time to get moving. Conflicting emotions stampeded through Sophie's mind, but she remained unwavering.

  She had attended the ball to have some fun, and had succeeded beyond her wildest imaginings. Adrian, as young and vibrant as he was, was obviously someone very successful, judging by the kind of accommodation he booked, and would probably be regretting falling for an older woman with so many taut young bodies around.

  As she picked up her shoes and headed for the lift, Sophie admitted to herself that part of what she felt was shame. She had enjoyed herself thoroughly, and hoped he didn't hold her brazenness against her. Surely he enjoyed their time together as well? He certainly appeared to. Every time.

  A blush sent arrows of heat slashing across Sophie's cheekbones, then the elevator pinged. Hurriedly, she entered, punching the button for the ground floor and slipping into her heels. With trembling fingers she tried to finger-comb her hair into some semblance of order.

  He hadn't heard the lift bell, had he? Would the car go back up if he rushed to the foyer and jabbed repeatedly at the button? How many people would see her as she traversed the hotel's gigantic lobby? Would anyone pass some comment about mutton dressed up as lamb? Sophie pulled at her sleeves, wondering if the costume that had seemed so perfect for her in the weeks leading up to the ball now looked tawdry and desperate. Maybe she was showing too much cleavage?

  When the lift doors slid open, she kept her eyes down and hurried to the front doors, hastily muttering a thank-you as the doorman ushered her through with a polite greeting. She was relieved to see that there was already a line of taxis waiting off to one side of the hotel driveway. Without looking left or right, she opened the door of the nearest vehicle and got into the back, only letting a breath out when the hotel was far behind her.

  Chapter Five

  Sophie looked down at the file she held. She had to blink several times before the words swam into view. The magical night at the ball was history, two weeks past, and yet she still couldn't concentrate on her work. She was due to deliver a new course on business communication the following semester, had gathered together some initial notes, but nothing seemed to make any sense.

  The bald fact was, she missed Adrian. Was that natural for a woman her age? Shouldn't she be beyond teenage infatuations, because that's how it felt. There was a bone-deep yearning to feel his touch again, and not just because he was a skilful lover. Behind his obvious experience and youthful energy were a sharp intelligence and an engaging sense of humour. The fact that he looked like a god was just a bonus.

  For the hundredth time, she wondered if she should've stayed in the hotel suite that morning, instead of fleeing. But she had been so afraid. In the cold light of day, over a convivial cup of tea, she doubted Adrian would miss the laughter lines that had etched their light permanence next to her eyes. Or the breasts that had seen perkier times...two decades ago. And she always thought her voice was strong and melodious but had it picked up an old woman's wobble?

  Sophie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. What else was there for a young, rich, ambitious, personable, downright sexy man to find fault with? Perhaps if she started alphabetically, she could put together a comprehensive list.

  “You didn't get much sleep last night?” George's jovial voice assaulted her from the other side of her low cubicle wall. She looked up and plastered a smile on her face.

  “Hi, Georgie. Yeah, something like that.”

  He wagged his finger at her. “You're like me. You've been thinking too hard about that talent show on TV. Who should continue to the next round? That lovely young woman singing Chinese opera or the man with the hips?”

  Sophie closed her eyes for a moment. The last thing she wanted to do was think about a man's gyrating hips.

  “And I have a bit of a headache,” she added with an apologetic smile. “It's, it's been rather hot these past few days, hasn't it?”

  He threw his hands up. “Aiyo! My wife is constantly complaining. We have air-conditioning, but she says the minute she steps out of our condo, her face melts off. She wants to know how she can stay beautiful in such heat.”

  A goofy grin spread over his face. “I say, I love you, face or no face. And as long as your husband loves you, why do you need to put on so much make-up for other men? Yes or not?”

  Sophie smiled. “Yes George, you're completely correct.” And, despite the fact that he wasn't really talking about her, Sophie felt her heart lift a little.

  Their conversation moved on to more neutral topics after that. Of course, the week after the ball, George had quizzed her mercilessly about whether she'd managed to find a suitable love interest at the event, and she thought she'd managed to sidestep the entire issue quite nicely. Now, they had reverted to their usual banter, and it was relaxing—if a little depressing—settling back into her usual routine.

  “You! Don't work so hard,” he admonished her when parting. “And go find some fun!”

  She laughed and waved at his back, but sobered quickly once he disappeared into the corridor.

  Fun. She had had a lot of fun. With Adrian. Now, the question was: was that connection she thought she felt when she was with him...was that connection real? Or was it the result of her fevered imagination? Like masturbating to memories of them together every night since she'd snuck out of his hotel room? Like holding her breath whenever she spied a tall, well-built, exotic-looking man? The problem was, there were so many of them in Singapore that she felt as if she was practising for some free-diving event every time she stepped out into the street.

  Sophie sighed and turned her attention back to the folders on her desk. She should stop this pointless daydreaming. After all, she had a course in business communication to write. She bent down to open the small filing drawer at her desk. She was sure she had notes from a previous course she could use as a starting point.

  The phone on her desk rang and, with a frown, Sophie picked up the receiver, noting from the display that the call was coming from the academy's reception area. Had George forgotten something from his desk?

  “Hi, it's Sophie.”

  Rozalina's soft accented voice filled her ear. “Sophie, you have a delivery at the front desk.”

  “A delivery? A package?” She racked her brains, wondering what it could be, but nothing came to mind. She hadn't ordered anything recently, at least not anything that she could easily recall.

  “It's,” Roz giggled, piquing Sophie's curiosity, “well, I think you'd better come and have a look.”

  Sophie frowned. “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

  She replaced the receiver in its cradle and stared at it for several long moments. Why did the normally unflappa
ble receptionist sound so unlike herself? Pushing back her chair, Sophie stood and headed for the institute's main entry, passing classes in business, computer skills and communication. Twice, she smiled at the instructors she saw through the half-glassed room doors. She had joined the academy not long after Tim had left for Britain, and had made good friends at work. A pity most of them were married. And not built like carved teak gods.

  “Stop it,” Sophie muttered to herself, clamping down on further errant thoughts as she entered the main entry area. As she walked to the front counter, she noticed a huge basket of arranged flowers sitting on the sleek surface. Sprays of long, elegant orchids in a myriad of colours spilt out of the wicker container in all directions, interspersed with red-flecked carnations and sprigs of intricate fern leaves.

  “How lovely,” she said to Roz as she neared the desk. “Is it somebody's birthday?”

  “Yours perhaps?” Roz asked, curiosity lighting her face.

  Sophie started. “Mine? No.”

  “Well, it's for you.” Roz lifted her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

  Sophie stared at her. “I don't think so, Roz. Nobody I know would send me flowers.”

  More's the pity, she thought, but kept that to herself.

  “It comes with a card. Addressed to you.”

  And she was right. There was a small white envelope just in front of a cuddly, miniature teddy bear nestled in amongst the flowers. The name on the envelope said “Sophie Ogden”.

  Sophie didn't want to open the card in front of the small crowd that seemed to magically appear around her. Did news in the office travel via telepathy? She wanted to take the card and run to some place secluded or, barring that (this was crowded Singapore, after all), some place completely brash and anonymous. Instead, she stayed where she was and undid the white flap with a soft rip.

  “What does it say?” Roz asked, openly curious.

  Sophie read the sparse words written with black ink in a decisive hand, mouthing each syllable silently.

  How about we do a bit of exploring together? Saturday?

  Adrian

  A mobile phone number followed below the name.

  Adrian! He had found her! But how? She was positive she hadn't mentioned anything more than her first name during their glorious night together. Was he a magician?

  She looked up at Roz, trying to ignore the other interested faces hovering at the periphery of her vision. “It's,” she swallowed, “an old school friend. Wanting to surprise me. Wanting to know if we can catch up on the weekend.”

  Roz looked crestfallen. It didn't take much imagination to know what she had been thinking. “Oh. Well, it's a very pretty bouquet, Miss Sophie.”

  Sophie looked at the elaborate floral arrangement and smiled. “Yes it is, isn't it?”

  She picked up the basket and walked back to her desk, pretending that this was a run-of-the-mill occurrence for her, hoping she was effectively concealing the trembling of her fingers.

  Adrian! He had found her and wanted to see her.

  It was late afternoon and Sophie was never so happy to see an empty office in her life. She gently put the bouquet on her desk and stared at it. It was obvious what she wanted to do. She wanted to call Adrian immediately and say yes, yes, yes! But what should she do? The gift, the effort that must have been involved in finding her, showed that he was still interested in her. Didn't it?

  Sophie nibbled at her bottom lip. Where had the confident, demanding business instructor gone? She seemed to have skipped the country entirely, leaving behind a wary and insecure woman with the neuroses of a teenager.

  But what was there to worry about? Hadn't she and Adrian already established their basic compatibility? What more, she thought, could they possibly do that would top tumbling into bed together within hours of first meeting? Just the idea of it made Sophie grin and she still had the smile on her face as she picked up her phone and dialled the number on the small card.

  Her courage deserted her as the call tone kicked in, but it was answered before she had time to disconnect.

  “Adrian Pereira.”

  So now she knew his name, although her fleeting sense of triumph was swamped by a jolt of arousal at the sound of his voice.

  “Adrian? It's...Sophie.”

  The voice at the other end of the line warmed considerably. “Sophie. I've been waiting for your call.”

  She wouldn't act desperate and ask about that, she decided. Licking her lips, she said instead: “Your flowers arrived twenty minutes ago. They're lovely. Thank you.”

  “I'm glad you like them. I wanted something a bit more unique than the usual dozen roses.”

  “Well you certainly achieved that.” She inspected the arrangement as she spoke. “I don't think anyone here will forget such a spectacular bouquet in a hurry.”

  She opened her mouth again to ask how he knew where to find her, but he interrupted her.

  “So, are you free on Saturday?”

  “Saturday night? For dinner?” Her heart skipped a beat.

  His voice lowered to a husky drawl. “I was thinking more of Saturday morning. For the whole day.”

  Oh my.

  She tried to get her breathing under control. “I think I should be able to manage that.”

  “Good. Because I have a few ideas.”

  Chapter Six

  Sophie scoured through her wardrobe multiple times, looking for the perfect outfit to wear. Something casual yet attractive. Something that didn't look like she'd been dragged through an African safari without an ironing board, but something that alluded to it. Not too girly, not too butch—feminine yet capable. Casual yet elegant. Something she would look good in, whether it was lunch at a restaurant or a hike through the Sungei Buloh wetlands at the island's northern end.

  By the time she had settled on a pair of khaki trousers, a red tank-top and white linen long-hemmed shirt to go over the combination, her bed was piled high with the entire contents of her wardrobe. She glared balefully at the unkempt mountain—she'd get around to tidying up when she got back—before hurrying to her kitchen for a quick cup of coffee.

  Adrian had told her to meet him at the Bugis MRT station at nine-thirty. In all honesty, that was a relatively early hour. People got going in the tropics much later than in England, but then again they shopped and partied late too. Sophie was now well used to shops closing at ten o'clock, followed by hunting around for somewhere to have supper before heading home.

  She exited the cool of the subway station and ascended to the heat of the Singapore morning, wondering what Adrian had in mind. Close by was Bugis Junction, a restored boulevard of two rows of three-storey shophouses facing each other, completely encased in glass and cooled by air-conditioning. Long corridors ran the length of each row, connected to each other by first- and second-storey suspended walkways. It was an enjoyable place to spend a morning, but Sophie wondered if that was what Adrian had in mind. Not knowing what else to do, she sauntered over to the fountain just near the Junction's entrance. Already, a couple of toddlers, watched fondly by their grandparents, were laughing and stomping across the paving that delineated a shallow pool and was drilled with holes. Jets of water spurted out of the holes in a synchronised pattern, splashing the youngsters and sending them into fits of giggles.

  She was watching them when a voice said in her ear: “Why is it called Bugis?”

  Sophie spun around. She had been wondering whether seeing Adrian in the flesh again would disappoint her. Whether the images she held of him, handsome and urbane at the ball, then later brown and sculpted in bed, could be met by the reality of meeting him again. She was glad to see it could. He, too, was dressed in a pair of khaki trousers, but topped with a short-sleeved shirt in burnt orange. Like her, his feet were shod in a pair of casual, canvas shoes.

  “Disappointed?” he asked with a smile, while she stood there drinking him in.

  “Not at all.” Unsure of whether it would be too crass to kiss him in public, she tu
rned to look at the fountain again.

  “Why is it called Bugis?” she repeated. “They were the pirates, weren't they?”

  Adrian laughed and linked his arm through hers, turning her around and heading away from the Junction.

  “They wouldn't like it if they heard that from you. Actually, they were a very proud people. Warriors, traders and sailors.” He paused at a street junction as they waited for the lights to turn red. “I'm sure a fair few of them did some pirating, but they began as traders, maybe even trading exactly where we're standing.”

  Sophie looked down at the bitumen beneath her feet. “Here?”

  “There used to be a canal around here. And a trading post.”

  “Oh.” There seemed little more she could say. Somehow, Sophie had always equated the history in Singapore with the British governor, Sir Stamford Raffles, but of course such a strategic point of land would have had a longer history, equally as rich as anything from the 1800s.

  Adrian tugged her along as the lights changed.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, keeping up with his fast pace.

  “When was the last time,” he asked, “you were in Arab Street?”

  Sophie blinked, and not just due to the hot sun beating down on their heads. She knew her answer was going to be embarrassing.

  They stopped at another street junction. “You've never been to Arab Street, have you?”

  She grimaced. “I've been meaning to, but...” She shook her head. “No, I haven't been to Arab Street.” She tried to look as contrite as she felt.

  He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. It was a brief contact, but enough to send a bolt of awareness zinging through Sophie's body. Her eyes widened but Adrian wasn't waiting. The car traffic stopped and they were off again.

  Walking down Arab Street was like stepping back in time. The shophouses lining the street looked like they'd been there forever. Or at least, Adrian told her, since the 1820s. Up close, however, their architecture was swallowed up by the colourful merchandise on display. Sophie passed thick, hand-woven Persian rugs hung up on walls to display their exquisite designs, racks of brightly-coloured rolls of batik and other textiles, and sparsely furnished, white-tiled restaurants. She dodged teetering heaps of woven baskets of all shapes and sizes and ducked her head below handbags hooked to ceilings. The scents of incense, tobacco, leather, food and spices filled the air.