My Wounded Billionaire
The Billionaire Kings Book 5
By
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Copyright 2019 Serenity Woods
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Prologue
Saturday, 8 June
The night of the cyclone
Fitz
I leave the sanctuary of the Ark and head out into the wildness of the winter night.
Man, it’s crazy out here. The wind is blowing so hard, it’s impossible to stand upright. I double over, clutching my jacket around me, and stagger toward the petting farm across the field from the main block. I should have had my hair cut; it’s getting long, curling like a bastard, and the wind whips it around my face and makes it sting.
I hope Poppy doesn’t mind me joining her at the petting farm. I don’t like the idea of her staying there alone during the storm. She’ll be trying to keep all the animals calm, and it’s scary enough with every plank of wood and loose tile flapping and banging about, without having to worry about the goats and rabbits getting twitchy.
My decision to head over there has nothing to do with the fact that I find her attractive. That I take any opportunity I can get to spend time around her, so I can listen to her soft, slightly husky voice when she talks, and study her slender figure when she’s not looking.
I’ve been building up to asking her out for a while. She hasn’t been at the Ark that long—only three or four months. She was a primary school teacher, but her brother, Albie, told me that she had a relationship with one of the deputy principals, and it ended badly. Because of this, I’ve given her a little space, but I don’t want to leave it too long and see her snapped up by someone else.
I reach the enclosure, which is empty, all the animals obviously inside the barn. Poppy appears to have chained the gate with a padlock to ensure it doesn’t come loose, so I attempt to vault over the fence, catch my foot on one of the planks, and end up on my backside on the ground.
Swearing under my breath, I get up and dust myself down, stumble across to the barn, push the door hard, and pitch headfirst into the barn onto the floor again.
“Hello, Mr. Elegant.” Poppy closes the door behind me, puts a bar across it, and offers me a hand. “Are you auditioning for Dancing with the Stars?”
I scowl, take her hand, and let her pull me to my feet. She’s surprisingly strong considering she’s six inches shorter than me and about thirty pounds lighter.
“My back doesn’t bend the way it used to,” I tell her. “I forget sometimes.” An accident injured my spine when I was in the Army. I’ve had surgery, but the injury has never healed completely—a constant reminder that I’m thirty-two now and only half the man I used to be.
“What are you doing over here?” She tucks a strand of her long curly hair behind her ear. It’s a beautiful auburn color, like trees in autumn, their leaves about to fall. “You took your life in your hands venturing out into this weather.”
“I wanted to check you were all right,” I tell her. “I didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”
She gives me a wry look. “I’m not a maiden in distress. I don’t need saving.”
“I know.”
She meets my gaze for a moment. Then she drops hers and goes to lean on the wall that surrounds the animals. I join her, our arms a few inches apart. The animals are quiet at the moment, and don’t seem too worried about the rattling of the rafters.
“Where’s Jack?” she asks, referring to the Jack Russell who’s usually by my side.
“Back at the Ark. I didn’t want to bring him out in this weather.”
“Any news on the cyclone?”
“We’re in the middle of it now. I think we can expect another couple of hours of this.”
She nods. “I brought a sleeping bag. I thought I might stay the night, just in case the animals are frightened.”
“I’ll stay with you, if you like.”
Her green-eyed gaze comes back to me again. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath. Time to show my hand. “I want to spend some time with you. Is that so surprising to you?”
Her eyes widen. Albie told me she doesn’t get subtlety, and that she won’t believe I’m interested unless I say it straight up—that she would think I’m just being polite when I try to talk to her, and I realize he was right.
She swallows, then looks away and clears her throat. “Want a drink?” she asks eventually. “I’ve got some whisky in the office.”
“Sure,” I say, relieved she hasn’t thrown me out.
She heads over to the offices next to the barn, and I follow her. She’s just rummaging in one of the drawers when all the lights go out.
“Shit!” She jumps.
“Christ. Hold on.” I pull out my phone and switch on the built-in flashlight. “I should have brought a torch with me—that was always going to happen.”
“I think I’ve got one in the cupboard by the sink.” With me shining the light on the drawers, she retrieves the whisky bottle, then brings it over to the small kitchen. She finds the flashlight in the cupboard and hands it to me, then retrieves two glasses and pours a small measure of whisky into them.
She hands one to me. I hold it up. “To world peace.”
Her lips curve up and she gives a husky chuckle. Wow, that sent a shiver all the way down my spine. “To world peace,” she repeats, tapping her glass to mine.
We take a sip, and then, carrying the whisky bottle, she leads the way back into the barn. At one end, she’s spread out a blanket and her sleeping bag, and we go there and slide down the wall onto the blanket.
“Whisky’s pretty good,” I say. “Canadian?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I could tell from the notes of treacle and burnt ash.”
“Really?”
“No, I read the label.” I gesture to where it’s sitting in the straw to one side, and she laughs.
“Yeah,” she says, “that’s a bit of a giveaway. So you’re not a whisky connoisseur then?”
“When the budget allows.” I bite my tongue. Poppy’s a member of the wealthy King family, and I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that she has money and I don’t. “I like the Islay malts,” I tell her, hoping to distract her. “Ardbeg, Lagavulin, and Laphroaig, especially.”
“And if you don’t drink it all, you can always use it to wash any wounds,” she says.
&n
bsp; I grin. “It does have a strong, medicinal smell.”
“It’s definitely an acquired taste.”
We sit in the quiet for a while, listening to the wind howling around us. Occasionally boards rattle, but I did a check around the farm this morning, nailing down anything loose, and so far it seems to be holding.
I look across at her. She’s studying a piece of straw, twirling it in her fingers. I think she’s doing it so she doesn’t have to look at me. I know she’s thirty, and I’m two years older, but it feels as if we’re a couple of teenagers.
“I should have brought a book over,” I say. “I could have read to you.”
“What are you reading at the moment?”
I name the series of thrillers I’ve recently got into. She’s also read the first two, so we spend a pleasant few minutes talking about the plots and characters, and then we discuss the movie version.
It’s the first time we’ve spoken like this, on our own, without anyone else listening in. Previously we’ve always been in a group, or chatting in the square, with people walking past. She’s softly spoken, and up close like this I can see how she considers each question thoughtfully.
I want to get to know her better, to spend more time with her like this. To find out her likes and dislikes, her hopes and dreams. I want to make her laugh again, to have her nudge me the way she just did, to have her tease me, her eyes look up into mine with admiration and longing. I want to kiss her. I’ve wanted to kiss her for a long time.
“So,” I say, aware I have to broach the subject eventually. “Maybe tomorrow, when the storm is over. How do you fancy coming to dinner with me?”
She lifts her gaze to mine. Her eyes glitter in the beam from the flashlight.
“Marc…” she whispers.
“I like you,” I tell her. “I have since the first moment I laid eyes on you. But Albie said you’d had a bad breakup, so I waited for a bit. I didn’t want to push you. But it’s been a few months now, and… well… I didn’t want to wait any longer.”
She scratches at a mark on her jeans. “I’m very flattered.”
Jesus. She’s going to say no.
“But I’m not interested,” she finishes, confirming my fears.
“May I ask why?”
“I’m not interested in having another relationship.”
My eyebrows rise. “Never?”
“No. It’s too hard.” Her brow furrows. “I’m not made to be with someone else.”
Now my frown matches hers. “That’s bullshit. Of course you are.”
“No, I’m not. My brain doesn’t work the same way as everyone else’s. People communicate in a different way than me, and I don’t understand them.” Her tone is sharp, her voice harsh. “And I’m done with being criticized for it. I don’t want the hassle. I don’t need a man. I like you, Marc, and I’m so touched that you’re interested in me, but you don’t know the real me.”
“I’d like to.”
“Thank you, but the answer’s no. I’m done with dating.”
And that’s that. She’s turned me down. I can’t force her to go out with me. I can’t make her understand that she deserves happiness, and if she were to be my girl, I’d make sure to wipe all thoughts of her ex from her mind.
She rubs her nose. “You should go,” she says. Her voice is little more than a squeak. “Before the weather gets any worse.” She thinks that now she’s turned me down, I’m not going to want to stay with her.
I gesture toward the bottle of whisky resting in the straw. “When there’s whisky on offer? I don’t think so. You’re stuck with me tonight.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, confused, a little tearful. “You heard what I said?” she confirms. “I don’t want to date.”
“I heard you. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. And I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
She looks away. Her bottom lip trembles briefly. I wish I could pull her into my arms and hug her, make her feel better, but I can’t. All I can do is sit here and talk. And wait. Who knows, maybe one day she’ll finally be over her ex, and when she is, I’ll be ready.
“Pass the bottle,” I say. “Let’s get drunk.”
She looks back at me and swallows hard. “You can stay if you like,” she says. “But you’re not sharing my sleeping bag.”
“Spoilsport.” I take the bottle from her and pour us both another shot. “To friendship.”
“To friendship,” she whispers, and we both have a mouthful of the whisky.
Chapter One
Four months later
Poppy
The little girl at the back of the group of pre-school children stays behind as the rest of them leave the rabbits and head outside. She gives me a hesitant smile.
“Hello.” I drop to my haunches and smile back. She’s holding a toy bunny under her arm, well-loved, its white fur now a dull gray, its left ear frayed where she obviously chews it. I gesture at it. “What a gorgeous bunny. Are rabbits your favorite animals?”
She nods and glances past me at the pen where six rabbits are chewing contentedly at their pellets—two English angoras, three New Zealand whites, and a beautiful French Lop.
“Would you like to hold one?” I ask her. While the rest of the class had passed the rabbits around, she’d sat at the back, too shy to come forward, but now she nods, her beautiful blue eyes lighting up. “Come and sit down,” I say, and then I pass her one of the whites, which sits in her arms quite happily as she strokes its back, her eyes sparkling.
I watch her, smiling, thinking how beautiful she is. She must be about four years old. She has the most gorgeous blonde hair that hangs like a shining curtain. I’d kill for hair like that. My auburn curly hair always looks as if I’ve stuck my fingers in an electric plug, and when it gets humid in summer it doubles in volume.
If I had a little girl, would she look like this? Or would she inherit my mad hair?
“Aimee,” the teacher calls out. “Come on, it’s time to go.”
Aimee gives me the rabbit back reluctantly and slips her hand into mine as I lead her out of the shed toward the bus parked in front of the petting farm. Oh, she’s so sweet. Her mother must be so thrilled to have such a beautiful daughter.
There’s a man over by the fence, in the process of nailing one of the planks back in place where it had slipped. He looks up as we pass. It’s Marc Fitzgerald—the Ark’s estate manager. I glance at him, and my gaze snags as if caught on a nail as I see what he’s wearing. Normally, he dons a suit for work, as he often has meetings with the architects or the building contractors. Today, though, as he’s doing some maintenance, he’s changed into a pair of coveralls. It’s the first of October, so technically not close to summer yet, but up here in the sub-tropical Northland it’s always hot by lunchtime, and he’s peeled off the top part of the coveralls, tying the arms around his waist. He’s bare-chested, and a little sweaty. His skin is gleaming in the sunshine like honed and varnished wood. He has curly hair, like me, but his is dark and normally skims his collar, and he hasn’t shaved in a while. He’s scruffy as. But it doesn’t hide the fact that he’s in fine shape, a perfect specimen of manliness.
I’m pretty sure he’s taken his top off for my benefit. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sprayed himself with water to enhance his shiny muscles. The man is relentless.
Four months ago, during the cyclone that destroyed part of the Ark, he spent the evening with me at the petting farm, looking after the animals. In the midst of the power outage, when the lights went out and we were sitting in the dark in the straw, he asked me out. I said no thank you, I wasn’t interested in a relationship, and assumed that would be the end of it—he’d keep to his side of the Ark, and I’d keep to mine, and never the twain shall meet. I thought that days later I’d see him dating another girl. But he hasn’t. He comes over all the time, and actually we’ve kinda become good friends. Which is why I’m approaching him today with a specific request in mind.
He bends over to pic
k up a piece of wood, the coveralls clinging to his neat butt. I tear my gaze away before I walk into something, and return Aimee to her teacher.
“Thank you for an amazing afternoon,” the teacher says as Aimee boards the bus. “This is such a cool idea. The talk you gave them about caring for animals was really well done.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taken aback by her praise. “I appreciate you saying that.”
One of the purposes of the petting farm is to teach children of all ages to respect animals. Children are rarely cruel by nature; if they do hurt an animal, it’s usually because they’ve seen someone in their family be violent toward another person or animal. If I can help even one child turn away from that behavioral programming, I’ll consider it a job well done.
I wave goodbye as the bus pulls away, feeling an inner glow. Phew, it’s warm. I have an hour now before there’s another class visit, so it’s time for a cool drink and some lunch.
Turning, I glance over at Marc. His Jack Russell, called—rather unimaginatively—Jack, and who’s almost always by his side, sniffs around in the grass. Marc’s collecting up his tools, but I have a feeling he was watching me. Today, though, I don’t mind, as I wanted to talk to him.
“Warm afternoon, isn’t it?” I say as I walk up to the fence. I poke my fingers through for Jack to lick.
Marc straightens and nods. The hollow at the base of his throat gleams with moisture. “Summer’s on its way.”
I try not to stare at the stubble on his jaw. “I can’t wait. Noah said he’s having a pool put in, did he tell you? We’ll be able to use it during our lunch hour.” I bet Marc looks good in swim shorts.
“Yeah, that’ll be brilliant,” he says. “Swimming is good exercise; it takes your weight off your joints.”
“Your back bothering you?” I know he was wounded when he was in the Army—he served for a while at Scott Base in Antarctica, and he injured his spine when a plane crash-landed. He still walks stiffly, and sometimes I see him arching his back where it’s obviously paining him.
He bends and zips up his tool bag. “Sometimes.” He straightens, the bag in his hands. “Well, I suppose I’d better get back to work.”
My Wounded Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 5) Page 1