My Wounded Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 5)

by Serenity Woods

  “It sounds amazing.”

  “It was. I loved it. But the best part of it was that over fifty of the monks were small children.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and maybe because most of them couldn’t speak English, I didn’t have trouble communicating like I usually do. They kept asking me to sing and dance with them, and I sat with them and taught them some English words.”

  “That’s how you got into teaching,” I say softly, and she nods.

  “I’ve found with children that I don’t experience the problems I do with adults. There doesn’t tend to be any nuance with kids—they usually say what they mean, and they don’t expect you to read between the lines.”

  “So when you got back from Nepal, you took a teaching degree?”

  “Yes. It was hard work, but I enjoyed it, and I was very focused. I worked in Auckland for a couple of years, then eventually moved up the bay. Mom and Dad still live in Auckland, but they spend most weekends up here with Brock and Matt and the others, and it’s just so beautiful here.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back to Nepal?” I ask.

  “Maybe. It had extra meaning, though, because of what I was going through at the time. It would still be lovely, but it wouldn’t be the same, you know?”

  I nod. “Do you miss teaching?”

  She leans back in her chair and sighs. “Sometimes, although I still have a lot of contact with children, without any of the responsibility. Teaching is hard work and exhausting. The adage of them having all that time off with school holidays is rubbish—most of that time I spent reorganizing the classroom, planning lessons, or going on professional development. There’s so much paperwork involved now, too, so many reports. I don’t miss that.”

  It makes more sense to me now, why she so wants a child. She feels she connects more to children, and they don’t judge her the way adults do. I guess she’s hoping she’ll get unconditional love from her child the way she obviously hasn’t from a man.

  “So tell me about Daniel,” I say.

  Her expression immediately becomes even more guarded than usual. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “At school. He’s the deputy principal at the primary school I worked at.”

  “Oh?” I know it takes time to work your way up in education, so this surprises me. “How old is he?”

  “Forty.”

  Ten years older than she is. Again, I’m surprised.

  And suddenly, I know what happened, and it all falls into place.

  “He was married,” I say, and I can tell from her expression I’m right. “You had an affair?”

  “No. I refused to sleep with him, so eventually he left his wife.” Her gaze is cautious; she’s waiting for me to pass judgment on her.

  “He must have loved you very much,” I murmur.

  She blinks a couple of times, and her eyes glisten. She drops her gaze to her glass. “He never loved me. I think he saw something in me that wasn’t there. He thought I was mysterious and elusive, and that once he got to know me, he’d uncover something rare and significant. He didn’t realize there was nothing special beneath the surface.”

  Anger unfurls in me like a snake. “That’s bullshit. Of course you’re special. He’s like a miner looking for diamonds while wearing a blindfold. Just because he didn’t discover something he considered precious doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  She lifts her gaze to mine then, and I can see her thoughts as sure as if they’re glittering fish swimming behind her eyes. She’s worried I’m the same—that I’m drawn to her quietness and her mystique, thinking it masks a fascinating soul, and that when I get to know her, I’ll discover she’s hollow inside.

  I have a bite of my sandwich. “Fuck him. He’s an idiot.”

  She gives a short laugh. “We concur on that, anyway.”

  “Did he go back to his wife?”

  She nods.

  “What a cunt.”

  “Marc!”

  “Well. He is. And she took him back! Jeez.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m glad she did. At least I didn’t ruin his marriage.”

  “You didn’t do anything. How can you blame yourself?”

  “I was the other woman, Marc. I have to take responsibility for what happened.”

  Understanding dawns. “The staff at the school blame you?”

  She picks at the lettuce in her sandwich. “They assume I seduced him and asked him to leave his wife. I didn’t. He came after me, and I suppose I was flattered he wanted me enough to give up his family.”

  “You loved him?”

  “I thought I did. Until he was cruel to me.”

  I breathe slowly to keep down the rage I feel against Daniel Maggot-head. All that matters is Poppy, and making her feel better about herself.

  I push aside our plates and drinks and lean my forearms on the table. “Come here.”

  She stares at me blankly. “What?”

  I reach out, take the end of her braid in my left hand, and wind it around my fingers. She watches me warily. When I get to the point where it tightens, she says, “Ow.”

  “So move forward,” I direct, winding it again.

  She leans on the table, and her lips slowly curve up as she realizes what I’m doing. I wind the braid until she’s close to me, until our lips are only six inches apart.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers.

  Her eyes are a beautiful green. Her pale skin has a few freckles across her nose. I drop my gaze to her mouth, which is pale pink and looks extremely kissable. “We’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “But—”

  I close the gap and press my lips to hers.

  She inhales, but she doesn’t pull away. Conscious that Chris could appear through the curtain at any moment, I keep it PG-13, but take my time, giving her butterfly kisses, soft and gentle. After so long watching her, wanting her, it’s amazing to finally be so close to her, so intimate. God, her lips are soft, like the clouds outside the window, and I have to stifle a groan that threatens to rise within me.

  It’s been a tough year, and after Poppy turned me down back in June, I doubted I’d ever get the chance to do this. But here I am, kissing her. It feels like a gift, as if an angel has granted me a wish. The sun slants through the windows of the plane, coating us in warm bars of gold. I can smell Poppy’s perfume, something light and flowery. I close my eyes, imagining how it’s going to feel later, when I’ll be able to undo the buttons on her blouse and slide it off her shoulders, kiss her breasts, and make love to her. This is a little like what heaven feels like, I think, as the plane passes through the clouds, heading for the jewel of Hawke’s Bay. I never thought I’d associate this place with happiness again, but Poppy has blown away all the dark feelings, and suddenly all I can think of is being there with her, and having her all to myself.

  Chapter Nine

  Poppy

  After the plane lands, we pick up the hire car, and Marc drives us to the new Ark.

  It’s extremely difficult for me to concentrate after the kiss. I hadn’t expected that at all, and I half-regret giving in to him. He took me by surprise, and I wasn’t prepared. I have to keep my wits about me this week. I don’t believe that men are the only ones who can have sex without getting their emotions involved, but equally it’s going to take willpower of iron to maintain the kind of control I’m going to need to keep myself distant from him. The way Marc wound my braid around his hand and pulled me toward him… the touch of his lips… it made my heart race. What on earth is it going to feel like when we take off our clothes; when he’s touching me, kissing my skin; when he’s inside me?

  I shiver as he takes the turnoff for the new Ark and resolve to put the memory of the kiss out of my mind or I’m going to get nervous.

  As if I’m not already.

  The Ark is in a beautiful location on the outskirts of Hastings, although I don’t think its views are quite as breatht
aking as ours in the Bay of Islands.

  As it’s Sunday, the site is clear of building crew, but Ashton, the estate manager, has called in to meet us, and he gives us a brief tour. It’s coming along well; they’ve completed the main office block, and the veterinary center is nearly finished. He’s very interested in the petting farm, and asks to meet with me later in the week to discover what’s worked and what hasn’t, in case they decide to have one further down the line.

  We don’t want to keep him on his day off, so after an hour we part ways, promising to return the next morning around nine.

  Marc makes a quick phone call, then returns to the car and buckles himself in. “So… time to discover our magical destination for the week.” He gives me an impish smile.

  I’ve asked him a couple of times where we’re staying, but he’s refused to tell me. I’m guessing it’s a flash hotel in Hastings somewhere. It’s difficult to know how to handle the fact that I’m wealthy when I’m with a guy. Daniel used to make a show of taking me to expensive restaurants and hotels as if he felt the need to make the point that he could afford to do it, even though I knew he was having to pay child support and alimony.

  I don’t know what Marc’s like with money. He has a Ford Ranger Raptor because he spends most of his time bumping over unmade roads and fields. It’s a beautiful car but it’s covered in mud most of the time. He has a couple of nice suits, but he doesn’t have the fancy sports cars and watches that Leon has, and Izzy once told me he rents a small apartment on the edge of town, so he doesn’t own his own home. I doubt he’s rolling in money, and I wouldn’t want him to think, like Daniel, that he has to try to impress me.

  I like having money; I like owning a nice car, living in a comfortable, quiet home, buying nice clothes, but it’s not the be-all and end-all for me. I know it’s easy to say that when you have it, and like the other members of my family I make regular donations to charities because I often feel guilty that I’m wealthy, but I’m not the type of girl who has to be bought diamonds to be impressed. Daniel bought me diamond earrings for my birthday, and it clearly meant nothing. I’d rather have paste diamonds from a guy who loves me.

  To my surprise, Marc doesn’t head into Hastings, but instead turns east, through the tiny town of Haumoana, and continues along the coast. Wherever we’re going, it’s not in a city.

  The road bends around to the right, but he slows, indicates left, even though there aren’t any other cars, and turns off the main road and onto a narrow lane heading toward the sea. There’s only one building at the end of the lane. It’s a lighthouse.

  I turn to stare at Marc. “We’re staying there?”

  He laughs. “It’s a lot more isolated than I expected.” He gives me a rueful look. “If it’s too bleak, I’m happy to see if I can find us somewhere in Hastings.”

  “Marc, it’s amazing. Oh my God.” We’re surrounded on both sides by the sea, which breaks on the limestone rocks to spray the road.

  At the end, in front of the lighthouse, is a car. As we pull up, a woman in her fifties with gray hair in a bob comes through the front door of the lighthouse and smiles.

  We get out, and she comes over and says, “Marc?”

  “Yes, you must be Fiona.” He shakes her hand. “This is Poppy.”

  “Hello.” I shake her hand, my face flushing as I realize she must be assuming we’re a couple. Well, I suppose we are, for this week. Maybe if I think like that, it’ll make this easier.

  “Please, come in,” she says, leading the way into the lighthouse. Marc gestures for me to precede him, and I follow Fiona inside. Oh, it’s beautiful. The ground floor is a living area, with a sofa and a small TV, and a tiny kitchen with a sink, a microwave, a fridge, and a bench to prepare food. Stairs curve up to the first floor, which has a bedroom with a double bed and a tiny bathroom. Above that is a viewing room, with a sofa facing folding doors that open out onto a balcony overlooking the sea. In front of us there’s only the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. If we sailed out from this point, the next place we’d hit would probably be Chile.

  There’s so much sky that I’m a little dizzy, but I also feel liberated at the sense of space.

  I turn to Marc, who has a look of such hope on his face that my heart wants to break. “It’s amazing,” I whisper. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “I’m so glad,” Fiona says brightly, giving Marc the key. “There’s a lovely bar that serves great seafood back in Haumoana, and a bakery that does takeaway rolls and sandwiches. And there’s plenty of food for breakfast in the cupboards, bread in the bread bin, and butter, milk, bacon, and eggs in the fridge, so please help yourselves.”

  “Thank you so much.” Marc leads the way back downstairs and sees Fiona out, and I hear her get in her car and head back up the lane. He comes back in and stands in the center of the room, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I love it,” I say softly. “It was a brilliant idea.”

  He glances around. “I wanted something a bit special for the conception of our son or daughter.” His gaze comes back to me, mischievous and amused.

  I think of our kiss earlier, and my heart bangs against my ribs. His expression softens. “Don’t panic.”

  “I’m not,” I lie.

  He moves a bit closer, looking down at me. He’s quite a bit taller, maybe six-two, with broad shoulders and a vast expanse of chest. My fingers tingle at the thought of tugging up his shirt and sliding onto his warm skin. He fills my thoughts and my senses, and I’m getting to the stage where I can’t think of anything else when he’s close to me.

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he states gently. “I’m sorry about the kiss this morning. I have a feeling that threw you.”

  “It did. A bit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. I don’t know how to explain that I liked it, but I’m worried more like that will mean I’m not going to find it easy to keep my heart in its padlocked box.

  Sex for me has usually been hard and fast, with the guy desiring the quickest route possible to his destination. I’ve always thought foreplay a creation of moviemakers and romance novelists, like heroes who are kind and considerate rather than only concerned with themselves. Daniel declared he loved me, but his lovemaking was as uninspired and brief as my few previous lovers. He seemed to want to sleep with me purely to achieve a climax. Men seem to assume women find it sexy to be pounded into, and either don’t know or don’t care that it takes some gentler focus on certain areas of a woman’s body to enable her to orgasm.

  Marc’s comment a few days ago when he asked, “If you communicate what you like and what turns you on, why should it be any different with the man in your life?” was an eye-opener for me. None of the men I’ve been with have seemed interested in discussing my pleasure, and as a result, I’ve never thought to bring up the subject. I feel sort of stupid now, as if, as a modern woman, I should have put my pleasure on an equal level with a man’s, but the truth is I just didn’t think about it. I assumed this is how it is. Men don’t pick up their socks, they sit with their legs wide apart, they eat a packet of chips in two mouthfuls, and they climax before a woman. It’s nature, and a woman would be foolish to expect anything else.

  Despite Marc’s promises of multiple orgasms, I realize now I’d still expected him to be the same as the other men in my life. But even that one kiss was different from any other kiss I’ve ever had. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve never been super keen on kissing. Guys have always wanted to force their tongue into my mouth, and wet, squelchy kisses turn my stomach. But he was so gentle, his lips warm and dry as he pressed them to mine. I’ve never been kissed like it.

  I want him to kiss me like that again. Is that terrible?

  He’s watching me with a strange smile, and I don’t know what to say, so instead I move closer, slide my arms around his waist, and give him a hug, resting my cheek on his chest.

  “Aw,�
�� he says, and wraps his arms around me.

  He smells of aftershave and freshly washed clothes and the scent of warm, clean male. My mouth is an inch from the V of his open-necked shirt, and I’m tempted to turn my head and press my lips to his skin. But even though we’re here for sex, and I don’t think he’d mind, I’m too shy to do it.

  He lifts a hand, though, tucks a finger under my chin, and lifts it until I meet his eyes. He studies mine for a moment, then lowers his lips to mine.

  I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, and concentrate on the kiss. He’s so gentle. He holds his lips there, then presses them again, long, tender kisses that give me a deep ache inside—I’m not sure if it’s in my heart or further down. Maybe both.

  He kisses me for a long time, while the sun pours over us like melted butter, and seagulls swoop and cry overhead. He doesn’t seem in any rush, and I think I could stand here forever like this, being kissed, my arms around his waist, enjoying being so close to him. It’s so innocent, just a brushing of our lips, but I feel as if someone’s poured hot water into my veins. Heat rises in me, and by the time he lifts his head, I’m yearning for more.

  But he studies my face, smiles, and says, “Why don’t we go to that bar Fiona mentioned and get some dinner?”

  I nod, half disappointed, half relieved. I know he’s taking it slow on purpose for me. I’m so incredibly touched. But it’s only putting off the inevitable. Later, he’s going to take me into the bedroom above us, undress me, and make love to me. He’s going to brush his tanned hands across my skin, and maybe his lips, too. I already know he’s going to be gentle and slow, and I’m starting to think he might have been right when he said he gives a woman pleasure every time he has sex.

  Oh dear.

  Chapter Ten

  Fitz

  Poppy’s nervous.

  I suppose that was to be expected. I’m surprised, though. She’s thirty, and she told me she’s had a few partners, so even if she hasn’t had a one-night stand, I would’ve thought the notion of a fling wouldn’t have bothered her.