My Wounded Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 5)

by Serenity Woods

  But Sally is intrigued, and she continues, “Is Fitz the guy she was supposed to marry, the one where she canceled the wedding at the last minute?” When I nod, she presses her fingers to her lips, her eyes wide. “She told me about that. He was in an accident, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He was in the Army,” I explain, “working at Scott Base. A plane crash-landed—he wasn’t on it, but it skidded across the landing strip into the yard where he was working. He fractured his pelvis and damaged several vertebrae, and had to learn to walk again.”

  “Jesus.” Ken glances out to where Marc’s pacing up and down, talking into his phone. “I’d never have guessed.”

  “What’s she like?” I ask them, curious about the woman he was going to marry.

  “A bit high-maintenance,” Ashton announces. “If I’m honest.”

  “We get on okay,” Sally says. “Lee is friends with her husband, Terry.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say guiltily. “I didn’t mean to be rude about your friend.”

  Lee waves a hand. “Sal knows how I feel about Mel. I’ve always thought she was manipulative. When I heard she’d called off a previous wedding, I was worried she’d do the same with Terry. I’m glad she didn’t, although sometimes I think he’d have been better off if she had. He’s a bit under the thumb.”

  “She is a control freak,” Sally admits.

  “Why did they break up?” Ashton asks her.

  “She opened up about her ex one night, when a group of us had had a few drinks. She said she couldn’t deal with the accident. She said she felt guilty about breaking up with him, but that the accident completely changed his personality, and he wasn’t the man she’d fallen in love with.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say, as mildly as I can, even though anger stirs inside me. “When you love someone you stand by them, in sickness and in health. She left him when he needed her most. He’s still very upset about it.”

  “Understandably,” Ashton says.

  I glance out at Marc, who’s studying his shoes, still on the phone. Who’s he talking to? Not Mel, surely. No, it couldn’t be. It’s probably Noah or Leon, or maybe Izzy. Would she ring him on her honeymoon? I would imagine Hal’s keeping her too busy…

  As I watch, Marc sighs. I might not be great at interpreting people, but I can tell from his stance that he’s upset about something. I want to go out there, slide my arms around him, and tell him I’m there for him. Again, I think what a bizarre arrangement we have, where we can be so intimate one moment—I think of what I did for him, on top of him, this afternoon, and blush—and yet in other ways not know each other at all.

  I tear my gaze away and look back at the others, half wishing I hadn’t told them.

  But Sally smiles and says, “Don’t worry, we won’t say anything.”

  Sure enough, as Marc hangs up, slides the phone back in his pocket, and returns to the restaurant, Ashton starts up a conversation about the local elections, and by the time Marc sits, everyone’s talking and laughing as we finish off the meal.

  I lean a little bit closer to him and say softly, “Everything okay?”

  He nods and gives a tight smile, but he pushes his plate away with the food unfinished, picks up his beer, and swallows the last few mouthfuls in one go.

  I finish off my own dinner, wishing he’d confide in me. Maybe when we get back, he’ll feel more relaxed and able to talk.

  But after we leave the restaurant, and we’re driving back to the lighthouse, despite my attempt at conversation he remains quiet, his gaze distant, and I feel our previous closeness dissipating. I want to hang onto it, but it’s like mist, and I can feel it slipping through my fingers.

  When we arrive and go in, I decide to give it one more shot. “Is something bothering you?” I ask. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  But he shakes his head, going over instead to where we left the glasses and the bottle of whisky I brought him, and proceeds to pour us both a shot.

  When Daniel was in a mood, I just turned away and busied myself with something else, but for some reason tears prick my eyes. “Is it me?” I whisper. “Have I done something to upset you?”

  He looks up in surprise then, frowns, and brings the glass over. After passing it to me, he pulls me into his arms. “No, sweetheart, it’s nothing to do with you.”

  I sniff. “Are you sure? It’s not because I called you my slave?”

  He laughs at that and kisses the top of my head. “Of course not. What happens in the bedroom is just play.”

  It’s no good; I have to ask. “Was it… Mel on the phone?”

  “Mel? No.” He moves back to retrieve his glass. “What made you say that?”

  “You said you saw her today. Ashton said it shook both of you up. I wondered whether she’d initiated communication.”

  “Mel would never ring me,” he says, somewhat curtly, “and I have no interest in talking to her.”

  “Okay.” I’ve upset him. Shit.

  “Ashton knows?” he queries.

  I feel ashamed that I told the crew at the Ark. “He asked me how you knew each other, so I told him. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  He swirls the whisky around in the glass. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does, and I shouldn’t have done it.” I take a deep breath. “If I’m honest, I was curious as to what they thought of her.”

  He studies my face, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “And?” he asks.

  “Ashton called her high-maintenance.”

  His lips curve up a little.

  “I admit I felt smug when he said that,” I tell him.

  He gives a short laugh. “Why?” he says.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you feel smug?”

  “Because… she hurt my friend, and I was glad others think she isn’t a nice person.”

  He meets my eyes. “Is that the only reason?”

  Our gazes lock, and we stay like that for a long, long time. I can’t answer, can’t admit it, but I know he’s read the truth in them.

  Eventually, I look away, and he sighs and gestures to the sofa. “Let’s sit down.”

  I sit on the sofa while he turns on the gas fire, and then he sits just down from me. He stretches out his legs and stares into the leaping flames for a while, then takes a mouthful of whisky.

  “You’re making me nervous,” I tell him.

  He turns his gaze to me. “Sorry. I’m just debating what to say. I don’t talk about it much, only to Izzy, and this time I haven’t even spoken to her about it.”

  I’m puzzled now. “Okay.”

  He sips his whisky. “On the phone—it was my mom. She’s a recovering alcoholic, and she’s currently in rehab.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fitz

  Poppy stares at me, bemused. “Your mother is in rehab?”

  I nod, feeling the usual wave of shame and guilt. It goes against all my instincts to talk about it. But the conversation I had with Mel at the Riverbank keeps playing in my mind. Although I was angry at the time, she shocked me with the revelation that she didn’t leave because of the accident, but because I wouldn’t open up to her. I didn’t purposefully keep things from her, but it’s true that I always try to deal with things on my own. I’m not normally comfortable sharing. But it ruined that relationship. And I don’t want to ruin this one, so I’m going to try to talk about it.

  “She’s in a special unit in Hamilton,” I tell Poppy. “She’s been there for a couple of weeks.”

  “Marc, I’m so sorry. How long has she had a problem?”

  “All my life,” I confess. “Although it worsened after my father died. But I can remember incidents when I was younger, too. You know about Izzy and the boiling water?”

  She nods; she knows the story. When Izzy was five, my mother left a pan of hot water unattended on the stove, and Izzy tipped it over herself. It scarred her, badly enough to ensure she never wears short-sleeved top
s.

  “What Izzy doesn’t know is that Mom wasn’t in the room because she was drunk in the living room,” I say.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Yeah. I can remember it happening. I was seven, and I’d just gotten home from school. She’d obviously been drinking throughout the afternoon, because I remember that when Izzy started screaming, Mom fell over trying to get to the kitchen. I’ve never told Izzy that.”

  “But she knows she drinks?” Poppy asks.

  “Oh God, yeah. After our father died, Mom didn’t bother hiding it any longer. She went to pieces. She left rat poison out in the garage that killed our Old English Sheepdog.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I left to go into the Army—I had to get away. I felt terribly guilty at leaving Izzy with her, though. When Izz turned eighteen, I told her she had to go to university, and persuaded her to go to veterinary college. We didn’t have much money, though, and poor Izzy had to work every evening to pay her way. Several times during her first year one of us had to go home because Mom had gotten into trouble. She’d get drunk, then go out into town, cause a scene, make a nuisance of herself.”

  Poppy looks horrified. “How awful for you both.” I’m sure the thought of the solid Charlie King or his sweet wife Ophelia doing anything like that is beyond her.

  “Eventually,” I continue, “it got too much. We scraped together enough money to send Mom to rehab. I had to take out a loan—again, Izzy doesn’t know that. It was worth it, though; Mom made a good recovery. She ended up meeting a guy—Luke—and has lived with him ever since. She’s been doing okay.”

  “Do you see her much? I know Izzy doesn’t go down there very often.”

  “No, Izzy’s relationship with her is complicated, and she finds it difficult to be in Mom’s company. I see her a bit more often, maybe once a month. She’s not an easy woman, but I try to keep an eye on her.”

  “So what happened recently? Why is she back in rehab?”

  “I keep in touch with a woman called Rebecca, who’s Mom’s neighbor in Hamilton. When Mom first came out of rehab, I gave Rebecca my contact details just in case Mom had a relapse and she needed me. Rebecca has become a good friend of Mom’s, and it’s nice to know she has someone there if she needs them. A month or so ago, Rebecca emailed to say she thought I should know that Mom and Luke were having problems. She’d heard them arguing several times, although Mom refused to talk to her about it. I knew she’d never admit it to me, so… I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t call, because I’ve been busy at work and, frankly, I don’t need the aggravation.”

  “That’s understandable,” Poppy says, reaching out to hold my hand.

  I blow out a breath. “Then, about a week later, Rebecca emailed again. Luke had walked out. Mom consoled herself with alcohol for the first time. Drunk as a skunk, she wandered into town and caused a scene outside the store where he works. He wasn’t there at the time, but she broke a window, screamed and cried, then threw up outside, and someone called the police. Luke came to pick her up and took her home. I spoke to him on the phone, and he was curt and angry, and yelled that he’d had enough. I begged him to stay, at least to ensure she was all right, but a few days later he walked out again, and this time he didn’t go back.”

  “And that tipped her over the edge.”

  “Yes. I haven’t told Izzy about this. She was getting ready for her wedding, and I didn’t want her to worry.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Poppy says, “but she won’t be happy when she eventually finds out.”

  “I don’t care.” I set my jaw. “She’s had a tough life, and she’s finally found happiness with Hal. She deserves some time to be with him without worrying about Mom.”

  Poppy doesn’t push it. “So you’ve paid for her to go back into rehab?”

  “Yeah, I took her in a couple of weeks ago. Last time, she had a month-long program. This time, they’ve suggested she stay for two months. It’ll cost twenty thousand dollars.”

  Poppy’s eyebrows lift. “Wow.”

  “I’ve paid for the first three weeks, but…” I hesitate, but there’s no point in holding back now. “I’m struggling to find the rest of the money.”

  Poppy’s green eyes study me. I’d half expected her to say immediately that she’d give it to me, but she’s cleverer than that. She knows I’d say no. “That’s why you said you’d help me out,” she says. “For the money.”

  “Partly for the money.” My lips curve up. “There are a few other benefits.”

  She smiles, but she doesn’t change the subject. “Are you going to ask Izzy to pay half?”

  I look into my glass then, swirl the whisky around, and take a mouthful. “I don’t want to,” I reply eventually.

  “She’s married to one of the richest guys in New Zealand, Marc. Hal would be more than happy to help.”

  “I know. But I have my pride. And I don’t want Izzy to know, not yet, not when she’s on her honeymoon.”

  “Noah would give you the money.”

  “I know. But that’s not going to happen. I’ll probably get another loan.” The repayments would be a problem for me, but I don’t tell Poppy that. I earn a decent wage at the Ark, but I have rent and bills to pay, and I also took a loan out for my car. Noah wanted to buy it for me as a company car, but I—being an idiot—refused and bought it myself. I’ll have finished paying for it in a few months, but until then, taking out another loan is going to stretch my finances to the limit.

  Poppy has a mouthful of whisky and studies me, resting her cheek on the glass. “I know you’re going to say no,” she tells me, “but I have to say it anyway. You know I’d give you the money.”

  “That’s very kind of you, and I appreciate it. But you know I can’t take it.”

  She purses her lips, her brow creasing. “In that case, how about I increase your payments to two thousand dollars a night?”

  “Jesus. That’s not why I told you.”

  “I know. Come on, Marc, I know you well enough to know you’d never ask anyone for money. You’re a proud man, and you’re surrounded by a family for whom money has never been an issue. I can only imagine how hard that has been for you and Izzy. I’ve talked to her about it in the past, and she’s told me how awkward she found it at veterinary college when both Hal and Stefan had money.”

  “I hadn’t realized that,” I say. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

  “I know I’m not going to change your mind. But something you have to understand with us Kings is that it doesn’t come from a position of superiority. To us, it’s not a case of have and have-not. It’s tough to describe what it’s like growing up with money to someone who hasn’t been through it. The kind of issues that most people struggle with—budgeting, waiting to get paid, saving up for holidays and birthday presents—that didn’t happen with any of us. For our parents, the challenge was to give us everything we wanted without spoiling us. It’s a thin line to walk, and I can’t say Albie, Summer, and I didn’t have issues. And of course it was even more difficult for Mom and Dad with Summer, because her birth father couldn’t afford to splash out on whatever caught his eye, so they had to handle that carefully.”

  “I get all that, but—”

  “Let me finish. I just want to say, we all have our own money through trust funds and the like, but for all of us, it’s been a family thing, a shared thing. The money comes from Brock and Dad and Matt and all the hard work they did, and also from a certain amount of luck. Not every series of children’s books takes off, and not every invention is a success. They’re aware how lucky they are, and so are we. You think Ryan, and Summer, and Noah, don’t feel guilt to some extent because they’re not related to the Three Wise Men by blood?”

  “I’ve had this conversation with Noah,” I admit. “He gave me the ‘we’re all one big happy family’ talk.”

  “But he’s right. He created the Ark for the Kings and their friends to come together and share their lives, as well as to help animals.
It was the best way he could think of to treat the money as a source that feeds all the rivers. None of us hoards our cash like Scrooge. It’s there to improve everyone’s lives. We all give to charity, and help where we can.”

  I feel a flare of irritation at being likened to a charity, but I squash it, because I know that’s not what she meant. “I understand all that. But I’m not a King, and it just doesn’t feel right to take that kind of money from any of you.”

  She nods. “That’s what I thought you’d say. I’m a little disappointed, though, that you’d struggle and possibly go through hardship because of pride. I don’t understand that. But life would be dull if everyone was the same.”

  We sip our whiskies quietly, listening to the crash of the waves on the rocks outside. The sun is setting, and the room is flooded with a dull orange light.

  I can’t explain how I feel to her because it’s beyond my ability to vocalize my feelings. Maybe there’s a tad of sexism in there—I’m a man, and deep down I feel it’s my duty to look after my family. Or perhaps it’s stubbornness, or shame, or a fear of having to admit I’ve failed. I can see she doesn’t understand, and maybe she’s even a little hurt that I won’t accept her help. But she’ll have to realize I am who I am, and I can’t change overnight for her.

  “Why did your mom ring tonight?” she asks. “Is she okay?”

  I blow out a long breath. “It’s hard to tell. She wanted to apologize to me. For making a scene again, and having the police come out. And for causing me any worry and trouble. She was sweet and sad, and it was quite hard to hear.”

  “I can imagine. I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug. I don’t really want to talk about it. It was difficult to listen to Mom crying as she apologized. She knows she’s been trouble for Izzy and me over the years. I’ve never blamed her for it, though. I suppose I could have done more to help her. Maybe I should have stayed at home and looked after her. But I don’t think either of us would have wanted that. Some things are just meant to be.

  “Shall we watch a movie or something?” I ask.