My Lonely Billionaire
The Billionaire Kings Book 4
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
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
Noah
There are two hundred and forty-three steps on the way from my house down to the beach. Seventy-seven planks of wood in the fence by the path. Sixteen large rocks where the path meets the sand.
I know this because I count them every day. It’s a kind of meditation as I walk my two German Shepherds. Spike, whose rear legs rest in a doggy wheelchair after the accident that damaged his spine, has trouble navigating the last step onto the beach, and Willow, his best friend, leaps around him while I help him down as if to say, “Come on, slowcoach!”
Today, the first day of July, the blustery wind tugs at my scarf, and I shove my hands deeper into my pockets as I walk along the sand. They call it the winterless north up here in the Northland of New Zealand, which is kind of accurate; it never snows, and we only see a couple of frosts a year, but it’s still cool in the mornings and evenings. I like this time of year, though, and days like this are amazing, with clouds scudding across the cornflower-blue sky, and white horses riding the waves onto the shore.
Willow spots a seagull picking at shells in the distance and tears off, barking, and Spike runs after her, his wheels carving the sand into a pattern of wavy lines. I smile, pick up a stone, and throw it as hard as I can. It arcs into the air before falling, and is swallowed up by the churning waves.
Not for the first time, I imagine what it would feel like to be that stone. To sink into the sea, and let it drag me down to its dark depths, where there would be no more pain, no more sadness, nothing but welcome oblivion.
And those fish with the scary bulging eyes and sharp teeth. Maybe not.
Sliding my hands back into my pockets, I keep on walking.
I’ve a lot on my mind today. It’s super busy at the animal sanctuary at the moment. The cyclone that hit us three weeks ago devastated Ward Seven—the room where we keep animals recovering from operations, and we’re having that whole end of the complex rebuilt and enlarged. In a way it was a blessing, because we’d exceeded our capacity after only a few years, and it means we’re redesigning it, including a much larger recovery room, expanding the grooming center, and creating proper boarding kennels where people can leave their pets while they’re on vacation, knowing they’re being well cared for.
In thirty minutes, I have a meeting with the architect and the heads of each department to go over the plans. The building firm has all but cleared the site and they’re going to be ready to start on the new buildings soon, so we need to make sure we’re all clear on our vision for the rebuild.
After that, I’m having a private meeting with the architect to go over the design for the building that’s going to house our brand-new Hands-On Center. In conjunction with our petting farm, the Hands-On Center will coordinate with special needs facilities at local schools to bring in children with physical and mental disabilities to meet the animals. Albie, my cousin, is going to be in charge of this, but he’s just left for a vacation to France with his girlfriend. After seeing the architect, I’m also meeting with Albie’s stand-in to go over the IT schedule for the week to make sure he doesn’t have any questions.
Lastly, I’m taking a conference call with the designers of a new Ark over in Hawke’s Bay. And that’s all before lunch.
All the meetings will take place at my house. Everyone’s used to that. I’m fine all the time I can control the environment. It’s only when I meet people outside of the house that I get into trouble.
I’ve been a little better since the cyclone. Fear for the staff and the animals forced me to join them in the Ark, and since then I’ve visited several times to check on the progress. I’m proud of myself for going out, even though I have to lie down for a while when I get back before I stop shaking.
Just the thought of it makes my heart start to race, so I take deep breaths and count the planks in the fence as I head back to the path leading up to the house.
I return just after ten, expecting to see my housekeeper’s car gone because she only comes in for a couple of hours on a Monday, but to my surprise it’s still there. I open the front door, standing back to let Willow and Spike in, and see Paula in the kitchen, hands clasped before her, apparently waiting for me.
“Hey.” I hang my jacket on the peg by the door and unwind my scarf. “Everything okay?”
“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” she asks.
“Of course.” I join her in the kitchen, switch on the coffee machine, then turn and lean against the worktop.
Paula is medium height, a little plump, and has gray hair cut short. She stands before me, twisting her hands. She comes in three mornings a week to clean, tidy, and cook for me. She’s efficient and quiet, and keeps to herself, which suits me just fine. In the few conversations I’ve had with her, I’ve discovered she’s fifty-five, married to Ken, has two daughters, and has an eighty-year-old mother in Auckland who’s recently been diagnosed with bowel cancer.
“I told you my mother has been unwell…” she begins. “Well, she needs to have radiotherapy treatment, and that means staying at the hospital for six weeks. And after that she’s going to need looking after for a while until she can get back on her feet.”
“And you’d like to be there for her,” I say. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”
Her cheeks flush. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Family comes first, Paula. When are you going?”
“I thought maybe Wednesday. That gives me a day to get straight here.”
“No worries at all. I’ll contact the agency and get someone to cover for you until you get back.”
“Well, actually… I know someone who might be suitable, if you’re interested.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I have a friend who’s looking for work. She’s a lovely woman, smart, pleasant, funny… I think you’d like her.”
“Would she be happy knowing it’s only temporary work until you return?”
She nods. “She’s actually a cake decorator and ran her own business in Hamilton, but she’s recently moved up to the bay.”
“She’s transferring her business here?”
Paula hesitates. “Well, that’s the thing…” She bites her bottom lip.
“Spit it out,” I tell her go
od-naturedly.
“She’s nearly eight months pregnant,” she says. “She wants to wait until the baby’s born before she gets stuck into the business again, but she’s desperate for money.” Her eyes meet mine. They hold nervousness and a touch of pity. “I won’t be offended if you say no.”
“Paula—”
“I shouldn’t even have mentioned it, it’s just that she’s struggling a bit, and I promised I’d try to help, but I don’t expect you to—”
“Of course she should come here,” I say. “It’s not a problem at all.”
She blows out a long breath. “Are you sure? Please don’t say yes just for me…”
“I like helping people,” I tell her truthfully. “Are you sure it won’t be too much for her?”
“A bit of vacuuming and tidying up? Mr. King, you keep your house impeccably clean and tidy. I feel embarrassed taking money from you sometimes.”
I roll my eyes; I’ve never been able to get her to use my first name. “I hate dusting and ironing,” I tell her. “You’ve been an absolute joy.”
She blushes again. “Well, to be honest, I’d be relieved if Abigail—Abby—worked here. She told me the only job she could get was working in a stationery warehouse, and she’d have to carry boxes, and she’d be on her feet all day.”
“Can she cook?” I ask. Paula bakes the occasional lasagna or moussaka for me and freezes them, so if I don’t feel like cooking in the evening, I can just throw a portion in the microwave.
“I don’t know how much ordinary cooking she does, but she’s an amazing baker. She can make a hundred different types of muffins. And get her to bake you one of her sponge cakes—they’re light as air.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say with a smile. “If she wants to start on Wednesday, she’s very welcome.”
“Thank you so much. It’s going to mean the world to her. She’s had a tough time, and… well, I’d better not say too much, but she’ll be thrilled, I know she will.”
I walk with her to the front door, where she slips on her coat and picks up her purse.
“Thank you,” she says again.
“Best of luck with your mom,” I tell her. “I hope it all goes well.”
To my surprise, she lifts a hand and cups my cheek. “You’re a good man, Noah King,” she says softly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Then, seeming embarrassed at her gesture, she scurries out of the house to her car. With a brief wave, she gets in and heads out onto the main road.
I shut the door, go into the kitchen, and take the mug of coffee through to the living room. Walking up to the glass sliding doors, I open them to let the dogs out and stand in the doorway, looking out across the Pacific Ocean.
My stomach is a knot of emotions, and when I have a sip of coffee it takes immense effort to get my throat to relax enough to swallow it down.
She’s nearly eight months pregnant…
Unbidden, my thoughts float up onto the wintry breeze, which carries them off into the past. Lisa had loved being pregnant. At eight months, she’d been the very spirit of joy. She’d painted the baby’s bedroom in our old house yellow, and she’d stuck Pooh Bear decals all over the walls—pictures of Pooh with his honeypot, Tigger bouncing around, and Eeyore with his sad face. She’d bought a beautiful mobile to hang above the cot, and she’d hand-stitched a quilt in pinks and blues so it would fit the baby no matter if it was a boy or a girl.
It was a girl, but she never got to use it.
After Lisa died, I used to sit in the rocking chair she’d bought to nurse the baby, staring at the decals as the mobile turned around and around above the cot, playing London Bridge is Falling Down, thinking what a bizarre choice of song it was.
That was ten years ago. And I’m still fucked up. I don’t think I’ll ever be un-fucked, if that’s a word. I’m forty-two now. No spring chicken, as my mother would say. And there are days when my agoraphobia is as bad as when it started.
I don’t know why my grief takes this form. It’s not depression, as such; I don’t have black moods, and even though sometimes—like this morning—my thoughts wander to what it would be like to not feel this way anymore, I’ve never seriously considered ending my own life. I’m not angry. And I’m fine in my own home. All I know is that when I set foot outside, it takes the same effort as it would to move a mountain to get my body to look as if it’s working normally—to walk, talk, and interact with people. And ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s too much for me, and I have to turn around and go back.
People often think agoraphobia is a fear of going outdoors, but it’s not. It’s a type of anxiety disorder in which someone fears and avoids places or situations that make them feel trapped, helpless, or embarrassed. For me, it’s just an overwhelming feeling of not being able to cope, and of letting those I love down. It’s crippling, and I hate it, but I’ve had ten different counselors over the years, and none of them have been able to help me conquer it.
I don’t have a fear of pregnant women, as such, although if I was forced to admit it, I’m relieved I don’t have much contact with them. It’s going to be a challenge to have this Abigail in my house, and awkward to have to find yet another housekeeper when it’s time for her to give birth. But I want to help. But the last thing she would want, I’m sure, is me freaking out every time she lifts something heavier than the kettle, or panicking if she winces when the baby kicks.
I couldn’t have said no to Paula any more than fly, though. The one thing in life that makes me feel better is helping people, and if I can help this woman, especially if she’s had a tough time, whatever that means, then maybe it won’t be such a bad thing.
Anyway, I suppose there are worse things than having a housekeeper who cooks a hundred different types of muffins.
There’s change in the air; I can feel it. It makes me uneasy. I like my life the way it is. But I learned a long time ago that the worst thing you can do is try to fight it. So I close my eyes and surrender to the wintry breeze that blows across my face, tasting salt on my lips, and hope that whatever happens, it blows past me and leaves me standing rather than knocking me down and leaving me lying in its wake.
Chapter Two
Abigail
“I don’t want you working,” Tom says. “I’ve told you this a hundred times.”
As calmly as I can, I pull on the one pair of stretchy maternity pants I own and settle them comfortably over my bump. “We need the money. I’ve got to do something.”
He leans against the doorjamb, scowling at me. I choose one of my tunics, pull it over my head, and let it fall, relieved to be dressed. He’s not one of those guys who finds pregnant women’s bodies attractive, and I hate thinking he’s looking at me with distaste.
“I don’t see why you can’t get started on the cakes,” he says for the umpteenth time. “You said there’s always a market for birthday and wedding cakes.”
“There’s no point me starting when I’m immediately going to have to take a couple of months off when the baby comes. It makes more sense to wait until I’m ready.” The words come automatically; I’ve said them dozens of times before. I know he won’t be listening.
I start applying some mascara in the mirror, gritting my teeth against the tears that glimmer in my eyes, as they seem to all the time. It’s the baby, I think. But it’s hard to lie to yourself. Baby hormones are only part of the reason I’m emotional. I can’t help but think how different I’d be feeling right now if Tom would come up and give me a hug, stroke my bump, and tell me how beautiful I am, and how much he’s looking forward to seeing his baby for the first time.
As I stroke the brush through my lashes, my mother’s words come back to haunt me. Find a man who’ll smudge your lipstick, Abby, not your mascara. I didn’t listen. Who listens to their mother when they’re eighteen?
I wonder whether she’s surprised that Tom and I have been together for fourteen years. I guess she knows. We’re so-called ‘friends’ on Facebook so sh
e would have seen the photos I posted recently of our move up to the Bay of Islands. She never comments on them, though. Maybe she’s changed her account. Maybe she’s dead. Would someone inform me if that happened?
My thoughts are like confetti on the wind; it’s hard to keep track of them. I’m constantly daydreaming, finding comfort in being in a fantasy world so different from my own. I have to drag myself back to the present.
“Who is this guy, anyway,” Tom is saying. “I’ve heard he can’t go out of the house. That’s just fucking weird.”
“He has agoraphobia.” I dust powder over my face, then add a slick of lip gloss. “Paula says she hardly ever sees him.”
It’s not true. Paula told me she adores Noah King. She said he’s quiet, gentle, funny, warm to his friends, that he works incredibly hard considering he doesn’t leave the house, and he’s very sad. She told me about what happened with his wife and baby, and said that’s why he’s now housebound, restrained and constrained by his grief. It must have been some marriage, I think, to cause a man to continue to grieve ten years after the death of his wife. I’m so envious it makes my stomach churn.
But I can’t say any of this to Tom. Life with him has become a minefield. I need Princess Diana to come back from the afterlife and campaign to make it safer for me. One step off the road and everything blows up in my face. I could have handled it once, but now I’m conscious of the effect negative emotions might have on the baby, so I just turn away when he says something that makes me mad and go outside and dig the veggie patch.
We’ve got the best-dug veggie patch in the Northland at the moment. I wouldn’t be surprised if I hit China, the amount of digging I’ve been doing.
He’s not finished yet, though. “Keep your phone on you at all times. Call me if this bastard so much as smiles at you.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” I say heatedly, with a touch of my old spirit. “I wish you didn’t believe the worst of everyone and everything. You drag me down. I was feeling happy when I got up this morning.” I toss my lip gloss into my purse irritably.
“I’m just worried about you.” Tom comes over to me then. “You walk along looking up at the stars, and you don’t see the potholes in front of you.”
My Lonely Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 4) Page 1