The Billionaire Affair

‘Condition accepted.’ He stood up too, leaving folded notes to cover the bill. ‘But don’t blame me if I try to change your mind. Eventually.’

She knew she’d made a mistake when she caught his satisfied smirk. Lunch was fine, but supper at his flat near the Barbican?

Misgivings shuddered through her. A week ago she would have seen the invitation as a natural progression of their deepening comradeship, would have pleasantly anticipated getting to know him on his home ground. Now she’d accepted his invitation because he was her friend, a nice guy, and she hadn’t wanted to upset him with an outright refusal.

Back at the gallery there was a message for her at the front desk. Edward wanted to see her. Now.

Enclosed in the silver capsule that whisked her directly into Edward’s office she filed the problem with Michael away at the back of her mind. She’d handle it as smoothly as she’d learned to handle everything else since she’d left the parental home at eighteen.

Handled everything except—

‘Ben Dexter,’ Edward said as the lift doors closed behind her. ‘He needs you to appraise the contents of a property his company—or one of them—acquired relatively recently. About eighteen months ago, if I remember correctly.’

He arranged a few papers into a neat pile and then tapped it with the ends of his long, thin fingers, tilting his silver-grey head he asked, ‘Are you unwell? You look a bit green around the gills—lunch upset you? Do please sit down.’

The shock of hearing that name slotted into her uncomfortable thoughts had driven what colour she did have out of her skin. It had nothing to do with what she’d eaten at lunch or her unfathomable change of attitude over her relationship with his son.

Besides, what company was Edward talking about? From what she knew of Dexter it was probably dodgy. Should she warn her boss, confess she knew Dexter to be a cheat and a liar? It was something to think about.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she claimed, gathering herself, slipping into the chair on the opposite side of his desk. ‘You were saying?’

She wouldn’t do it. If he wanted bits and pieces of antiques, paintings, whatever, appraised then someone else would have to do it. Her stomach churned over at the very thought of having to have anything at all to do with him.

Edward gave her a long look and then, as if satisfied, told her, ‘His company, Country Estates, bought up this run-down house and land in Shropshire. They’ve sorted out the business end—planning permission for a golf course, clubhouse and leisure centre and a small heritage farm, and now they’re turning their attention to the house itself.’

Caroline felt the shock of that like a physical blow. There could be few people who hadn’t heard of the ultra-successful Country Estates, admired by big business and the environmental lobby alike. She must have misjudged him, having believed him to have obtained his wealth by nefarious means. The thought wasn’t comforting. The idea of Ben Dexter as a liar, cheat and betrayer had been with her for so long that having to rethink it was like an amputation.

But what place were they talking about here? Suddenly she was sure she knew. Had Dexter’s company acquired more than one run-down estate in Shropshire around eighteen months ago? It was possible, of course, but not very likely.

‘Are we talking about Langley Hayes?’ The smile she manufactured was just right. Borderline interested. Only she knew how heavily her heart was pounding.

‘You know it?”

The slightest nod would do. She’d been born there, had lived there—apart from when she’d been away at boarding school—until she’d been driven out by misery and one dictate too many from her authoritarian father.

Of her mother she had no memory. Laura Harvey had died shortly after giving birth to Caroline. Only the occasional photograph in a barely opened album had shown her just how beautiful her mother had been.

She had never been back. She’d been warned not to show her face again. Attending her father’s funeral out of duty, Caroline had not gone back to the house. It and the land had been sold to Country Estates, the bulk of the purchase price repaying the mortgage her father must have taken out on the property, the small residue going to Dorothy Skeet, his housekeeper, the woman who had also been his long-time mistress.

Apparently her non-commital nod had sufficed. Edward said, ‘Dexter tells me the entire contents of the house were acquired at the time of the sale. Some of the things are fine, others definitely not. Though as he admitted, he’s no expert. Which is why he wants you to do an appraisal.’

Careful, she told herself. Be very careful. Otherwise you might find yourself throwing your head back and howling out torrents of rage.

‘This was discussed last night, after I left?’ she asked levelly, crossing her long, elegant legs at the ankles, clasping her hands loosely together in her lap. They looked very pale against the dark sage of her tailored skirt. She knew what Dexter was doing—exactly what he was doing. And despised him for it.

‘No, he phoned this morning. He left last night almost as soon as you did. It’s been arranged that his driver will pick you up from your apartment at ten on Monday morning. I don’t think you’ll need to be away for more than three or four days. However, spend as much time there as it takes. Dexter’s a client I’d like to hang onto.’

Just like that! ‘It’s my stint on the front desk next week, and with the extra work following a viewing I can’t afford to be away,’ she pointed out calmly.

All the qualified staff took it in turn to man the front. Hopeful people walked in off the street, carrying things in plastic bags or wrapped in newspapers, hoping to be told that granny’s old jug or the painting they’d put up in the attic decades ago was worth a small fortune.

‘Edna will cover for you at the front and, as for the rest, we’ll cope without you. Dexter asked specifically for you, most probably because he’d already met you last evening.’ He steepled his fingers, his eyes probing. ‘Do I sense a certain reluctance?’

Too right! A deep reluctance to do Dexter’s bidding, to let him pull her strings and put her in the position of sorting through the detritus of Reginald Harvey’s life. It wasn’t enough that the wild, penniless lad from the wrong side of the tracks who’d broken hearts with about as much compunction as he would break eggs, had bought up the lord of the manor’s property—he wanted to put her, Caroline, in the position of humble retainer.

He wanted to turn the tables.

‘Only in as much as it affects my work here.’ She couldn’t tell him the truth. She had shut her troubled past away years ago and refused to bring it out for anyone now.

‘It won’t. You’re my right-hand man, but no one’s indispensable.’

‘Of course not,’ she conceded, her smile too tight. She could refuse to go, and earn herself a big black mark. Edward was a wonderful employer but cross him and he’d never forgive or forget. She’d seen it happen. Resigned now, hoping Dexter wouldn’t be at Langley Hayes, but prepared for the worst, she half left her seat but resumed it again, asking, ‘I gather Dexter has personal financial clout? The price he paid for the Lassoon wouldn’t be counted as peanuts in anyone’s book.’

Know your enemy, she thought. And Dexter was hers. Leaving aside the way he’d treated her in the past, there was something going on here, some dark undercurrent. She felt it in her bones.

Edward could have refused to discuss his client but thankfully he seemed happy to do so. ‘His cheque won’t bounce,’ he said drily. ‘Rich as Croesus apparently. Came from nothing.’ His smile was tinged with admiration. ‘That’s according to the only article I’ve ever read about him—financial press a year or so ago. He built a computer-software empire and is reckoned to be some kind of genius in the field. That’s rock solid and growing, but he needed more challenges. That was when he diversified into property and now he’s reputed to be a billionaire.’

‘And he never even got close to being married?’ She could have kicked herself for the unguarded remark. It wasn’t like her. Her descent into what her boss would term idle tittle-tattle shamed her and Edward’s displeasure was contained in his dismissive, ‘I know nothing about the man’s personal life.’

Taking her cue, Caroline rose, smoothed down her skirt and collected her bag. Back to business, she asked, ‘Do you know whether or not he intends to dispose of anything of value?’ There had been some lovely things she remembered. Although if her father had been in financial difficulty he might have sold them.

‘From what I could gather he aims to keep the best in situ. It will be up to you to report on what could be kept as an investment.’ He began to shuffle the small pile of papers, a clear indication that her presence was no longer required.

Caroline left, wondering why the unknown details of Dexter’s private life were like a burning ache in the forefront of her mind.

That Langley Hayes was in the process of restoration was not in doubt, Caroline thought as the driver parked the Lexus on the sweep of gravel in front of the main door. Scaffolding festooned the early-Georgian façade. The parkland through which they’d approached the house—unkempt in her own recollection—had been smoothly manicured and, in the middle distance, she’d seen two men working with a theodolite.

Surveying the land for the golf course? The clubhouse? The—what was it—leisure centre? Whatever, it was no longer any concern of hers. Her life here, largely lonely, hadn’t been a bed of roses. She felt no pangs of nostalgia or loss. Only that nagging internal anxiety—would Dexter be here?

‘A lot of work in progress,’ she remarked, as she stood on the forecourt in the warm April sun as the driver opened the boot to collect her baggage, saying the first thing that came to mind to smother all those uncharacteristic internal flutterings.

‘Mostly finished on the main house,’ he answered, closing the boot. ‘Structurally, anyhow.’ His bushy eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘You should have seen the state it was in. But the boss got everything moving—once he makes his mind up to something he don’t hang about.’

He lifted her bags. ‘If you’ll follow me, miss, I’ll rouse the housekeeper for you—Ms Penny. She’ll look after you.’

The rows of pedimented windows gleamed as they had never done when she’d lived here and the main door had been newly painted. So Mrs Skeet hadn’t been kept on, she pondered as she entered the spacious hallway. Ben Dexter obviously believed in making a clean sweep. His restlessness would push him towards the principle of out with the old and in with the new. And that went for his women, too, she thought with a stab of bitterness that alarmed her.

There had been no other car parked on the forecourt. Just the builder’s lorry and a giant skip. Which didn’t mean to say that his vehicle wasn’t tucked away in the old stable block.

She asked, trying to ignore the tightness in her throat, the peculiar rolling sensation in her stomach, ‘Is Mr Dexter here?’ And held her breath.

‘Couldn’t say, miss. I generally take my orders from his PA. I’m just the driver. Now…’ he set the cases down ‘…if you’ll wait half a tick I’ll go find Ms Penny.’

Caroline closed her eyes as she expelled her breath and slowly opened them again to take stock. The central, sweeping staircase had been freshly waxed, as had the linen-fold wall panelling. And the black and white slabs beneath her feet gleamed with care. All vastly different from the dingy, increasingly neglected house she had been brought up in.

But echoes of the past remained. If she listened hard enough she could hear her father’s acid voice. ‘You will do as I say, Caroline, exactly as I say.’ And even worse, ‘I will not tolerate it. Village children are not suitable playmates. If you disobey me again you will be severely punished.’ And Mrs Skeet’s voice, pleading, ‘Don’t cross your dad, young Carrie. You know it isn’t worth it.’

Her full mouth tightened. She had crossed him in the end. Monumentally. Had been forbidden the house. And had been glad to go, the legacy her mother had bequeathed her enabling her to continue her studies.

Might things have been different if her mother had lived? If she’d been the son her father had wanted?

‘So you swallowed your Harvey pride. I more than half expected you to refuse to turn up.’

The soft dark voice punched through her like a body-blow. Her breath tensed and trembled in her lungs as she turned reluctantly to face him. He had entered by the main door behind her and although the hall was large by any standards he dominated it.

Gypsy-dark black eyes hinting at a wildness only superficially tamed, soft black hair fingered by the breeze, lithe body clothed in black, of course, to match his soul, snug-fitting jeans, topped by a fluid fine-cotton shirt.

Her heart stung deep in her breast. But she could hold her own. No longer in thrall to his seductive magic she was his equal, or more than, and not his willing toy.

The possibility that he might be here had had her dressing for effect, making a statement. Beautifully tailored, sleek deep blue suit, high-heeled pumps, her hair coiled into a knot at her nape, her stockings sheer and disgracefully expensive, her only jewellery a thin gold chain that shone softly against the milky-pearl skin of her throat. Where, to her deep annoyance, a pulse had started to beat much too rapidly.

‘Where my work’s concerned I have no prejudices. You hired a professional, Mr Dexter.’

‘So I see.’ A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his long, sensual mouth as his dark eyes swept from the top of her glossy black hair to the tips of her shoes and back again to lock with hers. ‘Such elegant packaging—exquisitely understated of course—such control. Every inch the daughter of the landed gentry.’ His voice deepened to a honeyed drawl. ‘I recall times when—’

‘Mr Dexter.’ She cut in firmly, desperately trying to ignore the way his lazy, explicit appraisal had set her skin on fire, had made the blood fizz alarmingly in her veins. ‘Might I suggest we stick to why I’m here?’ She broke off, sheer relief making her feel light-headed as a woman in her early thirties walked briskly towards them from the back of the house.

Short blonde hair curved crisply around an open, cheerful face, her short, wiry body clothed in serviceable blue jeans and a navy sweatshirt. Ms Penny? A far cry from the billowy, faded prettiness of Dorothy Skeet.

‘Sorry to have kept you; Martin couldn’t find me. Unblocking a drain.’ Brisk voice but a warm smile. ‘Lunch in fifteen minutes, boss. Breakfast room.’ Bright grey eyes were turned on Caroline. ‘I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, Miss Harvey.’ She picked up the luggage and headed for the stairs.

Caroline followed, still light-headed enough to have to hold onto the banisters. It was bad enough that Dexter was around when he didn’t need to be. She could have done the job she’d been hired to do without having him under her feet.

But if he was going to try to dredge up the past, make pointed comments on the way she looked then the next two or three days would be intolerable.

CHAPTER THREE

‘HERE we go, then.’ The housekeeper pushed open a door at the far end of the corridor that ran the full and impressive length of the house. ‘No en suite, I’m afraid, but there’s a bathroom next door.’

Caroline sucked in a sharp breath as she stood on the threshold. Was it coincidence or had Dexter issued instructions that she should be given this particular room?

He knew it had been hers. How many times had he tossed pebbles at the window to wake her? Countless. But she’d never been sleeping; she’d been waiting for his signal, full of longing for the arms of her secret lover, racked with anxiety in case he didn’t come, ready to fly silently down the stairs to be with him, to melt with him into the magical beauty of the soft summer night.

A wave of ice washed through her, followed by unstoppable drenching heat. She shook her head, annoyed by her body’s reaction, then firmed her mouth, a flicker of scorn darkening the deep blue of her eyes. She was too strong now to let him get to her on any level. In any event, the atmosphere of the room felt entirely different.

The faded nursery paper had been replaced by soft primrose-yellow emulsion and there was a pale ferny-green carpet instead of the cracked linoleum that had shrivelled her bare feet in wintertime—

‘You’ll have lunch with the boss—the breakfast room’s the third door on the left, off the hall.’ The housekeeper put the bags down at the side of the bed. ‘He’ll give you instructions on what he wants you to do, of course. But if there’s anything else you need, you just let me know.’

‘Thank you. It’s Ms Penny, isn’t it?’

Really, she had to get a grip, not go to pieces simply because she’d be using her old room for a night or two. She made herself smile, walk through the door instead of hovering like someone being urged to enter a chamber of horrors! For pity’s sake, she didn’t have to remember if she didn’t want to!

‘Call me Linda. I only come over Ms-ish when I’m on my dignity!’ A disarming grin then a square, capable hand was extended and was taken.

‘And I’m Caroline. Tell me, is Mr Dexter staying too, or is this a flying visit?’ She hoped it was the latter, but she wouldn’t put money on it.

‘Staying, as far as I know. He comes and goes. Usually he just drops by from time to time to keep an eye on work in progress. But this time he arrived with a heap of luggage. Now…’ a quick glance at the man-sized watch she wore ‘…I’ll get lunch on the table. It’s cold; I’m not much of a hand when it comes to cooking. Admin’s my line and there won’t be a cook in residence for another month, so you’re going to have to take pot luck, I’m afraid.’

A live-in cook as well as a housekeeper to ensure the smooth day-to-day running of the house. Dexter must have decided to make Langley Hayes his permanent home she mused as Linda left the room. Showing that the wild, penniless youngster could lord it over the village just as her father had done? Only in better style, with far more money to throw around.

Sucking her lower lip between her teeth Caroline methodically began to unpack. In a way she couldn’t blame Dexter for what he was doing. Brought up by his mother—a rather fearsome woman, she remembered—paying a small rent for the dubious delights of living in a near derelict cottage on her father’s estate which no one else would dream of inhabiting, the unconventional pair had been looked down on by the majority of the villagers. It would take a strong-minded man to resist the temptation to come back and display his new-found affluence.

Not that his motives interested her, of course. They didn’t. Her only concern was getting the job done and getting back to London.

Aware of the passage of time, she squashed the childish impulse to refuse to go down to lunch at all. Refusing to face problems wasn’t her style.

And he was a problem, she admitted as she opened the breakfast-room door a few minutes later. He was waiting for her, his back to the tall window that framed a view of newly manicured parkland. Tall, tough, beautifully built, even more compellingly handsome than he had been twelve years ago.

But there was something missing. There was no sign of the former tenderness, or the sexily inviting smile that had captivated her, had bound her to him during that lost, lazy, loving summer. The man he had become was arrogant, his slight smile insolent, the dark glitter of his eyes speaking of derision overlaid with the bleak menace of an anger she couldn’t understand. If anyone had the right to be angry it was she.

‘So you decided not to ask for a tray in your room. Bravo!’

The nerve-pricking insolence deepened his smile. Caroline went very still. This had to stop, this needling. She opened her mouth to tell him as much but her lips remained parted and silent as he gestured with one finely boned, strong hand, ‘Shall we eat?’

The small circular table had been haphazardly set with earthenware plates of cold-cut roasts and uninspired salads. But there was wine, an excellent muscat, she noted as she reluctantly took her place, vowing not to touch a drop. She needed to keep a clear head when dealing with the man who carried such an aura of danger.

She shivered suddenly and if she’d hoped she could keep that betraying reaction to herself she was doomed to disappointment.

‘Cold?’ An upwards twitch of one straight black brow. ‘I thought it was unseasonably warm for mid-April.’ He lifted the wine from the ice bucket, but she quickly placed her hand over her glass.

‘No?’ He poured sparingly for himself, his movements deft, undeniably pleasing. ‘Then do help yourself—I think we’ve been given beef.’ A semi-humorous glance at her pale, set features. ‘And I apologise for the cheap plates and cutlery. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Your father must have sold all the family silver along with the Royal Worcester.’

They’d eaten from Minton, not Worcester, the pieces mismatched but beautiful, the silver flatware heavy, with richly decorated handles. She felt colour stain the skin that covered her cheekbones.

‘Cut it out!’ she ground out unthinkingly, her lips tightening at his undisguised taunt. She hadn’t meant to rise, had decided to ignore any sly jibes coming from him, but it hadn’t happened; she hadn’t been able to help herself.

Her hands knotted together in her lap, she added heatedly, ‘I know why you wanted me to come here, so let’s take it as read, shall we? Then perhaps I can get on with the work you hired me for.’

The urge to get to her feet and walk out of this room was strong. But she wouldn’t do it; it would be another display of regrettable temperament, letting him know just how easily he could get to her.

So she sat mutinously still, hoping her features displayed nothing but boredom now. Until he leant back, one arm looping over the back of his chair, lazy mockery in his dark velvet voice.

‘So you tell me—why did I want you here?’

Anger kicked inside her again and she said goodbye to all her remaining control for the first time in years, huge, thickly lashed violet eyes snapping as they clashed with the black enigma of his. ‘Because my father called you the scum of the earth.’ She recalled his exact words, spoken contemptuously so long ago. ‘You stole from him, you were a danger to the morals of the village girls—’

That didn’t hurt her, not now, not after so many years! How could it?

‘You lived in squalor. So when father died, in debt, and you were able to buy up his property, you decided to drag me here and rub my nose in it!’

Suddenly running out of steam she sagged back. Since his callous betrayal of her younger self she’d learned not to have strong emotions, certainly not blind, unthinking anger. Still, she supposed, it was better said than not. Bottled anger festered, left scars.

‘Wrong,’ he said lightly, his long mouth twitching unforgivably, her tirade and character assassination not causing him a moment’s discomfiture. ‘But interesting. My mother and I lived in squalor because when we arrived in the village we couldn’t afford anything else and it gave your father a very small income while the cottage was in the process of falling down.

‘And as for stealing from him…’ long fingers played with the stem of his wine glass, the dark, hypnotic depths of his eyes holding hers ‘…I was fourteen when we came here and was under the mistaken impression that the trout in the stream that ran behind our hovel were free for the taking. Your father put me right with the aid of a rather threatening shotgun.

‘That said…’ his mouth hardened ‘…I didn’t bring you here to rub your disdainful little nose in my financial success. Your presence here is a necessity.’

‘Now,’ he inserted coolly, handing her the platter of cold meat, ‘I suggest we eat, and then you can get down to work.’