Billionaire's Pursuit of Love: Destiny Romance (2 page)

‘Okay,’ she said. Blake had been absent from her life for ten years; a few hours wouldn’t make any difference. Would it? She reached for the money.

‘Tonight.’ He slipped the cheque into the front pocket of his jeans.

Her eyes followed his hand and lingered a little too long. When she met his eyes again, she knew he, too, was reliving hot nights and slick sex. Traitorous heat crept up her neck, but she defiantly held his gaze.

‘I’ll give you the cheque tonight.’ He stood and moved towards her. ‘That way I know I’ll actually see you again. Where are you staying?’

Her heart tap-danced in her chest. She stood, forced her expression into a blank mask and prayed her alarm didn’t show. He couldn’t go anywhere near the hotel. She couldn’t risk it. Not yet. Not until she knew the implications of this situation.

‘I’ll meet you at the restaurant.’ The words poured out too fast. ‘The Dorchester, right?’ she said, fussing with her handbag.

He stepped in close. Every time he did she lost a little of her mental capacity, and her body’s desires took over the show.

‘How can I trust you’ll turn up?’ he asked.

This man had an interesting way of remembering the past.

‘Two reasons. One.’ She thrust her forefinger into the air in case he missed the point. ‘I’m not the one with the history of disappearing. Two.’ Second finger up. ‘I need the money.’ She slid the rest of the photos into her bag and thrust out her hand. ‘See you tonight.’

Blake took her hand. The way he captured it was nothing like the quick handshake she’d been aiming to deliver. His touch held the promise of a night to remember. ‘I can’t wait,’ he said.

She couldn’t speak. His touch robbed her of the ability to think, to reason. Her eyes burned brighter than a lighthouse beam across a dark ocean. She turned away. Away from temptation; away from the man who’d taken her heart and treated it with such carelessness; away from the man who would steal the most important person in her life. Away. Away. Away.

‘Leave the country as soon as possible,’ the lawyer instructed.

It felt as though the cord of the telephone was wrapped about Sarah’s throat and slowly tightening. Her breath came in short gasps. It had taken her half an hour to find a legal-aid lawyer willing to talk to her. What he’d explained was a thousand times worse than any scenario she’d imagined.

‘But won’t that set us up for an acrimonious legal battle from the start?’ she asked.

‘You’ve read the papers. The Taylor versus Hamilton-Smyth case. Eleanor Taylor lost her house, her business and has had to live in the UK for over a year while this case was being contested. Can you afford to stay in London indefinitely? Because that’s the situation you could face. Leave the country and fight this case from Brunei.’

‘I have to see him in less than an hour.’ She leant her head against the cool glass of the telephone box.

‘Cancel. This man is your son’s father. He has every right to take him any time he wants and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. He’s the father. While you’re in England, don’t meet with this man again.’

‘I have to.’

‘If you want to be in the driver’s seat in this custody battle, you need to get back to Brunei. Especially as you’ve said he’s extremely wealthy and you’re not. What you’re not taking into account is how he will react. Missing ten years of his son’s life could make him angry. How well do you know this man?’

The lawyer waited for an answer. Shame prevented her from supplying him with one.

‘Your son’s father could keep you in this country almost indefinitely,’ he said. ‘A court could order you to surrender your passports and you’ll be trapped in England for months, if not years.’

A muffled voice sounded in the background on the other end of the line.

‘Sorry, Ms Walker, I have to go,’ he said. ‘My next case is here. Good luck. I don’t want to see your name plastered all over the papers.’

Sarah hung up the phone and left the traditional red English phone box. The sweet warmth from the glorious summer’s evening did nothing to melt the icy fear that had taken up residence in her heart. She’d have to lie by omission through the whole of dinner. She couldn’t leave without that ten thousand dollars.

She caught the tube to Marble Arch and walked down Park Lane to The Dorchester. She slowed when the hotel came within sight. A smartly dressed doorman stood in front of the revolving doors. Her palms prickled with moisture and she smoothed them down her simple black shift dress. She’d picked up the outfit from a Sydney charity store during her last fundraising visit to Australia. It might be second-hand but it was designer and fitted her just right. She hoped she wouldn’t stand out in all the wrong ways amid the luxury.

She paused and closed her eyes for a moment.

You can do this.

She took a deep breath, and walked quickly to the hotel entrance.

‘Welcome to The Dorchester,’ the doorman said.

‘Thank you.’

She walked into intimidating extravagance. All shining brass, glass and marble. She found her way to the restaurant.

‘Good evening.’ The maître d’ greeted her with eyes that judged every book by its cover.

She swallowed.
You don’t belong here.
You don’t belong. You don’t belong.

‘Do you have a booking?’ he asked.

‘Ah.’ She exhaled slowly to soothe nerves. ‘Yes . . .’ She looked beyond the maître d’ into the restaurant. Everything she saw confirmed her fears. She felt like Cinderella before the fairy godmother’s magic. No jewels. No designer heels. No silky-smooth hair or manicured nails.

‘Sarah.’

She whirled in the direction of the familiar voice. Blake walked towards her, looking magnificent in casual trousers teamed with a simple white polo shirt and navy sports jacket. An unexpected record of relief played on her emotional jukebox.

‘Nice of you to show,’ he drawled.

And just like that they were back to war. She tried to turn away, but before she knew it he was holding her shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. His touch was more like ownership than affection, but still warmth glowed on her skin where his lips had been. Her mind teetered on a cliff-edge of confusion. But the lawyer’s words hammered through her mind; he could take her son.

‘Mr Huntington-Fiennes.’ The maître d’s expression subtly said
is she really with you
? ‘Ah . . . this way please.’ His smooth professionalism was restored quickly.

Blake placed his hand on Sarah’s back and guided her through the tables. Sarah noticed several elegantly attired people following their progress towards a wall of curved shimmering lights.

‘People are staring at you,’ she whispered.

‘No, they’re staring at you. Do you have any idea how stunning you look?’ Blake said.

She nearly tripped at the shock of the sweet words. What was he up to?

The maître d’ drew aside a curtain of lights and Sarah walked into wonderland. A sumptuously laid table stood ringed by a luminescent oval curtain, cocooned away from the other diners. Like being surrounded by a waterfall of diamonds and ice. Blake waved away the maître d’ and held out her seat.

‘What is this?’ Sarah asked, settling into the comfortable chair.

‘Table Lumière,’ Blake said. ‘We’re surrounded by a wall of four thousand five-hundred fibre optics. We can see out but they,’ he gestured to the diners beyond the wall of light, ‘can’t see us. Tonight, I thought privacy was paramount.’

He took his seat across from her and gifted her with a killer smile. Her resolve melted like steel in a mega-watt furnace. She swallowed and focused on the overwhelming opulence. The hand-cut crystal wine glasses, the exquisitely patterned bone china, the perfectly arranged vase of white roses and the man who could give so much and then snatch it all away.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Blake said, with an expression as trustworthy as his intentions.

‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she replied, running her finger down her highly polished knife. ‘Like getting your own way, don’t you?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

The waiter arrived with the menu and she took time perusing it. The prices! Her dinner alone could cover the cost of her meals at home for a month.

‘Any chance we could have fish and chips in the park and you add the cost of this dinner to the cheque?’ she asked.

‘No chance.’

‘So.’ She snapped the menu shut and placed it on the table. ‘The Sanctuary’s funding . . . how do I —’

‘No,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘I ban that topic of conversation.’

She stared at him. ‘What? Sorry, the only reason I agreed to come to dinner was to discuss the Sanctuary’s funding.’

‘I’ll fine you one thousand pounds every time you mention it.’ He didn’t even bother to look at her but scanned the drinks menu.

If only he’d look up, she was sure her glare was wild enough to kill. Could the man be any more arrogant? Had he always been this way? Back then?

The waiter arrived to take their drinks order. Without deference to her, Blake ordered a bottle of champagne.

‘Celebrating something?’ she asked, layering on some heavy-lacquered sarcasm.

‘You,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about me over the years.’

She’d done more than think about him. She’d tried everything she could to find him. For years she’d held onto the hope that he’d come back. He never did.

‘Nope and I’m glad.’ She sat back, trying to look as though she meant it. ‘Imagine wasting my emotional energy on a man who cares so little for the environment.’ This would be the best way to survive the evening. Angsty sparring about global issues.

‘I’m confused,’ he said, pinning her with his eyes. ‘You’re the one who lied and I’m the one being roasted.’

Her heart stilled. ‘Lied?’ Had he found out? ‘What lie?’

‘You promised you’d be in touch.’

Her shoulders relaxed. She needed to get a grip.

‘And how do you propose I’d have done that exactly? Telepathy?’ she asked, with hard-worn bitterness. ‘You used me and then you disappeared.’ She wasn’t going to tell him how desperately she’d tried to find him. Begging every employee at his hotel for something. A name. A telephone number. An address. Something. Anything. But when you only have a first name and a six-foot brick wall of privacy policies, all the begging in the world still comes to nothing.

‘What’re you talking about?’ he asked.

‘You vanished in the middle of the night. It’s not like you were trying to bash down my door.’

‘I didn’t know how to find you.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. She tried to pull away. He held it more tightly. ‘I bet you still don’t have a mobile phone. I left a letter for you at your hotel and at mine. You didn’t get either?’

Unease inched its way up her spine.
Her hotel?
Ah, that lie. The heady scent of the roses turned sour.

‘No.’ She slid her hand from his and gulped down some champagne. ‘How convenient, two letters and I didn’t receive either.’

‘That’s not the only interesting aspect of this saga,’ he said, topping up her glass. ‘As soon as I landed back in England, I called your hotel.’ He placed the bottle back in the silver ice bucket. ‘They had no record of you.’

Breathing got a little harder. She played with the stem of her champagne flute. But there was no way she was going to allow this to be her fault. He was the Houdini who’d left without so much as a thanks-for-the-good-time-baby.

‘I checked at your hotel after you didn’t meet me,’ she threw back at him. ‘Nothing.’

‘I can’t explain that,’ he said simply. ‘But perhaps you can clarify why when I called the newspaper you said you worked for, it too had no record of you.’

‘You called the
Brunei Gazette
?’ Her heart beat harder than a death-metal drummer. She blinked stupidly at him. He’d tried to find her? She averted her gaze to the glowing curtain. Could that really be true?

‘Yes, I called the
Gazette
,’ he continued. ‘No one by the name of Sarah Walker worked there.’ His statement held an edge, sharp and accusing.

‘Ah, that. Well, that’s a long story.’

‘I’ve got all night.’

The waiter arrived, outlined the evening’s specials and took their order. It gave her a few minutes to regroup. As soon as the waiter slipped through the curtain of light, she moved the conversation onto safer ground.

‘The Sanctuary has a government inspection in eight weeks. We need to raise one hundred thousand pounds to make urgent repairs or we’ll be closed down.’ The words tasted salty and desperate. She hated begging this man. But beggars, choosers and all that. ‘The Sanctuary supports the surrounding community; without us, the local economy will be devastated.’ Her voice wobbled a fraction towards the end of her little speech.

‘It’s now nine thousand,’ Blake said.

She frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘You just cost yourself one thousand pounds.’

‘You can’t —’

‘I did warn you.’ He took a sip of his drink. The crystal sparkled a rainbow, the brilliant dancing colours a disdainful contrast to her situation.

She dropped clenched fists on the starched linen cloth and shifted forward in her seat. ‘Look, there’s evidence orangutans once lived in the mountains of Brunei. Now it’s estimated there are as few as forty-five thousand individuals on the entire island of Borneo.’

‘Eight thousand. I’d quit while you’re ahead.’

Sarah flung her napkin on the table and stood. ‘This is ludicrous.’ She was banging her head against a thick wall of arrogance.

‘If you leave, the Sanctuary will get nothing. Sit down and let’s have dinner.’

Pure-grade frustration pumped from her heart. She placed both palms on the table and bent over him. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘Well, it’s certainly the most entertaining date I’ve been on for a while.’ He stood and walked slowly around the table. She couldn’t help noticing every smooth movement of his annoyingly sexy body. He held out her chair. ‘Please.’

She needed to pull it together. She needed to use this opportunity strategically. She dropped into her seat.

‘This is not a date.’ She articulated every syllable to ensure the message made it past his huge ego.