The Billionaire Affair (11 page)

Her heart plummeted down through the soles of her shoes and the butterflies in her stomach went into panic mode. ‘Gone where?' she demanded hoarsely, pattering after Michael as he crossed the main hall.

He'd promised they'd talk before she left. He couldn't have simply gone. Unless he'd been so disillusioned and disgusted by her lack of trust he'd decided he never wanted to have to set eyes on her again, much less to have to listen to her accuse him of being a liar.

Michael shrugged. ‘Couldn't say. He said he'd just remembered an appointment and shot out. And we're not to worry about locking up. Apparently he was going to ask the site manager to do it before he leaves this evening.'

This evening? Did that mean she could sit around waiting for him all night and he still wouldn't turn up?

Probably, she conceded numbly. If he really had suddenly remembered an appointment too important to cancel, if he really had wanted to thrash things out with her—as he'd intimated much earlier—then he would have left a different message, something along the lines of getting in touch at a later date.

He'd invented that appointment, she was sure of it, she decided, feeling limp and sick to her stomach. He just couldn't be bothered to argue his case with a woman who'd made it plain what she thought of his morals.

And Michael confirmed it when he joined her in the car. ‘Dexter asked me to invoice him for your time, but you're not to bother with an evaluation. He can decide for himself what's worth keeping and what's not.' He fastened his seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. ‘I don't know why he wanted you up here in the first place. Still, if he wants to waste his money, that's his affair.' The car drew smoothly away. ‘Was there much of interest around the place?'

‘Not much.' Automatically, Caroline mentioned the pieces that would be worth keeping as an investment, her mind functioning on a different level entirely.

Was there a hidden meaning behind his statement that he could decide what was worth keeping and what was not? Meaning
she
was not worth keeping?

Probably. But there could be no doubt that his instruction regarding her written evaluation meant he wanted no further contact.

Ben Dexter had washed his hands of her and, looking at the sorry mess from his point of view, she couldn't blame him.

He had finally done what he'd set out to do. Got her out of his system.

S
ITTING
opposite Michael in the small but elegantly appointed restaurant on the outskirts of Banbury, Caroline wondered miserably how she could ever have imagined that their close and friendly working relationship could have developed into something so very much more. Marriage, home-building, children—leading eventually to a companionable old age.

She would never have been able to love him. How could she love him, or any other man for that matter, when Ben had captured her heart and had never let it go? Michael deserved far better than that.

She stared unseeing at the plate of green salad she'd ordered, bleakly looking into a lonely, loveless future and Michael said, ‘Aren't you going to eat that? I must say, it certainly looks pretty boring to me—you should have gone for the duck, it's brilliant.'

‘Sorry.' Caroline gave him a wan smile and picked up her fork and speared a dressing-slicked leaf without any enthusiasm. ‘I'm tired, I guess.'

Although drained was more like it. Drained of energy and hope. Too listless to have been able to tell Michael she'd much prefer to get straight back to London rather than take an early supper break.
Besides, that would have been selfish. Michael must have been ravenous if the way he'd demolished his meal was anything to go by.

‘Tired? What brought that on?' A sandy brow lifted enquiringly as he laid down his cutlery and relaxed back in his chair. ‘From the little of real interest you say you found at Langley Hayes, I wouldn't have thought you've been overworked exactly.'

There was no getting around that. It was time to be honest and open, to explain why his suggestion that they get to know each other better on a personal level was a non-starter. She owed Michael that much at least.

Caroline laid down her fork and confessed numbly, ‘I don't want this to go any further, but Ben—Mr Dexter—and I go back a long way, Mike. We had an affair twelve years ago. It ended after a couple of months or so. I didn't see him again until he came to look at the Lassoon painting.' She pulled in a breath then went on doggedly. ‘The last few days have been pretty traumatic.'

‘Good God!' He looked stunned. He stared at her for long, assessing moments then stated bluntly, ‘You're still in love with him, aren't you?'

Her throat too tight to allow her to speak, Caroline nodded and Michael said slowly, ‘If it's lasted that length of time, with nothing to feed on, it has to be the real thing.' He gave her a twisted smile. ‘I guess that puts me right out of the frame.' He lifted his shoulders then slowly let them drop. ‘But then, I
don't suppose I was ever really in it, was I? And you were too polite to tell me. Still friends, though?'

‘Of course,' she answered, on a rush of gratitude, glad he was taking it like this, even more relieved to know that his feelings hadn't taken a thorough battering. As hers had done. She wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy.

But she wasn't going to think of that, of bruised and battered feelings; she wouldn't let herself. If she allowed herself to think of what she had almost had and thrown away with her lack of trust, she would put back her head and howl like a dog and embarrass both of them. But then Michael asked, ‘Does he feel the same?'

An iron fist clenched around her heart, the pain unbearable, her voice a ragged whisper as she got out, ‘Once, perhaps. Not any more.'

‘I thought I detected a bit of an atmosphere. Had a fight, did you?'

‘Something like that.' She didn't want to say any more on the subject but Michael wouldn't let it go.

He inched towards her, his forearms on the table, his fingers touching hers, just briefly, as he told her, ‘He'll get over it—whatever you fought about. Caroline, he isn't a fool. And—' he cleared his throat and added uncomfortably, his face going pink ‘—I don't know, but I might have put my foot in it. Well, we were talking while we waited for you. He was asking questions, about your position at the gallery, whether you were wedded to your career—that sort of stuff.' He fell silent as their waiter approached to
clear the main course and Caroline gave an inner groan of despair.

Had Ben, even at that stage, still wanted to marry her? Why else should he have tried to find out how much her work meant to her? He'd given her a free choice earlier, when he'd made that stunning proposal of marriage: continue with her career, live in London and use the cottage for weekends, or make it their permanent home.

Her throat clogged with tears. She made a determined effort to swallow them. Of course he hadn't still been thinking of marriage. He'd been disgusted by her, by her total lack of trust.

Michael was saying something. Caroline hauled herself out of her pit of misery and said thickly, ‘Sorry?'

‘I asked if you would like the dessert menu.'

She shook her head, unable at the moment to trust her voice. She couldn't eat, she simply couldn't. She just wanted to get out of here, get back to London and lick her wounds in private.

But Michael had ordered coffee. Caroline smothered a sigh of sheer impatience and Michael mumbled, ‘I feel a fool. I had no idea you and he—well, why would I? I'm afraid I gave him the impression you and I were an item. That when Dad retires next year and I take over you'd be a full partner.' His face turned bright red. ‘And my wife. Well,' he said brusquely, on the defensive now, ‘I did have hopes in that direction, and I guess I was jumping the gun. Over-confidence is my one big failing, or so the old
man keeps telling me. Look,' he offered grimly, ‘if it'll help heal the rift I'll swallow my pride and call Dexter first thing tomorrow to put him straight.'

‘I'd rather you didn't,' Caroline returned stiffly. It was over. Ben had already let her know in no uncertain terms how disgusted he was with her before that conversation had taken place.

The wrong impression Michael had given Ben made her stomach churn queasily but it wasn't anything to make a song and dance about. It would have been nothing more than the final nail in the coffin of their already doomed relationship.

‘It wouldn't make a scrap of difference,' she said dismissively with a fatalistic sigh. She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘If you're ready, could we make a move? I need a good night's sleep if I'm going to be fit for anything in the morning.'

 

A good night's sleep was difficult to come by, Caroline decided edgily four weeks later, as she ran a duster over the uncluttered surfaces in her minimally furnished small sitting room.

By armouring herself in designer suits and the mask of her make-up, absorbing herself in her work, she got through the days. And weekends she spent with whichever of her friends happened to be free. But the nights…

The nights were unadulterated torment. Ben took the starring role in dreams that grew ever more sexually explicit and she would come partially awake
and reach for him, but he wasn't there, and never would be.

And she'd spend the remaining hours until daylight telling herself that it was over, making herself accept it, facing the fact that Ben would have put their ill-fated relationship firmly behind him, finally ridding himself of her, of his memories of her. Because what man in his right mind could want a woman who openly stated that she didn't trust him?

She was coming dangerously close to hating herself, unravelling round the edges, unable to eat or sleep, tormented by the thoughts of her lost love.

She tossed the duster aside, angry with herself. If her life was a mess she had only herself to blame. So something had to be done about it. And no one else would do it for her.

When Edward Weinberg had said, ‘You look dreadful. You're either terminally ill and not telling anyone, or I'm working you too hard. I'm inclined to believe the latter, so take two weeks off. Go to the continent and lie on a beach', she'd wanted to dig her heels in and refuse to do any such thing.

But perhaps the enforced break was just what she really needed to straighten herself out, to do something positive. But what?

Lying on a beach held no appeal. Too much time to think, to brood. She needed hard, physical work.

Casting a look around her sterile living quarters, she made up her mind, grabbed a jacket and walked out.

And two hours later she was back, weighed down
with tins of paint, brushes, fabric swatches, cheap denim jeans and T-shirts from the local street-market.

The apartment she'd previously viewed simply as a place to sleep was going to be turned into a proper home.

 

‘Talk about a sea change!' Danielle Booth, Caroline's neighbour from across the hall, poked her sleek brown head around the open door. ‘You've worked your socks off all week so how about a girls' night out—you're not going to work all weekend, I forbid it! You'll give yourself painter's elbow!'

Warm apricot emulsion had transformed the vestibule—formerly an uninspiring pale grey—and the partly open door through to the sitting room revealed the same colour but in a slightly deeper tone.

‘Do you like it?' Caroline, on her knees, putting the finishing touches to the skirting board, wanted to know because this was her first attempt at home-decorating and she wasn't sure she'd got it right.

She scrambled to her feet and Danielle said, ‘I love it. But I would never have put you down as a hands-on sort of person. Have the decorators in and stay at an hotel until they'd finished would be more your style. And I've never seen you look anything but perfectly groomed before—'

‘There's always a first time.' With difficulty Caroline returned her friend's grin. Danielle wasn't to know that she was having to keep herself occupied every minute of her time to stop herself brooding. Over what might have been, over what she had so
briefly had and had stupidly thrown away. ‘And it's nice not to have to bother about the way I look. Coffee?'

‘I'd love some, but I can't. Hair appointment,' Danielle stated. ‘Now, what about tonight? We could take in a film, have supper.'

‘Sorry,' Caroline declined. She wasn't ready for a relaxed evening out; she'd be terrible company. ‘I've got a bedroom to paper. We'll hit the town some other time?'

Danielle planted her hands on her curvaceous hips, her chin going up at an angle as she huffed, ‘Caroline Harvey—you are the most stubborn creature—' and fell silent as another, harder voice intervened, ‘A sentiment I most sincerely endorse.'

Ben!

Caroline didn't know whether she'd spoken his name aloud or whether it simply rattled around inside her head. In any case, her heart had stopped, she was sure it had. Danielle was staring with wide grey eyes, her mouth partly open, her cheeks flushed.

Caroline could understand that reaction because Ben Dexter was something else: six feet plus of sizzlingly virile masculinity clothed in a silvery grey suit that fitted the lithe body to perfection; dark, dark hair, beautifully groomed, and eyes as black as night, fringed by those extravagant lashes.

And he was still angry, she recognised with a shock of icy sensation that ran right down her spine and all the way back up again. The atmosphere positively thrummed with it, although he cloaked it with
the urbanity of the smile he turned on Danielle, who went pinker and burbled, ‘Well, I'll be off, then.' And behind Ben's back she rolled her eyes expressively, grinned and gave the stunned Caroline the thumbs-up sign.

‘Am I to be invited in?' His voice was all honey-smooth on the surface but quite definitely laced with ice. Caroline put a hand up to where a pulse was beating madly at the base of her throat.

She had dreamed of being with him again, yearning, aching, desperate dreams, but the reality filled her with a deep and dark foreboding. He had the face of an austere stranger. He looked as if what they had been to each other, the glimpses of paradise they'd shared, had been ruthlessly wiped from his memory.

Wordlessly, she stepped aside, her heart flipping over because it was there, and always would be, the fateful, deeply ingrained physical recognition that made her body ache for his.

His taut profile grim, he strode ahead of her into the sitting room, a single raking glance taking in her few pieces of shrouded furniture, the paint-spattered newspapers spread all over the floor. And then his eyes flowed over her, making her suddenly and horribly aware of the sight she must present. Cheap baggy jeans and sloppy T-shirt, liberally splashed with paint, her hair caught back from her make-up-less face with a piece of string.

But the sheer length of his scrutiny, the slow gleam of something sultry in those narrowed black
eyes sent her dizzy with hope. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't dead for him, either.

The violent sexual attraction, the meeting and mating of souls that had lasted through twelve, long years of separation, making them both unfit partners for anyone else on the planet, couldn't have been wiped out overnight. Surely it couldn't.

Her head still swimming, her lower limbs suddenly feeling like cotton wool she forced herself to say something, anything, to break the charged and spikey silence. And the breaking of it would enable him to open up, tell her why he was here when he hadn't wanted to have to talk to her at all on that dreadful last day at Langley Hayes.

‘Can I—' her tongue felt as if it were twisted into knots. Her milky skin burned with fierce colour as she forced out the words ‘—offer you coffee?'

‘This isn't a social call.'

His voice was flat, the eyes that pinned hers were hard and dark. His feet planted apart, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his superbly cut jacket falling open to reveal the pale grey silk of the shirt that covered the broad plane of his chest. ‘It's been long enough—a full month. I used no protection. Although knowing now of your relationship with the younger Weinberg, I guessed you're more than likely to be on the pill.'