The Billionaire Affair (7 page)

Emerging from the trees she caught her foot on a root and would have fallen had the guiding arm around her waist not tightened, pulling her against his body.

She heard the rough tug of his breath, felt the heavy beats of his heart beneath the palms of her hands that had automatically splayed out, seeking support. Felt the immediate masculine stir of his body and pulled away. Easy to go with the flow, take what there was to take of him in the short time they had left together. But dangerous for her future peace of mind. What had happened this afternoon must not happen again.

Away from the trees the going was easier, the light from billions of stars making his guiding, protective arm redundant. She mourned the loss though she knew she shouldn't and the silence he kept—in spite of his saying that he needed to talk to her—was like an intolerable ache.

She would be leaving early in the morning she reminded herself so perhaps this was their final goodbye. Recriminations for the heartless way he'd used
her—both in the past and since their paths had crossed again—would achieve nothing.

No one was all bad and, as they reached the house, she knew she had to tell him how much she admired what was good in him.

Caroline waited while he closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights, the aching sadness inside her robbing her voice of all vitality as she said, ‘Linda told me what you're doing with this house—helping children from deprived backgrounds. I think it's wonderful—'

‘You do?' His eyes, the set of his mouth was dismissive. Plainly he wasn't interested in compliments, not if they came from her. ‘Ironic, isn't it? I saved your revered family home from falling into complete disrepair, only to plan to fill it with young tearaways from run-down estates. Your father would turn in his grave if he knew that his precious daughter would have to face such a situation.' One brow rose mockingly. ‘The villagers used to call you Princess Caroline, did you know that? Shut away in your ivory tower, too good to mix with the likes of them.'

This barely veiled antagonism was enough to break her heart, especially as she recognised the truth that she'd so carefully hidden from herself for such a long time. She could never love another man as she loved this one: warts and all.

Misery, coupled with anger at the hand fate had dealt her, made her voice thick and throaty as she countered, ‘Of course I knew! It was unfair and it hurt! And as far as my father was concerned I would
never be coming back here. He finally disowned me and threw me out when I refused to fall in with his plans and get engaged to Jeremy.'

She saw his quick frown, heard the sharp intake of his breath as he asked, ‘Is that true? Your father said the engagement was planned for your eighteenth birthday—only a few weeks away, that the marriage would take place early the following spring.'

‘Really!'

She couldn't entirely blame her father. He had only been saying what he'd believed to be the truth, that he could, as usual, coerce her into doing exactly what he told her to do. But she could blame Dexter for taking her father's statement at face value and deciding that she'd been using him, having a sneaky affair on the side, enjoying—what had he called it?—rough trade!

‘And when did that conversation take place?' she queried bitterly, ‘When he offered you money to make yourself scarce?'

‘Yes.'

The simple, unrepentant affirmative rocked her. Stupidly, she'd been hoping that he'd categorically deny ever having taken that pay-off, that his betrayal hadn't been as thorough and as cruel as she'd believed, that her father had lied.

Her shoulders slumping, she removed his jacket and dropped it on the floor. She felt so tired and empty now it was an effort to stand upright. Bed. Sleep. That was what she needed. Tomorrow the
traumatic happenings of this day would be behind her and she could go on.

She took a faltering step towards the staircase and heard him say gently, ‘What happened this afternoon was a shock for me, too, Caro. I guess I'm only just coming out of it. No, don't go—' She took another jerky step towards the escape route of the stairs. ‘Hear me out, please. I want you to forget we have a history. I want you to marry me.'

C
AROLINE
turned quickly. Too quickly. Her head swam dizzily. She would have fallen if Ben hadn't slipped an arm around her and held her, pulling her against the broad, hard wall of his chest.

His blunt, out-of-the-blue proposal was the very last thing she'd expected. Her acceptance, should she be crazy enough to give it, would throw up implications she didn't think she'd be able to handle.

Marrying Ben Dexter had once been her most precious dream but now, after all that had happened and the passage of so many years, it was totally out of the question. Her shoulders shook with the onset of hysteria and her sudden, unstoppable and totally humiliating tears soaked the front of his T-shirt.

‘Don't cry,' he said soothingly. ‘Please don't. I shouldn't have landed that on you so suddenly.' Strong hands on her slender shoulders held her slightly away, his fingers brushing away the wetness from her cheeks, his dark eyes sweeping over her troubled features. ‘I don't expect an answer right now, Caro. You'll need time to think about it. I've been mulling it over ever since you fell asleep in my arms, so I've had a head start.'

He dropped a light kiss on her quivering mouth, his eyes smiling now, bringing all his forceful cha
risma into play as he slipped an arm back around her waist and insisted wryly, ‘We'll both feel less disorientated if we eat. I'll throw something on the stove while you choose the wine.'

Resisting the strong desire to disintegrate into further hysterics Caroline dragged air through her pinched nostrils and blurted, ‘I can't marry you, you know I can't—it was a crazy thing to ask!'

She felt utterly confused and deeply upset and his lazy ‘Why?' did nothing to help. Breathing unevenly, she pulled away from him. Ever since she'd returned to Langley Hayes she'd lost her grip on reality. Somehow or other she had to regain it.

‘Because,' she said more steadily, determined now to gather her defences against the man her treacherous body and stupid heart craved so desperately, ‘what you feel for me is simply lust—not to mention contempt. Marriage couldn't possibly work out.'

‘Contempt; yes, there was that,' he admitted softly after a pause no longer than a heartbeat. ‘For a long time now I've believed you were planning to marry the Curtis fortune while having a furtive affair with me. That sort of conviction is difficult to shake off. You see, way back then, I wanted to ask you if it was true, about Curtis, but when I got back I found that letter telling me it was all over between us, that you never wanted to set eyes on me again. As far as I was concerned it confirmed everything your father had told me.'

He walked into her line of vision, his hands bunched into his trouser pockets, his dark eyes
moody. ‘I had to go that day; there was no choice. With hindsight I know I should have told you of my plans, explained why I used to disappear for days, but I wasn't sure things would work out.' His mouth compressed wryly. ‘I guess I was misguided but I wanted to present you—everyone—with a tangible success, not a pipedream.

‘For over a year Jim Mays—an old friend from up north—and I had been trying to set up in the software business. We met up now and then to develop ideas. Then, that day, right after my disastrous meeting with your father, Jim phoned me, told me to drop everything and get down to London because he'd found a potential backer who would only be available for a few hours that day. But all the while we were pitching I was desperate to get back and get the truth from you.

‘But the moment I did get back Mother gave me your letter—giving me the brush-off in no uncertain terms, and from then on I thought you were every kind of bitch. Now I prefer to believe your version of events, that your father threw you out because you refused to marry Curtis. As for your Dear John, looking back I guess we can put that down to cold feet. You were very young at the time. So forget the contempt side of it, Caro, it no longer exists.'

He shrugged slightly, his mouth indented. ‘And, as for lust, what's wrong with that? It's nature's way of ensuring the survival of the species, so don't knock it. OK, I admit to the crass sin of getting you here under false pretences. I wanted to prove to my
self that you were nothing special and all I did was prove that you were very special indeed. We're dynamite together; no other woman comes near you as far as I'm concerned. You're a singing in my blood, a desperate hunger—this afternoon proved that much.' His voice thickened. ‘And I think—no, I know, you felt it too. It's not finished Caro; it's lasted twelve long years; it's an undying fever.'

His words bewildered, delighted and terrified her. She could so easily ignore common sense and give in to the craving to marry the man she loved, to take what she could of him for the time it lasted.

She put her fingers to her temples in the age-old gesture of despair. The time it lasted would be short. How could it be otherwise when he was motivated only by lust and long memory of an incomparable, magical summer, and she by a love that was tainted with mistrust?

True, he had come back to find the truth from all that time ago. But that underlined his deceit. He had come back despite having taken a wad of her father's cash in return for the promise to stay away.

Unconsciously, she shook her head. ‘Sex isn't everything, no matter how brilliant it is. So, OK—' she gave him a tired smile ‘—I admit that what we once had made such an impression that, like you, apparently, it's hard to find a partner that measures up. But the bottom line is, Ben, you deceived and cheated on us all—Father, Maggie Pope, me. People don't change, not basically. I would always be waiting for it to happen again.'

And when that happened she would be destroyed. Utterly, totally and completely.

The hall clock struck the hour, nine sonorous beats, and Ben said darkly, ‘What the hell are you talking about?' Then he swore softly, almost inaudibly as the doorbell chimed. ‘Wait.' He flung the word at her tersely. ‘I'll get rid of whoever it is and then you can tell me what you meant.'

She registered the irritated set of his wide shoulders, the impatience of his long-legged stride as he crossed the hall, and she shivered.

He was everything she'd ever wanted and the white heat of their young passion had ruined her emotional life for years as, so it would seem, it had ruined his. That being the case, she could understand and even forgive his cold-blooded attempt to get her out of his system.

But that hadn't happened, had it? Their love-making this afternoon had been better than ever, spiced with a deeper, sweeter poignancy. So, to use that hoary phrase ‘marry or burn' he had decided to propose.

And she was burning now, flames of forbidden excitement leaping inside her because despite knowing it would be emotional suicide she wanted to accept his proposal so badly it was like an invisible hoist, drawing her inexorably to him.

Perhaps, after he'd sent the caller away, they could sort things out.

If he should tell her he deeply regretted his behaviour towards Maggie and now gave her and the
daughter he'd turned his back on all those years ago financial and moral support…

If he told her he had had every intention of returning the money her father had given him, admitting that he wasn't prepared, after all, to stay away…

But he was holding the door wide, his inborn politeness to the fore as he said, ‘Of course you're not being a nuisance. She's right here. Please do come in.'

Dorothy Skeet emerged slowly into the lighted hall. The years had solidified her plumpness into corpulence and her once blondish fluffy hair had turned to dull pepper and salt. She said uncertainly, ‘I heard you were here, Miss Caroline, but I didn't know for how long. It's a bit late, I know, but I didn't want to miss you.'

Caroline's heart skipped a beat and, awkwardly at first and then more surely, she crossed the floor to hug the older woman. Her throat felt clogged with the tears that now seemed perilously and uncharacteristically near the surface. The only kindness—albeit casual—she'd known in this house had come from this lady.

‘Why don't we all go through?' Ben said into the ensuing, emotionally charged silence. ‘I was about to make supper, why don't you join us, Dorothy?'

‘Oh, I couldn't!—I mean, I've already had my tea,' she said, flustered, her round face turning pink. ‘I didn't want to intrude, I only came to hand over your dad's things.' She fumbled at the catch on her
capacious handbag, suspiciously over-bright eyes now clinging to Caroline's.

The older woman was clearly ill at ease and Caroline didn't know what to say to make her feel more comfortable. It was Ben who came to the rescue, his smile as irresistible as ever as he suggested, ‘Then, come and sit with us while we eat. Enjoy a glass of wine—or coffee if you prefer, and spill all the village gossip. I know Caro wants to catch up with everything that's been going on these last few years.'

That was news to her, but the fabrication was worth it, Caroline thought as Dorothy's eyes lit up at the prospect and she became instantly more relaxed.

Her father's former housekeeper had an incorrigible and unrepentant appetite for gossip and she wondered if the older woman had somehow found out about her and Ben's secret affair, or had heard gossip in the village and had passed it on to her father. If so it would explain why she'd initially appeared so uncomfortable when encountering the two of them together.

Trailing behind Ben and Dorothy as they headed for the kitchen, Caroline dismissed the thought. It was no longer important. Let the past stay in the past.

Even if her father had remained ignorant of what had been going on and she and Ben had married quietly as soon as she was eighteen, as she'd suggested on more than one occasion, the result would have been the same: their relationship would have
broken up in pain and disillusionment when the inevitable happened and she learned of his abandoned little daughter.

The sobering knowledge was something she was going to have to keep in the forefront of her mind. Something to stiffen her resolve to turn that astonishing proposal of marriage down flat and not give in to the weakness of her love for the deceiving monster that kept creeping up on her whenever she let her mental guard down.

How could she, even in a weak moment, contemplate marriage with a man whose past record made her cringe, whose only real interest in her was the slaking of a lust that hadn't died, despite all their years apart?

But despite her angst-ridden thoughts it was hard to stay in a sombre mood whilst Dorothy Skeet, sipping at the mug of hot cocoa which was her preferred tipple at this time of night, regaled them with the latest village gossip, sometimes hilarious and often downright slanderous, while Caroline herself, finding an appetite that surprised her, tucked into the succulent grilled gammon and tomatoes Ben had rustled up.

‘Don't believe half of it.' Ben grinned as he refilled both their wine glasses and motioned Dorothy to stay where she was when she made to clear the table. ‘Every time a story's told it gathers a whole new and highly coloured dimension!'

‘Too true!' Caroline smiled right back at him over the rim of her glass. The relaxed atmosphere, the
simple food and superb wine, the laughter, Ben's comical mock-horror as he threw up his hands and rolled his eyes at some of Dorothy's more wicked comments, had taken the stress out of the situation.

So when the older woman took a tissue-wrapped bundle from her handbag and handed it to her Caroline was able to view her father's few personal effects without the familiar clutch of misery in the region of her heart.

The silver fob-watch he had always worn tucked into his waistcoat pocket complete with chain and onyx seal, the gold signet ring that had come down from his father and was now thin with age, two fountain pens—not much to show for sixty-odd years of living.

But her sense of loss was deep as she folded the tissue over the pathetic mementos. However she did her best not to let it show as she placed the package back into Dorothy's hands.

‘I know my father would have liked you to keep these,' she said gently.

Dorothy had been Reginald Harvey's bed companion for many years. On her part it had been love, on his a blunt and probably infrequently expressed affection. Seeing the doubt in the other woman's eyes, Caroline insisted. ‘He was fond of you, he was closer to you than anyone. He—' her voice faltered, thickened, but she forced the words out ‘—he actively disliked me. I know he would rather you had these keepsakes.'

She heard the intake of Ben's breath followed by
a beat of a silence so thick she could almost taste it. Strangely, although she knew it should be otherwise, his presence gave her the strength to add, ‘In return, you could tell me why—why he never seemed able to stand the sight of me. You must have gathered some clues over the years. And maybe—' she tugged in a deep breath, feeling Ben's dark eyes on her, feeling his unspoken compassion ‘—maybe if I knew why, I could forgive him.'

‘Yes,' the older woman concurred, her eyes darkening with sympathy even as her fingers tightened around the keepsakes. ‘He was close-lipped where his feelings were concerned but he adored your mother—anyone who saw them together knew that—he worshipped the ground she walked on. Jane Bayliss—you'll remember her, she married old Hume the butcher—worked here at the time, cleaning and such; she said she was sure he had mixed feelings when your mum got pregnant with you. He didn't want anyone, even his own child, to have any of her attention. He wanted it all for himself.'

Caroline's brow furrowed. Had her father really loved that obsessively? Then she remembered the letters she'd found in the attic and knew that he had. He'd loved her mother as single-mindedly and deeply as he'd disliked his only child.

Her eyes misting, she said quietly, her voice barely audible, ‘And she died when I was very small.' That much she did know. Her father had never talked to her about her mother, apart from angrily stating that bald fact when she'd pressed him for details. Truth
to tell, he'd rarely spoken to her at all, except to issue curt instructions and even curter reprimands.