The Billionaire Affair. Diana Hamilton
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.
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