Secret Fling with the Billionaire
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Michelle Douglas
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CHAPTER ONE
CLEO DUCKED DOWN an alley, her heart pounding and her breath fogging the early-morning January air. How had they tracked her down so quickly?
Because they knew you’d go to Fairfield House.
Seeking shelter in the family home in Maida Vale hadn’t worked out the way she’d hoped. Her father had woken her precisely thirty-seven minutes after she’d finally fallen asleep to tell her he was tired of her ‘attention-seeking behaviour’ and that she’d need to find an alternative hiding place.
Apparently an upcoming election was more important than a daughter in need. Especially one as troublesome as her.
Happy New Year to you too, Dad. Her eyes stung. She told herself it was from the cold.
Footsteps sounded in the chill air and she flattened herself in the alcove of a doorway, holding her breath when they halted at the top of the alley. They moved on and she instantly sped down the alley on silent feet, grateful to be wearing soft-soled ballet flats. Her feet might be freezing, but at least her footsteps were silent.
The alley led down to the canal path in Little Venice. Pulling the brim of her hat down low, she turned left and prayed it was the right choice. Seizing her phone, she started to dial a number...
Thumbs and feet both faltered. Margot wouldn’t come to her aid, not this time. In fact, if Cleo messed this up, her sister might never speak to her again.
A lump the size of Fairfield House lodged in her throat. Why hadn’t she controlled her temper, why hadn’t she...?
Enough.
There’d be time for regrets later. She could whip herself with them then. In the here and now, she needed to focus on not landing on the front pages of the tabloids again.
On the path up ahead, another photographer appeared. His back was to her, but he’d turn around any moment. Behind her, she heard the approaching footsteps of the first photographer. Once they reached the path, she’d be cornered. Twisting her hands together, she scoured her surroundings. A wall at least eight feet high towered to her left. She had no hope of scaling it. To her right was the canal. She could swim it. It’d be freezing, but...
Oh, and pictures of you splashed across the front pages of the dailies swimming in the canal in January will make Margot’s day, huh?
That’d be worse than today’s front page!
Nothing is worse than today’s front page.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She needed an escape hatch if she didn’t want to ruin her relationship with her sister forever...
She couldn’t go forward.
She couldn’t go back the way she’d come.
There was an un-scalable fence one way, the canal the other, with canal boats...
She blinked. An open door on a canal boat named Camelot beckoned like a bright star.
Not giving herself time to think, Cleo shot across the path and leapt onto its rear deck, the thin soles of her ballet flats slipping on the slick, dew-laden surface, her arms windmilling wildly and her phone flying from her hand to land in the canal with a soft splash.
Don’t fall in the water! Don’t fall in the water!
Launching herself through the door, she half-slipped down a set of stairs on her backside—not elegant, but certainly efficient.
A lone man glanced up from reading the paper at a dinette. Her picture glared back at her from its front page in silent accusation. Still on her backside, she shuffled to the side behind an arm chair—out of view of anyone who might peer through the door. Lifting a finger, she held it to her lips, then pressed her hands together in a silent plea that he not give her away.
Leaning back, he closed the paper, his gaze briefly resting on the front page. Glancing back, he gestured for her to remove her sunglasses. She did. She had no control over the way her eyes filled, though. Blinking hard, she gritted her teeth, determined to not let a single stupid tear fall. He looked as if he wanted to swear. She wholly sympathised.
Grinding back what sounded like a muttered curse, he eased out from behind the table with remarkable grace for such a large man—not that he was brawny, just tall and rangy. Something inside her give a soft sigh of appreciation. She slapped it hard.
‘Hello?’ someone called from outside.
Mr Tall, Dark and Scowling started for the door. Praying he wouldn’t pick her up on the way and dump her at the waiting journalist’s feet, she seized a beanie resting on the arm chair and held it out to him with an apologetic grimace. It was cold out.
He pulled it on over thick dark hair that looked incredibly soft and...
‘Hello?’ the journalist called out again.
Blue eyes turned winter-frigid. Swallowing, she handed him her sunglasses before he could turn her to ice. He shoved them on his nose and stomped up the steps.
‘’Scuse me, mate, have you seen a woman come past?’
Her stomach shrivelled to the size of a small, hard walnut. Please don’t let him give me away. She closed her eyes and crossed everything.
‘Look, mate, only thing I’ve seen...’
Her eyes flew open at the thick Geordie accent that emerged from her reluctant rescuer’s mouth. Had he travelled by canal boat all the way from Newcastle? Was that even possible? If so, he was a long way from home.
She shook herself. What did any of that matter?
Focus, Cleo.
‘What did you see?’
‘A lad scaling that wall there.’
‘Could it have been a woman?’ The hungry greed in the journalist’s voice nauseated her.
‘Hard to tell. I called the authorities. Seemed dodgy. And, speaking of dodgy, who the hell are you, and what are you doing chasing some woman? Think it’s time I called the authorities again.’
Her tensed muscles released and she rested her forehead on her knees. He wasn’t going to blow her cover.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
‘No, no, I’m just leaving. Not causing any harm. Just an interested bystander.’
Footsteps moved away at a fast clip. Lifting her head, Cleo buried her face in her hands and let out a shaky breath.
Her rescuer closed the door and strode past her to drop the beanie and sunnies onto the table, before filling a kettle and setting it on the hob. Only then did he turn to her, hands on hips, and she had to crane her neck up, up, up to meet his gaze. He gestured to the dinette and she scrambled to her feet, taking a seat.
‘You’re going to have to wait an hour if you want to give them the slip.’
And then what? They’d be waiting for her at her flat. Her girlfriends’ places would all be staked out. ‘Thank you for not giving me away.’
He made tea and slid a mug across to her. He didn’t ask her how she took it. And he remained standing, leaning against a kitchen bench, one ankle crossed over the other as he blew on his tea.
She took a sip of her tea, welcoming the warmth even if it was strong, black, unsweetened and not what she was used to. The newspaper he’d been reading rested on the table in front of her, a reminder that she’d once again shamed her family. Those days were supposed to be in the past!
Except apparently they weren’t. Tears scalded her eyes. She gulped tea and welcomed the burn on her tongue. ‘You recognised me.’
He shrugged.
She gestured down at herself. Ditching her usual uniform of jeans and blazer, she’d raided Margot’s wardrobe for a pair of sensible black trousers and a caramel-coloured sweater, before piling her hair up beneath a cloche hat. ‘I was hoping this would be enough of a disguise to pass unnoticed until I’d reached...safety.’
Except nowhere was safe, not from the press. If the last eight years had taught her anything, it was that.
‘Maybe if you hadn’t appeared in the morning paper...’
If.
Guilt, regret and remorse all pressed down on her.
She straightened, registering that his accent had disappeared. Had he assumed it? What an excellent idea!
Glancing up, she caught his scowl, and her shoulders inched towards her ears. ‘I’m really sorry I crashed onto your boat like I did. I was cornered...desperate.’ She fought the urge to rest her head on her arms. Without meaning to, she spread mayhem and annoyance wherever she went.
‘Forget it.’
If anything, his scowl deepened, but the unexpected largesse—gruff though it might be—slipped beneath her guard. She had to blink hard again. She gulped tea as if it might save her.
‘Was he worth it?’
‘Who?’
Reaching across, he turned the paper over and pointed to her photo. The gesture lifted his rolled-up shirtsleeve to expose a forearm roped with muscle. A tic started up inside her, but she squashed it flat. She’d learned her lesson, thank you very much—men were off the agenda.
Turning the paper to face her, she gave a startled laugh. ‘Wow, I really did land a good punch, didn’t I?’
‘I’d have been proud of it.’
For the briefest of moments one corner of his mouth twitched and she held her breath, but it came to nothing, his face settling back into stern lines.
She sobered too. ‘He’d just told me he’d been fooling around with someone close to me.’
She drained her tea. He filled it again from the teapot.
‘I was as angry with myself as I was with him, though. I’d tried breaking up with him a month ago, but he convinced me not to. Told me he loved me.’ Something he’d never done before. ‘I was trying to be mature—relationships aren’t all rainbows and unicorns, blah blah blah—compromise, put the work in...’
‘You sound like a self-help manual.’
Her back straightened. ‘I’ve read them all.’ She’d done her homework and had put in the hours. She was on Road Straight and Narrow now. ‘For all the good it’s done me.’ She scowled at her tea. ‘Men suck.’
‘That one does. Though for the next week it’ll probably be through a straw.’
She barked out another laugh, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth. Pulling it away, she shook her head. ‘I’m through with all of it. Romance is dead.’ The sooner she faced that fact, the better.
‘Good for you.’
She eyed him over the rim of her mug. ‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘Nope.’ Pushing away from the kitchen bench, he slid onto the seat he’d been occupying earlier. ‘I just agree that romance and relationships aren’t the be all and end all. Too many people define their worth through them rather than in more stable things. So when things go belly up...’ he shrugged ‘...they don’t have the resources to deal with it.’
She didn’t know if he meant the comment to be pointed or not but, given her past romantic mistakes, she’d deserve it if he did. And she’d take it on the chin.
She’d thought that she’d drop out of the public eye when she’d stopped acting two and a half years ago. The men she’d dated since, however, had ensured that had never happened. It meant a lot of people who’d never met her and didn’t know her made assumptions about her. And she’d take that on the chin too because, in shielding her from those journalists, this man had saved her butt.
She shivered. She really needed to start making better decisions. Whatever she was searching for, it wasn’t to be found in any of the places she’d been looking. She’d thought walking away from acting would change everything. It had changed some things, but not all. Her stomach churned: because she was the problem. She kept making the same mistakes. How stupid and self-delusional could one person be? She’d honestly thought Clay had been the one.
Don’t think about that now.
‘In my experience, love is an exercise in deception, disillusion and despair. We’d all be better off without it.’
Whoa. Talk about cynical.
He shrugged at whatever he saw in her face and she shook herself.
Focus on the practicalities.
‘So...a quick question.’
He tensed.
‘An easy one, I think. If I dropped my phone in the canal...?’
‘Gone for good.’
She’d guessed as much.
‘Need to ring someone?’
She nodded.
Reaching behind him, he stretched one long arm across the kitchen bench to open a drawer and fish out a mobile phone. He set it in front of her.
Picking it up, she dialled Margot’s number and left a message. ‘My sister,’ she explained, her heart giving a sick kick. ‘She won’t answer a call from an unknown number. But she’ll listen to the message and call me back in under sixty seconds.’
She set the phone on the table and started counting back from sixty. The phone rang when she reached forty-four. She glanced at the man and he gestured for her to answer it.
‘Cleo?’
‘Hi, Margot.’
‘You lost your phone?’
‘Afraid so. I was—’
‘I don’t want to hear about it! Just tell me the press don’t have it?’
‘The press don’t have it.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. Now listen to me, Cleo, and listen hard, because I’m only going to say this once. If you appear in the papers one more time between now and my wedding, I never want to see you again.’
Cleo would’ve laughed, except she’d never heard her sister sound so serious. And her sister was the queen of serious. Her stomach gave a nauseating roll. ‘Margot, listen—’
‘No, you listen! If you ruin this for me, I will never forgive you. I don’t want to see you for the next two and a half weeks. The next time I want to clap eyes on you is the morning of the wedding.’
‘But...there are the final dress fittings.’ Cleo was Margot’s bridesmaid—her only bridesmaid.
‘We’ll make do with your last lot of measurements. Just don’t go gorging yourself on cheesecake and crisps for the next seventeen days.’
Cleo held the phone away from her ear to stare at it. She pressed it back again. ‘What about your hen night?’
‘I don’t want you there.’
She sucked in a sharp breath.
‘In your current form, you’ll ruin it.’
Margot’s unspoken ‘again’ sounded in the spaces between them.
‘You will lay low for the next two and a half weeks. I don’t want to hear a peep about you, I don’t want to see any photos of you, I don’t want anything you do ruining my wedding. Do you hear me?’
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘Loud and clear. And, Margot, I swear I won’t. I’m sorry...’
But Margot had already hung up.
The expression on Cleo’s face had Jude wanting to swear.
‘No.’ She lifted the newspaper and shook it. ‘He wasn’t worth it.’
All of the vitality drained from those extraordinary olive-green eyes, and his chest squeezed tight, and then tighter still, as if to make sure he couldn’t ignore it. He swore and raged silently, and did what he could to pound it into oblivion.
It didn’t work. Cleo’s downturned lips, the defeated slope of her shoulders, the way tears had sheened her eyes three times now but hadn’t been allowed to fall all caught at him, doing its best to drag him out of his self-imposed exile, his hard-nosed detachment.
Not going to happen. In an hour, after he’d said farewell to Cleo, he and Camelot were heading north. He’d settled his grandmother’s estate. There was nothing to keep him here now.
‘Promise me, you’ll do one good thing every day.’
The memory of the promise his grandmother had extracted from him, given reluctantly, plagued him. It’d plagued him for the last week. Damn it! If the last nine months had proven anything, it was damsels in distress weren’t his forte.
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Margot didn’t sound best pleased.’
‘Understatement much?’ She even managed a weak smile.
He stared at it and swallowed.
Slim shoulders lifted. ‘It’s her wedding in two and a half weeks.’
‘She’s turned into Bridezilla?’
‘No!’ Another faint smile appeared. ‘Well, maybe a little, but she just wants the day to be perfect.’
As far as he was concerned, anyone who wanted to take the matrimonial plunge needed their head read. ‘Perfection is a lot of pressure.’
Cleo blinked and then smiled—really smiled. She had a wide mouth. Her eyes danced, and it was like a sucker punch.
‘I don’t mean “perfection” in that the sun must shine like it’s never shone before, and that there can be no crying babies in the church to break the reverent hush, or that all hell will break loose if the canapés aren’t up to scratch—not that kind of perfection.’
Okay, she’d lost him.
‘Her idea of perfection is that she and Brett will get to stare deep into each other’s eyes while they make their vows, that all in attendance will be happy for them and that there’s genuine joy at the reception.’ She hesitated. ‘That all who witness their marriage and celebrate with them will remember the day with fondness—that it’ll be a happy memory.’
He ordered his lip not to curl.
‘What she doesn’t want is for her mess of a sister, who also happens to be her bridesmaid, trailing tabloid photographers in her wake and turning the day into a circus.’
‘Are you a mess?’
She held the newspaper beneath her chin. ‘I give you Exhibit A.’
Point taken. Cleo Milne was a total mess. She might look all sweetness and light, but the media had dubbed her Wild Child for a reason. She’d been an actress on a well-known British sitcom and the kind of woman he avoided like the plague: the kind of woman he’d sworn never to get involved with.
For some reason the front-page spread of Cleo punching her boyfriend—the lead singer of some boy band—reminded him of the look in her eyes when she’d said he’d been cheating on her. His chest drew tight. It didn’t matter how famous you were, betrayal hurt.
Reaching across, he plucked the paper from her fingers and threw it face-down on the kitchen bench behind him so she’d stop beating herself up about it. While Cleo might be a mess, her sister wasn’t supposed to think that. ‘Okay, the timing of that might not have been great, but the berk clearly deserved it.’
‘Do one good thing a day. Promise me.’
Pulling in a breath, he nodded. ‘Right.’
Cleo glanced up expectantly.
‘Margot wants you to lie low until the wedding, correct?’
She nodded.
He could help her come up with a plan, and then they could both be on their way. He wouldn’t feel like an unsympathetic jerk, she’d have a direction and he’d have kept his promise to Gran: win-win.
‘Anyway, just wait. This’ll all die down in a few days. Once Margot calms down she’ll see she’s overreacting. She’ll want you at the final dress fitting. She’ll want you at her hen night.’
Cleo brightened. ‘You really think so?’
What the actual hell...?
He didn’t know Margot from Adam. Resisting the urge to run a finger beneath the collar of his jumper, he soldiered on. ‘Until then, you need to avoid the press. Is there somewhere you can go?’
She chewed at her bottom lip. He stared at the way those small teeth made the lip plumper, deepening the colour to a raspberry blush. A hard hunger flared in his gut. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it. ‘Your father?’
She flinched and shook her head.
‘Other relatives?’
‘It’s just Dad, Margot and me.’
Why couldn’t her father help her out? He bit back the question. Families could be complicated. He knew that. ‘Friends?’
‘That’s where the press will expect me to go. They’ll leap out at me from some shady doorway or corner, frightening the bejeebies out of me and snapping a picture of me looking appalled and terrified.’
And Margot would throw another fit.
‘Margot deserves better from me,’ she whispered.
‘Cleo...’ It was the first time he’d said her name. It rolled off his tongue like music and mead.
What the actual hell...? He was a thriller writer, not a poet! It was all he could do not to curl his lip at himself. You’re not a writer any more. The unwelcome reminder had him clenching his jaw so hard it started to ache.
‘Is everything okay?’
He shook himself. ‘How’s this for a plan? I’m about to head north. I can drop you on the outskirts of London somewhere and you can hole up in some country inn or rental for a fortnight.’
Her face brightened. The hard things inside him unclenched a fraction.
That’s two good things, Gran.
He’d chased the journalist away and he was helping Cleo come up with a plan for her immediate future.
His lips twisted. Go him.
‘Or?’
The excited buzz in Cleo’s voice had his eyes narrowing. Behind the olive-green of her eyes, her mind was clearly racing. Foreboding gathered behind his breast bone.
‘Or I could hide out on a conveniently passing narrow boat for a fortnight. I’d pay you,’ she rushed on, as if seeing the refusal in his face.
‘No.’
She eased back, chewing on her bottom lip again. His skin drew tight. He resolutely refused to notice that lip.
‘I’ll be quiet and not make a nuisance of myself, I swear. You’ll hardly know I’m here.’
That would be impossible. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘The reason I took to the canals in the first place is because I want peace and quiet.’
‘You’ve been travelling around a while?’
‘Seven months.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘Surely that’s enough peace and quiet for anyone?’
He begged to differ.
Her lips pursed—not in any kind of mean or calculating way, but as if she was joining dots he didn’t want her joining. Except she didn’t know him, so she couldn’t be joining dots.
‘I know I’m in complete ignorance of your circumstances, but surely a bit of extra income would come in handy?’
He had to stifle an astonished crack of laughter. Yep, she was in complete and utter ignorance. And that was how he wanted it to stay.
She huffed out a sigh, as she read continued refusal on his face. His grandmother wouldn’t be proud of him, but he refused to modify his expression and didn’t soften it one iota.
‘A week, then. Let me stay for a week and I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand pounds.’
He had no hope of hiding his shock. He shot to his feet, whacking his thigh on the edge of the table as he did so. He swore, out loud this time.
She winced and mouthed a silent, ‘Ouch.’
He glared his outrage.
She shrugged. ‘I’d pay ten times that to save my relationship with my sister.’
Damn it.
‘If I had it.’ Her lips twisted. ‘But I don’t.’
He folded his arms. ‘Do you actually have twenty-five thousand pounds?’ He doubted it. She might’ve been an actress on a successful sitcom for seven years, but Cleo Milne was the kind of person who’d have long since frittered that money away.
She seized his phone and accessed the Internet, eventually turning it towards him to show him a bank account that bore her name. The balance showed just over twenty-five thousand pounds.
‘It’s my rainy-day fund.’ She paused. ‘It’s the money my mother left me.’
Her dead mother. He dragged a hand down his face.
‘And at the moment it’s not just raining, it’s bucketing down so hard that I’m going to drown unless I do something big. The money is all yours if you let me stay.’
He couldn’t utter a single damn word.
‘I know everyone thinks I’m rolling in cash. And maybe I will be one day if I ever gain access to my funds.’
What was she talking about now?
‘But when I started acting I was a minor. My father signed my contracts. When I came of age, he convinced me to have the majority of my acting income put “in trust” for the future.’
Was he withholding it? ‘So this...’ He gestured to his phone.
‘Like I said, it’s my rainy-day fund.’
‘What do you live off?’
‘The fruits of my current labours.’
Which were...? None of your business.
‘Fine.’ He had no intention of taking her money but he had every intention of calling her bluff. ‘One week on board the narrow boat Camelot at a cost of twenty-five thousand pounds.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘It’s a deal.’
Squealing, she seized it and pumped it up and down. ‘Thank you, thank you! You’re a lifesaver.’ Her entire body vibrated with relief. ‘Give me your bank account details and I’ll transfer the money now.’
Hell, she wasn’t joking! And he’d just agreed...
‘What?’ she said when he remained silent.
‘No.’
Her whole being fell. ‘But I don’t have anything else to barter with.’
Her eyes sheened with tears again. Damn it!
‘The only way to ensure I don’t get photographed is to not leave this boat.’
He couldn’t kick her off Camelot, no matter how much he might want to. He pointed to the phone. ‘Check how much it costs to hire a narrow boat for a week.’
She searched the Internet. He made more tea, for himself this time. What the hell was he doing?
His grandmother’s voice sounded through him. ‘You’re doing your one good thing for the day.’
This had to count for entire week of good deeds! Except he knew Gran wouldn’t have seen it like that.
‘Okay, here we go.’
She handed him the phone and he handed her another mug of tea before sliding back into his spot at the table to view the information. ‘This is for a luxury barge. Camelot isn’t luxury and it’s nowhere near as big.’ He fixed her with what he hoped was the steeliest of glares. ‘Tell me exactly where you think you’re going to sleep.’
‘I’m guessing that this—’ she tapped the table ‘—folds down to a bed. Which will do me nicely.’ She pointed behind him. ‘I can see one corner of your bed from here. I’m not expecting you to give it up for me.’
The narrow boat had a single long corridor, with no internal doors except for the bathroom and toilet.
‘There are bunk beds further along.’
She brightened.
‘Not luxury,’ he repeated. The amount showing on her phone was an obscene amount of money. He wouldn’t charge that for a month’s worth of accommodation. Not that he had any intention of offering anyone a month’s worth of accommodation, no matter how much he might sympathise with their plight or how beguiling he found their eyes. He’d charge her a reasonable amount, though. It’d keep things business-like and professional.
‘You haven’t factored in that I get my own personal narrow-boat captain, though.’
He raised an eyebrow and tried to look as severe as possible.
She grimaced. ‘And I’m going to need a few things...’
He rubbed a hand over his face when he realised what she was getting at—he’d have to be the one to get them for her. ‘You’re going to make me go into a ladies’ underwear department, aren’t you?’
He’d know what underwear she was wearing. That would be wrong on too many levels.
She winced. ‘Sorry, yes. I’m also going to need a toothbrush, some clothes...and a phone. I’ll give you my credit card.’
This woman was too trusting. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’m a strange man you don’t know from Adam?’
‘I know your name is Jude Blackwood.’ She picked up some mail on the table to display his personal information.
His hands clenched. She had recognised the name. Did she know...?
She stared back, not a single suspicion lurking in her eyes. He released his breath slowly.
‘And I know I can trust you.’
‘How?’
‘You could’ve made yourself a pretty penny if you’d made a deal with those journalists and escorted me off your boat. But you didn’t.’
She might be a spoiled starlet, but nobody deserved to be hounded like she’d been.
‘And I know people. I’m a good judge of character.’
Seizing the newspaper, he slapped a hand on the front page. ‘I beg to differ.’
Her eyes dimmed and he felt like an unsympathetic jerk.
‘Also, I’m not an idiot.’ She thrust out her jaw. ‘My sister knows who I’m with and now has your number. She’s angry with me, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to keep an eye on me.’
Okay, she had him there.
‘And, besides the fact that you’re all grumpy and growly on the outside, the name of your narrow boat suits you: Camelot. I suspect you’re more gallant Galahad than misanthrope.’
‘You call me that again, and I’ll throw you in the canal myself.’
His scowl clearly didn’t intimidate her because she bit her lip, as if trying not to laugh. She gestured to the phone. ‘Do we have a deal?’
He knocked two grand off the price.
‘Oh, but—’
‘And I want your sunglasses.’
He added the last because he knew she wanted to feel as if she was paying a fair price. Those sunglasses might be ugly, but they’d provide an excellent disguise. They’d come in handy when he had to return to the real world.
Cleo froze like a deer in the headlights; like a statue; like a lamb to slaughter.
For a brief moment he thought she might hug the stupid ugly things and burst into tears. Instead, she wordlessly pushed them across the table to him. He couldn’t say how he knew, but in that moment he knew she’d rather pay twenty-five thousand pounds and keep her sunglasses. He also knew retracting his demand would offend her deeply. He wanted to swear and swear.
Maybe, despite all appearances to contrary, like Cleo he still knew people too.
