Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience Read online

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s coming back to me now.’ He stopped pacing and stood at the foot of the bed, six feet two inches of pure, sinfully sexy male. When he rested his hands on the foot stead and leaned forward, Georgie unconsciously shifted back. ‘I was supposed to agree to being a workaholic, someone who couldn’t possibly live without…what was it? Oh, yes, the cut and thrust of city life, the sort of single minded bore who couldn’t sustain a relationship in a hundred years.’

  ‘I never said that you were a bore, ’ Georgie contradicted sulkily.

  ‘Oh, forgot. I was exciting and ambitious and well-travelled. So exciting and ambitious and well-travelled that anything rural couldn’t fail to bring on rapid mental shutdown.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Georgie said defensively. ‘You must have been able to see what I was doing?’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes! Laying the foundations! Your life in London…me down here…what better way to at least start bracing Didi for the eventuality that the distance and the differences between us would get in the way?’

  Pierre nodded thoughtfully and strolled to the side of the bed and sat down. Georgie looked at him warily. ‘You mean you agree? I thought you might! I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? You could even go away!’

  ‘Anywhere in particular?’

  ‘China! That’s a developing country with a growing economy! Isn’t it? You could go to China to…to…do whatever it is you do…oversee an important deal…’

  ‘And for how long?’ Pierre asked with interest.

  ‘A few months? A year? Two years? What relationship could withstand that length of separation? Of course I would pine but eventually I would carry on…’

  ‘Hurt…disillusioned…wounded, but not mortally…I, on the other hand, would presumably return once every six months, ruthlessly moving forward with my empire-building, and naturally we would avoid one another like the plague because of water under the bridge.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Personally, I don’t much care for the thought of China.’

  ‘Well, you could vanish somewhere else,’ Georgie said irritably.

  ‘I don’t like the thought of vanishing, period. I happen to be rather enjoying the country life, as a matter of fact. I intend on coming here more often rather than less. No…I have a better idea, Georgina…’

  Georgie swallowed and said on a whisper, ‘What?’

  ‘I think,’ Pierre told her softly, ‘that we need to look at the situation from a completely different standpoint. Here we are…pretending to be lovers when there’s no need for the pretence.’ His blue eyes, she thought, were mesmerising, and his voice, low and velvety, seemed to be dragging her down. ‘I’m not going to lie to you…I want you and I know the feeling’s mutual…’

  Georgie opened her mouth to protest and he raised one finger and gently held back the denial.

  ‘So…’ he shrugged ‘…why fight it? No need for you to scuttle away whenever I come near you. I want to touch you and you want to touch me back.’

  Like a predator, he had sensed her weakness and was moving in for the kill. Emotion didn’t enter his equations. They wanted each other and enough said. Like animals obeying instinct without thought.

  A tidal wave of shame washed over Georgie, giving her the strength to look at him coldly.

  ‘That’s such an enticing thought, Pierre. Really, though, I’m going to have to turn you down.’

  ‘Why?’ He raked his fingers through his hair, perplexed.

  ‘We’ve discussed this before.’

  ‘Yes, before this attraction sprang up between us.’

  ‘And I don’t believe in a romp in the sack. It doesn’t matter if there’s a mutual attraction or not—you’re responsible for your own morality, Pierre, and I’m responsible for mine.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! We’re not talking about burning down the local school, Georgie! We’re talking about having fun.’ Had he ever been turned down in his life before? ‘Permitted fun, incidentally.’

  ‘You’re forgetting what this is. Just one big act and I’m not something convenient that you can take because you want it. I guess now that your girlfriend is no longer on the scene you think that I might be an amusing plaything while you’re here, and what’s the big deal?’

  ‘I didn’t hear you objecting this morning…If Didi hadn’t walked in on us, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation right now at all. In fact, we would probably be lying in this bed making love…’

  Georgie liked to imagine that she would have found the energy to pull back whatever. ‘I don’t know how that happened…’

  ‘I touched you and you went up in flames. That’s how it happened.’ He was on losing ground. Unbelievable! What century did this woman live in? ‘It’s called having fun. Sitting around waiting for Mr Right is called wasting time.’

  ‘It’s called shoving my principles on the back-burner. And sitting around waiting for Mr Right, which, incidentally, is not what I’m doing, is called believing in love. You’re a cynic, Pierre.’

  ‘And you, my darling, are a hypocrite.’ He walked towards the door and lounged against it for a few seconds. ‘But…’ he shrugged ‘…your choice.’ He could feel his male pride slam into place. ‘Word of warning, though…self-denial might be morally noble, but when you’re shivering in your celibate bed it doesn’t make a very warming companion.’

  Typically, every clever retort to that stunningly arrogant observation, and there were a fair few, sprang to mind roughly ten minutes after he had left the room.

  At which point the most she could do was dredge up memories of why she disliked him and remind herself that he was nothing but a self-centred, high-handed, unprincipled pig!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GEORGIE half hoped that Pierre would do her the enormous favour of finding an excuse to leave earlier than he had planned and it took every ounce of her charitable nature to remind herself that Didi was enjoying every second of having her son with her, even if she could think of nothing worse.

  At least, however, there was work on Monday and even Didi didn’t harbour unrealistic expectations that Georgie would take time off work because Pierre just happened to be around. She knew how much Georgie’s teaching job meant to her. Far and beyond the basic need to pay bills and keep a roof over her head, Georgie derived a great deal of pleasure from her motley crew of children. Having neither parents nor siblings and with no children of her own, she considered her pupils at the local primary school more than just little people she taught because she was obliged to. She spent a great deal of unpaid overtime preparing lessons that were just that little bit different, supervising after-school events that most of the other teachers tried to avoid, especially in winter, and as Christmas approached was in charge of all things to do with the school play and the much awaited visit from Santa.

  Right now, she was inordinately grateful for the distraction of her job. In fact, she was the first to arrive at the school. Any earlier and she reckoned that she might well be passing Jim, the night watchman, on his way out. But she hadn’t been able to sleep.

  Pierre’s words kept playing in her head, like a needle stuck in a groove, repeating over and over why fight it, why fight it, why fight it…?

  She had wasted a lot of beauty sleep primly telling herself that she had been absolutely right to have reacted the way that she had, that it was typical of a man whose ego was the size of a house to just assume that he could have whatever he wanted, including her.

  Admittedly, she had given him signs that she was attracted to him, but as she had tossed and turned towards dawn she felt quietly pleased with herself for having informed him in no uncertain terms that she was stronger than any passing attraction that might have temporarily laid waste to her will-power.

  By six in the morning, she had exhausted her imaginative repertoire of scenarios in which she was the proud bearer of morality and sense of principle, stating her case in loud, ringing tones whi
le he listened, awestruck and, best of all, admitted that she was right and he was wrong, that he respected her point of view and admired her for standing up for her beliefs.

  When she thought of his hands exploring her and that seductive voice of his telling her not to resist him, that she could have more of what she wanted, she immediately filled her head with other, more helpful things. Such as eighteen little children who still needed to get through a little bit of work while the promise of Christmas threatened to have them running out of control.

  She planned on making sure that when she went across to Didi’s after work, much later than she promised with some vague excuse about work, she would be able to actually look Pierre in the eye and feel secure on her own moral high ground.

  The words had an unfortunate ring. They reminded her of criticisms he had made to her in the past, criticisms of being prissy and judgemental.

  Georgie told herself that essentially there was nothing wrong with that because it was far better to have some moral guidelines, rather than end up like Pierre, emotionally adrift, finding passing pleasure in women with whom he had no spiritual connection and who would sail out of his life without leaving much of a mark behind them. Now that, she told herself, was sad.

  She was still stoutly telling herself that as she got dressed later that evening. Nothing fancy this time. Didi was cooking a meal and Georgie had no intention of dressing up because she didn’t want Pierre to think that she was making a special effort on his behalf.

  She tied her hair back into two wispy pigtails, and back she was in her usual garb of flowing skirt, flat boots and an array of tops, which started with her two layers of jumpers and culminated in her wraparound poncho, which was vibrant and very, very warm but would have had any well-groomed sophisticate reaching for her designer suite jacket.

  In summer she would have thought nothing of hopping onto her bike but, although the snow had stopped, temperatures were freezing and it was miserable outside.

  Much as she wanted to dawdle, arriving an hour and a half late with potential frostbite because she had cycled was not an option. She drove. But she did her damnedest not to think of Pierre on the way. She had problems with Santa and thinking about that was restful in comparison.

  She arrived to find an anxious Didi with her hand virtually on the doorknob, waiting for her to arrive.

  ‘Where have you been, my darling?’ A kiss on either cold cheek, accompanied by a worried frown. ‘We were so worried! We tried to call, but there was no answer! Do you know, Pierre was about to come searching for you!’

  Georgie guiltily thought of the phone ringing as she lay in the bath, slowly shrivelling from staying there way too long.

  ‘I’m sorry, Didi. Work. Usual Christmas problems…you look lovely! Don’t tell me you’ve got another new jumper!’

  ‘A few, actually! Pierre’s just through in the kitchen. Very informal tonight. Just a casserole.’

  Georgie stripped off her poncho and one of the jumpers, leaving just a fitted thin woolen jumper and her long skirt. ‘I’ve dressed for the occasion,’ she joked, but her stomach was doing its usual somersaults as they strolled, still chatting, into the kitchen. Even her breasts were weirdly tingling, as if her body had gone onto red alert and was reacting accordingly.

  Pierre, with his back to her, was stirring the ubiquitous pot that had filled the kitchen with a wonderful aroma. The pine table was already set for three and Georgie felt another twinge of guilt at her late arrival. She should have been there forty five minutes ago.

  ‘Smells yummy,’ she said, reluctantly walking towards Pierre because that was what would be expected. He turned around and this time the grin on Georgie’s face was genuine.

  ‘Goodness, Pierre! You’re wearing an apron.’ She took a couple of steps back and looked at him critically. ‘Golly, I wish I’d brought my camera!’ She started laughing. The apron was one she had bought for Didi years back on the spur of the moment and it sported an amusing little saying about women never divorcing men who wore aprons. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve cooked!’ she spluttered, trying to swallow down the laughter because those blue, blue eyes didn’t seem to be sharing her level of amusement.

  ‘It’s not unheard of,’ Pierre muttered, scowling. She came in, looking like a teenager with those blonde pigtails, her cheeks still pink from the cold outside…laughing so that her face softened…making inroads into his pride, which had slammed into place the minute she had refused his advances. Refused him!

  ‘Unheard of for you!’ Georgie laughed, throwing her head back.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Pierre muttered, exerting undue force as he spun around and begin vigorously stirring the contents of the big pan. Aware of Didi busying herself as she poured Georgie a glass of wine, Pierre forced himself to relax. ‘Anyone can follow instructions from a recipe book,’ he said, very much aware of her peering curiously into the pot as though suspicious of its contents.

  ‘Have you ever?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bet you don’t even own a recipe book!’ Georgie hooted.

  ‘Which,’ Didi piped up, ‘is a very good idea for a Christmas present.’

  That made Georgie stop in her tracks. Christmas. Of course, she was supposed to buy him a Christmas present! It was to be expected.

  ‘Oh, we’ve decided not to give each other any Christmas presents,’ Pierre said smoothly, and even though he had beat her to an excuse Georgie still felt an unwelcome little surge of hurt.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Didi sounded perplexed.

  ‘We thought…’ Georgie said, thinking on her feet, ‘we just thought…that it might be nicer to donate the money to one of the homeless shelters. There are so many people who have absolutely nothing and Christmas is such a wonderful opportunity for us to just…play our part…’

  ‘That’s a lovely sentiment, darling…’ Didi handed her a glass of wine and smiled. ‘Although Pierre already does so much for the underprivileged.’

  ‘He does?’ Georgie looked at him. ‘You do?’

  ‘I’ve only found out myself today, haven’t I, Pierre?’ She smiled warmly at her son’s back as he continued to stir a concoction that no longer needed stirring. ‘We popped into St Michael’s Church to get some charity Christmas cards and one of the ladies in charge of the stall recognised him. Didn’t she, Pierre? I’m surprised he hasn’t told you himself!’

  Surprise wasn’t the word Georgie would have used to describe how she was feeling. More dumbstruck. ‘P-probably his natural modesty,’ she managed to stutter. ‘You never said you—’

  ‘I know. Shocking, isn’t it?’ Pierre leant towards her, out of range of his mother’s eagle ears—she might be a little slower on her pegs but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. ‘I’m not the complete bastard you think I am.’

  ‘Pierre has set up a fund through his company which helps with urban regeneration and, as a part of that, helps displaced teenagers to find creative outlets. Christmas-card designing is just one of the things and the lady in question had brought several packs down to sell as she’s here for the holiday to stay with her daughter…’

  Georgie felt unreasonably miffed that that little snippet of information about him had managed to creep under her skin so that it could niggle away at her defences. She pasted a smile on her face and left him to his pot.

  After that, what was there to say?

  The meal, when finally brought to the table by a man who waved down both their offers of help, was as good as it had smelled. And, Georgie noticed, there were no superfluous loving asides as accompaniment. She was irked to find herself disappointed by the lack of teasing familiarity with which she had become familiar, even if only in the sense that she slapped it away whenever she could. He was, as far as Didi was concerned, just the same as ever, but she noticed the difference. He no longer brushed against her, or watched her through those amazing eyes of his, as if drinking her in even when he could see that she was plainly irritated by the interest. />
  He had got the message about her once and for all, and for that, she decided, she should be well and truly thankful. Wasn’t it what she had wanted?

  In fact, he barely looked at her, although his lack of interest wasn’t obvious. There were no lulls in the conversation, which would have pointed to an underlying tension. Rather, he was as relaxed and charming as she had ever seen him. She just sensed the change.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get around to doing a bit more of this culinary stuff,’ he said, when his meal had been duly complimented.

  ‘Things will change when you’re back in your natural habitat,’ Georgie said darkly, and this time he did spare her the briefest of looks.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed, standing up so that he could complete his perfect pretence of being a domesticated creature by taking the dishes to the sink. ‘A leopard never changes its spots, does it, Georgina? We may think we’re free to do what we want, but the reality of it is that we’re stuck in our ways, unwilling or unable to ever break free.’

  ‘That’s very deep, Pierre.’ Didi laughed.

  Georgie blushed and looked away. ‘That’s right,’ she said in a high voice. ‘I mean, do you really think you’ll ever cook a meal when you get back to London? At the end of the week?’

  ‘Depends on the woman…’

  Didi, mistakenly, assumed that he was referring to Georgie. Georgie knew better. This was his way of telling her that the sea was very full of fish.

  ‘Darling.’ Didi interrupted and Georgie wondered if her antennae had picked up the awkward undercurrent, ‘you were saying something about work…’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Isn’t that why you were late?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Course! Work! You know how it is, Didi…Christmas around the corner and as usual half the stuff has either gone missing in action or else been attacked by moths.’

  ‘What stuff?’ Pierre sauntered towards the kitchen table and sat down, hooking his foot under a chair so that he could drag it closer to him as a makeshift footrest.