Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience Read online

  ‘I’m not going to humour you by listening to this nonsense.’

  ‘Pierre, Didi’s really depressed.’

  ‘Everyone gets depressed from time to time,’ he snapped impatiently. ‘It’s rarely a matter for concern.’

  ‘Didi isn’t the sort of person who gets depressed.’ Lord knew why she had bothered with this idea, which had seemed so good at the time but which, now, in the face of Pierre’s icy scrutiny, was fast beginning to appear ill conceived and frankly insane. ‘Yes, she’s recovered and her health should be good, but over the past few months she’s stopped doing all the stuff she usually does. She no longer goes to her bridge club twice a week. To start with, she told me that she physically wasn’t up to it, but I began to worry when she stopped altogether. Then, she’s given away her ducks to the children’s farm—’

  ‘And about time too.’

  ‘She’s had them for four years, Pierre!’ She was leaning forward, trying to impart some of her urgency, although she didn’t seem to be making much headway. ‘She still does some of her charity work but several times this month I’ve been to see her in the morning before I head out to school and she’s still been in bed—’

  ‘What time do you head out to school?’

  ‘Eight-fifteen.’

  ‘I rest my case. My mother is no longer a spring chicken. Maybe she just feels that at her age she deserves the occasional lie-in.’

  ‘It’s not like her.’

  ‘People change when they get older,’ Pierre said shortly.

  ‘I know you’ve probably got lots of important things to do, Pierre, but I’ve come here from home to talk to you and I’m not going to leave until you’ve heard me out.’

  ‘I might be mistaken, but isn’t it my choice as to whether I listen to what you have to say? And as far as I’m concerned, I’ve frankly heard enough.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t concern your own mother. Do you think being shouted at and insulted is my dream way of passing the time?’

  She wondered what she would do if he decided to just get up and leave. Run after him tugging at his shirt sleeves and scrabbling in his wake? Anyone would think that he would want to hear what she had to say, but then again he had never had the same level of love and affection for his own flesh and blood as she had had for them.

  Their parents had been great friends and when both of hers had died in a car accident when she was still a teenager, Pierre’s parents had taken her under their wing and virtually adopted her as their own. Pierre, at that point, was already beginning his meteoric rise through the world of serious finance and she had, she suspected, filled his vacant shoes. Not that she hadn’t been close to them before, and not that they had loved him any the less, but he just hadn’t been around.

  If he had resented that then he certainly hadn’t shown it. He had visited and treated her with the condescending politeness of someone who considered himself out of her league.

  Pierre shook his head and stood up and Georgie could see her most dire imaginary scenarios of shirt-sleeve clutching begin to take shape but actually he just said, abruptly, ‘I have to be somewhere tonight so if you want to talk, and believe me I’m only doing this through some semblance of politeness, you’re going to have to come with me to my flat and talk while I get dressed. It’s the best I can offer.’ He didn’t wait for her to reply but instead picked up his sports bag and began heading for the exit with Georgie trailing frustratedly in his wake.

  Normally he got his driver to take him to the gym, but on this occasion he had driven himself, and his Bentley, gleaming and black, was waiting in the car park.

  Georgie bit back the temptation to say something flippant about how the other half lived. Somehow she suspected that any jokey remarks would go down like the proverbial lead balloon.

  But it didn’t seem quite right to talk about anything serious while he was concentrating on driving through London. In fact, it barely seemed comfortable to talk at all, and she was quite happy to stare out of the window and watch the streets of London crawl by.

  The few times she glanced over to him, she felt her heart begin to pound harder in her chest. His profile, perfectly etched, was grimly forbidding. No wonder people quailed in his presence, she thought. He had probably specialised in fear induction at university, along with economics, law and politics.

  His house was in Chelsea and Georgie, who knew absolutely nothing of London, could tell at a glance that it would have carried an almighty price tag. Maybe it was the rarity of the square around which fanned out the crescent of tall, red bricked Victorian buildings, each identical with their impeccable façades, their little steps leading up to front doors and their ornate black railings. Despite being in the very heart of fashionable London, the area still managed to exude quiet, secluded privacy.

  Or maybe it was the tell-tale display of expensive cars parked outside.

  ‘It’s lovely here, Pierre,’ Georgie said, to break the silence which was beginning to stretch like elastic between them. ‘Very quiet…in fact, does anyone actually occupy these houses? I see cars and a few lights behind windows, but where is everyone?’ She laughed nervously as he opened the front door.

  ‘This isn’t a small village in Devon, Georgie.’ Pierre turned to her briefly. ‘Neighbours don’t waste hours chatting over the garden fence.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what a person can find out over a garden fence.’

  ‘Really? Not much of interest to me, I don’t think.’

  ‘Well no, I guess not. I mean, we don’t make idle chat about the stock market or the latest takeover bids in the private sector.’ The last time Georgie had met one of Pierre’s girlfriends, she had been subjected to a long and sleep inducing conversation about the wonders of the New York stock exchange, where, apparently, the woman had worked for three years before returning to London to head the futures department of an investment bank. Georgie could remember nodding a lot but really just wanting to chew her own arm off in boredom and frustration at the other woman’s patronising attitude.

  ‘No.’ Pierre pushed open the front door and preceded her into his hallway. ‘Why break out of the mould when it’s so much easier to just pass the time of day talking about local gossip and the farming industry?’

  ‘Why are you so…so…arrogant, Pierre?’

  He tossed his keys on the small console table in the hall and ignored her. ‘Close the door behind you, Georgie. I’ve just about got time to offer you a cup of coffee, or something stronger if you want, although, if I recall, you prefer to keep clear of that evil stuff. Then I’m going to have to change.’ He glanced over his shoulder with a small frown. ‘Where do you intend to stay tonight?’

  Georgie was busy having a thorough look at his house, or at least what she could see of it. It wasn’t quite what she had expected. She had expected something cold and minimalist, a bit like the man himself, but it was a surprisingly warm place. The entrance hall was tiled, but the colours were strong and earthy, reds and terracottas and blues and creams. There were paintings on the wall, recognisable rural scenes, and the banister leading up to the first floor was gleaming oak.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded and she reluctantly tore her inquisitive eyes away from the rest of her surroundings.

  ‘I didn’t really think about it.’ Georgie shrugged. ‘Actually, I thought I might have arrived in London a lot earlier, but there were delays at every stage. Still. I guess I could travel back tonight or else maybe you could point me in the direction of a cheap and cheerful bed and breakfast? If you know where one might exist?’

  Pierre leaned against the doorframe and looked at her through narrowed eyes but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the doorway so that Georgie was obliged to follow him, though very slowly because she had no intention of rushing her inspection of his house.

  There were two rooms on either side of the generous hall and she could make out cool creams in one and in the other what app
eared to be a fully operational office, complete with all the gadgetry of the twenty-first century, although the walls were lined with books and the Oriental carpet extending across most of the floor lent it an intimate, cosy atmosphere.

  ‘In your own time!’

  Pierre’s voice interrupted her inspection and she guiltily looked up to find him back in the doorway waiting for her.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Really? Somehow I find that a little hard to believe.’ And this time he waited for her, stepping aside so that she could precede him three steps down into a dining area and then beyond that into the kitchen which was big enough to house a table along with all the usual culinary paraphernalia.

  ‘You notice that I didn’t mention anything about that nonsense you were spouting in the café…’ he turned to her, a mug in his hand ‘…because I wanted to give you time to consider very carefully what an impossibly stupid idea it was. I also didn’t want you to somehow get it into your head that I would take it seriously on any level whatsoever, because I won’t. However…’ he filled the kettle and switched it on ‘…if you tell me that my mother is acting out of character, then I need to know about it, even if I don’t necessarily agree with what you’re saying. So…’ he dragged one of the chairs from under the table and sat down, hooking his foot under another, which he proceeded to use as a footrest ‘…I’m listening. Make the most of it.’

  ‘You mean my time starts now?’

  ‘You said it.’ Pierre folded his arms and gave her the benefit of his undivided attention.

  ‘This wasn’t how I envisaged having this conversation,’ Georgie said, heading for the kettle because it was obvious that he had given up on the coffee-making idea. Sure enough she didn’t see him rushing over to relieve her of the task of making her own drink. She opened her mouth to ask him where she could locate the coffee and heard herself ask him whether she could pour herself a glass of wine.

  Pierre’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Dutch courage, Georgie?’

  ‘What do you expect? You haven’t exactly been welcoming.’

  ‘What did you think I would do?’ He stood up, strolled over to the matt silver fridge and pulled out a bottle of Chablis, then poured them both a glass. ‘Hear you out and then jump up and down with glee at your hare brained scheme?’

  ‘Well, hearing me out would have been a start.’ The wine was delicious, very cold and very dry, and Georgie took a long mouthful before looking at him.

  ‘So I’m hearing you out now. You tell me my mother isn’t herself. Well, why don’t you let me decide that for myself?’

  ‘You mean you’ll visit her?’

  ‘I mean I’ll give her a call and ask her what this is all about.’

  ‘And suddenly she’ll pour her heart out to you! Down the end of a telephone!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s not how people work, Pierre! Least of all your mother. You know how proud she is and also…’

  ‘Also?’

  ‘She’s in awe of you.’

  Pierre flushed darkly at what seemed to be a criticism thinly disguised as a compliment of sorts. He drank the contents of his wine glass in one long mouthful and frowned. ‘Explain.’

  ‘I mean she would probably hate for you to think that she was being weak.’

  ‘This conversation is going nowhere and I have to get changed.’

  Georgie hastily drank her wine, determined to finish what she had travelled hours to say even if he intended on being stunningly unhelpful. He gave no indication that he was aware of her following him although when she paused at the doorway to his bedroom, he said, without bothering to turn around, ‘Not going to advance any further, Georgie?’

  Georgie opened her mouth and then, like a stranded goldfish, gulped noiselessly as he began to strip off, starting with his sweatshirt, which he pulled over his head in one smooth gesture. He still hadn’t turned in her direction and she stared with crawling fascination at the beautiful muscularity of his body. He was a physically perfect specimen, with the golden olive complexion inherited from his mother.

  When he finally did turn round, their eyes collided and Georgie looked away quickly, her face bright red. She went even redder as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of his jogging bottoms and tugged them lightly.

  ‘You’re welcome to look if you want to,’ he said and she made a strangled sound, which finally evolved into something coherent.

  ‘Perhaps I should wait until you’re finished having your shower.’

  ‘Feel free, but I’ll be on my way out and, unless you want to accompany me on a date, then I suggest you get on with saying what you want to say here.’

  ‘I…I wouldn’t want to embarrass you…’

  ‘You mean you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself.’ Pierre laughed and stripped off his bottoms. ‘Believe me, I don’t embarrass easily and certainly not when it comes to getting undressed in front of a woman. That’s the joys of being brought up in a boarding school. You lose hang-ups about nudity pretty quickly.’ But it still felt as if he were performing a striptease, although her face was pointedly averted and her hands were fisted at her sides.

  He went into the shower, turned it on and kept the door open, pretty much expecting her to scuttle off the minute his back was turned, but instead when she spoke he discovered that she had pulled the dressing-table chair by the door and, although she couldn’t see what he was doing, she would certainly be able to hear well enough.

  Her prudishness amused and surprised him at the same time. The woman was in her twenties! He wondered, for the first time, what sexual experience she had. Any? In her own way, she was quirkily pretty and there must be one or two eligible men in the village, fellow teachers on the lookout for suitable wife material…

  ‘I finally had a chat with your mother a couple of days ago!’ Georgie had to all but shout to drown out the sound of the shower. ‘I asked her about the bridge business and she finally came out with it…’

  ‘Came out with what?’ Pierre turned off the shower and stepped outside, wrapping a towel round his waist and proceeding to fill the sink with warm water for a shave.

  Now she could see him. Or at least the back of him. When he looked in the mirror, he could actually meet her eyes.

  ‘Ever since she had that minor stroke, she’s been depressed. She said that it started off with not really being interested in anything, then she began finding it too much of a bother to get out of bed. Sometimes she would just stay put until lunchtime, and then she would only get out because she knew that there was a chance that I would pop in later in the afternoon on my way home from school.’

  ‘She never mentioned a word of any of this to me.’ Pierre paused and looked at her in the mirror. ‘No, don’t tell me. It’s because she’s scared of me.’ He was very still but he could feel the little tic in his jaw.

  ‘Of course she’s not scared of you!’ Georgie wondered whether her voice sounded a little brittle. Didi would never have been critical of her son behind his back, but it was so easy to read between the lines. Pierre and his mother did not enjoy a comfortable relationship and over the years she had accepted the blame for that, much to Georgie’s dismay. She blamed herself for sending him to boarding school because Charlie had boarded, as had his father and his father before him, because it had been the tradition. Then she blamed herself for not living up to what he had wanted, for being selfish and pursuing an eccentric lifestyle which she and Charlie had loved but which had mortified and appalled their son. She was ridiculously proud of him but whenever he was around she felt as though she were walking on eggshells and that, she confessed, had probably put him off wanting to return to Devon to visit as often as she would have liked.

  And then there was the matter of the women he had brought to meet her.

  ‘Although,’ Georgie was compelled to admit, ‘you can be a little off-putting.’

  Pierre dropped the razor and washed his face without bothering to shave at al
l. He strolled out of the bathroom and towered over her, arms folded, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You have a very abrupt way of dealing with people.’

  ‘I’m not woolly-headed, if that’s what you mean. I realise my mother might rather I ended up running a holistic centre on a farm somewhere in Devon, but she just has to accept that that will never happen.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Georgie stared at his stomach, which was very flat and very hard. The top of that towel was slung rather low round his waist for comfort. Her eyes skittered upwards. ‘But she’s getting older. I think…no, I know that her depression is tied in with the fact that she thinks she’s lost you. Lost you to London and big business.’

  ‘London and big business are what made sure that my father’s debts could be settled and a place bought for my mother—’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Didi’s in a slump,’ Georgie said flatly. ‘I went to see Dr Thompson a few days ago about it and he was quite frank with me. He said that she’s at an age where psychologically she could literally think herself into an early grave. Apparently it happens particularly to people left on their own after their partners have died. They become depressed and over time it eats away at them until they literally lose the will to live. He’s against giving her antidepressants because he says that they can become addictive and end up being as much of a problem as the original depression, and Didi is totally against taking them.’ She had his full attention. He raked his fingers through his hair and walked across to the huge, deep chair by the window, which he proceeded to swivel in her direction so that he could continue looking at her.

  ‘He told me that the best tonic for Didi would be for her to have something to look forward to, something that might help her make sense of her days—’

  ‘She could have whatever she wanted,’ Pierre interrupted brusquely. ‘I have always made it perfectly clear to Didi that money was no object when it came to her wants or needs. If she wants to go on a cruise, then she just has to say the word. That would make a nice change. Older people favour cruises.’