Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience Page 6

  ‘Thinking about it, next weekend would suit me, to answer your original question. Like I said, I’ll have to check my diary, but the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘And now, I’m going to do a couple of emails and then I’m heading up to bed.’

  ‘You’re going to work?’

  ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? For some of us, the working day never ends. And, by the way, I would offer you the loan of pyjamas, but I don’t possess any…’

  He disappeared out of the kitchen and Georgie made her way upstairs.

  Having thoroughly and unashamedly explored the house in his absence, she knew where he would be working. She also knew where his bedroom was and now she found herself feverishly picturing him in his giant king-sized bed without pyjamas.

  Had he made that passing remark about not possessing any just to make her feel uncomfortable, or was she reading too much into a throw-away statement of fact?

  It struck her that she had been hopelessly naïve in her assumptions about Pierre.

  She had nurtured a very handy one dimensional image of him, but the flesh and blood was turning out to be vastly different and strangely disturbing. Of course, his lifestyle was not one that she could really comprehend. Why spend all that time working to accumulate more money than could be reasonably spent in one person’s lifetime? But he was hardly the automaton she had imagined.

  And the possibility of his having a current girlfriend was one she had not even contemplated, although now, thinking about it, why ever not? The man was good looking and incredibly wealthy. He would have had no problem landing any woman he wanted. But still, she had travelled to London in the blithe belief that, deception or not, she was doing the right thing and therefore it would work out.

  And now that he had been cornered into going along with her plan, she realised that it wouldn’t be long before he really started disliking her for her interference in his life. Indeed, Lord only knew, he probably disliked her already, more than he previously had.

  Sleep did not come easy.

  She imagined him downstairs in his office, scowling at his computer or maybe calling his girlfriend because he surely couldn’t be so cold hearted as to leave her totally out of the loop.

  And then, what on earth were they going to tell Didi when it was all over? Georgie hadn’t been lying when she had confessed to Pierre that that was something about which she had spared precious little thought. In her fear and anxiety over Didi’s frame of mind, she had jumped feet first in at the deep end. Belatedly, she realised that she might find herself floundering in the water without a lifebelt anywhere near.

  She woke the following morning to find the house empty, which was something of a relief.

  There was a note on the kitchen counter from Pierre politely wishing her a safe trip to Devon and love to Didi. Georgie read it, then tossed it into the bin. Something about that aggressive, black handwriting made her shiver with apprehension.

  And on the trip back down, with her book optimistically opened in front of her, she found herself frowning at the passing scenery outside and wondering just what she had let herself in for.

  Then, even worse, she caught herself wondering what he was up to.

  Mostly, though, she thought how her intrinsically soft nature had a habit of landing her in situations that had not turned out according to plan. She thought of the adopted goose five years previously, which had terrorised the postman so badly that she had been forced to fetch her own mail from the post office. In fact, there had been, over the years, a series of stray animals that had somehow ended up outstaying their welcome until, finally, she was left with only her chickens, thank heavens.

  But this situation did not involve stray animals. It was dawning on her that this might turn out to be a situation that was a runaway car, and she might be wrong but didn’t runaway cars always end up wreaking havoc?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  USUALLY when Pierre had visited his mother, and by his reckoning it had not been for at least five months, he had been driven. Freed from the tedium of the traffic, he had been at liberty to carry on working in the back seat of the Bentley, only surfacing when the car had pulled up the drive to the cottage.

  Today he had chosen to drive himself. The words Quick Escape were there, somewhere, at the back of his mind.

  He hadn’t spoken to Georgie since their bizarre meeting a week ago. He hadn’t trusted himself because, and it didn’t matter how reluctant he was, he was now an accomplice to her hare brained scheme. She hadn’t liked him using that particular word, but no other word fitted the bill better, particularly after the two conversations he had had with Didi, during which he had virtually been obliged to don a hard hat just to ward off the onslaught of misplaced excitement and hesitantly breathless curiosity.

  The polite surface affection that had always existed between them had been breached and he had found himself on the back foot, not quite knowing how to deal with a mother who now seemed vibrantly interested in him. What had he been up to? How wonderful that he could have had the time to slowly nurture his relationship with Georgie, taking it a step at a time! How anxious she had always been that he worked too hard, that his priorities were in the wrong place! That he would never find the right woman to slow him down and make him realise that there was more to life than the inside of an office!

  Since when had his mother ever given him lectures on his lifestyle? In fact, since when had she ever told him how she felt about the life he led? Of course, he had always suspected, but that was because he was clever enough to read behind the lines.

  Any slim hope of retracting his story about fictional meetings and non-existent lovesick nights of stolen passion had evaporated faster than dew in hot sun.

  And Pierre blamed Georgie. For once in a situation in which he exercised no control, he had spent the week fulminating, cursing himself for not sending the woman on her way the minute he had spotted her in the foyer of the gym, for forgetting just how flaky she was.

  He had no idea how he was supposed to feign a relationship with a woman who irritated him beyond belief and he was pretty sure that he would have to do a good job at the pretence because Didi would be watching—watching and looking out for all those little signals that demonstrated two people being in love. As Pierre had never been in love, he would just have to run with his imagination, although the minute he thought about Georgie, and he had thought about her too much over the past week for his liking, his teeth snapped together in frustration.

  He switched off his radio and efficiently connected his ear piece so that he could use his mobile phone hands free, then he punched in Georgie’s home number, which she had kindly scribbled down for him and left by his telephone before leaving his house a week ago. It would have been a small technical hitch, he supposed, if he had been obliged to ask Didi for the telephone number of the woman he was supposedly head over heels in love with. One thing to smell a rat, another to see it hurtling at breakneck speed across the floor in front of your eyes.

  She answered on the third ring, sounding a little out of breath, as if she had dashed to get the phone.

  ‘Catch you in the middle of something, did I?’ he drawled. He pictured her screeching to a halt in mid-run in front of the phone, her curly fair hair every which way, her mouth slightly parted, her green eyes startled at the invasion of the phone ringing. Teachers should be the most organised people on the face of the earth and, having been subjected to a series of eulogies from his mother on what a brilliant teacher she was, he assumed that there was an organisational gene somewhere inside her, but he had yet to spot it. She had always given him a very passable impression of someone who preferred life to surprise them, having obviously never worked out that life’s surprises were generally best avoided.

  ‘I was just on the way out.’ Georgie had been half expecting his call, but even that wasn’t enough to diminish the sudden racing of her heart as she heard his low, lazy voice down the end o
f the line. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In my car driving down. Were you hoping that I had managed to think of a convenient excuse to get out of this weekend?’

  ‘Your mother would never forgive you. She’s looking forward to this more than she’s looked forward to anything since your dad died.’

  ‘I know. She told me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Pierre ignored that. He couldn’t see the point of apologies, not now that the proverbial stable door was well and truly bolted and the runaway horse long since disappeared over the distant horizon.

  ‘What can I expect when I get to Didi’s house?’

  Somehow it didn’t feel the sort of conversation to have standing up and Georgie sat down, cross-legged on the ground in her small hallway. She had been on the verge of sticking on her thick, waterproof jacket, and now she laid it on her lap because the hall was cold.

  ‘Oh, the usual.’

  ‘Come off it, Georgie. I’m suddenly being treated like The Prodigal Son, so the usual isn’t exactly appropriate, is it?’

  Georgie cleared her throat nervously. ‘A nice meal,’ she said, thinking of the spread Didi had insisted on laying on, despite Georgie’s protests that she really shouldn’t, no, really, please don’t go to any bother, Pierre will hate it, ‘I think she just wants us to have a nice, relaxed time…’

  ‘A tall order, given the circumstances.’

  ‘It doesn’t help if you carry on being angry with me.’

  ‘I’m not angry, I’m resigned.’

  ‘You mean, the way someone with a sore throat’s resigned to the prospect of full-blown flu?’

  ‘Except in this case the virus might just be around for longer than two weeks.’ Although it was only a little after four, it was already dark, too dark to see the scenery slipping past. ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said that you were on the way out.’

  ‘I’m nipping back to the school for parents’ evening. I should be finished by five-thirty and then I’m going straight over to Didi’s to help her.’

  ‘Help her with what?’

  ‘Oh, just the meal.’

  Pierre groaned under his breath.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Georgie said hurriedly. ‘But you wouldn’t believe how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed she is, Pierre! Look, I have to dash. I’ll see you later!’

  Pierre heard, in amazement, the sound of dial tone as she hung up on him, and he disconnected his cell phone with a sharp frown of displeasure.

  He thought of her, riding that bike of hers to the village, even though the roads would be dark and treacherous because the temperatures were dropping fast. Maybe she would opt for the clapped-out old Mini instead, which, if memory served him correctly, had always protested with indignation every time it was called upon to do what it had been designed for. It was not a restful image. Nothing about the woman was restful and Pierre liked the company of restful women, women who didn’t raise his blood pressure and make his head throb. He thought of Jennifer, calm, sophisticated, controlled, and immediately shoved the image out of his head because she was no longer on the scene anyway. He had finished with her two days ago over a snatched cup of coffee in a café halfway between his office and hers. Not ideal, but better than the telephone or, worse, text, which had almost been the route given that neither of them could spare the time. She had been shaken but her voice had been controlled as she had asked him crisply for the reasons for the break-up.

  Naturally he hadn’t told her the truth. It had seemed just too long-winded and complicated at the time and, anyway, she would have choked on her cappuccino.

  He had been surprised that the break-up had not affected him the way he had anticipated. He had enjoyed her company, after all. Had even, at one point, idly contemplated her credentials for becoming a permanent feature in his life. He had expected to feel more than a vague, shameful sense of relief that perhaps she might have been a long-term disaster.

  The journey was long, tedious and, in the developing dark and cold, required a lot of concentration, but still he didn’t regret leaving his driver behind. Even the most conscientious of employees were prey to curiosity and the fewer people knew about the charade, the easier it would be to slip back into his disciplined, well oiled way of life.

  It was a little after eight by the time he eventually made it to his mother’s house, which sat a short distance from the village, up a picturesque path bordered with tall trees, which, in summer, were spectacular but in winter resembled long, graceful hands reaching up to the sky. Up ahead, he could see lights on and he steeled himself for the ordeal ahead.

  She must have heard the sound of tyres on the gravel because the front door was flung open before the car had come to a stop and he saw his mother framed in the doorway, wearing dark, casual clothes, with a wrap round her shoulders.

  She was smiling.

  ‘Didi…’ he said, coming towards her, his overnight bag in one hand, his computer case in the other. He leant down and kissed her on the forehead and was startled when she pulled him close to her for a hug. Then she stood back from him, her hands still on his shoulders, and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Pierre!’

  ‘Don’t act so surprised, Didi. I did tell you that I would be coming for the weekend.’ Or rather, she had told him that he would be coming for the weekend.

  ‘I thought you might have cancelled. You’ve been known to do that, but I guess there’s more than just me here to attract you!’

  Pierre grinned a little weakly. Georgie had been right on one score. His mother was glittering like a shiny bauble on a Christmas tree, utterly radiant.

  ‘I suppose you’re dying to see Georgie…she popped over a bit earlier to help but then went back to her place to change…said she felt a little grubby after parents’ evening…probably wanted to slip into something a little less starchy for your benefit…’ She drew him inside. ‘I can’t believe the pair of you kept this tucked up your sleeve for eight months!’

  ‘Ah…’ Pierre managed.

  ‘Eight months! Now, I’m not going to pry or ask too many questions. I know you young people prefer to have your little secrets.’

  ‘No truer word spoken,’ Pierre murmured, thinking of the little secret he and his so-called beloved were sharing.

  Inside the cottage were glorious smells. ‘I hope you didn’t put yourself out for me, Didi,’ Pierre said. ‘Georgie said that you…haven’t been your usual self for a while. I wouldn’t want you to overdo things…’

  ‘I’ve got a new lease of life,’ she confided. ‘You go into the sitting room, darling, and I’ll fetch you a glass of wine…unless you want to go and have a bath? You must be hot and bothered after that long drive. I’m surprised you didn’t get Harry to bring you down. Surprised but glad. It’ll be so special, just the three of us together…’

  ‘Yes,’ was all Pierre could manage this time, but it was enough to elicit another beaming smile from his mother as she ushered him into the sitting room and half pushed him onto the sofa so that she could bustle off and fetch him something to drink.

  Left on his own, Pierre looked around the cosy room and noticed for the first time how many memories there were of his mother’s past. Artifacts collected from travels over the years and little framed pictures everywhere. Usually he came, checked the house to make sure that everything was in order and would take his mother out for supper and the following day for lunch.

  He strolled over to some of the pictures and realised that there were a lot of him, from childhood through to adolescence.

  ‘I have boxes of them,’ her voice from behind interrupted him and he turned around as Didi came to him with a glass of wine.

  Pierre flushed. What touched him almost as much as the number of pictures was the fact that she obviously cleaned them, made sure that there was not so much as a speck of dust on the ornate silver frames.


  He realised that he couldn’t think of anything to say, but before he could be put in the position of finding a suitable response the doorbell buzzed and Didi almost giggled with delight.

  No wonder Georgie had been overcome by impulse, drawn into putting a smile on Didi’s face, whatever the cost. Still crazy, but he felt a twinge of comprehension.

  There was the sound of voices and he strolled out of the sitting room to see Georgie, clutching a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers and being divested of her coat and scarf.

  Didi, puffed up with pride, stood to one side and Pierre thought, to heck with it. Georgie had dragged him unwittingly into this farce and he wickedly decided to teach her a little lesson.

  He rested his glass on the table in the hall and went up to her, watching with wry amusement as the smile she had pinned on her face shifted from dutifully thrilled to see him to hesitantly bemused at his reaction.

  ‘Here at last,’ he breathed, taking her into his arms and curling his fingers into her fair hair. ‘I thought you’d never arrive…’

  Georgie was frantically trying to think of something suitably witty and light-hearted to say when she felt his lips touch hers and it was as if she had received a sudden electric shock. His mouth was firm and warm and this was no casual kiss. His tongue stole into her startled mouth, making her gasp, but when she would have shrunk back he held her firm, his hand gently controlling in the small of her back, forcing her to lean into him. By the time he pulled back, her thoughts had been scattered to all four winds and her heart was hammering like a drum inside her. She almost stumbled in her confusion and she could feel her face burning red when she met Didi’s eyes.

  ‘Young love. Your dad and I used to be like that. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other when we were courting.’

  ‘I know.’ Pierre looked down at Georgie. ‘We have the same problem, don’t we, sweetheart?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Georgie said in a high-pitched voice while trying to edge away from him, but not getting very far because his arm had now snaked around her waist and was holding her firmly in place.