The Debt / Cross My Hart

Ash

I LOOKED OUT of the window of the limo, watching a string of couture-clad people file through the entrance into the elegant historic brick building, and allowed myself a certain sense of satisfaction.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Here I was, outside the door to the most exclusive private members’ club in the world: The Billionaires Club.

Joining was by invitation only—an invitation that only came once your bank balance reached a certain level. A cool billion, obviously.

Mine had come a week ago in the form of a hand-delivered black envelope with a simple gold seal on the back and my name, Mr Ash Evans, written in cursive on the front.

Inside was a heavy slice of black platinum the size of a credit card, embossed with the club insignia: an M with two bars over the top of it, the Roman numeral for billion.

An exclusive club for the rich and famous.

And here was I, the scum of the streets, with a key.

Dad would be turning in his fucking grave. He’d have hated the thought of his bastard son finally having access to everything he’d denied him over the years.

Correction. Dad wouldn’t hate the thought, because, even if he’d still been alive, he wouldn’t have thought of me at all. Not thinking of me was all he’d done from the moment I was born, the product of an illicit affair with one of his maids.

Still, I wasn’t going to let happy memories of my prick of a father ruin my evening, not tonight. I’d worked too long and too hard to get to this point and I had other, bigger fish to fry.

Fish like my half-brother and chief competitor, Sebastian Dumont. He was one of the reasons I’d decided that my first appearance at the club would be at their burlesque event in Paris. I knew he’d be attending and I wanted to shove my membership in his rich and privileged face. He wouldn’t be expecting it and seeing me, his undeserving, lower-class half-brother, showing up where he didn’t belong, would piss him off in the extreme.

Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Completely.

But that wasn’t the only reason. I was also hoping to sabotage his latest business deal, too, just for the hell of it.

John Delaney, a property investor who was looking to sell a couple of islands in the Caribbean that he owned, was also going to be attending the event tonight, and my plan was to corner him and make him an offer for those islands.

I had a luxury hotel business that I’d just got off the ground and the islands Delaney was selling were perfect sites for it.

They were also the same islands that Dumont just happened to be after for his luxury hotel business.

Oh, Dumont had tried to keep his intentions under wraps, but I had my ways of finding out things. And now my entire plan was to buy those islands out from under him.

Yes, we had a rivalry. And to say it was mild was like saying England and Germany were slightly at odds during World War II.

It had been going on for years and I had no plans to build bridges any time soon. Not after what he’d done to me.

I flicked a glance in the rear-view mirror of the limo and found my chauffeur for the evening, the sexy little Australian, staring back at me.

And for a second, all thoughts of my hated half-brother vanished.

When she’d come to the door of my hotel, I’d been expecting Bill, white-haired and grizzled and pushing sixty-five. Instead, what I’d got was brunette and fresh-faced, and pushing twenty-five, if that.

Not to mention small and curvy, with a pretty, freshly scrubbed face, glossy brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, the usual chauffeur uniform of black trousers, white shirt and a black tie doing its best to hide the fact that she was unequivocally female.

Oh, yes, and she had a sunny attitude to match.

She hadn’t appeared to notice my scars or to be in the least bit intimidated by my manner, and she had looked me in the eye, which most people never did.

Then there had been that smile. That pretty smile like a bright burst of sunshine. As if she’d never heard of my reputation and had no idea what a bastard I was.

Those things shouldn’t have made her so immediately fascinating to me, because she was nothing like my normal type. I preferred them beautiful and expensive-looking, all the better to soil with my rough, dirty hands, not with a dusting of freckles, dressed in a chauffeur’s outfit, and telling me with a cheerful smile how my assistant not briefing me on her arrival wasn’t her problem.

Not many of my employees would have dared say that to my face.

Correction, none of my employees would have dared say it.

What made her think she could?

She stared at me in the mirror, hints of gold and emerald glinting from beneath long, silky dark lashes, and there was no deference in her gaze. It was full of curiosity and a certain boldness that I found…exciting.

Been a long time since you had a worthy opponent.

Yes, it was true. A very long time. Not that I was into physical fights these days, at least not outside the gym and never with a woman. But it had been a while since I’d met anyone who could hold their own against me. And every fighter needed a challenge to improve their game.

If you didn’t get better you didn’t win, and if you didn’t win, all you got was your teeth kicked in.

I’d never been a fan of getting my teeth kicked in.

She grinned at me. ‘Are you ready to go, Mr Evans?’ Her tone was ridiculously chirpy, yet her voice had a soft, smoky edge that somehow made it sexy at the same time.

She could be your challenge.

Nice idea, but no.

I’d felt the chemistry between us the moment she’d taken my hand back in the hotel room, and when she’d jerked away, her skin pink, I knew she’d felt it too.

Normally that would be something I’d explore, since I never denied myself something when I wanted it, but fresh-faced, tomboyish little Australians who should know better than to smile at men like me were not worth the trouble of tangling with.

And besides, I had a golden rule: never screw the staff.

She might only be a substitute for Bill for a couple of nights, but she was still a staff member. Which made her out of bounds.

‘I’ll go when I’m good and ready, Miss Little,’ I growled, irritated for no good reason.

‘Of course,’ she replied with the same chirpiness, apparently impervious to my annoyance. ‘You can sit here as long as you like. I only asked so I could be ready to open your door for you.’

My irritation increased. She looked so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and eager to please.

You could think of a few ways she could please you.

Yes, but again, not happening.

I stared hard at her, trying to put a dent in her insufferable cheerfulness, but she kept staring boldly back, apparently impervious to my game. And also, apparently, unaware of the blatant challenge she presented by doing so.

A certain tension began to gather in the car, one she also seemed blithely unaware of. At least until I noticed a hint of red glowing in her freshly scrubbed cheeks.

So. Maybe she wasn’t as unaware as she seemed. Not that I was going to be doing anything about it.

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ I said, unaccountably irritated with the direction of my thoughts. ‘I’m ready now.’

Once again, she didn’t bat an eye at my tone, immediately getting out of the car, coming around to my door, and pulling it open for me with a little flourish.

Normally I didn’t bother with that kind of theatre, but tonight I was making an exception.

I glowered as I got out, unfolding myself to my full height, looming over her like the hulking, scarred beast that I was.

She was very small, her head tilting back as she gave me a searching look. Her forehead creased, her smile turning sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Evans. You’ll have a great night, I’m sure of it.’

The comment was so unexpected that for a second I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Do I look fucking worried?’ I said.

Either she didn’t hear my sarcasm or ignored it, because she gave me another thorough scan, her expression becoming serious. ‘Actually, on second thought, you don’t. You just look really grumpy.’

No one made casual observations about me quite like that. Certainly no one said them out loud. To my face.

I opened my mouth to give her another lesson in driver etiquette, but she charged on, giving me another sunny smile before reaching out to pat my arm. ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down, eh?’

People didn’t touch me, not these days. In fact, the only people who did were the women I took to bed.

No one ever patted me sympathetically on the arm.

No one would dare.

To make matters worse, the brief touch sent a ghost of the same electricity I’d felt back in the hotel sparking through the leather of my jacket and straight into me.

Christ. That was all I needed.

My temper, already mean, took a feral turn.

I glanced pointedly down at her hand on my arm. ‘I’m not a dog, Miss Little.’

Colour bloomed in her cheeks. ‘Oh. Sorry.’ She dropped her hand, her cheerful smile returning. ‘No worries.’

For some reason that didn’t make me feel any less irritated.

Trying to ignore my inexplicable annoyance, I turned away without another word, starting towards the entrance of the hotel and pushing her out of my mind.

The pretty, rich people in their glittering couture gowns and perfect tuxes were gathered around the doors and they all stared at me as I approached.

I scowled, staring them down in turn.

I didn’t miss their looks of disdain and the whispers, their glances at the limo and then at me in my jeans and black T-shirt, leather jacket thrown over the top. I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking that I couldn’t possibly belong in their rarefied circles. I wasn’t handsome enough, glittering enough, rich enough.

Poor bastards. They were in for one hell of a shock.

The thought mollified me and I was cheered still further by how they all rushed to get out of my way like antelopes before a lion as I strode for the door.

The impressive-looking doorman, though, was not an antelope and there was not a whiff of disdain from him. He gave me a nod and pulled open the door as soon as I approached, ushering me into the foyer with a simple, ‘Welcome to The Billionaires Club, Mr Evans.’

I hadn’t been expecting to be treated with respect and it took the wind out of my sails slightly.

The foyer was a huge space with an impressive staircase leading to the upper stories and a massive chandelier that dripped jewelled light into the vaulted space.

Directly in front of me was an ornate and obviously antique table with a huge spray of white orchids in a glass vase on top. The simplicity of the arrangement was in direct contrast to the chandelier and the table it sat on, and the floor of horrifically expensive Italian black marble. A few chaises longues were strategically placed for people to sit on, covered in luxuriously ostentatious gold silk.

The whole place reeked of money, the scent of the elite, the entitled, the privileged. The lucky, lucky few.

Of which I was now one, despite my father’s best efforts to keep me in my place, and my own half-brother’s betrayal.

Fuck you, old man. And fuck you too, Seb.

I smiled savagely at the thought.

There was a woman waiting for me beside the table, tall and slim, with long blonde hair and the kind of perfectly groomed appearance that only the very wealthy could achieve.

She ignored my smile, didn’t blink at my scars, simply held out a hand and said, ‘Mr Evans, welcome to The Billionaires Club. I’m Imogen Carmichael. Pleased to meet you.’ Her accent was American, east coast.

I took her hand, reining in my temper, because I could be pleasant when I wanted to be. ‘Likewise.’

She gave me a cool smile in return. ‘I’m glad you could make it to Paris to join us. Would you like a drink to start with or would you prefer it after the tour?’

‘After. Since I received precisely nothing in the way of information, I want to know how this place works.’

A flicker of genuine amusement crossed her classically lovely face. ‘That’s intentional. Part of the mystique, you understand.’

‘Of course. It’s also pretentious as hell.’

She laughed. ‘You’re direct. I like it. In fact, if I’m not much mistaken, you’ll fit right in.’ Stepping back, she gestured towards a grand set of double doors opposite the main entrance. ‘Right, I’ll show you to the ballroom. We’re in the middle of a burlesque gala event right now, which will give you a taste for the kinds of things we do.’

The club was as exclusive as it got, with a million-dollar membership fee per year. It was an extortionate amount, but I’d already figured out that membership could only benefit me. Evans Construction and Development, my property development firm, was going from strength to strength as it was, but the club would open doors when it came to growing Evans International, my luxury hotel chain. Especially when it came to stealing my half-brother’s business from him the way he’d once stolen mine from me.

As Imogen showed me into the ornate ballroom, with high ceilings and yet more chandeliers, I took a glance around, scanning the glittering crowd for any sign of Dumont or my other quarry, Delaney. Suspended above the crowd by a pair of red, silken ribbons, a woman clad in nothing more than jewelled bikini bottoms and nipple pasties performed a sensual aerial act. Music with a heavy beat played while both men and women in risqué jewelled costumes circulated with trays of drinks.

‘We hold gala events like this one all over the world and throughout the year,’ Imogen murmured. ‘And all the proceeds go to various nominated charities, as does fifty per cent of each member’s buy-in.’

‘Of course,’ I said, listening with only half an ear as I searched the crowd. ‘You must need the tax breaks.’

Imogen clearly heard the cynicism in my voice, because she raised a brow. ‘It’s all completely genuine, Mr Evans, I assure you. And most of our members help out by attending each event, though you can come and go as you wish. Right now, I’m in the middle of arranging the Christmas ball that will take place in New York, the money from which will also go to a very good cause.’

From the expression on her face she believed every word that she said, and maybe it was true. Maybe my cynicism had more to do with me than with her and this club.

Whatever. I wasn’t here to debate charity and privilege, or to hear about parties. I was here to find Delaney and my brother.

As if sensing my impatience, Imogen gestured to another door. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you something else.’

We went through into another area, a series of plush interconnecting rooms full of subtle lighting, clusters of deep, velvet-covered armchairs and low tables. People were sitting either in groups or pairs, talking intently in low voices. It was all brandy balloons and Scotch glasses, expensive cigar smoke in the air, and the scent of money, of big deals being done.

My favourite hunting terrain.

‘Our quiet area,’ Imogen said as we passed through. ‘Where members can relax and talk business or whatever else they might like.’

‘Sounds like my kind of place,’ I murmured, finally spotting Delaney sitting in a corner chatting to a group of people.

Good. He was here. Now to figure out where Dumont was.

We came back out into the entrance hall and Imogen gestured to the magnificent staircase that led up to the upper levels. ‘And up there are our intimate suites, if you want to take a look.’

I raised an eyebrow, curious. ‘Intimate suites?’

Imogen’s smile turned secretive. ‘The club provides for anything our members and their guests might need or want, and that includes some private spaces for blowing off a little steam.’

She didn’t need to elaborate, I got the idea. And I approved.

‘Now,’ Imogen went on. ‘That concludes the tour. You’re free to join the other members in the ballroom or adjourn to the bar, whichever takes your fancy.’

The bar, obviously, since Sebastian was not in the ballroom. Besides, although I was very much into pretty girls dancing while wearing not a lot, I wasn’t keen on the pointless posturing that was happening in the ballroom. Give a person a billion and they thought they were God’s fucking gift. Half those arseholes hadn’t had to work for what they had, not like I’d had to, and I wasn’t going to stand around pretending I was as good as the rest of them.

I was better. And I saw no need to pretend.

The bar was off the main ballroom and was just as gilded and ornate, with quite a few people gathered at the tables and sitting in the gold-velvet-covered booth seats that ran down one wall. Light glittered and dripped from the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, sparkling on jewelled necklaces and glinting off cufflinks. The low hum of voices filled the room along with the heavy beat from the ballroom.

People stared at me as I made my way to the bar and I let them look, enjoying the attention. Me, with my knife-fight scars, in my jeans and T-shirt amongst all the jewels and tuxes.

I didn’t need to imagine what they were thinking. I knew, since it was written all over their faces. They were thinking I didn’t belong. That I was scum from the streets, their reminder that, though they might be insulated from the hard cold realities of life by their wealth, hard cold reality was now also here amongst them.

It amused me. I also didn’t give a shit. They could think what they liked. I’d earned my place here and too bad if they didn’t like it.

Strolling up to the bar, enjoying the way the crowd rippled to give me space, I took another scan around before ordering a drink.

A pretty blonde in a red dress with diamonds sparkling around her neck sidled up to me smiling, her intent very clear.

She was just my type: rich, sophisticated and beautiful. Definitely the kind of woman who’d never let a guy like me, rough and blunt and scarred all to hell, touch her if I didn’t have a billion dollars in my bank account.

Definitely a potential cure for the burn of thwarted attraction and annoyance my little chauffeur had ignited inside me.

I bought her a drink and she put her hand on my chest, leaning in to whisper something filthy in my ear. And that was when I finally spotted him.

He was standing right down the other end, one elbow propped casually on the bar, his head bent to talk to a brunette in a tiny black dress.

A deep satisfaction pulsed through me.

Sebastian Fucking Dumont.

My half-brother and once my closest friend. We’d ruled the exclusive school my mother had forced my father to shell out for—the only money he’d ever given her for me—and we’d had plans. So many fucking plans.

Until he’d stolen those plans for himself.

They say you’re supposed to forgive and forget, but I wasn’t a forgiving kind of man. I never forgot a betrayal, either—and I hadn’t forgotten his.

His blue eyes—so like mine—widened as they saw me and I gave him a savage smile.

Yeah, you rich fuck. Here I am, despite what you did to me. Here, in your territory.

Shock gave way to anger, and he frowned. As I expected. He’d be wondering what I was doing here and why the club had let riff-raff like me into its elite halls. And then, no doubt, he’d be calling someone to have me thrown out for daring to gatecrash.

The bastard was in for a couple of big surprises. Especially when he eventually found out the islands he’d been angling for were already sold. To me.

I smiled wider and gave him a jaunty one-finger salute. I’m a member of your precious club, motherfucker, and what are you going to do about it?

He stiffened, turning away to say something to the brunette before pushing his way through the crowd towards me.

But I was done.

I’d showed my face. I’d proved my point.

Time to find Delaney and buy those fucking islands.

CHAPTER THREE

Ellie

I CHECKED THE rear-view mirror again to make sure the entrance to the fancy hotel Mr Evans had disappeared into was still clear and, again, it was.

I didn’t expect him to come back out so soon—not that I’d been given details of the event I’d dropped him off at—but I wanted to be ready when he did. Anything to make up for my little mistake earlier, when I’d attempted to defuse his mood by cheering him up.

I’d thought he looked apprehensive when he’d stared at the crowd outside the doors, so I’d given him a pat and a rousing ‘don’t let the bastards grind you down’ talk the way I did with Jason, my oldest brother, when he was racing and feeling nervous.

Not a great plan in hindsight, because Mr Evans was not my brother, nor had he been feeling nervous, apparently, given his grumpy response.

Which meant that now I needed to be on my best behaviour, especially if I was going to be broaching the topic of Australis with him.

I’d hoped I would have made a good enough impression by this point that I could ask him about it tonight, but maybe that was too soon, especially given his temper.

Now that I’d been given a taste of his fearsome reputation, it seemed as if he’d come by it honestly, and the curious part of me wanted to know why. Was he genuinely a grumpy bastard all the time or did he just not like people? Did it have something to do with his scars? Or was there something else going on?

My research hadn’t given me any clues since he never talked about his private life. There were all kinds of rumours about how he’d made his initial start-up money, but the general consensus was that he’d earned it in illegal street fights, which naturally the media ate up with a big spoon.

They had quite a fascination with him and now I’d met him, I could see why.

He was quite…magnetic.

I frowned out of the front windscreen, reflecting again on when and how I needed to approach the question of his Australis investment.

It was important I get this right, since there wouldn’t be another opportunity to get close to him and if I didn’t succeed, the company was more than likely going to tank.

If only Mark hadn’t been drunk at the Christmas party and thought I was fair game. And if only I hadn’t got angry when he’d grabbed me and kneed him in the balls.

But I had. I’d committed the cardinal sin of turning something minor into a big deal, and Mark had complained to Dad about ‘assault’ and talked about lawsuits. Dad had had no choice but to pay him off, thus losing the best designer we’d ever had, not to mention a large portion of the investment capital we’d been given by Evans Investment.

I’d then compounded my error by showing Dad a potential answer to our financial worries—the design for an electric supercar that I’d been working on for the past five years or so.

But he wasn’t interested. He’d already been disapproving of how I’d handled Mark and he liked my electric car suggestion even less. He was an internal combustion engine man all the way and ‘fancy, newfangled’ ideas had no place at Australis.

There’d been no point making a fuss so I’d quietly shelved the supercar project, turning to other ideas to fix our money problems instead.

Some days I wondered if he would have liked me more if I hadn’t been born the spitting image of my pretty, womanly, passionate mother. If I’d been born a boy instead.

Mum had died of cancer when I was seven and Dad had been destroyed by her loss. He hadn’t even been able to look at me in the days following her funeral, so I’d put away my pretty dresses and swallowed my grief, and tried to act like my brothers instead.