Billionaires: The Tycoon

CHAPTER TWO

AMBER’S FINGERS WERE trembling as she left the bank and little rivulets of sweat were trickling down over her hot cheeks. Impatiently brushing them aside, she stood stock-still outside the gleaming building while all around her busy City types made little tutting noises of irritation as they were forced to weave their way around her.

There had to be some kind of mistake. There had to be. She couldn’t believe that her father would be so cruel. Or so dictatorial. That he would have instructed that tight-lipped bank manager to inform her that all funds in her account had been frozen, and no more would be forthcoming. But her rather hysterical request that the bank manager stop freaking her out had been met with nothing but an ominous silence and now that she was outside, the truth hit her like a sledgehammer coming at her out of nowhere.

She was broke.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Part of her still didn’t want to believe it. Had the bank manager been secretly laughing at her when he’d handed over the formal-looking letter? She’d ripped it open and stared in horror as the words written by her father’s lawyer had wobbled before her eyes and a key phrase had jumped out at her, like a spectre.

Conall Devlin has been instructed to provide any assistance you may need.

Conall Devlin? She had literally shaken with rage. Conall Devlin, the brute who had stormed into her apartment yesterday and who was responsible for her current state of homelessness? She would sooner starve than ask him for assistance. She would talk her father round and he would listen to her. He always did.

But in the middle of her defiance came an overwhelming wave of panic and fear, which washed over her and made her feel as if she were drowning. It was the same feeling she used to get when her mother would suddenly announce that they were leaving a city, and all Amber’s hard-fought-for friends would soon become distant and then forgotten memories.

She mustn’t panic. She mustn’t.

Her fingers still shaking, Amber sheltered in a shop doorway and took out her cell phone. She rang her father’s number, but it went straight through to his personal assistant, Mary-Ellen, a woman who had never been her biggest fan and who didn’t bother hiding her disapproval when she heard Amber’s voice.

‘Amber. This is a surprise,’ she said archly.

‘Hello, Mary-Ellen.’ Amber drew in a deep breath. ‘I need to speak to my father—urgently. Is he there?’

‘I’m afraid he’s not.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back or where I can get hold of him?’

There was a pause and Amber wondered if she was being paranoid, or whether it sounded like a very deliberate pause.

‘I’m afraid it isn’t quite as easy as that. He’s gone to an ashram in India.’

Amber gave a snort of disbelief and a passing businessman shot her a funny look. ‘My father? Gone to an ashram? To do yoga and eat vegan food? Is this some kind of joke, Mary-Ellen?’

‘No, it is not a joke,’ said Mary-Ellen crisply. ‘He’s been trying to get hold of you for weeks. He’s left a lawyer’s letter with the bank—did you get it?’

Amber thought about the screwed-up piece of paper currently reposing with several sticks of chewing gum and various lipsticks at the bottom of her handbag. ‘Yes, I got it.’

‘Then I suggest you follow his advice and speak to Conall Devlin. All his contact details are there. Conall is the man who’ll be able to help you in your father’s absence. He’s—’

With a howl of rage, Amber cut the connection and slung her phone back into her bag, before starting to walk—not knowing nor caring which direction she was taking. She didn’t want Conall Devlin to help her! What was it with him that suddenly his name was on everyone’s lips as if he were some kind of god? And what was it with her that she was behaving like some kind of helpless victim, just because a few obstacles had been put in her way?

Worse things than this had happened to her, she reminded herself. She’d survived a nightmare childhood, hadn’t she? And even when she’d got through that, the problems hadn’t stopped coming. She wiped a trickle of sweat away from her forehead. But those kinds of thoughts wouldn’t help her now. She needed to think clearly. She needed to go back to the apartment to work out some kind of coping strategy until she could get hold of her father. And she would get hold of him. Somehow she would track him down—even if she had to hitchhike to the wretched ashram in order to do so. She would appeal to his better judgement and the sense of guilt which had never quite left him for kicking her and her mother out onto the street. Surely he wasn’t planning to do that for a second time? And surely he hadn’t really frozen her funds? But in the meantime...

She caught the Tube and got out near her apartment, stopping off at the nearest shop to buy some provisions since her rumbling stomach was reminding her that she’d had nothing to eat that morning. But after putting a whole stack of shopping and a pack of cigarettes through the till, she had the humiliation of seeing the machine decline her card. There was an audible sigh of irritation from the man in the queue behind her and she saw one woman nudging her friend as they moved closer as if anticipating some sort of scene.

‘There must be some kind of mistake,’ Amber mumbled, her face growing scarlet. ‘I shop in here all the time—you must remember me? I can bring the money along later.’

But as the embarrassed shop assistant shook her head, she told Amber that it was company policy never to accept credit. And as she rang the bell underneath her till deep down Amber knew there had been no mistake. Her father really had done it. He’d frozen her funds just as the bank manager had told her.

She thought about her refrigerator at home and its meagre contents. There was plenty of champagne but little else—a tub of Greek yoghurt, which was probably growing a forest of mould by now, a bag of oranges and those soggy chocolate biscuits which were past their sell-by date. Her cheeks growing even hotter, Amber scrabbled around in her purse for some spare change and found nothing but a solitary, crumpled note.

‘I’ll just take the cigarettes,’ she croaked, handing over the note but not quite daring to meet the eyes of the assistant as she scuttled from the shop.

The trouble was that these days everyone glared at you if you dared smoke a cigarette and Amber was forced to wait until she reached home before she could light up. Whatever happened to personal freedom? she wondered as she slammed the front door behind her and fumbled around for her lighter with shaking hands. She thought about the way Conall Devlin had snatched the cigarette from her lips yesterday and a feeling of fury washed over her.

On a whim, she tapped out a text to her half-brother, Rafe, as she tried to remember what time it was in Australia.

What do you know about a man called Conall Devlin?

Considering they hadn’t been in contact for well over a year, Amber was surprised and pleased when Rafe’s reply came winging back almost immediately.

Best mate at school. Why?

So that was why the name had rung a distant bell and why Conall’s midnight-blue eyes had bored into her when he’d said it. Rafe was eleven years older than her and had left home by the time she’d moved back into their father’s house as a mixed-up fourteen-year-old. But—come to think of it—hadn’t her father mentioned some Irish whizz-kid on the payroll who’d dragged himself up from the gutter? Was Conall Devlin the one he’d been talking about?

She wanted to ask him more, but Rafe was probably lying on some golden beach somewhere, sipping champagne and surrounded by gorgeous women. Did she inform him she was soon to be homeless and that the Irishman had threatened to have the locks changed? Would he even believe her version of the story if he and Conall Devlin had been best mates?

There was a ping as another text arrived.

And why are you texting me at midnight?

Amber bit her lip. Was there really any point in grumbling to a man who was thousands of miles away? What was she expecting him to do—transfer money to her account? Because something told her he wouldn’t do it, despite the fortune Rafe had built up for himself on the other side of the world. Her half-brother had been one of the people who were always nagging her to get a proper job. Wasn’t that one of the reasons why she’d allowed herself to lose touch with him—because he told her things she preferred not hear?

Her fingers wavered over the touchpad.

Just wanted to say hi.

Hi to you, too! Nice to hear from you. Let’s talk soon. X

Amber’s eyes inexplicably began to fill with tears as she tapped out her reply: Okay. X.

It was the only good thing which had happened to her all day but the momentary glow of contentment it gave her didn’t last long. Amber sat on the floor disconsolately finishing her cigarette and then began to shiver. How could her father have gone away to India and left her in this predicament?

She thought about what everyone was saying and the different alternatives which lay open to her, realising there weren’t actually that many. She could throw herself on people’s mercy and ask to sleep on their sofas, but for how long? And she couldn’t even do that without enough money to offer towards household expenses. Everyone would start to look at her in a funny way if she didn’t contribute to food and stuff. And if she couldn’t buy her very expensive round in the nightclubs they tended to frequent, then everyone would start to gossip—because in the kind of circles she mixed in, being broke was social death.

She stared down at the diamond watch glittering at her wrist, an eighteenth-birthday present intended to console her during a particularly low point in her life. It hadn’t, of course. It had been one of many lessons she’d learnt along the way. It didn’t matter how many jewels you wore, their cold beauty was powerless to fill the empty holes which punctured your soul...

She thought about going to a pawnbroker and wondered if such places still existed, but something told her she would get a desultory price for the watch. Because people who tried to raise money against jewellery were vulnerable and she knew better than anyone that the vulnerable were there to be taken advantage of.

The sweat of earlier had dried on her skin and her teeth began to chatter loudly. Amber remembered her father’s letter and the words of Mary-Ellen, his assistant. Speak to Conall Devlin. And even though every instinct she possessed was warning her to steer clear of the trumped-up Irishman, she suspected she had no choice but to turn to him.

She stared down at her creased clothes.

She licked her lips with a feeling of instinctive fear. She didn’t like men. She didn’t trust them, and with good reason. But she knew their weaknesses. Her mother hadn’t taught her much, but she’d drummed in the fact that men were always susceptible to a woman who looked at them helplessly.

Fired up by a sudden sense of purpose, Amber went into her en-suite bathroom and took a long shower. And then she dressed with more care than she’d used in a long time.

She remembered the disdainful look on Conall Devlin’s face when he’d told her that he didn’t get turned on by women who smoked and flaunted their bodies. And she remembered the contemptuous expression in his navy-blue eyes as he’d said that. So she fished out a navy-blue dress which she’d only ever worn to failed job interviews, put on minimal make-up and twisted her black hair back into a smooth and demure chignon. Stepping back from the mirror, Amber hardly recognised the image which stared back at her. Why, she could almost pose as a body double for Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music!

* * *

Conall Devlin’s offices were tucked away in a surprisingly picturesque and quiet street in Kensington, which was lined with cherry trees. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but it certainly hadn’t been a restored period building whose outward serenity belied the unmistakable buzz of success she encountered the moment she stepped inside.

The entrance hall had a soaringly high ceiling, with quirky chandeliers and a curving staircase which swept up from the chequered marble floor. A transparent desk sat in front of a modern painting of a woman caressing the neck of a goat. Beside it was a huge canvas with a glittery image of Marilyn Monroe, which Amber recognised instantly. She felt a little stab at her heart. Everything in the place seemed achingly cool and trendy, and suddenly she felt like a fish out of water in her frumpy navy dress and stark hairstyle. A fact which wasn’t helped by the lofty blonde receptionist in a monochrome minidress who looked up from behind the Perspex desk and smiled at Amber in a friendly way.

‘Hi! Can I help you?’

‘I want to see Conall Devlin.’ The words came out more clumsily than Amber had intended and the blonde looked a little taken aback.

‘I’m afraid Conall is tied up for most of the day,’ she said, her smile a little less bright than before. ‘You don’t have an appointment?’

Amber could feel a rush of emotions flooding through her, but the most prominent of them all was a sensation of being less than. As if she had no right to be here. As if she had no right to be anywhere. She found herself wondering what on earth she was doing in her frumpy dress when this sunny-looking creature looked as if she’d just strayed in from a land of milk and honey, but it was too late to do anything about it now. She put her bag down on one of the modern chairs which looked more like works of art than objects designed for sitting on, and shot the receptionist a defiant look.

‘Not a formal appointment, no. But I need to see him—urgently—so I’ll just sit here and wait, if you don’t mind.’

The smile now nothing but a memory, a faint frown creased the blonde’s brow. ‘It might be better if you came back later,’ she said carefully.

Amber thought of Conall walking into her apartment without knocking. About the smug look on his face as he’d held up the key and warned her that she had four weeks to get out. She was the sister of his best friend from school, for heaven’s sake—surely he could find it in his hard heart to show her a modicum of kindness?

She sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

‘I’m not going anywhere. I need to see him and it’s urgent, so I’ll wait. But please don’t worry—I’ve got all day.’ And with that she picked up one of the glossy magazines which were adorning the low table and pretended to read it.

She was aware that the blonde had begun tapping away on her computer, probably sending Conall an email, since she could hardly call him and tell him that a strange woman was currently occupying the reception area and refusing to move—not when she was within earshot.

Sure enough, she heard the sound of a door opening on the floor above and then someone walking down the sweeping staircase. Amber heard his steps grow closer and closer but she didn’t glance up from the magazine until she was aware that someone was coming towards her. And when she could no longer restrain herself, she looked up.