Billionaires: The Tycoon

CHAPTER FOUR

‘I’M SO SORRY!’ Quickly, Amber mopped up the spilled champagne and edged away from the table as the customer looked at her with those piggy little eyes which had been trailing her movements all evening. ‘I’ll get you another drink right away.’

‘Why don’t you sit down and join me instead?’ He leered, patting the seat beside him with a podgy hand. ‘And we’ll forget about the drink.’

Amber shook her head and tried to hide her ever-present sense of revulsion. ‘I’m not supposed to mix with the customers,’ she said, grabbing her tray and heading towards the bar on feet which were far from steady. She was used to wearing high heels, but these stilt-like red shoes were so gravity defying that walking in them took every ounce of concentration and it wasn’t helped by the rest of the club ‘uniform’. Her black satin dress was so tight she could scarcely breathe and meanwhile the heavy throb of the background music was giving her a headache.

And judging by the look on her manager’s face, the drink spillage hadn’t gone unnoticed. Behind her smile Amber gritted her teeth, wondering if she’d taken leave of her senses when she’d stormed out of Conall’s office telling him she didn’t want his job. Had she really thought the world would be at her feet, waiting to dole out wonderful opportunities by way of compensation? Because life wasn’t like that. She’d quickly discovered that a CV riddled with holes and zero qualifications brought you few opportunities and the only work available was in places like this—an underlit hotel nightclub where nobody looked happy.

‘That’s the third drink you’ve spilled this week!’ The manager’s voice quivered indignantly as Amber grew closer. ‘Where did you learn to be so clumsy?’

‘I...I moved a bit too quickly. I thought he was going to pinch my bottom,’ babbled Amber.

‘And? What’s the matter with that?’ The manager glared. ‘Isn’t it nice to have a man show his appreciation towards an attractive woman? Why else do you think we dress you up like that? Well, you’ll have the cost of the drink taken from your wages, Amber. Now go and fetch him another one and, for goodness’ sake, try and be a bit friendlier this time.’

Amber could feel her heart thudding as the bartender put a fresh glass of fizzy wine masquerading as champagne on her tray and she began to walk back towards the man with piggy eyes. Just put the drink down carefully and then leave, she told herself. But as she bent down in front of him, he reached out to curve his fat fingers around her fishnet-covered thigh and she froze.

‘What...what are you doing?’ she croaked.

‘Oh, come on.’ He leered at her again. ‘No need to be like that. With legs like that it’s a crime not to touch them—and you look like you could do with a square meal. So how about we go up to my room after you finish? You can order something from room service and we can—’

‘How about you get your filthy hand off her right now, before I knock you into kingdom come?’ came a low and furious voice from behind her, which Amber recognised instantly.

The podgy hand fell away and Amber turned around to see Conall standing there—his rugged face a study in fury and his powerful body radiating adrenaline as he dominated the space around him. The lurch of trepidation she felt at his unexpected appearance was quickly overridden by the disturbing realisation that she’d never been so glad to see someone in her whole life. He looked so strong. So powerful. He made every other man in the room look weak and insubstantial. Her heart began to pound and she felt her mouth grow dry.

‘Conall!’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, I certainly haven’t come here for a quiet drink. I tend to be a little more discerning in my choice of venue.’ Raising his voice against the loud throb of music, he glanced around at the other cocktail waitresses with a shudder of distaste he didn’t bother to hide. ‘Get your coat, Amber. We’re leaving.’

‘I can’t leave. I’m working.’

‘Not here, you aren’t. Not any more. And the subject isn’t up for discussion, so save your breath. Either you come willingly, or I pick you up and carry you out of here in a fireman’s lift. The choice,’ he finished grimly, ‘is yours.’

Amber wondered if there was something wrong with her—there must be—because why else would the thought of the Irishman putting her over his shoulder make her heart race even harder than it was already? She could see her manager saying something to a burly-looking man who was standing beside the bar, and as the music continued its relentless beat she began to dread some awful scene. What if Conall got into a fight with Security—with fists and glasses flying?

‘I’ll get my coat,’ she said.

‘Do it,’ he bit out impatiently. ‘And hurry up. This place is making my skin crawl.’

She headed for the changing room—relieved to strip off the minuscule satin dress and fishnet tights and kick the scarlet shoes from her aching feet. Her skin was clammy and briefly she splashed her face with cold water, dabbing herself dry with a paper towel before slithering into jeans and a sweater. Her heart was racing when she reappeared in the club—thankful to find Conall still standing there, with the bar manager handing over what looked like a wad of cash, with a sour expression on her face.

‘Let’s go,’ he said as she approached.

‘Conall—’

‘Not now, Amber,’ he snapped. ‘I really don’t want to have a conversation with you here, in earshot of all this low life.’

His expression was resolute and his determination undeniable—so what choice did she have but to follow him through the weaving basement corridors of the hotel until they found the elevator which took them to the main lobby?

They emerged into the dark crispness of a clear spring night and Amber sucked in a lungful of clean air as a chauffeur-driven car purred to a halt beside the kerb.

‘Get in,’ said Conall and she wondered if he’d spent his whole life barking out orders like that.

But she did as he asked and a feeling of being cocooned washed over her the moment she climbed onto the back seat, because this level of luxury was reassuringly familiar. A luxury she’d been able to count on before Conall and her father had conspired to take it away from her. She glanced over at his hard profile as he got into the car beside her, and her temporary gratitude began to dissolve into a feeling of resentment.

‘How did you find me?’ she demanded as the powerful engine began to purr into life.

He turned to look at her and, despite the dim light of the car’s interior, the angry glitter in his eyes was unmistakable. ‘I had one of my people keep track of you.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think? Because you’re so damned irresistible I couldn’t keep away from you? I hoped I might be able to tell your father how well you were doing following your dramatic exit from my office.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Some hope. I should have guessed that you’d head for the tackiest venue in town in search of some easy money.’

‘So why bother coming to look for me if you’d already written me off as useless?’ she flared.

Conall didn’t answer straight away, because his own motives were still giving him cause for concern. He’d been worried about her ability to adapt to a hard world without the cushion of her wealth—yes. And he’d heard stuff about the club where she was working which made him feel uneasy. Yes. That, too. But there had been something more—something which wasn’t quite so easy to quantify—which had nothing to do with his moral debt to her father. Hadn’t there been a part of him which had admired the way she’d flounced out of his office? And he didn’t just mean the pleasure of watching the magnificent sway of her curvy bottom as she’d done so. The way she’d turned down his offer of a job with a flash of defiance in those emerald eyes had made him think that maybe there was a strong streak of pride hidden beneath her wilful surface. He’d imagined her scrubbing floors, doing anything rather than having to work for him, and he couldn’t deny that the idea had appealed to him.

He had been wrong, of course. She had gone for the easy solution. The quick fix. She’d seized the first opportunity to shoehorn her magnificent body into a dress which left very little to the imagination and work in a place which attracted nothing but low life. Clearing his throat, he tried to wipe from his mind the memory of those magnificent breasts spilling over the top of the tight satin gown, but the hard aching in his groin was proving more stubborn to control.

‘I felt a certain responsibility towards you.’

‘Because of my father?’

‘Of course. Why else?’

‘Another of Daddy’s yes-men,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Oh, I’m nobody’s yes-man, Amber. Be very clear about that.’ His voice sounded steely. ‘And ask yourself what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up when I had. Or have I got it all wrong? Maybe you liked that creep pawing your thigh like that? Maybe you couldn’t wait to get back to his room for him to give you a “square meal”.’

‘Of course I didn’t! He was a complete creep. They all were.’

He shook his head in exasperation. ‘So why the hell couldn’t you have taken a normal job? Worked in a shop? Or a café?’

‘Because shops and cafés don’t provide accommodation! And the club said if I worked a successful month’s trial, then I could have one of the staff rooms in the hotel! Which would have coincided neatly with me being evicted from my apartment.’ She glared at him. ‘And I don’t know why you’re suddenly trying to sound like the voice of concern when it’s your fault I’m going to be homeless.’

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘I can’t believe you’d be so naïve. You must realise how these places operate.’

‘I’ve been to more nightclubs than you’ve had hot dinners!’ she retorted.

‘I don’t doubt it—but you went there as a rich and valued customer, not a member of staff! Places like that exploit beautiful women. They expect you to earn your bonuses—in a way which is usually some variation of lying flat on your back. Haven’t you ever heard the expression that there’s no such thing as a free lunch?’

The way she was biting on her lip told him that maybe she wasn’t as sophisticated as her foxy appearance suggested, or maybe her wealth had always ensured that she’d frequented a classier kind of club, up until now. Unwillingly, he let his gaze drift over her and once he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Her black hair was spilling down over the shoulders of her raincoat and her green eyes were heavy with make-up. The fading scarlet streak of her lipstick matched those killer heels she’d been wearing when he’d watched her sashaying across the bar, making him have the sort of unwanted erotic thoughts which involved having her ankles wrapped very tightly around his neck. Hell, it would be easy to have those kinds of thoughts even now—even when she was bundled up in an all-concealing raincoat.

He tapped his fingers against one taut thigh. It would be better to wash his hands of her. To tell Ambrose that she was pretty much a lost cause and maybe he would just have to accept that and let her carry on with an open chequebook and a life of pure indulgence.

But as the car passed a lamp post and the light splashed over her face, he noticed for the first time the dark shadows beneath her long-lashed eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t had a lot of sleep lately—and she’d lost weight. Her cheekbones were shockingly prominent in her porcelain skin and the belted raincoat drew definition to the narrowness of her waist. She looked as if a puff of wind might blow her away. As if on cue, her stomach began to rumble and he frowned.

‘When did you last eat?’

Her expression was mulish. ‘What do you care?’

‘Stop being so damned stubborn and just answer the question, Amber,’ he growled.

She shrugged. ‘At the club they advised you not to eat for at least four hours before your shift. Actually, it was pretty sound advice because it seemed to be club policy to give you a uniform dress which was at least one size too small.’

‘And do you have food back in your apartment?’

‘Not much,’ she admitted.

‘Spent it all on cigarettes, I suppose?’ he accused.

She didn’t correct him as he leaned forward to tap the glass panel which divided them from the chauffeur and the panel slid open.

‘Take us to my club,’ he commanded.

‘Conall, I’m tired,’ she objected. ‘And I want to go home.’

‘Tough. You can sleep afterwards. You need to eat something.’

He didn’t say anything more until the car drew up outside the floodlit classical building a short distance from Piccadilly Circus. A uniformed porter sprang forward to open the car door to let her get out and Conall felt a stab of something he couldn’t decipher as he followed her sexy sway as she made her way up the marble steps. As she handed over her raincoat he thought he saw her shiver and he took his own cashmere scarf and wound it around her neck, leaving the ends to dangle concealingly in front of her magnificent breasts.

‘Better wear this,’ he said drily. But it was more for his benefit than any attempt to conform to the club’s rather outdated dress code. This way he wouldn’t have to look at the pinpoint tips of her nipples thrusting their way towards him from beneath her sweater and making him imagine what it would be like to lock his lips around each one in turn.

It was very late, but they were shown into the long room known as the North Library which overlooked Pall Mall, where a table was quickly laid up for them. Conall ordered soup and sandwiches for Amber and a brandy for himself. He watched in silence as she devoured the comfort food with the undivided attention of someone who was genuinely hungry and, for the first time that evening, he began to relax.

He sipped his drink. Outside the busy city was slowing down. He could see the yellow lights of vacant cabs and the unsteady weave of people making their way home, while in here all was ordered and calm. It always was. It was one of the main reasons why he’d joined, because it had an air of stability which had always attracted him.

Antique chandeliers hung from the corniced ceiling and at one end of the room was a polished grand piano. Despite its traditional air, it was a club for movers and shakers—the kind of place to which few were granted entry because the membership requirements were so high. But there had been no shortage of proposers keen to get him onto the members’ list and Conall had defied the odds brought about by youthful misdemeanour. He’d been proposed by a government minister and seconded by a peer of the realm and that fact in itself still had the ability to make him smile wryly. Whoever would have thought that the boy who had been born with so little would end up here, with the great and the good?

He signalled for a fire to be lit and then watched as Amber dabbed at her lips with a heavy linen napkin. Now that the edge had been taken off her hunger, she relaxed back into the leather armchair and began to look around—like a rescued kitten which had been brought from the cold into the warmth. He wondered what the waiter who came to remove her plate must think, because he didn’t usually bring women here, to this essentially male enclave—where deals were done over dinner and alliances formed over summer drinks taken outside on the pretty terrace. On the rare occasions he’d brought a date, they hadn’t been dressed in skinny jeans and a sweater, like Amber Carter. They had worn subtle silk, with shoes the same colour as their handbags and make-up which was soft and discreet—not laden on so thickly that from a distance she appeared to have two black eyes.

And yet not one of them had made him feel a fraction of the desire which was currently pulsing through his blood and making him achingly aware of his erection.

‘So,’ he said heavily, putting his glass down on the table and raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was a stern expression. ‘I think you’ve just proved fairly conclusively that independence is not an option— unless you want to take another job like that. The question is whether or not you’re finally ready to knuckle down and see sense.’

Amber didn’t answer straight away, even though he was firing that impatient look at her. She felt much better after the food she’d just eaten, no doubt about it—but just as one hunger had been satisfied, so another had been awoken and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

It wasn’t just the unexpectedness of seeing Conall Devlin in this famous London club—which, quite frankly, was the last place she’d ever imagined finding someone like him. And it wasn’t just the fact that he currently resembled the human equivalent of a jungle cat—a dark and potentially dangerous predator who had temporarily taken refuge in one of the beautifully worn leather chairs. No, it was more than that. It was the subtly pervasive scent of him invading her nostrils, which was coming from the soft scarf he’d draped around her neck. And hadn’t she felt a whisper of pleasure when his fingertips had brushed against her skin, even though it had been the most innocent of touches? Hadn’t it made her want more, even though experience had taught her that she always froze into a block of ice whenever a man came close?

She looked into the gleam of his eyes. ‘By seeing sense, I presume you mean I should do exactly what you say?’

‘Well, you could give it a try,’ he said drily. ‘Since we’ve seen what happens when you do the opposite.’

‘But I don’t know exactly what it is you’re offering me, Conall.’

Conall stiffened. Was he imagining the provocative flash of her eyes—or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Was she aware that when she looked at him that way, his veins were pulsing with a hot, hard hunger and he could think of only one way of relieving it? She must be. Women like her ate men like him for breakfast.

He needed to pull himself together, before she got an inkling of the erotic thoughts which were clogging up his mind and started using her sexual power to manipulate him. ‘I’m offering you a role as an interpreter.’

‘Not interested,’ she said instantly, with an emphatic shake of her head. ‘I’m not sitting in some claustrophobic booth all day with a pair of headphones on, while someone jabbers on and on in my ear about something boring—like grain quotas in the European Union.’

Conall failed to hide his smile. ‘I think you’ll find my proposal is a little more glamorous than that,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

She had perked up now and his smile died. Of course she had. Glamour was her lifeblood, wasn’t it?

‘I’m having a party,’ he said.

‘What kind of party?’

He picked up his brandy glass and took a sip. ‘A party ostensibly to celebrate the completion of my country house. There will be music, and dancing—but I’m also hoping to use the opportunity to sell a painting for someone who badly needs the money.’

‘I thought you’d decided that, with my lack of experience, I would be useless when it came to selling paintings.’

‘I’m not expecting you to sell the paintings,’ he said. ‘I just want you to be there as a sort of linguistic arm candy.’

‘What do you mean?’

He hesitated, wondering if her father would approve of the offer he was about to make to her. It would probably be more sensible to give her a lowly back-room job somewhere in his organisation— preferably as far away from him as possible. But Conall could see now that it would be as ineffective as trying to pass fish paste off as caviar, because Amber Carter wasn’t a back-room kind of woman. No way could someone like her ever fade into the background. So why not capitalise on the gifts she did have?

‘The painting in question is one of a pair,’ he said. ‘Two studies of the same woman by a man called Kristjan Wheeler—a contemporary of Picasso and an artist whose worth has increased enormously over the last decade. Both pictures went missing in the middle of the last century and only one has ever been found. That is the one I am trying to sell on behalf of my client, and...’

She looked at him as his words tailed away. ‘And?’

‘I believe the man who wants to buy the painting is in possession of the missing picture. Which means that the one I’m selling is part of a set, and naturally that makes it much more valuable.’

‘Can’t you just ask him outright whether he’s got it?’

He gave the flicker of a smile. ‘That’s not how negotiation works, Amber—and especially not with a man like this.’ He watched her closely. ‘You see, the prospective buyer is a prince.’

‘A prince?’

Conall watched as she sat bolt upright, her fingers tightening around her glass. Her lips had parted and he could see the moist gleam of her tongue. He thought she looked like a starving dog which had been allowed to roam freely around a kitchen and a quiver of distaste ran through him. He took another sip of his brandy. Had he really thought that the chemistry which sizzled between them was unique? Or was he naïvely pretending that she wasn’t like this with every man she came across, and the higher that man’s status and the fatter his wallet, the better?

And yet surely that would make her perfect for what he had in mind—didn’t they say that Luciano of Mardovia had a roving eye where women were concerned?

‘That’s right,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I want you to come to the party and be nice to him.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘How nice?’

The inference behind her question was clear and Conall felt a wave of disgust wash over him. ‘I’m not expecting you to have sex with him,’ he snapped. ‘Just chat to him. Dance with him. Charm him. I shouldn’t imagine you would find any of that difficult, given your track record. He will be accompanied by at least two of his aides and he will converse with them in any language except English. Just like you he speaks Italian, Greek and French and he certainly won’t be expecting a woman like you to be fluent in all three.’