Billionaires: The Tycoon
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Amber looked at him, genuinely confused. ‘Why would you even consider kissing me if you didn’t want to?’
He laughed, but his laugh contained something dark and unknown and Amber felt as if she were a non-swimmer paddling on the edge of the shore, not noticing the powerful tug of the undercurrent edging towards her.
‘Because you’re not my kind of woman and because I am, in effect, your employer.’ His voice dipped to a silken whisper. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.’
His unmistakable passion mixed with the complexity of her own feelings filled Amber with a sudden sense of power and she tilted her chin to look at him defiantly. ‘Well, if you really want to kiss me that badly, why don’t you just go ahead and do it?’
‘I don’t kiss women who smoke.’
There was a pause. ‘But I haven’t had a cigarette since that day I came to your office.’
‘You haven’t?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
Should she tell him the truth? Because he’d told her she smelt disgusting and had made her feel dirty. But mainly because she’d wanted to show him she could. Somehow Conall Devlin had succeeded where two very expensive hypnotherapy courses had failed, and she’d quit smoking without a single craving.
‘Because I am at heart a very obedient woman.’ Shamelessly she batted her eyelashes at him. ‘Didn’t you know that?’
It was provocation pure and simple and Conall felt something inside him snap, like a piece of elastic which had been stretched beyond endurance. He heard the roar of blood in his ears and felt the jerk of an erection pushing hard against his jeans as he found himself pulling her into his arms and breathing in her warmth.
‘The only thing I know is that you are a stubborn and defiant woman who has tested me beyond endurance,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘And maybe this has been inevitable all along.’
She stared into his eyes. ‘You’re going to put me across your lap and smack my bottom?’
‘Is that what you’d like? Maybe later. But not right now. Right now I’m going to kiss you—but be warned that this is going to spoil you for anyone else. Are you prepared for that, Amber? That every man who kisses you after this is going to make you remember me and ache for me?’
‘You are so arrogant,’ she accused.
But her lips were parting and Conall knew she wanted this just as much as him. Maybe more—for he caught a flash of hunger in her darkening eyes. Sliding one hand around her waist while the other cushioned her still-damp hair, he lowered his mouth onto hers. And didn’t part of him want her to have lied to him—to discover the stale odour of tobacco on those soft lips so that he could pull away in disgust?
But she hadn’t lied. She tasted of peppermint and she smelt of daisies and the way she melted into his body was like throwing a match onto a pile of bone-dry timber. He groaned as he felt the stony stud of her nipples pressing against him and he reached down to cup one between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying the way she squirmed beneath his touch and whispered his name. He was so hard that he was afraid that his jeans might rip open all by themselves and, with something which sounded like a roar, he pushed her against the open door, so that it rocked crazily beneath the sudden urgent force of their bodies.
They kissed as if they’d just discovered how to kiss. Her arms were reaching up to his shoulders, as if she was trying to stop herself from sliding to the ground, and as Conall nudged his thigh between hers he was tempted to do just that. To lay her down on the hard floorboards and rip off their clothes and just take her, as he had been wanting to for days. Because if he did that—wouldn’t he rid his blood of this fever so that he could just forget her? His hand cupped her breast and she gasped, drawing in a shuddering breath as he bent his head and grazed his teeth against the nipple which was hard against her damp silk shirt.
‘C-Conall,’ she gasped.
‘I know,’ he ground out as desire shot through him in a potent stream. ‘Good, isn’t it?’ With his middle finger, he rubbed along the seam of her jeans at the crotch and he could feel her heat searing through the thick denim as she wriggled her hips in silent invitation.
The scent of sex and of desire was as potent as any perfume and he groped his hand downwards, reaching for his belt. He tugged it open and was just about to undo the top button of his jeans when some sharp splinter of sanity lanced into his thoughts and reality hit him like a slug to the jaw. He dragged his lips away, his eyes focusing and then refocusing as he stared at her and took a step back. Her shirt was half-open and her magnificent breasts were rising and falling as she struggled to control her breathing. Her black hair was plastered to her head, her eyes streaked with mascara from the rain and her lips were rosy-pink and trembling. He wondered what part of teaching her how to try to be a better person this fell under and a wave of self-disgust shot through him as he thought of what he’d just done. And what he’d been tempted to do...
Since when did he violate another man’s trust in him, when he knew all too well how painful the consequences of shattered trust could be?
And since when did he lose control like that?
‘Is something...wrong?’ she questioned.
But he didn’t answer. He was too angry with himself to even try. Did she put out like that for everyone? he wondered furiously. Was he just one in a long line of men she indiscriminately chose to satisfy her sexual needs? He took another step away from her, even though every sinew of his body was screaming out its protest. And yes, at that moment he would have traded his entire fortune to slide her panties down her legs and unzip himself and take her, but some last shred of reason stopped him as he reminded himself of the stark reality. That she was everything he’d spent his life trying to avoid and that wasn’t about to change any time soon.
It was difficult to speak when all he could think about was thrusting deep into her and losing himself inside her. Difficult to regain control when his heart was racing so hard that it hurt, but Conall had learnt many lessons in his life and masking his temper had been right at the top of the list. He hid it now, replacing it with a silky reason which was always effective.
‘Oh, Amber.’ Slowly he shook his head. ‘Where did you learn to look at a man like that and make him want to go against everything he believes in?’
Her expression was dazed but for once she wasn’t flying back at him with one of her smart comments and that pleased him, for it gave him back the power which had momentarily deserted him.
‘Judging by the look on your face and your body language, I imagine you must be greedily anticipating the next time,’ he continued, struggling to control his ragged breathing. ‘But I’m afraid there isn’t going to be one. Because that was something which should never have happened. Do you understand what I’m saying, Amber? From now on we’re going to stick to business and only business—so be downstairs at the time I told you so that I can brief you before the Prince arrives.’ His mouth hardened into a grim and resolute line. ‘And we’ll both forget this ever happened.’
CHAPTER SIX
AMBER’S HANDS WERE trembling as she shut the door on Conall and tried to block out the sounds of his retreating footsteps—but it wasn’t so easy to blot out the mocking words which still echoed around her head.
Forget it had ever happened?
Was he out of his mind?
Her fingers strayed to lips which felt as if they were on fire—as if he’d branded them with that hot and hungry kiss. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes. He’d done things to her she shouldn’t have allowed him to do. He’d touched her breasts and put his hand in between her legs but instead of feeling outrage or disgust—or even her habitual freezing fear—she had embraced every moment of it. It had been the most erotic thing which had ever happened to her until he had ended it so abruptly. His belt undone, he had pulled away from her with disgust darkening his eyes, his accusatory words making her sound like some sort of predator—as if she were using all her wiles to lure him into her bed. Oh, the irony.
Walking over to the window, she stared out over the beautiful green parkland and thought about the way she’d responded to him. How infuriating that a desire which had eluded her all these years had been awoken by a man who made no secret of despising her. Who had looked at her as if she were something he’d discovered in a dark corner of a room and wished he hadn’t. And his rejection had hurt. Of course it had—especially coming so fast on the heels of the nice things he’d said about her painting.
What mattered now was how she reacted to it. Why take all the responsibility for something he had started? Why not show Conall Devlin just what she was capable of? Show him that she was not going to become some simpering fangirl, but do what she had been brought down here to do.
Quickly she unpacked her case and took a shower—and afterwards studied the couple of dresses she’d brought with her, realising that Conall had only ever seen her in a series of unflattering outfits. She brushed her fingertips over the soft fabrics, unsure which one to pick. The scarlet was more show-stopping and did wonders for her silhouette—but something stopped her from choosing it. Instead she pulled the ivory silk chiffon from one of the hangers and gave a small smile. She might have rejected most of the rules of her upbringing, but she could still remember what they were. That less was more and quality counted—especially if you were dealing with a royal prince.
By six-thirty, and feeling more confident, she was swishing her way down the sweeping staircase into the entrance hall, where the buckets of flowers had been transformed into lavish displays. She could see Conall deep in conversation on his cell phone, but he raised his bent head as Amber reached the bottom of the stairs. His eyes narrowed and she felt a beat of satisfaction as she registered his expression. He looked amazed. As if she’d grown a pair of wings in the time it had taken her to get ready and come downstairs. Suddenly she was glad that she’d opted for no jewellery other than a discreet pair of pearl studs at her ears and that her newly washed hair fell simply down over her shoulders.
‘Hi, Conall,’ she said. ‘I do hope I’m appropriately dressed to meet this royal guest of yours.’
Conall didn’t often find himself lost for words but right now it was a struggle to know what to say. A raw and visceral reaction began to pound its way through his body as Amber came downstairs. He stared at her with a mixture of anger and desire, feeling his groin begin to inevitably harden beneath the material of his suit trousers. How the hell did she manage to make him feel this way—every damned time? As if he would die if he didn’t touch her. Unwillingly his gaze drifted over her, lingering in a way he couldn’t seem to help. Her dress fell in creamy folds to the ground, beneath which you could just see the peep of a silver shoe. With her black hair a sleek curtain of ebony and her eyes as green as a cat’s, she looked...
He swallowed. She looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in that hot mouth of hers. Like those girls he used to see when he was growing up and his mother was working at the big house. The kind you were encouraged to look at because they always wanted you to look at them, but were forbidden to touch.
But he was no longer the servant’s son who had to accept what he was told, he reminded himself grimly. He was more than Amber Carter’s equal—he was her boss—and he was the one calling the shots.
‘Very presentable,’ he answered coolly. ‘And certainly an improvement on anything I’ve seen you wear before.’
She cocked her head to one side. ‘Do you always end a compliment with a criticism?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends who I’m talking to. I don’t think a little criticism would go amiss in your case. But if the point of you coming down here looking like some kind of goddess is to try to snare the Prince, let me save you the trouble by telling you that he has a bona fide princess in the wings who’s waiting for him to marry her.’
She shot him an unfriendly look. ‘I’m not interested in “snaring” anyone.’
‘Even though acquiring a wealthy husband would be a convenient way out of your current financial predicament?’
‘Oh, come on! Which century are you living in, Conall? Women don’t have to sell themselves through marriage any more. They take jobs like this— working for men whose default mechanism is to be moody and more than a little difficult.’
‘Or they get Daddy to support them,’ he mocked.
‘Not any more, it seems,’ she said sweetly. ‘So why don’t we get the show on the road? You’re supposed to be giving me a guided tour of the house and showing me this painting the Prince wants to buy.’
Conall nodded as he gestured her to follow him, but he could feel the growing tension in his body as she walked beside him, aware of the filmy material which drifted enticingly against her body and whispered against every luscious curve. Her arms and her neck were the only skin visible and it was difficult to reconcile this almost ethereal image with the earthy woman who had kissed him so fervently in the bedroom earlier.
Tonight his country house looked perfect, like something you might see in the pages of one of those glossy magazines—but hadn’t that always been his intention? Wasn’t this the pinnacle of a long-held dream—to acquire a stately home even bigger than the one his mother had worked in during his childhood? A way of redressing some sort of balance which had always felt fundamentally skewed.
He led Amber through the ground floor— furnished and recently decorated in the traditional style—showing her the drawing rooms, the library and the grand conservatory. In the ballroom where the party was being held, a string quartet was tuning up and bottles of pink champagne were being put on ice. Everywhere he looked he could see candlelight and the air was scented with the fragrance of cut flowers and the sweet smell of success.
But Conall felt as if he was just going through the motions of showing Amber his home. As though all this lavish wealth suddenly meant nothing. Was that because the beautiful antiques just looked like bog-standard pieces of furniture when compared to the black-haired beauty by his side? Or because all he wanted to do was to drag her off to some dark corner to finish off what he had begun earlier?
He took her to a galleried room at the far end of the house, outside which a burly guard stood. The velvet drapes were drawn against the night outside and on one bare wall—beautifully lit—hung a painting.
‘Here it is,’ he said.
Amber was glad to have something to concentrate on other than the man at her side, or the remark he’d made earlier about her looking like a goddess. Had he meant it? A wave of impatience swept over her. Stop reading into his words. Stop imagining he feels anything for you other than lust.
Stepping back, she began to study the canvas—a luminous portrait of a young woman executed in oils. The woman was wearing a silver headband in her pale bobbed hair and a silver nineteen-twenties flapper dress. It was painted so finely that the subject seemed to be sending out an unspoken message to the onlooker and there was a trace of sadness in her lustrous dark eyes.
‘It’s exquisite,’ Amber said softly.
‘I know it is. Utterly exquisite.’ He turned to her. ‘And you’re clear what you need to do? Stay by the Prince’s side all evening and speak only when spoken to. Try to refrain from being controversial and please let me know if he communicates any concerns to one of his aides. Think you can manage that?’
‘I can try.’
‘Good. Then let’s go and wait for the guest of honour.’
They walked towards the ballroom, where Amber could hear the string quartet playing a lively piece which floated out to greet them. ‘So who else is coming tonight?’ she asked.
‘Some old friends are coming down from London. A few colleagues from New York. Local people.’
She hesitated. ‘Do you ever see my half-brother, Rafe?’
His footsteps slowed and he shook his head. ‘Not for ages. Not since he went out to Australia and cut himself off from his old life and nobody knew why.’
Remembering an offhand remark her father had once made, she glanced up at his rugged profile. ‘I think it was something to do with a woman.’
‘It’s always to do with a woman, Amber. Especially when there’s trouble.’ He turned his head towards her and gave a hard smile. ‘What do the French say? Cherchez la femme.’
‘Is that cynicism I can hear in your voice? Did some girl break your heart, Conall?’
‘Not mine, sweetheart. Mine’s made of stone—didn’t you know?’ His eyes glittered. ‘All I heard was that Rafe was heavily disillusioned by some woman and his life was never the same afterwards. It’s a lesson for us all.’
He really was cynical, thought Amber as he introduced her to the party planner—a freckled redhead who clearly thought Conall was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Along with just about every other female present. Amber wondered if he was oblivious to the way the waitresses looked up and practically melted as they offered their trays of canapés and drinks. Whether he noticed that the female guests were fawning all over him. He must do—but, she had to admit, he handled it brilliantly. He was charming but he didn’t flirt back—thus risking the wrath of their partners. She watched as he shook hands and made introductions as the room began to fill up, a smile creasing his rugged features.
She moved away, trying to remember that she was here as a member of his staff and not as his guest—wishing that she could retain a little immunity when she was close to him. She found herself a soft drink and stood in an alcove, watching as even more people arrived and the level of chatter increased. There was a discreet buzz of anticipation in the air, as if everyone was waiting for their royal guest, but Amber only became aware of the Prince’s arrival when a complete silence suddenly descended on the ballroom.
People instantly parted to create a central path for him and the imposing man who walked in accompanied by two aides was instantly recognisable from the images Amber had downloaded from the Internet. With his immaculately cut dark suit and his golden skin gleaming, he had a charisma which was matched by only one other man in the room, who instantly stepped forward to greet him.
Amber watched as Conall gave a brief bow before shaking Luciano’s hand and the string quartet broke into what was obviously the national anthem of Mardovia. And then a pair of midnight eyes were silently seeking her out and she found herself walking towards them, forcing herself to concentrate on the Prince and not on the rugged Irishman who had touched her so intimately.
‘Your Royal Highness, this is Amber Carter—one of my assistants. Amber will be on hand tonight to provide anything you should require.’
That horrendous year at finishing school in Switzerland had taught Amber very little other than how to play truant and to ski, but it came up trumps now as she executed a deep and perfect curtsey. She rose slowly to her feet and the Prince smiled.
‘Anything?’ he drawled, his eyes roving down over her with an appreciative stare.
Amber wondered if she’d imagined Conall’s faint frown and imperceptibly she nodded to the hovering waitress. ‘Perhaps you would care for something to drink, Your Royal Highness?’
‘Certo,’ he answered softly in Italian, taking a glass of Kir Royale from the tray and then raising it to her in silent salute.
But Amber found herself enjoying the Prince’s unexpected attention. For the first time in a long time she found herself encouraged by the sense that here was something she could do. She might not have any real qualifications but she’d watched enough of her father’s wives and girlfriends fluttering around to know how not to behave if you were trying to play the perfect hostess. Even her mother had been able to pull it out of the bag when the need had arisen.
Unobtrusively she stood by to make sure the Prince wasn’t approached by any stray star-struck guests as Conall introduced Luciano to several carefully vetted guests. It seemed he’d recently bought a penthouse apartment through Conall’s company and she listened while the two men chatted with a local landowner about the escalating fortunes of the London property market. More waitresses appeared with tiny caviar-topped canapés but she noticed that the Prince refused them all. Eventually he turned to Conall.
‘Do you think I have properly fulfilled my role as guest of honour,’ he questioned drily, ‘and given this occasion the royal stamp of approval?’
‘You’d like to see the painting now?’
‘I think you have tantalised me with it for long enough, don’t you?’
Conall looked at her. ‘Amber?’
She nodded, aware of two bodyguards who had suddenly appeared at the entrance to the ballroom and who now walked behind them towards the gallery. She thought what a disparate group they made as they made their way through the empty corridors.
The guard at the door stepped aside and Amber watched Luciano’s reaction as he stepped forward to stand directly in front of the canvas. She thought that someone trying to negotiate a better price might have feigned a little indifference towards the painting, but the admiration on his face was impossible to conceal.
‘What do you think?’ asked Conall.
‘It is breathtaking,’ the Prince said slowly as he leaned forward to study it more closely. He murmured something in Italian to one of his aides and several minutes passed in silence before eventually he turned to Conall. ‘We will discuss prices when you are back in London, not tonight. Business should never be distracted by pleasure.’
Conall inclined his head. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
‘Perhaps you could check that my car is ready? And in the meantime, I really think I must dance with your assistant who has looked after me so well all evening.’ The Prince smiled. ‘Unless she has any objections?’
The Prince’s bright blue eyes were turned in her direction and Amber felt a stab of satisfaction. The Prince of Mardovia had told everyone that she’d done a good job—even though she’d done nothing more onerous than act as his gatekeeper—and now he wanted to dance with her. It was a long time since she could remember feeling this good about herself.
‘I’d love to,’ she said simply.
‘Eccellente.’
She was aware of Conall’s fleeting frown before he went to chase up the Prince’s transport and aware of the envious glances of the other women in the ballroom as the Prince pulled her into his arms and the string quartet began to play a soft and easy waltz. Amber had been to some flashy parties in her time, but even she knew it wasn’t every night of the week that you got to dance with a prince and Luciano ticked all the right boxes. He was supremely handsome and extremely attentive, but the weird thing was that it felt almost like dancing with her brother. Innocent and sweet, but almost dutiful. His arms around her waist felt nothing like Conall’s had felt when he’d hauled her into his arms earlier. Despite the fact that he’d told her to forget it, she found herself remembering the way he had kissed her. Kissed her so hard that he’d left her feeling dazed.
‘Devlin is your lover?’ the Prince questioned suddenly, his voice breaking into her thoughts and amplifying them.
Slightly taken aback by his candour, Amber bit her lip. ‘No!’
‘But he would like to be.’
She shook her head. ‘He hates me,’ she said without thinking and then remembered that she was supposed to be there in the role of facilitator—not pouring out her heart to a royal stranger. ‘I’m sorry—’
But Luciano didn’t seem to notice for he lifted his hand to silence her apology. ‘He may hate you, but he wants you. He watches you as the snake watches a chicken, just before it devours it whole.’