Swept Into The Rich Man's World

She followed him up a cantilevered stone staircase. Despite her longing to get changed out of her rain-soaked clothes—not least her trainers, which squelched with every step—she couldn’t help but stop and stare at the opulent rococo plasterwork that curved along the walls of the staircase. Exquisite delicate masks and scallop shells rendered in porcelain-like plaster had her longing to reach out and touch the silent angelic faces, which seemed to follow her steps with knowing smiles.

It was one of the most stunning rooms she had ever seen...if you could call a hallway a room. Good Lord, if the entrance hall was like this what was the rest of the house like? Talk about making a girl feel inadequate...

Ahead of her he continued to climb the stairs, his tall, broad frame causing an unwanted flip in her stomach. He was big, dark, and handsome beyond belief. And you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that he wasn’t too keen on having her here.

Well, she wasn’t too keen on being here herself. She’d much prefer to be at home, snuggled up in her own bed. Having to face the displeasure of a billionaire who, given his monumental success at such a young age, was probably hard-nosed and cold-hearted, was not exactly her idea of a fun night.

Upstairs, he led her down a never-ending corridor in silence. She had an insane urge to talk, to kill the tension that seemed to simmer silently between them.

‘Your helicopter often passes over my cottage. Do you travel a lot?’

‘When required.’

Okay, so it hadn’t been the most interesting or insightful of questions, but he could have given a little more detail in the way of an answer. It wouldn’t kill him to make a little small talk with her, would it?

He stopped and opened a door, and signalled for her to enter first. As she passed he studied her with a coolness that gave nothing away. She found herself giving him an involuntary smile. But when his face remained impassive, apart from the slight narrowing of his eyes, she felt rather silly.

His cool attitude pinged in her brain like a wake-up call. She was here out of necessity, not because she wanted to be, and he shouldn’t be making her feel so uneasy. She straightened her back with resolve and pride and marched further into the room. First thing tomorrow morning she was out of here.

But she hadn’t gone far when her steps faltered. ‘Oh, wow, this bedroom is stunning...and it’s huge! A family of six could easily sleep in that bed.’

An imposing oversized bed sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by sofas and occasional chairs covered in glazed cotton in varying tones of sage-green. An antique desk and a vanity table sat either side of the white marble fireplace.

He didn’t acknowledge her words of admiration but instead made for the door. ‘I’ll go and get you some clothes to change into.’

When he was gone she pulled a face. Did she really have to sound so gushing? Right—from here on in she was playing it cool with Patrick Fitzsimon.

Two doors led to a bathroom and a dressing room. In the bathroom she eyed the shower longingly. She didn’t suppose he would be too impressed to return to find her already in the locked bathroom, the shower running, making herself at home...

This was all so horribly awkward. Barging in on a very reluctant neighbour at this time of night...

But then a giggle escaped as she imagined his expression if he returned to a closed bathroom door and, beyond it, the sound of her voice belting out a show tune inside the running shower.

Her laughter died, though, when she walked back out into the bedroom to be confronted with the exact frown she had imagined. As she reddened he threw her a stark look.

‘Is something the matter?’

‘No...it’s just that my wet shoes are making the sound of a sickly duck whenever I walk.’

Oh, for crying out loud. So much for playing it cool. Where had that come from?

He looked at her as though he was concerned about her sanity. With a quick shake of his head he placed the bundle in his hands on to one of the fireside chairs. ‘Have a shower and get changed. You’ll need to wash and dry your clothes for when you leave in the morning. There’s a laundry room at the end of this corridor—please use that.’

With that, he turned away. His back was still turned to her when she heard him say goodnight.

‘Is it okay if I get myself a drink after I shower?’

He slowed at her question and for a fraction too long he paused, a new tension radiating across his broad shoulders.

When he turned she shrugged and gave an apologetic smile. ‘I could really do with something to warm me up. If you tell me how to get to the kitchen, I’ll pop down there after.’

Cue a deepening of his grimace. Just for a moment she wondered how gorgeous he must be when he smiled, because he was pretty impressive even when grimacing. If he ever smiled, that was.

‘Turn left outside the bedroom door and you will find another set of stairs a little further along that will take you down to the west wing. The kitchen is the fifth door on the left.’

He twisted away and was gone before she could voice her thanks.

She exhaled heavily. Was he this abrasive with everyone, or was it her in particular?

God knew she had met plenty of curt people in her line of business, but there was something about Patrick Fitzsimon that completely threw her. In his company she felt as though an invisible wall separated them. She got on with most people—she was good at putting them at ease. But with him she got the distinct feeling that getting on with people was pretty low on his agenda.

On the bed, she unfurled his bundle: soft grey cotton pyjama bottoms and a pale blue shirt, wrapped around a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Her heart did a funny little shimmy at the thought of wearing his clothes, and before she knew what she was doing she brought them to her nose. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the intoxicating smell of fresh laundry, but there was no hint of the scent she had inhaled earlier when she’d fallen against him. Salt and grass...and a deep, hot, masculine scent that had her swallowing a sigh in remembrance. For a few crazy seconds earlier she had wanted to wrap her arms around his waist. Take shelter against his hardness for ever.

She threw her eyes upwards. What was she doing? The man was as cold as ice.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. After tomorrow she would probably never see him again. And she was not interested in men right now anyway. Her hard-won independence was too precious. From here on in she wanted to live a life in which she was in charge of her own destiny. Where she called the shots.

One night and she was out of here. Back to her work and back to nights in, eating pizza and watching box sets on her own. Which she was perfectly happy with, thank you very much.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_185c6195-cd46-5ffa-8abf-65502f43da85)

SIXTEEN BEDROOMS, EIGHT reception rooms. A ballroom that could cater to over three hundred guests. Two libraries and countless other rooms he rarely visited. And yet he resented the idea of having to share this vast house with someone. He knew it made no sense. It was almost midnight. She would be gone within hours. But, after spending the past few years immersed in the solitude of his work, having to share his home even for one night was an alien and uncomfortable prospect.

Two years ago, after yet another bewildering argument with his sister, he had come to the realisation that he should focus on what he was good at, what he could control: his work. He had been exhausted and frustrated by Orla’s constant battle of wills with him, and it had been almost a relief to turn away from the fraught world of relationships to the uncomplicated black and white world of work.

He hadn’t needed Orla to tell him he was inept at handling relationships, though she happily did so on a regular basis, because he’d seen it in the pain etched on her face when she didn’t realise he was watching her.

He still didn’t know what had gone wrong. Where he had gone wrong. They had once been so close. After his mum had died he had been so scared and lonely he had thought his heart would break. But the smiling, gurgling Orla had saved him.

And then his father had died when Orla was sixteen, and almost overnight she had changed. She had gone from being happy-go-lucky to sullen and non-communicative, and their once unbreakable bond had been broken.

The scrape of a tree branch against the kitchen window pane brought him back to the present with a jolt.

He put the tea canister next to the already boiled kettle. Then he wrote his house guest a quick note, telling her to help herself to anything she needed. All the while he was hearing his father’s incredulous voice in his head, scolding him for his inhospitality. And once again he was reminded of how different he was from his father.

Note finished, he knew he should walk away before she came down. But the image of her standing in his entrance hall, a raindrop running down over the deep crevice of her full lips, held him. Lips he had had an insane urge to taste...

His instant attraction to her had to be down to the fact that he had been without a steady bedmate for quite some time. A lifetime for a guy who had once never been able to resist the lure of a beautiful woman. But two years ago his appetite for his usual short, frivolous affairs had disappeared. And a serious relationship was off the cards. Permanently.

And, anyway, she was his neighbour. If—and it was a big if—he ever was to start casually dating again, it certainly wouldn’t be on his own doorstep.

He turned at a soft knock on the door.

Standing at the entrance to the vast kitchen, she gave him a wary smile.

He should have gone when he could. Now he would be forced to make small talk.