Taken Over by the Billionaire

‘You are going to inherit great wealth, son,’ Morgan De Silva had said at the time. ‘You need to understand the corrupting power of money. You must always keep your wits about you, especially when it comes to women.’

When a distressed Ben had confronted his mother, she’d been furious with his father, but hadn’t denied she’d married the billionaire for his money, though she’d done her best to explain why. Born dirt-poor but beautiful, she’d had a tough childhood but had finally made it as a model in Australia and then overseas, having been taken on by a prestigious New York agency. For several years she’d made very good money but just before she’d turned thirty she’d discovered that her manager hadn’t invested her money wisely, as she’d believed, instead having wasted it all on gambling.

Suddenly, she’d been close to broke again and, whilst she’d still been very beautiful, her career hadn’t been what it once was. So, when the super-wealthy Morgan De Silva had come on the scene, obviously infatuated with the lovely Australian blonde, she’d allowed herself to be seduced in more ways than one. She’d been attracted to him, she’d insisted, but had admitted to Ben that she didn’t love his father, saying she doubted he’d loved her either. It had just been a case of lust.

‘The only thing your father loves,’ she’d told Ben with some bitterness, ‘is money.’

Ben had argued back that this wasn’t true. His father loved him. Which belief had prompted his move to America shortly after his graduation from university.

Not that he’d cut his mother out of his life altogether. She’d been a wonderful mother to him and he still loved her, despite her faults and flaws. They talked every week or so on the phone, but he didn’t visit all that often, mostly because he rarely had the time.

Life since going to the States had been full-on. An economics post-graduate degree at Harvard had been followed by an intense apprenticeship in the investment business. There’d been a few snide remarks when he’d made his way quickly up the ladder at De Silva & Associates, but Ben believed he’d earned his promotion to an executive position in his father’s company, along with the seven-figure salary, the sizeable bonuses, the flash car and the equally flash New York apartment. Along the way, he’d also earned the reputation for being a bit of a playboy, perhaps because his girlfriends didn’t last all that long. Invariably, after a few weeks he would grow bored with them and move on. Never once had he fallen in love, making him wonder if he ever would.

It was a surprise to Ben that his relationship with Amber had lasted as long as it had—eight months—possibly because he didn’t see all that much of her. He was working very long hours. He’d never thought himself in love with her. She was, however, attractive, amusing and very easy to be with, never fussing when he was late for a date or when he had to opt out at the last minute. Never acting in that clinging, possessive way which he hated.

She’d also never once said she loved him in all those months, so her recent declaration had come out of the blue.

Ben had been startled at first, then flattered, then tempted by her proposal, possibly because of his father’s mantras, on marriage.

‘Rich men should always marry rich girls,’ he’d said more than once, along with, ‘Rich men must marry with their heads. Never their hearts.’

Sensible advice. But it was no use. Ben knew, deep down in his heart, that marriage to a girl he didn’t love would be settling for less than he’d always wanted. A lot less.

So his answer had to be no.

Ben considered ringing Amber and telling her so immediately, but there was something cowardly about breaking up over the phone or, God forbid, by text message. She’d already asked him not to call or text her whilst he was away, perhaps hoping that he would miss her more that way.

Frankly, just the opposite had happened. Without phone calls and text messages, the connection between them had been broken. Now that he’d made his final decision, Ben felt not one ounce of regret. Just relief.

When his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket, Ben hoped like hell it wasn’t Amber. But it wasn’t her, the caller ID revealing it was his father. Ben frowned as he lifted the phone to his ear. It wasn’t like his father to call him unless there was a business problem. Morgan De Silva wasn’t into social chit-chat.

‘Hi, Dad,’ Ben said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Sorry to bother you, son, but I was thinking about you tonight and decided to give you a call.’

Ben could not have been more taken aback.

‘That’s great, Dad, but shouldn’t you be asleep? It must be the middle of the night over there.’

‘It’s not that late. Besides, you know I never sleep much. What time is it where you are?’

‘Mid-afternoon.’

‘What day?’

‘Thursday.’

‘Ah. Right. So you’ll be off to Andy’s wedding in a couple of days.’

‘I’m actually driving up to his place tomorrow.’ For a split second Ben contemplated telling his father about the accident and his fiasco about finding a hire car, but decided not to. Why worry him unnecessarily?

‘Nice boy, Andy.’

His father had met Andy when Ben had brought him to America for a holiday. They’d gone skiing with Morgan and had a great time.

‘So, when do you think you’ll be back in New York?’ his father asked.

‘Probably not till the end of next week. Mum’s away on a cruise and doesn’t get back till next Monday. I’d like to spend a day or two with her before I fly home.’

‘Of course. Why don’t you stay a little longer? Have a decent holiday? You deserve it. You’ve been working way too hard.’

Ben stared out at the beach and the ocean beyond. In truth, it had been a couple of years since he’d had more than a long weekend off, his mother recently having accused him of becoming a workaholic, just like his father.

‘I might do that,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘My pleasure. You’re a good boy. Give my regards to your mother,’ his father said abruptly, then hung up.

Ben stared down at his phone, wondering what in the hell that had been all about.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_59efed06-1603-5eb7-a75a-8454e0465228)

JESS WAS GLAD to get out of the house the following morning before her parents were up and about. Her mother had started going on and on the night before about her taking a risk, driving some stranger all the way out to Mudgee and back.

‘He might be a serial killer for all you know,’ she’d said at one stage.

She hadn’t stopped with the doomsday scenarios till Jess had told her everything she knew about Mr Benjamin De Silva, including his being the son of a super-rich American businessman whose company had taken over several Australian firms, including Fab Fashions.

‘He’s not a serial killer, Mum,’ she’d informed her mother firmly. ‘Just a man with more money than sense.’

To Jess’s surprise, her sometimes pessimistic father had taken her side in the argument.

‘Jess knows how to look after herself, Ruth,’ he’d said. ‘She’ll be fine. Just give us a call when you get there, love, and put your mother’s mind at rest. Okay?’

She’d happily agreed to do so, but hadn’t trusted her mum not to start up again this morning, so she’d packed an overnight bag the night before, then risen early, giving her time to take some extra care getting ready. Under the circumstances, she didn’t want to look like a dag. Or a chauffeur, for that matter—so she’d already dismissed the idea of wearing her usual driving uniform of black trousers with a white shirt which had Murphy’s Hire Car emblazoned on the breast pocket.

She did wear black trousers. Rather swish, stretchy ones which tapered in at the ankles and made the most of her long legs, combining them with a V-necked white T-shirt topped with a floral jacket which she’d made herself. Jess was an excellent dressmaker, having been taught how to sew by her gran. She dithered a bit over how much make-up to wear, opting in the end to play it conservative, using just a bit of lip gloss and a light brushing of mascara. Her clear olive skin did not really need foundation, anyway. She then scooped her thick, black hair back up into a ponytail, wrapping a red scrunchie around it which matched the red flowers in the jacket. Finally, she pulled on a pair of very comfy black pumps before bolting out of the house by six-thirty, a good twenty minutes before she needed to leave.

The drive from Glenning Valley to Blue Bay would take fifteen minutes at most. Probably less at this time of day. She filled in some time having breakfast at a local burger bar, after which she drove leisurely towards the address she’d been given. Jess knew the area well. Whilst there were still lots of very ordinary weekenders around, any property on the beach front was worth heaps. Most of the older buildings which had once graced the shoreline had been torn down, replaced by million-dollar units and multi-million-dollar homes. Over the last decade, Blue Bay had become one of the places to live on the coast.

It wasn’t till she turned off the Entrance Road into the long street which led down to Blue Bay that Jess felt the first inkling of nerves. Though normally a confident and rather outspoken girl, she suddenly realised it wasn’t going to be easy bringing up the subject of Fab Fashions with the man responsible for taking over the company. If truth be told, he would probably tell her to mind her own business. He also wouldn’t be pleased with the fact that she’d looked him up on the Internet.

Maybe she should forget about the probably futile idea of trying to save Fab Fashions and just do what Mr De Silva had hired her to do—drive him out to Mudgee and back. Alternatively, maybe she would wait and see what kind of man he was; if he was the kind to listen or not. He hadn’t sounded too bad over the phone. Maybe a little frustrated, which was understandable, considering he’d just had a car accident and all his plans had gone awry. And he had asked her to call him Ben, which was rather nice of him. She almost felt guilty now that she hadn’t asked him to call her Jess in return.

Jess wondered how old he was. Probably about forty, she guessed. If he looked anything like his father—there’d been a photo of Morgan De Silva on the Net—then he’d be short, with a receding hairline and a flabby body from a sedentary lifestyle and too many long business lunches.

‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed.

Jess was no longer looking forward to today in any way, shape or form.