How to Bag a Billionaire

‘Hey. You still with me?’

The deep voice tinged with concern rescued her from Memory Lane and snapped her to the here and now. To the opulent room with its fluted pillars and glittering glass chandeliers. To the noise of laughter, the pop of champagne corks and the clink of crystal, all indicating the guests were having a good time.

Enough. Shaking off the past, she relegated it to where it belonged. The past couldn’t be changed. But the present and the future...? They were firmly in her control.

So it was time to locate her backbone. All Olivia had to do was allow the world to believe her to be a billionaire-bagger in order to discover the whereabouts of Zeb Masterson. Then her unborn brother or sister would have a dad. A proper father. The kind of dad that Olivia had yearned for so desperately: a dad who acknowledged his child and wanted to be part of her life.

‘I’m right here,’ she said, with a clench of her nails into her palm to ground herself.

‘Then do you think you could smile?’

‘I’m not a smiley person.’

‘Well, it may be time to cultivate the art. Reporter at six o’clock and heading our way.’

He slid an arm around her waist and Olivia bit back a gasp, trying to ignore the snap, crackle and pop of desire that ignited in her at his touch. Instead she focused her attention on the blonde woman headed towards them with curiosity written all over her face.

‘We’d quite given up on you.’ The reporter put a hand on Adam’s arm. ‘Plus, we’ve all been dying to know who your mystery guest is. So introduce me.’

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Oh, hell.

Adam didn’t know her name.

The reporter raised perfectly threaded blonde eyebrows.

Olivia opened her mouth just as Adam’s hand tightened round her waist, twisting her body slightly so that she instinctively looked up at him. Not even a glint of alarm flickered in the brown eyes; instead liquid copper warmth melted over her. Her throat felt parched; he was gazing at her as though he couldn’t keep his hands off her, as if names were a mere bagatelle.

Then he smiled—the kind of smile that had her toes curling around the edge of her lime-green sandals. ‘Sweetheart, this is Helen Kendersen, columnist from Frisson magazine.’ He turned his gaze to the reporter. ‘And this, Helen, is my nomination for Frisson’s Most Beautiful Woman of the Year award.’

His arm pushed into the small of her back and she stepped forward, holding her hand out. ‘Olivia Evans,’ she managed.

‘So, how do you feel about having bagged yourself a billionaire for the night?’ The reporter’s voice was light, almost jokey, but her blue eyes were alert as she waited for an answer.

Olivia knew she should answer in kind—should have found time in the unprecedented disaster of this evening to prepare a witty, sophisticated comeback. But her brain refused to co-operate. Instead humiliation flushed her cheeks.

She heard a low laugh coming from her left and knew the question had been overheard.

Memories crowded her brain. There she was in the playground, surrounded by the pigtail brigade with their shiny shoes and perfectly packed lunches. ‘My mum says your mum is a tramp and you’ll be exactly the same.’ Noses in the air, holier than holy. ‘So I’m not allowed to play with you.’ The chant taken up as they circled her. ‘Tramp, tramp, tramp...’

Her hands balled into fists at her sides; if only the solution now was as easy as it had been all those years ago. Unfortunately punching Helen Kendersen on the nose wasn’t an option. Even more regrettably, her mind still hadn’t formulated a single witty rejoinder. The only words coming to mind and being transmitted to the tip of her tongue were wildly inappropriate.

She sensed Adam’s head turn and looked up to see his brown eyes rest on her face with an expression she couldn’t interpret. His arm moved from her waist to drape around her shoulders, the soft fabric of his tux brushing her suddenly sensitised skin. The gesture was totally, unexpectedly protective.

‘Wrong call, Helen,’ he said, his voice pleasant but with an impossible to miss steely undertone. ‘Credit me with a bit more sense. Olivia is not a billionaire-bagger; she is a bona fide date.’

A sudden warmth touched Olivia’s chest. Was Adam defending her? She wasn’t sure. It could be that he simply thought the assertion would definitively shield him from the baggers in the room. Whatever his reasons, he’d given Helen Kendersen pause.

The blue eyes sharpened. ‘Well, colour me surprised,’ she said. ‘Especially as I can’t remember you ever bringing a date, bona fide or not, to this event. And here was me assuming you were a billionaire-bagger who’d gatecrashed and somehow persuaded Adam to bring you along. Unless there’s something I’m missing?’

Adam had been right. Helen’s reporter antennae were practically quivering under the glittering lights of the chandeliers. Alarm pumped her veins with adrenaline; it was time to gear up and play her allotted role.

‘Nope, you’re not missing anything,’ Olivia said. ‘Here I am.’ Spreading her arms wide, she could only hope her tone wasn’t as hollow as her tummy. ‘The genuine article.’

Helen tilted her blonde head to one side, a small frown on her face. ‘Well, in that case I shall watch with interest. Adam’s dating technique will add a definite frisson to my article.’

Great! Just what she needed—more frissons. Heaven help her, because right now the thought of Adam’s dating technique was causing her tummy to flutter with a stampede of butterflies.

There came the Adam Masterson smile again. ‘Knock yourself out, Helen. But don’t forget to interview all the people who donated auction gifts and get plenty of photos of the guests.’

‘Yada, yada. Don’t worry. I could do this in my sleep. Consider it done, darling. Enjoy yourself, Olivia.’ With a little finger-wave Helen disappeared into the crowd.

Hah! Enjoy? As if that could happen; she was already garnering avid glances laced with speculation or envy. ‘What now? I think she’s suspicious.’

‘Maybe. But all we have to do is display a dazzling show of dating technique and all will be well.’

‘Oh, super-duper. Is that meant to make me feel better?’

‘It’s all I’ve got.’ He started to walk forward. ‘There’s no need to panic. Follow my lead, look adoringly at me and we’ll be fine. All we need to do now is circulate.’

All?

That was easy for Adam to say, because he was obviously born to circulate. Olivia could only watch him in admiration as they trekked around, her heels sinking into the plush carpet, on an endless circuit of the magnificent room.

Adam made sure he spoke with each and every individual guest—a laugh here, a gesture there, serious or jokey as the occasion warranted. But he also subtly promoted the auction at every turn. No wonder he didn’t bring a date to this event; his focus was on working the room as host, leaving Olivia with nothing to do except be decorative.

Which gave her way too much opportunity to watch him. To study the way his body filled out his tuxedo to perfection. To appreciate the breadth of his chest, the power of his thighs, the lithe stride. To admire the planes and angles of his face, lit and shadowed by the glittering shards of illumination.

Little surprise her hormones refused to stand down; fuelled by unfamiliar attraction, intoxicated by his nearness, by his tantalising woodsy scent, they didn’t know whether they were somersaulting or cartwheeling.

The result was a strange heat in her tummy, a dizzying awareness of Adam that wouldn’t go away.

His broad thigh pressed against hers during the lavish dinner, making it hard to balance her food on her fork let alone appreciate the melt-in-the-mouth four courses.

Focus, Olivia. On the beautifully decorated table with its intricately folded napkins and stunning centrepieces of cream flowers. On the sparkle of the floating candles. On anything other than Adam Masterson and the flame of desire that licked her insides every time his arm brushed hers.

Madness. This was sheer, unprecedented stupidity.

The evening took on a surrealism in which her entire being was caught up in Adam Masterson. She was mesmerised by his auctioneering power as he stood on the podium and used a mixture of charm and unquestionable sincerity to entice bids so high that Olivia felt she was on a gigantic Monopoly board.

Problem was, she was the Scottie dog. Practically panting over Adam Masterson. Self-disgust mingled with panic as she gulped down fizzy water in the hope of cooling herself down. This was nuts.

Wrenching her gaze away from the podium, she sighed. Adam Masterson embodied everything she disliked: rich, arrogant—he was way too reminiscent of her mum’s boyfriends. To say nothing of the fact that Olivia Evans didn’t pant over any man; she wouldn’t give one the satisfaction of having that level of power over her.

‘No one believes a word of all this, you know.’

Olivia looked up from her study of the snow-white tablecloth and beheld a well-known face and figure. Oh, just freaking fabulous. Here was a woman whose pictures Olivia had pored over in the fashion magazines—an ice-blonde supermodel who had partied with designers galore, a woman Olivia would normally have loved to speak to. But instead of discussing style this was going to be a grown-up version of the playground.