My Wicked Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 6) Page 2

  “You mean in my bach?” I can just imagine what the huge set would look like outside my beach house.

  “I’m assuming you’re not going to live there forever,” she says, refusing to be goaded. “I thought maybe you might be putting some items into storage until you get a real place.”

  “I’m not taking anything from the house,” I tell her. “I’ll be selling everything. I don’t want fragments of my marriage around me.”

  “Typical Ryan,” she says calmly. “All about the drama. We have some beautiful furniture—it’s a shame to just sell it all.”

  “If you want it, take it, I’ve already told you that. And FYI, I’m not planning to buy a house at the moment. I’m happy in the bach.”

  I can see she’s curious as to where I’m living. She’s asked to come around a couple of times to drop off paperwork, but I’ve always refused and met her in town instead. I don’t want any memories of her there.

  I didn’t mean for it to be permanent—I just needed somewhere to live when I moved out of the house, but after eight years of living with Samantha in a huge, pristine show home, I’m comfortable there. It’s one of a group of baches on a large area of private land—you need to enter a code to get through the gates. The bach itself is right on the beach, and I love it. I eat my breakfast sitting on the deck overlooking the ocean, and I swim in the summer and run along the sand in the winter.

  I’ve spent many years making the most of being rich. But having discovered that it really can’t buy love, I’m enjoying being single and living a bachelor’s life again. If it wasn’t for the lack of sex, I’d say it was the happiest I’ve ever been.

  Once again, I think about Clio, her curvy figure, and how soft and kissable her lips look.

  And once again, I push the thought away.

  “I’ll take the patio set,” Samantha says. “I’ll compensate you for it.”

  Obviously, I don’t need the money, but it’s pointless to argue with her. I know she’ll only ignore my protestations and do what she wants. “Whatever,” I say.

  She hesitates then, and I can see she wants to tell me something else. “There’s something you should know,” she says. “I want to tell you before you hear it from somebody else.”

  I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Okay.”

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  I stare at her. I’m so surprised, I can’t think what to say.

  She lifts her chin. “His name is Michael, and he’s a lawyer. We’ve been on a few dates, and it’s going well. I didn’t want you to find out from someone else.” There’s a hint of a flush on her cheeks. She likes this guy.

  For years, I’ve tried to get this woman to love me. To show me some affection. To sleep with me more than once a fortnight, and when she did sleep with me, to look as if she was enjoying it. I’ve tried not to blame myself for it, aware she had a difficult childhood, with both parents cool and aloof. But this feels like a knife in my ribs. If she’s finding happiness with someone else, the fault was mine, and that hurts.

  “We weren’t right for each other,” she says softly. “We met too young and grew apart, that’s all.”

  I’m breathing heavily, but I don’t say anything. I want to yell at her for wasting my time, for letting the marriage drag on when we should have finished it years ago. But that would serve no point. We’ve remained civil so far; it would be a shame to spoil it now.

  “You’ll find someone,” she says, a flicker of pity on her face. “You’re young, and handsome, and you have a lot of love to give.”

  And now she’s consoling me and giving me relationship advice. Fucking hell.

  Before I say or do something I’ll regret, I turn and walk away. She calls after me, but I get in my car, start the engine, and roar past her. I don’t look in my rearview mirror as I drive away.

  I do bang the steering wheel and yell at myself in the quietness of the car. All those wasted years, asking—practically begging—her to love me. Buying her flowers and presents, taking her to expensive restaurants and on exclusive holidays. It was like trying to romance a fucking ice pop. And along comes some dude who’s taken her out for two dates and she’s all starry-eyed over him.

  Fuuuuuuck!

  I head out of town, desperate to get on the plane, go to Dunedin, and drink myself senseless for a couple of days. What happens next occurs in seconds, but I see it in slow motion. A car pulls out of the supermarket car park and darts out across the road to try to get in front of oncoming cars. He misses one that’s overtaking, hits it head-on, and spins across the road in front of me.

  I slam on my brakes and squeal to a halt inches from him. Holy shit, that was close. He’s spun around completely, and the whole right side of his car is crumpled. Oh Jesus, there’s a kid in the back.

  I turn off the engine, get out hurriedly, and run to the car. Other people are also getting out—someone’s calling the emergency services and people are helping the driver in the other car, but I only have eyes for the kid in front of me. I try to open the door, but where it’s all bent, it won’t budge. I run around to the other side, and luckily that door opens with a sharp tug.

  I climb onto the back seat. The child is about six or seven, sitting on a booster seat. He’s crying and holding his neck. In the front, the driver is wrestling with the airbag and groaning. I can see blood on the window.

  “Stay still,” I instruct, “the emergency services are on their way.”

  I turn to the boy and unbuckle his seat belt. “Hey there, I’m Ryan,” I tell him. “What’s your name?”

  “James,” the boy says, and coughs. “My neck hurts.”

  “All right, I think you should stay there until the ambulance turns up,” I say. “But I’m going to stay here with you, okay?”

  “Is my dad dead?”

  “No, no, he’s been injured but he’s moving.” I lean forward and put my hand on the driver’s shoulder. “How are you doing, man?”

  “I hit my head on the side window,” the guy says groggily. “Ah, Jesus. I’m bleeding.”

  “You’ll be okay. It won’t be long.”

  “Is James all right?”

  “He’s got a bit of whiplash, but other than that he looks okay.”

  The man starts crying. “I didn’t see the other car.”

  “Don’t worry about it now. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Did I kill the other driver?”

  I look out of the window. A few people are gathered in front of the other car. The driver isn’t moving. “Don’t worry about that,” I tell him, my heart banging. “Concentrate on yourself.” Christ, I can smell alcohol—the guy’s been drinking. With a child in the back.

  “Ah Jesus.” He turns his head and vomits onto the passenger seat.

  “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right.” I try to reassure him and the boy, who clings to my hand and refuses to let go. How long are the services going to take? It feels like forever, but it must only be five minutes before a wail of sirens denotes the arrival of a police car, closely followed by an ambulance and a fire truck.

  I get out of the car as the paramedics arrive and leave them to do their work. A police officer comes up to assess the situation, and I tell her briefly what happened.

  “I’ll need to take a statement,” the officer says.

  I look at my phone. It says 2:27 p.m. I might still have time to catch the plane if I’m quick, and besides, I don’t feel I can say I don’t have time to give a statement because I’m going to a wedding, not when it’s possible the other driver is either severely injured or dead.

  I give her a rundown of what happened, as well as my personal details, trying not to ask her to hurry up. When she’s done, I get in my car and then have to wait a couple of minutes for the other officers to start directing the traffic. It’s now 2:48 p.m. I edge the car around the crashed vehicles, overwhelmed by sadness as I see the paramedics lifting out the boy onto a stretcher.

  Once I’m past th
e accident, I drive to the airport as quickly as I dare after what I’ve just witnessed. I’m convinced I’m going to be too late, but you never know.

  When I get there, I leave my car by the office, give my keys and some notes to the flustered woman behind the desk who says, “Everyone’s in a rush today,” and then run through the airport with my case to the check-in desk. Even as I get there, though, I look out of the window and see the propellers beginning to whirr.

  “Sorry, sir,” the attendant says.

  “Dammit.” I blow out a long breath and lean on the counter. I knew I shouldn’t have taken the lawyer’s appointment today, but I was desperate to get rid of the house and the last remnants of my failed marriage. “Is there any space on other flights to Dunedin today or tomorrow?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “I’ve already checked for the young lady over there who also missed the flight. I’m afraid there’s nothing until tomorrow afternoon.”

  I follow her gesture and see a young woman sitting near the window, her face in her hands. Her somewhat scruffy blonde hair and the clothes she’s wearing look vaguely familiar. With some surprise, I realize it’s Clio.

  Oh crap. She’s missed the plane, too.

  This is exactly what I don’t need right now. Temptation with a capital T.

  Chapter Three

  Clio

  “Clio?”

  I lift my face out of my hands and stare at the guy standing in front of me. “Ryan?” I wipe my face hastily. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the plane?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” He puts his bag on the floor and sits heavily in the seat opposite me. “I ran into an accident coming out of town and missed the flight.”

  “Oh no, you weren’t hurt?”

  “No, it wasn’t me—a car pulled out in front of someone else and they spun across the road ahead of me.” His brow furrows. “I think the driver was drunk, and he had a kid in the back.”

  “Oh how awful. Are they okay?”

  “The kid had whiplash. I stayed with him until the paramedics showed up.” His brown eyes study me. “So what happened to you?” His gaze slips down to my legs. I presume he’s looking at the still-bleeding graze there, but goose bumps spring up all over me.

  I delay my answer while I fumble in my purse for a tissue, blow my nose, and attempt to wipe away any streaks of mascara from beneath my eyes. He leans back in his seat, one arm along the back, resting an ankle on the opposite knee, and waits for me to answer.

  Even though he’s my cousin—by adoption—I don’t know him that well. I remember him being around when I was younger, because the King brothers were tight, and their kids all grew up together. But he’s eight years older than me, and by the time I reached my teens, he’d left home for university.

  I know he was married to Samantha for about eight years, and that they divorced last Christmas, after being separated for a couple of years. I’m not sure what went wrong in their relationship. I asked Jules—who’s his sister—once, and she said, “After eight years he realized she was never going to thaw.” I kind of know what she meant. On the surface, Samantha is amazing. She’s exceptionally beautiful and elegant, and she has a fantastic figure. My boobs are too big, I use my hands too much when I talk, and I’m constantly knocking things over. She makes me feel like a country bumpkin. The few times I’ve been to their house, I was afraid to sit in case I creased a cushion, and I refused her offer of a glass of red wine because I was convinced I’d spill it on her pristine cream carpet. I’d always assumed Ryan shared her proclivities, but when I heard they were getting divorced—and after Jules’s comment—it made me wonder whether maybe he’s not like that deep down. After discovering he’s now living in a bach on the beach and apparently loving every minute of it, I became convinced of it.

  He’s a little like Hal, his half-brother, not quite as tall, maybe six-one, his shoulders not quite as wide, but he’s still a big guy, and has dark-brown hair. I know he runs and swims and goes to the gym, and the sleeves of his short-sleeved rugby top stretch over impressive biceps. He usually wears jeans and tees, but like all the Kings he has an expensive watch, a flash car, and the latest phone. He’s also got an impressive mind, and he’s a whiz in the computer world. He’s invented several apps to help with rehoming animals, which is what he does at the Ark now.

  He’s gorgeous, but it’s not his looks that give me tingles down my spine. At least, it’s not just his looks. It’s the sultry glitter that appears in his eyes whenever he looks at me. Well, I think it’s a sultry glitter. He’s never made a move on me, never even intimated he’s interested in me. I can’t imagine I’m anything like his type.

  “My watch stopped,” I tell him. “Stefan tried to tell me it was time to go but I thought I had ages. He’s going to be so smug that I missed the plane.”

  He gives a short laugh. “I’m sure they’ll all find it most amusing that we both missed it.”

  I wipe under my eyes again and blow out a long breath. “I’m so cross with myself. I can’t believe I’ll miss Leon’s wedding. He’s going to be so upset with me.”

  Ryan frowns and looks across at the check-in desk. “She said all the flights to Dunedin are booked.”

  “Yeah, I asked her that too.”

  He purses his lips. “Hold on a minute.” He gets up and walks over to the attendant. As he chats to her, the attendant starts tapping on her computer.

  It’s no consolation for missing Leon’s wedding, but at least I’m not alone.

  I take the opportunity to get out my compact and fix my makeup. God, I look a sight. I wipe away the black blobs of mascara and quickly reapply some new. Then I start cleaning up my leg. I’m approaching halfway decent when Ryan returns.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he says, sitting opposite me again. “I checked the charter flights and they’re all fully booked too. But there is space on the next flight from Auckland to Queenstown.”

  “Queenstown?” It’s a couple of hundred miles from there to Dunedin.

  “Yeah. We could drive down to Auckland—the plane goes at 7:20 p.m. so we should make it if we leave now. It gets in at Queenstown at 9:15 p.m. We could stay the night in a hotel in Queenstown, then get up early the next morning, hire a car, and drive to Dunedin. It’s about three-and-a-half hours, so we’ll make it in plenty of time for the wedding.”

  “A road trip?” My lips start to curve up.

  He shrugs and smiles. “It could be fun.”

  “It does mean being stuck in a car with me for about seven hours. Many would say it’s not worth it.”

  For a second, he meets my eyes, and there it is again—that sultry glitter. He likes me—I’m sure of it, but for whatever reason, he’s decided not to act on it.

  I wonder if I can change his mind?

  “I think it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he says.

  “All right! Let’s do it.” I jump to my feet.

  Grinning, he picks up his bag, and we walk over to the check-in counter. The assistant confirms there are two seats on the 7:20 p.m. flight from Auckland to Queenstown, so we book them and pay for them, then head out of the airport.

  “Your car or mine?” he asks.

  “Yours will be more fun,” I admit, “although I’m happy to take mine if you’d rather.” Mine’s a new Toyota Corolla, which suits me just fine, but his is a BMW 8 Series Convertible, a gorgeous car he got only a month or so ago.

  He gives me a strange look. I’m used to those from various people, but I’m not sure what I’ve said this time, so I ask him, “What?”

  He shakes his head. “Let’s take mine. It’ll be nice to stretch its legs.”

  “Okay.”

  We go across to the car park, he picks up the keys to the charcoal-gray BMW, and we throw our bags in the back. I get in the passenger side and buckle myself in. “Can we have the top down?” I ask as he gets in. It’s a glorious late-spring day, and I’m in the mood to get some sun on my face.

 
; “It’ll ruffle your hair,” he says, amused.

  I snort. “Like that’s going to make any difference.” My hair always looks a mess, no matter what I do to it.

  He shakes his head, turns on the engine, and presses a button, and the soft top slowly retracts, folding down neatly behind us.

  “Aah.” I nestle into the luxurious seat. “So cool.”

  He chuckles. “I thought so.” Putting it into gear, he reverses out of the car park, slides it into drive, and heads toward the road.

  “I must apologize for the fact that I’m covered in dog hair and other unmentionable things,” I say as he turns onto the main road. “I had a lovely outfit planned for traveling, and in the end I didn’t have time to change.”

  He glances at me. “I think you look lovely.”

  “And I think you’re just being polite, but thank you anyway.” I watch his lips curve up a little. “Why did you look at me funny when I said I’d take my car?”

  “It was nice that you offered. Samantha would never have done that. She always expected me to wait on her hand and foot and chauffeur her around.”

  “Aw, I’d definitely have taken my car if I’d known that.”

  He shrugs. “I like driving. She was on my mind, that’s all. I’ve just come from the lawyer’s office.”

  “Oh? I thought your divorce was all done and dusted?”

  “It is—we’re finalizing the sale of the house. It should all be done next week.” He slows at the roundabout, takes the third exit for the State Highway, and settles back for the long drive.

  “Do I offer my congratulations or commiserations?” I’m not sure if he minds talking about it. Hopefully he knows me well enough to understand that I’m not going to be silent on our three-hour drive to Auckland.

  “Both, I guess,” he replies. “I’m relieved it’s done. It’s been a long, drawn-out process, and it’s the final break from Samantha. That’ll be good for me. It’s still sad, though.”

  “Of course it is. All endings are sad, even if they lead to better things.” I think about Theo, my last long-term boyfriend. I knew it was never going to last forever, but it was still a wrench when it ended. “Has it put you off marriage?” I wonder.