My Roommate, the Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 3) Page 4

  “Sure.” He smiles. “Come on, I’ll walk you up to your room.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to…”

  But he’s already getting to his feet and pocketing his phone, so I sigh and get up too. He holds out his arm, and I slip my hand through it as we walk out of the bar and across to the elevators. People are still dancing in the hall, but I’m more than ready for bed.

  There are several other couples in the carriage, and as it rises, I wonder whether they think we’re a couple too. For the first time, I wonder whether Albie’s offer to walk me to my room means he’s hoping I’ll invite him in. Oh, merde. I didn’t think of that.

  If he asks to come in, what shall I say?

  Chapter Five

  Remy

  The elevator pings and the doors slide open, and Albie and I walk out. Two other couples also exit, and they turn right and head off down the corridor.

  “I am number 262,” I say, gesturing left.

  I open my mouth again to say goodbye, but he says, “Okay,” and, flummoxed, I walk slowly along the corridor to my room with him in step beside me.

  Our footsteps are absorbed by the thick carpet. It’s quiet, and it smells faintly of the fresh flowers on the table at the end of the corridor. He glances at me, but I don’t look back at him, and he doesn’t say anything. My heart races, and I chew my bottom lip. I need to tell him I’m not ready for this. But he’s going to have that look in his eyes, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to withstand a full Albie King assault.

  I can’t sleep with him! I have to leave in three weeks. I have to get on with my life, get a job, a place to live. Albie is part of the fantasy I’ve been living for the past year, and while it’s been an amazing journey, I need to return to the real world.

  We’re a few paces from my door when he stops in his tracks. I take another step, then turn, my eyebrows rising. He looks alarmed.

  “Jesus,” he says, “I’ve realized why you look worried. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to spend five more minutes with you and make sure you got back to the room all right.” He runs his hand through his hair as I stare at him. “Which is ridiculous, I know,” he continues, “as we’re not exactly in a rough street, and anyway you’re perfectly capable of looking after yourself.”

  I’m still staring at him, puzzled. He’s not going to try to talk me into bed?

  His eyebrows draw together. “I swear I didn’t come up here with you because I expected you to invite me in. I would never assume that, and I would never pressure you to do anything you didn’t—”

  He stops talking as I reach out a hand and press two fingers to his lips. I’ve turned to caramel inside.

  “Aw,” I say. “You are such a sweetie, Al-bear.”

  He gives a little, helpless sigh. “I’m crazy about you, Remy.”

  My lips curve up a little. His speech in the bar about being a loner, about having trouble with girls when he was young, makes me want to hug him.

  I give in. “You can kiss me goodnight, if you like.”

  Ses yeux noisette—his hazel eyes—study mine. We’re only a foot apart, and I know it’s my imagination, but I’m sure I can feel the warmth from his body radiating out from him.

  “A goodnight kiss?” he confirms.

  I nod and wait for him to bend and touch his lips to mine or maybe to my cheek.

  He doesn’t. Instead, his eyes gleam, his lips curve up, and I get the first flickers of warning deep inside.

  He moves closer to me, and instinctively I retreat, but my back meets the wall and there’s nowhere to go.

  He continues to move closer, until he’s almost touching me, and he brings up his hands and cups my face. Ohhh… I’ve made a huge mistake. He might not have come up here to take me to bed, and he might have been telling the truth about when he was young, but there’s no way this guy has trouble with women now.

  “I… I meant a peck on the cheek,” I whisper.

  He chuckles. His hands are warm, his thumbs caressing my cheekbones. “Do you want me to stop?” His deep voice is husky, seductive.

  I bring my hands up to rest on his chest, but he’s looking at my mouth, and heat shoots through me, as if someone has injected me with chili sauce and at the same time I’ve downed a whole glass of whisky in one go. I want him to kiss me. Mon Dieu, I want it more than anything else in the world.

  Bending his head, he stops when his lips are half an inch from mine. Then he waits.

  “Do not stop,” I whisper, ashamed of myself, but hungering for this man.

  To my relief, he doesn’t laugh or mock me. He exhales, maybe a sigh of relief, his breath whispering over my lips. Then he closes the gap, and our lips touch.

  My eyelids flutter shut, and I hold my breath. Half of me expects him to kiss me lightly then retreat; the other half is sure he’s going to shove his tongue down my throat because je suis Française and the French like to kiss like that, no?

  He doesn’t though. This guy is full of surprises. He gives me slow butterfly kisses, on my lips, my cheeks, my eyebrows, my eyelids, down my nose, back to my mouth. I can’t hold my breath any longer and I exhale. He sighs, our breaths intermingling, and slides his hands into my hair. Oh, he’s not going to stop… and God help me but I don’t want him to… I want him to carry on kissing me forever like this, so gentle, so light. My fingers curl around the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Mmm… he smells divine, of warmed spices—I want to nuzzle behind his ear and the crook of his neck and breathe him in; I want to touch my lips to his skin and taste him.

  My lips part automatically as I inhale, and he brushes his tongue against my bottom lip. I have to stop myself groaning out loud. Instead, I open my mouth to him, and he slips his tongue against mine.

  Ooohhh… that’s so erotic, an invasion I hadn’t anticipated experiencing this evening, although I confess, I have fantasized about it, at night, in my bed in the dark, with Albie only a couple of doors down from me. My nipples tighten, and I tingle deliciously in other places. This time I can’t stifle the moan that rises from my throat, and in response he tightens one hand in my hair and moves a little closer, so our bodies are touching. I slide my hands around his waist, beneath his jacket, over his shirt, but it’s not enough—I want to touch him. I tug at his shirt and it comes out of his trousers, and then I slip my fingers beneath the cotton onto the warm skin of his back.

  He lifts his head, and I look up into his eyes. I shouldn’t have touched him—I’ve stepped over the line. I’m leading him on, and it’s not fair to do this and then protest when he takes it as me wanting more. My fingers pause on his back, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me to open the door.

  But although his lips curve up a little, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just lowers his lips again and carries on kissing me, this time wrapping his arms around me. I rest my hand on his lower back, just enjoying the sensation of touching his skin, reveling in the intimacy of the kiss, until he finally lifts his head again.

  He kisses my nose. “Goodnight, Remy.”

  I lower my arms, surprised, breathless. “Goodnight, Albie.”

  He turns and walks away.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to call after him and beg him to stay.

  I force myself to unlock the door and go inside. Once it’s shut, I lean against the wall and give a long, heartfelt groan. It’s going to be a long while before I’ll be able to get to sleep.

  *

  Albie

  As I walk away, I hear Remy’s faint groan from behind her door, and I chuckle. It’s a relief to me that our kiss has affected her the way it has affected me. I’ll be dreaming about her tonight, how her curvy body felt beneath the silky red dress, how soft her lips were, the way her fingers curled around my lapels and pulled me closer, how her mouth opened beneath mine. She wants me; there’s no doubt about that. But the circumstances aren’t right, and I understand why she doesn’t want to complicate things when she’s leaving in less tha
n a month.

  I’m not ready for bed yet; I think I’ll have one last drink. I take the stairs down, giving my body time to recover from the joy of being close to Remy, and at the bottom I head for the bar.

  To my surprise, I discover my father there with both my uncles, having a sneaky drink on their own.

  “Shouldn’t you be out on the dance floor, leading the conga or something?” I ask Dad as Brock orders me a whisky.

  “I’m hiding,” he confesses. “Summer wants me to give a speech.”

  “I’m on lookout,” Matt tells me. “If she makes an appearance, I have to throw a blanket over him and create a distraction.”

  I laugh and take the whisky from Brock. “You know it won’t work.”

  “We know,” Dad says. “It’s worth a try, though.” He sips his drink, his eyes turning mischievous behind his glasses. “I’m surprised to see you back down here.”

  Oh, so he saw me escort Remy up to the room? He’s obviously told the others, too, because they both look at me with raised eyebrows.

  “She turn you down?” Matt asks, and Brock snorts.

  “I was the perfect gentleman,” I tell them. “I escorted her to the door and said goodnight.”

  “Jesus,” Matt says. “Didn’t we teach you anything?”

  “Youth is wasted on the young,” Brock comments with a sigh.

  But Dad closes the gap between us, puts his arm around me, and gives me a hug. “I’m proud of you, son,” he says, and kisses my forehead.

  “Are you drunk?” My voice is husky as I return the hug.

  “A little bit. But that’s irrelevant. Can’t a man hug his son when he’s the very picture of sainthood?”

  “I did kiss her. I’m not ready for a halo just yet.”

  Brock laughs, and Matt grins.

  Dad chuckles and pushes me away. “Glad to hear it.”

  “She’s a lovely girl,” Brock says.

  “She’s perfect,” I tell them. “But there are a hundred reasons it wouldn’t work.”

  “Only a hundred?” Matt rolls his eyes. “There were at least a thousand for each of us.” He gestures at his brothers and himself, and smiles.

  I know the backstories about each of their relationships. Their wives all had children from previous marriages, and each of them had their own issues to overcome. My father had to deal with Summer’s dad, Dillon, refusing to accept his marriage with Mom was over. But it all worked out in the end. Dillon met and married Jackie, and they had a couple of girls, and when I was young they’d come over to our house occasionally and we’d have a summer barbecue all together.

  Things worked out for the Three Wise Men. Summer, too, has had her happy ending, as have Hal and Leon now. But it doesn’t always work out. Ryan, Brock’s adopted son from his wife’s first marriage, has a broken relationship behind him, and now lives alone. Fitz and Stefan are still single. And of course there’s Noah, still crippled from grief, even though it’s almost ten years since his wife died.

  Having the King family name doesn’t guarantee happiness. And I don’t think it’s going to be a fairy wand for me.

  “Aw,” Matt says as I study my shoes. “Don’t lose heart. Three weeks is plenty of time to turn on the charm, lad.”

  “Even if I could, I don’t know that I should. Her ex is the son of the CEO of Gauthier Telecommunications.”

  Their eyebrows rise as one. “Wow,” Dad says.

  “Yeah. And he sounds like a complete connard.”

  Dad gives a short laugh. The other two don’t need to know French to be able to translate that I’m using a swear word. It sounds much more elegant than ‘asshole’. One of the many French swear words Remy’s taught me. I adore that girl.

  “What did he do?” Brock asks.

  “Cheated on her, numerous times, from the sound of it.”

  “Bastard,” Matt says.

  “Yeah. He turned on the charm, showered her with money and gifts, proposed to her, then cheated on her.”

  “Ah.” Dad purses his lips. “Is she tarring you with the same brush?”

  “I think she’s wary of spoiled rich guys.”

  We all think about that.

  “She’s going to assume that any man she meets who has money is going to treat her the same,” Brock says. “You can’t blame her for that.”

  “It’s up to you to show her that’s not the case,” Dad tells me.

  “I told her I don’t know the first thing about yachts,” I say.

  That makes them laugh. “Actions are louder than words,” Dad points out.

  “Yeah, I get that. I’m not sure how to disprove something, though. I mean, I am rich. I don’t live in a house made of gold or anything. I’m not even like Leon—I don’t wear expensive suits…” I look down at the tux. “Apart from this one. But I mean I don’t drive sports cars or go to balls…” I look over at the hall where lights are flashing and the music is still blaring. “Okay, maybe she’s got a point.”

  “You just have to be yourself,” Matt says. “Spend some time with her. She’ll soon see the real you.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.” It’s a half-joke. I might not have any trouble getting a woman into bed, but I have a helluva job keeping them once they discover my issues with communication.

  It’s Matt’s turn to give me a one-armed hug. “Didn’t stop your father,” he says, “and he was a right loser.”

  “It’s true,” Dad concedes, “I was.”

  Brock smiles. “Matt’s right. Just be yourself, Albie. You’ve got a heart of gold, and she won’t be able to resist that. Speaking of which, are you still on for next Saturday?”

  I nod. “Eleven o’clock?”

  “Yeah, you know the drill.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but I’m interrupted by a cry of, “Dad! Are you hiding from me?”

  It’s Summer, bustling through the bar, her blue ball gown swooshing around her legs as she walks.

  “Oops,” Matt says. “I failed in my duty.”

  She stops before us and coughs.

  “Steady,” Dad says. “You’re no spring chicken anymore.”

  She glares at him. “Time for your speech.”

  “Summer…”

  “Come on, you old fogey. The band is wrapping up, and I promised the masses you’d say thank you for coming.”

  He sighs and takes her hand, smiling as he follows her back out to the hall.

  Brocks grins at me. “He’ll be fine. He can be surprisingly eloquent when he needs to be.”

  “Come on.” Matt finishes off his whisky. “Let’s go and see the old fella do his thing.”

  I smile and follow them into the hall. As I walk, I think about what Matt said about spending some time with Remy. Is there any point, as she’s going? Isn’t it just a waste of both of our time?

  I think about how soft her lips were, and mine curve up. I don’t care if it is. I want to get to know her. I want to prove to her that not all rich boys are bad boys. And I want to kiss her again, even if it doesn’t lead to anything else.

  If it does, that’ll just be a bonus.

  Chapter Six

  Remy

  Over the next week, I don’t see much of Albie. My hours are nine-to-five, and he tends to work until six or seven, and then by the time he comes home, I’m usually off out with Jules or one of my other friends.

  I think about him all the time, though. How can I not? The memory of his lips pressed to mine is seared into my brain. It was just a kiss, I keep telling myself. It didn’t mean anything, and it’s not going to lead to anything. He’s my landlord, for God’s sake. We were just two young people who’d had a few too many drinks during a party and got carried away.

  Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Remy, and you might begin to believe it.

  Until now, I’ve kept my distance from Albie by telling myself he’s too like Pierre, and I don’t want to fall for the same kind of man again. It’s true that he’s rich, and he’s hardly a family man,
ready to settle down with a wife and four kids. But the brief glimpse he’s given me into his background suggests he’s very different from the playboy who treated me so abysmally. I think Izzy was wrong with her comment that, “Albie doesn’t do commitment.” Maybe he hasn’t, but that’s not because he doesn’t want to settle down; I think he’s wary of relationships because they’re a complicated journey and he doesn’t have a map.

  But it doesn’t matter if he’s the nicest man in the world. I’m not dating him.

  Then I sulk, because I want to kiss him again, and I know I can’t. I mustn’t. I have to stay away from him. I’m a terrible judge of character. Pierre was so handsome, so charismatic, and yet inside he could be uncaring and cruel. He had no idea why I was so hurt by the notion of him sleeping with other women—even though he’d have gone ballistic if I did the same. For a long time, though, I had no idea he was like that, and it might be the same with Albie. He might be making an attempt to be a good guy, but deep down he’s probably as cold and unfeeling as the rest of the male population.

  I resolve to put him out of my head, and file the kiss in a storage box in one of the dusty attics of my brain. We’re busy at work with lots of new clients wanting their dogs groomed, and in the evenings we have two birthdays amongst our group of friends, so I’m out a lot, and the days pass quickly. There’s no time to have big conversations with him, and after a while my panic dies down and I console myself with the thought that the kiss wasn’t as big a deal as it seemed to me at the time.

  On Saturdays, I often go shopping with Jules or one of my other friends, but this weekend I don’t have anything on, so I rise a little later than usual, around eight, make myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and sit at the table to check my phone while I crunch on a slice of toast.

  “Bonjour.” It’s Albie, fresh out of bed, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers, sleepy-eyed, with his hair sticking up at all angles.

  He looks absolutely gorgeous.

  “Bonjour.” I tear my gaze away from him and study my phone as if I’m reading a fascinating article, even though I’m only on Facebook looking at pictures of cats falling in waste-paper bins.