My Lonely Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 4) Read online

  “Are you going to take the dogs?” I ask him.

  “No, I’ll leave them in the conservatory.” He takes them back in there, opens the door into the garden so they can go out if they need to, then shuts the door into the house.

  He comes back over to me, and we walk to the front door. We stop when we get there, and he puts his hand on the handle and opens it.

  I step outside, then turn to look at him. He pauses on the doorstep, looking down at the ground.

  I lift my face to the sun. It’s gone midday, and it’s warmer now than it was this morning. We could probably go out without a jacket. The sun shines down solidly, and the breeze brushes across my face like a feather, bringing with it the smell of the sea.

  I open my eyes and move a bit closer to Noah. Then I reach out a hand and take his in mine. “Just a few steps first,” I say. “It’s beautiful out here. Come and feel the breeze.”

  He lifts his gaze to me, and my heart misses a beat. This man is so vulnerable on the inside, and yet there’s something about him that’s strong and solid and dependable. He’s like a wounded animal, a lion or a bear that’s lying on its side, and you want to help him but you’re nervous about going too close.

  He looks down at our hands. “Nobody’s held my hand for ten years,” he says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I hadn’t even thought about it. I suppose it’s too intimate a gesture, especially to someone who’s been alone for so long. I wait for him to withdraw his, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps outside. He takes a few steps forward with me, stopping in the middle of the drive.

  He looks relaxed, and yet I can feel how defensive his posture is, with his elbows pressed to his body, his fingers tight around mine, his spine rigid. His chest rises and falls quickly with his rapid breaths.

  “You can smell the sea,” I say. “I bet it’s beautiful in the morning when you walk on the beach with the dogs.”

  He swallows and nods. “It blows away the cobwebs.”

  “My grandmother used to say that.”

  “Mine too.” He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and blows out a long breath.

  I know right now that he’s not going to be able to walk all around the Ark with me. It’s a step too far. It doesn’t matter that he was able to go out during the cyclone. He was needed then, and his sense of duty outweighed his fear. But his agoraphobia has reasserted itself, as if he has a wire wrapped around him that tightens with each step he takes.

  But maybe we can work up to it. “That’s a beautiful oak tree,” I say, pointing to the huge tree in the field that overhangs the pathway to the Ark about halfway along. “I’d love to collect a few oak leaves. Will you come with me?”

  He looks at the tree, then at me, and then nods. Slowly, as if each step takes him a great amount of effort, we begin to walk.

  “So what gave you the idea for the Ark?” I ask him. “Have you always loved animals?”

  “No more than anyone else, I suppose. I never wanted to be a vet like Hal and Stefan. We had dogs at home when I was a teen and Mom first married Matt, but that’s about it.”

  “When was the Ark built?”

  “About five years ago now.”

  “And your wife died ten years ago?” I’m not sure if he minds talking about her, but he nods.

  “Yes. The agoraphobia kicked in shortly afterward. I don’t know why. I never had it when I was young. It was the grief, I suppose. It just got worse and worse. I was bad for a few years. But time heals, and eventually I started coming out of it.”

  It’s so quiet here. There are three sheep in the field. I wonder whether they’ve been rescued. Over at the Ark, someone’s driving their car into the car park. A dog barks way off in the distance, and I can hear a couple of people laughing, which brings a smile to my face. Other than that it’s still and beautiful. The animals must feel so restful and relieved when they’re brought here.

  “I started painting again,” Noah says. “Dad got me a commission to paint a mural at the local SPCA office. I was in the middle of painting Noah’s Ark, and I got talking to the guy who ran the office. He was really interesting, and he opened my eyes to the plight of rescued animals and said how difficult it was to rehome them. He hated the fact that they had to put them down sometimes because they couldn’t find them a home, and they didn’t have the facilities to keep them. And that got me thinking.”

  We reach the gate beneath the oak tree and, without discussing it, I release his hand and we lean on the gate, looking across at the field.

  “Matt has made a lot of money from his books,” Noah says. “And with his brothers, they made a fortune through the Three Wise Men business. They funnel a huge portion back into medical research, and also into charity through their We Three Kings foundation. They’re very generous with their money. And even though I wasn’t Matt’s son by blood, he paid for me to go to art college, and then created a trust fund that became mine when I was twenty-one. It was so much money, Abby. And I knew I had to do something with it.”

  I can’t even imagine having so much money you don’t know what to do with it.

  “Lisa and I talked about it a lot,” he continues. “She was the one with a thing about animals. She worked for the World Wildlife Fund, and was involved with saving Maui dolphins, and stopping plastic pollution. She was fiercely passionate about it and swept me up with her enthusiasm. We had all these dreams of ways we could get involved.”

  He clears his throat. “Anyway, about six years ago after talking to that guy at the SPCA, I just kept thinking about the idea of running an animal sanctuary. I couldn’t get it out of my head. It seemed like the perfect way to honor Lisa. Hal, Stefan, and Izzy were on the verge of becoming qualified vets. Leon, my brother, was finishing business school. Albie, my other cousin, was a tech whiz. I began to think how we could all work together to make it happen.”

  “Where on earth did you start? I can’t imagine how you’d even begin to get something like that rolling.”

  “It was easy once we decided to go for it. I spoke to Hal, Leon, and Albie first. I think they felt the same as me about money. Grateful but guilty. We all wanted to give something back. I looked for a site and came across this piece of land overlooking the bay, and it just seemed perfect. It started as a small vet center, just a couple of rooms, and a building for the rescued animals, and grew from there. We added Ward Seven—the recovery room, and the rehoming center. Then Hal’s sister Jules had the idea for a grooming center, so we built a room for that. We had the office block built because it’s surprising how much paperwork is involved in the running of a foundation. Initially we began by funding it out of our pockets, but Leon knew that wasn’t sustainable. He wants it to be self-sustaining. We’re nearly there. We get lots of donations from local businesses. It’s really come along since it started.”

  “It’s an amazing enterprise,” I tell him. “You’ve done wonders, Noah.”

  He scuffs the floor with his toe. “The others do all the hard work.”

  “Aw, come on. You painted the place, didn’t you?”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I did all the murals. I’ll take you to see them one day.”

  I’m pleased he’s acknowledging it will happen in the future. “I bet they’re fantastic.”

  “They’re among the best I’ve done. I’m pleased with them.”

  Some of the tension has gone from his body. He’s relaxed, standing here talking. I know better than to push him to go further. He’s done well today, to get this far.

  “So you obviously felt well enough to get out and about?” I ask him gently, still not sure how much he likes to talk about it. “What happened?”

  He shrugs. “After the initial buzz wore off, the agoraphobia just crept back. Like the tide coming in.”

  “Has the depression returned?” I’ve had a lot of experience with depression. Tom has been severely depressed in the past. It’s not easy to live with.

  “No,” he says. “I don’t see it as clinical depre
ssion.”

  “You’ve never self-harmed or tried to take your own life?”

  It’s an intimate question, I know. But the moment feels so special. Noah has opened the armor he wears just a fraction and let me slip inside, and I don’t want to waste this moment.

  He looks at me, and I can see from his sharp eyes that he suspects I have experience in this area. He looks away again, at the sheep grazing in the field. “Sometimes I’ve thought it would be easier not to be here. To get rid of the pain and loneliness. But I’ve never considered it seriously. Life is a gift. That’s why they call it the present.” He smiles.

  “Joan Rivers said that, I think,” I tell him.

  “I heard it was Oogway from Kung Fu Panda.”

  We both laugh.

  “I think I’ll walk back, if that’s okay,” he says.

  “Of course.” We turn and begin walking along the pathway to his house.

  To get rid of the pain and loneliness. He’s lonely. And I think he’s locked into a behavioral pattern, and he doesn’t know how to get out of it. So he’s just kinda given in. He loved his wife, and he misses her. Maybe he feels guilty he’s still alive, and resentful toward the world that she’s not. I can understand all those feelings.

  “Does Tom self-harm?” he asks.

  I look out to sea, at the boats sailing away from Paihia, out toward the horizon. They’ll be bringing back snapper, or a kingfish, if they’re lucky. “Not at the moment. He did. He was severely depressed. It’s one reason I agreed to move. I thought a fresh start would be what he needed.”

  “But it hasn’t worked?”

  “A little, I suppose. He’s done some financial consulting, but hasn’t found anything permanent yet. He really needs to fill in with some manual labor or something, anything to bring in some money, especially now I’m pregnant. But he thinks he’s above that.” I stop. I’m sure my resentment is obvious enough without me slagging off my husband to an almost-stranger.

  “You must think I’m so stupid,” I blurt out, resting my hand on my bump. “Getting pregnant at a time like this.”

  “Not at all. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate a fresh start than with a new life.”

  Tears blur my eyes. “It wasn’t like that at all. It was an accident. I’d never have been foolish enough to knowingly have a baby when things are so up in the air.”

  I stop walking, overcome with emotion. “I’m not saying I don’t want the baby,” I tell him desperately, conscious that he’s lost a child. “Not at all.”

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” I don’t want him to think badly of me. I don’t want him to think I’m stupid for having unprotected sex when I’d just lost my house. But I can’t tell him the awful truth. I’ve spilled too much already, and I don’t know him that well.

  “I don’t judge,” Noah says. “I wouldn’t do that. I can’t presume to know your situation. You seem sensible to me, and I’m sure you’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “Thank you for the walk. I’m glad you came with me. I’d better go now, though.”

  His expression softens. “You sure you don’t want to come back in for another cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll see you Monday.” I walk away, get in my car, and drive off down the lane, watching him in my mirror. He has opened his front door and is standing on the threshold, looking after me. Then he goes in and closes the door.

  I swallow hard and dash away my tears. I’m sure you’re going to be a wonderful mother.

  “I hope so, Peanut,” I whisper. “I hope so.”

  Chapter Seven

  Noah

  After Abby’s next two visits, we have a coffee together, then take a walk. Each time, we go a little bit further, although we don’t quite make it to the Ark. I have to build up to it. She seems to sense this, and doesn’t push me.

  I look forward to that hour or so after she finishes her work. In fact I look forward to the whole morning. I love hearing her singing as she moves around the house, or as she’s ironing my shirts, listening to music with her earbuds in. And I love her cooking, and her delight in the kitchen and all the ingredients. After she discovers I like spicy food, she cooks me a Thai green curry and then an Indian Dopiaza. Each time, I give her two portions to take home, along with a few of the muffins from the batch she’s made that day. She doesn’t argue, just places them quietly in a bag.

  But most of all, I look forward to the cup of coffee and a muffin after she’s finished cleaning. I organize my meetings and phone calls so I’m free at twelve, so we can sit and talk, and then take a short walk in the sunshine.

  She doesn’t hold my hand again. I know she only did it the first time because she was physically trying to encourage me out of the house. But we walk closely together, and each time I treasure those moments of peace and contentment.

  We talk about lots of things. She asks me about the World Wildlife Fund, and the work that Lisa and I did for them. I ask her about The Mad Batter and what kind of cakes she’s made, and she tells me about all the kids’ birthday cakes she’s decorated, in the shape of Buzz Lightyear, Pooh Bear, and Princess Elsa.

  We don’t talk about what happened to Lisa. And we don’t talk about Tom.

  I do ask her about Peanut, gently probing to see how she feels about being thirty-seven weeks pregnant, and what preparations she’s made for the birth. Her replies are stilted and awkward. When I ask if she’s painted the nursery, she says yes, although she doesn’t describe it, and I think she’s lying. It occurs to me that she might not have a separate room for the baby—perhaps she lives in a one-bedroom apartment. I know she’s renting. I ask her if she’s enjoying looking at the newborn clothes because Lisa loved that so much, checking out the onesies and the cute hats, and the amazing amount of equipment it seems necessary to have nowadays for something so little.

  Abby’s somewhat curt answers tell me she doesn’t have any of that. She admits she’s found some nice pieces in the charity shop, then changes the subject.

  I know I’m privileged. Extremely privileged. I don’t know exactly how much money I have, although between our fathers and us all at the Ark it’s billions. I’ve never had to fear I can’t pay my rent. Or that I won’t be able to feed or clothe my family. I knew those problems weren’t isolated to the countries of the Third World, but it’s not until now I truly understand what a terrible struggle life can be for the ordinary person, even in a country like New Zealand.

  Of course, it’s been this way for the majority of families in the world for generations. Kids don’t need expensive toys and clothes and special equipment. As long as they have a good home life, they grow up just fine. There are plenty of studies and thousands of people who would argue their simple lives have made them more content than some rich spoiled kids who can have anything they want but don’t appreciate it.

  They say money can’t buy happiness. I partly agree with that. It doesn’t guarantee it. Even with all the money I have, I wasn’t able to save Lisa. It doesn’t buy good health or luck.

  But it does buy an awful lot. It can buy pleasure and fun. It can buy medical treatment and a nice quiet home and good schools for your children. And it can buy security and comfort. In the past, I’ve taken those things for granted. For the first time, though, I appreciate everything my money has given me.

  When Lisa was pregnant, she spent hours flicking through catalogues showing me beautiful tiny outfits, fancy pushchairs, and all the items many moms use to make their lives easier. We spent a long time designing the nursery of our house in Auckland, making it exactly as we wanted. We bought every piece of equipment going, whether we thought we might need it or not.

  But Abby doesn’t have any of that. It’s going to be hard for her. She’s not going to be able to spoil the baby with gorgeous clothes and toys. And from the sound of it, she’s not even got the love of an adoring husband to make up for it.

  I want to wav
e a magic wand and make things better for her. But I can’t do that. All I can do is be her friend and give her support if she asks for it.

  On Friday, we sit and have our tea and muffins as usual, and then I ask her, “Do you have to rush off today?”

  She glances out of the window. I wonder whether she’s thinking about Tom at home, moody, sulky, and bad-tempered, judging by the little she’s told me about him. “No,” she says. “No hurry.”

  “Then maybe we’ll see if we can make it to the Ark,” I announce. I finish off my coffee with a hesitant smile.

  She gives a delighted grin and hurriedly eats the last piece of her muffin. “Come on then!”

  We don our coats and head out of the house, walking slowly along the path to the Ark. The weather’s not quite as nice today; there’s a touch of rain in the air, and the sky and the sea are both the same shade of gray, but it smells fresh, and I take deep breaths, letting the sea breeze calm me.

  “What made you decide today was going to be the day?” she asks.

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Working up to it, if you will.” I give her a sidelong glance. “One of my therapists suggested meditation, and I’ve been giving it a go.”

  I thought she might laugh, but she doesn’t. “That’s a great idea,” she says with enthusiasm. “I’m sure focusing the mind is really helpful in situations like yours.”

  “I think it’s helped. Well, here I am, anyway, so something worked.”

  “Focus on me,” she tells me. “I need something to take my mind off the birth. Introducing me to everyone will really help me.”

  “Okay.” I nod with determination as we get to the end of the field—the furthest we’ve walked so far. “Let’s do it.”

  We skirt the end of the building and reach the large square in front of the Ark. The veterinary center closes during the lunch break to enable the vets to have time to see to any rescue animals, but the place is still relatively busy, with cars coming and going from the car park, someone taking their recently groomed dog back to the car, Fitz and Leon standing talking by the office block, and Izzy crossing the square in the direction of the other half of the demolished building.