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

  I’m actually going to have a baby. It doesn’t seem real. I should be glowing with happiness. Tom should be lying beside me, resting a hand on my bump, trying to feel when Peanut kicks. He hasn’t done that once in all the time I’ve been pregnant. He’s hardly mentioned the pregnancy at all.

  Noah talks about Peanut all the time. He asks if I’m feeling okay. He brings me a stool to put my feet on while we have our tea and muffins. He’s asked me about names and what my hopes and dreams are for the baby. My eyes sting a little. Why can’t Tom be like that?

  I close the cupboard doors and go back into the living room. I don’t want to put on the heater because it’s expensive, so I go upstairs and retrieve my duvet, and bring it down to wrap around me on the sofa. Then I flick on the TV again, mainly for the company.

  I start knitting with the wool I bought yesterday, but it’s double knitting, too thick really for the delicate outfit I wanted. Dispirited, I put it aside, curl up on the sofa, and watch the TV without really listening.

  *

  I can’t face getting into a cold bed on my own, so I end up staying there the night. I doze fitfully, waking with an icy cold nose, stiff from being in one position too long. The front door woke me. I check my phone; it’s five in the morning.

  I push myself up. I hear Tom taking off his boots, cursing as he bangs an elbow. My heart picks up its pace. He comes into the room and walks past me, through to the kitchen. He hasn’t seen me.

  I don’t move, and eventually he comes back in. He stops dead as he sees me sitting there. “Jesus,” he snaps. “You frightened the crap out of me. What are you doing? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  I’ve got so much to say, I don’t know where to start, so I don’t say anything. He comes and sits in the armchair opposite me. I can smell him from across the room—B.O., alcohol, and cigarette smoke. He doesn’t smoke, so he’s been with others who have. And he’s been drinking.

  We sit in silence for several minutes. I refuse to say anything, and eventually he gives an exaggerated sigh. “Will you just say something?”

  “I tried calling you,” I tell him.

  “I turned off my phone. I needed to concentrate.”

  “On what?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “What if I needed you?” I whisper. “If there was something wrong with the baby?”

  He wipes a hand across his face and sighs. “It’s not due for another few months, Abby. Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “It’s due in two weeks.” I’m disgusted that he has no idea. “This is your child, Tom. Yours and mine. You have to start showing some responsibility.”

  “I didn’t want it,” he says sullenly. “I told you that. You had the chance to get rid of it and you didn’t. It’s your responsibility now.”

  Cold filters down inside me. “That’s a fucking awful thing to say.”

  He tips his head back on the sofa and sighs again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did. Jesus, Tom. What the hell’s going on?” The ice that had encased me begins to melt as heat rises inside me. “Where have you been? You’ve been gone all weekend. Is there… is there someone else?” Even as I say the words, I know the answer, because we’ve been here before. He smells of alcohol and smoke. It’s not another woman. “You’ve been gambling,” I whisper. He stares sullenly at the floor, so I know I’m right.

  “Where?” I demand.

  “A friend had a card game going.”

  I stare at him. “I don’t understand. How could you gamble? We don’t have any money.”

  Still, he doesn’t say anything. His gaze flicks up to me, though. He doesn’t look rebellious. He looks terrified.

  What has he done? How can he have spent money we didn’t have? I had no cash anywhere in the house, only the—

  I push the duvet off my lap, get to my feet, and go into the kitchen. I open the cupboard door, move aside the box of cereal, and take out the box at the back. It says it holds risotto rice, but it hasn’t held food for a while. It’s where I hide the rent money. I open it and tip it up. It’s empty.

  My heart’s in my mouth. I go back into the living room and snatch up my phone. With shaking hands, I hit our bank app and scroll down to the account that holds the money to set up The Mad Batter.

  The balance is zero.

  Tom leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and sinks his hands into his hair.

  “You spent all of it?” I whisper.

  “To begin with.”

  I blink a few times. “What do you mean?”

  “They let me borrow some to win it back. But the cards were against me. I just kept losing…”

  “How much?” He says nothing. “Tom, how much?”

  “Five thousand.” He puts his face in his hands.

  I stare at him. “Dollars?” It might not be much to some people, but for us it’s so out of reach, it could have been a hundred thousand.

  “I’m sorry.” He folds his hands in front of his mouth. “I was so sure I could do it. And I just kept getting deeper and deeper in. One win, and I would have paid it all back.” He lifts his gaze up to me. His eyes are wet. “I just wanted to bring you some money, to make it up to you.”

  Hot, sweet rage floods me. “Really, Tom? Did you think about me for a second while you were away? Did you think about the baby at all?”

  He drops his gaze, giving me the answer.

  All my life, I’ve wanted to prove my mother was wrong when she said it would never work out. I’ve stood by him, refusing to give in, thinking that trying to make my relationship work made me a stronger, better person. Only weak people walk away, I’d thought.

  And look where it’s gotten me.

  I could scream, stamp my feet, throw things, sulk, cry. But it’s not going to change anything. He has a chronic disease. I’ve tried to help him. I’ve stood by him. Forgiven him multiple times. Tried to get him help. But what do you do when a person doesn’t want to help themselves? He doesn’t care about me, about the baby. I don’t love him anymore. I haven’t for a while. The disease has beaten all three of us.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask him. “How are we going to pay the rent?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I stare at him. “How are you going to pay the money back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer, Tom.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know—some effort? Some ideas of how to pay off five thousand dollars?”

  “What about that rich guy at the Ark? Could he give you a loan?”

  I know Noah would give me the money. But the thought of asking that honorable, loyal, kind man for help, of admitting what’s happened to me, makes me want to curl up and die with shame.

  Nausea rises inside me. I hold my breath as I fight against it. After a few seconds, it goes away, taking with it all my emotion—all my anger, my determination, my hope.

  I get to my feet, walk toward the door, and pick up my keys from the table. Shove my feet into my shoes and yank my jacket off the peg.

  “Where are you going?” Tom calls.

  I don’t answer and open the door.

  “You’ll be back,” he yells. “You always come back.”

  I go out and close the door.

  I walk away, toward the beach. It’s still dark, the moon a bauble hanging over the horizon that blurs as my eyes fill with tears.

  Chapter Nine

  Noah

  It’s a cool, blustery morning. I walk the dogs at first light, hunching my shoulders against the stiff sea breeze, and I’m relieved when I reach the end of the beach, so I can return to my warm house and shut out the harsh world.

  I run through my plans for the day as I climb the track, helping Spike up some of the difficult steps. Willow bounds ahead, egging him on. I’m working on some ideas for the Hands-On unit today, enlarging on the discussion I had with Albie last week. I want to establish contact wit
h the local primary and secondary schools to sow the seed of the idea of working with their learning enrichment centers. I also have a heap of financial reports Leon’s prepared for me, and Fitz’s bi-annual report on the estate, which will no doubt have suggestions for upkeep and improvements, and I want to read that by the end of the day.

  And of course, Abby’s coming this morning. My heart lifts, even though I keep telling myself she’s just a friend. So what’s wrong with having a good friend of the opposite sex? I like her, and I like spending time with her. There’s nothing harmful about chatting over a cup of coffee and a muffin for half an hour. She needn’t know it’s the highlight of my day. Anyway, it’s obviously not going to be for long. Soon the baby will be born, and I doubt she’ll want to continue working here after that. I expect she’d like to set up her business again. It’ll take capital, though, even if she works from home. But maybe she has a little put aside for that.

  As I crest the hill and walk across to the house, my mobile rings. I take it out and look at the screen—it says Abby. We exchanged numbers when she started working, in case she needed to change her time or day at all.

  I swipe the screen and answer it. “Hey, morning! You’re up early.” It’s only seven-thirty.

  “Hello, Noah.” She speaks in a whisper. In the background, I can hear the sound of waves breaking on the shore. What’s she doing on the beach at this time of the morning? “I’m afraid I won’t be able to work for you anymore.”

  I stop walking. The dogs look up at me, then go off to sniff around the house.

  “What’s happened?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I’m very sorry to let you down. I hope you’re able to find someone else soon.”

  “Abby, forget about the job. How are you? Is the baby okay?”

  “The baby’s fine. It’s okay, Noah. Everything’s fine. Thank you for everything you’ve done. I appreciate you taking me on when you didn’t know me.”

  Now I’m alarmed. Something’s clearly happened, and she’s not going to tell me. “Where are you?”

  “I have to go now.”

  “Just tell me where you are.”

  “Bye, Noah.” She hangs up.

  I stare at the phone for a moment. Then I open the front door, let the dogs in, and go inside.

  I stand in the hallway for a long moment. There’s only one thing I can do, but it makes my mouth go dry to think about it. But there’s no time for my stupid affliction to kick in now. Abby needs help, and I think I’m the only one who can give it.

  I put the dogs in the conservatory, check they have water, and open the door to the garden. Then I walk through to my office and open the top drawer of my desk. I stare at the contents for a moment. Then I take out my car keys.

  I walk out and through the house to the door that leads into the garage. My shiny new Aston Martin sits inside, and as I press the button to lift the garage door, the car gleams. I bought this for myself about six months ago, and I occasionally start it up and drive it around the Ark, but I’ve yet to leave the grounds. I haven’t been out of the grounds for five years.

  Swallowing hard, I get in the car and start it up. It purrs gently. I buckle myself in, then ease the car out of the garage and onto the drive.

  I push away the anxiety that’s knotting my stomach and focus on Abby. I’m guessing she’s on Paihia beach somewhere. That’s no small distance to cover, as the beach extends all the way from Waitangi down to the end of Paihia, a distance of several miles, and it’s possible she’s driven to Opua or somewhere else near the sea. Hopefully I’ll spot her car, and at least then I’ll know roughly whereabouts she is.

  I head out of the Ark and turn onto the State Highway. My palms are sweating, but I press my foot down, drive to the roundabout, and take the turnoff to Paihia.

  I drive at a moderate speed, keeping an eye out for her car. The beach is empty, and so are the parking spaces on the road. The sea is gray in the early light, harsh. Fear rises inside me. She hasn’t done anything stupid, has she?

  I go all the way through town to where the road begins to rise into the hills, but there’s no sign of her car. I turn around and start heading back, thinking furiously. Maybe she didn’t take the car. She told me she lives ten minutes from the beach; perhaps she walked there. I park up by the pier, get out, and lock the car.

  I lean against it for a moment, taking deep breaths. There aren’t many people about; a man’s walking a dog along the path, someone’s opening up the place where you book trips out to see the dolphins. A couple of tourists are out early, taking photos of the picturesque seafront. Someone calls out to a friend from a boat, about to head out fishing, no doubt.

  Despite the peace and quiet, my limbs feel frozen, and my heart is racing. I can’t do this. The sky seems too high; the world is too big, as if I’m wearing glasses with lenses that make everything appear larger. I’m too small, too insignificant.

  I lean on the car, close my eyes, and take deep breaths.

  I read an article on meditation the other day. There are lots of ways to meditate, like counting breaths and visualization. This article suggested taking yourself to a place where you feel happy and content.

  I take myself back to my conservatory. Warm in the sun, my dogs at my feet. Abby curled up in the chair beside me, her cup of tea resting on her bump, her fingers sticky with melted chocolate from the muffin. She’s laughing at something I’ve said. She makes me feel good. And she needs my help.

  I open my eyes again, steely determination replacing the knot of anxiety. I’m going to do this. I can’t afford to fail.

  I push off the car and head onto the pier. First I look to my left, searching up the beach for any sign of a lone figure. There are a couple, but they’re both men. I cross to the other side of the pier and look down the beach. And then I see her. A few hundred yards away, sitting on a bench on the grassy bank under a pohutukawa tree, looking out to sea.

  Relief washes over me. I run around the pier, vault over the barricade, land on the grassy bank, and jog down to the seat. I slow as I reach her. She looks pale and unhappy. She’s slumped in the seat, her posture defeated. She must be frozen; her hands are reddened, and she’s not wearing a scarf or hat.

  I stop beside her and drop to my haunches. “Abby?”

  She looks down at me, her eyes holding a touch of alarm. She thinks I’m Tom. She blinks a few times, and then focuses on me. “Noah?”

  “Hey.” I smile.

  “Noah?” She says again. “What… why are you here?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  She stares at me. “How did you get here?”

  “I drove. I do have a car. It just doesn’t have many miles on the clock.”

  She doesn’t smile. She looks as if she can’t comprehend that I’ve gone there for her.

  “Honey,” I say softly. “What happened?”

  Her bottom lip trembles. Her face is clear; she hasn’t been crying, but now tears form in her eyes and tumble over her lashes. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers, and covers her face with her hands.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” I rise and sit on the bench beside her, and take her in my arms. She curls into them as much as she can with her bump, and I hold her while she cries.

  Oh, it’s cold; the seat is freezing my butt, and there’s a touch of rain in the air. My ears are numb, and my hands are tingling. But I wait, letting her sob into my jacket, and hold her tightly until the initial wave of tears subsides.

  She takes a shivery breath, and I kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to take you back to my car,” I tell her, “and drive us to my house, okay?”

  She tries to wipe her face. “I need to… to work out what to do…”

  “And we will. But first we need to get somewhere warm, and have a hot cup of tea and some breakfast.” I get to my feet and pull her gently to hers. “Come on.”

  I put my arm around her, and we walk slowly back to my car. A couple of teenagers are sittin
g on their bikes opposite it, admiring it. I give them a wry smile as I open the passenger seat and help Abby in.

  I go to the driver’s side and get in, start the engine, and turn the heater on full blast. Making sure Abby’s buckled in, I reverse out of the car park and head the car back toward the Ark.

  “I can’t believe you came out to get me,” she whispers.

  “I care about you,” I say. “You’re my friend.”

  “But you left the house and drove all the way here.”

  “I’m not saying it was easy,” I admit. “But I was worried about you. I could tell something had happened.”

  She snuffles, trying to wipe her face with her sleeve, and I gesture at the glove box. “There’s a pack of tissues in there.”

  She opens it, takes out the pack, extracts one, and blows her nose.

  “I want you to tell me what happened, later,” I say, “but first we’re going to get in, give you a hot bath, and something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t believe that, and you have to think of the baby.”

  Her gaze slides across to me. For the first time, the corner of her mouth curves up a little. “Is this you putting your foot down?”

  “Absolutely. My mother used to say that there’s no problem that can’t be sorted, and I truly believe that. Whatever happened, we’ll work it out together.”

  She presses her fingers to her lips, fresh tears forming. “Don’t make me cry.”

  “I don’t care if you cry, Abby. I’m not afraid of emotion. It’s important you realize you’re not alone. The Ark is a sanctuary for a reason. We help each other there; we’re like one big family, and you’re a member of that family now. It’s not charity. We’re friends, and friends help each other out. You helped me deal with my anxiety. Now it’s my turn to pay you back. Whatever needs to be done, we’ll do. We’ll find an answer together.”