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

  She continues to cry quietly, and I leave her to it as I navigate the roundabout and take the turning to the Ark. Hal and Izzy’s car is already in the car park, and so is Fitz’s, but the place is quiet, just a couple of lights coming from the clinic and Fitz’s office. I drive along the lane to my house, opening the garage door as we approach, and slide the car inside.

  As the door lowers, I blow out a long breath. I made it. I’m so proud of myself. I feel exhausted, as if I’ve run a marathon. But I found her, and I brought her back.

  Now all I have to do is discover what happened and help her to work it out. Solving problems and finding solutions is what I do.

  I glance across at her, my heart aching at the sight of her pale, tear-stained face. She’s so beautiful. And so vulnerable at the moment. No pregnant woman should be unhappy. She should be laughing, glowing, filled with excitement at the thought of having her baby.

  Well, it looks as if she’s made the break from Tom. They’ve obviously had some sort of argument. I hope he hasn’t hit her. She’s not bearing any bruises, but there are other ways a man can be cruel.

  Anger rises within me, but I keep a lid on it. She doesn’t need another guy throwing his weight around. What she needs now is TLC.

  “Come on,” I say to her. “Let’s go inside.”

  Chapter Ten

  Abigail

  God, I’m in a state. I’m surprised Noah doesn’t just dump me somewhere and drive off, glad to see the back of me. I would have. But he comes around and helps me out of the car, holds my hand, and leads me inside.

  “Bath first,” he says. “We need to warm you up. Then a cup of tea and something to eat.”

  I don’t tell him I couldn’t possibly eat at the moment. I feel terribly nauseous, and my stomach is in a knot. Instead, I just nod and let him lead me through the house. He takes me through his bedroom and into his bathroom, which contains a huge, gorgeous, sunken bath. Releasing my hand, he starts running it, testing the water until it’s hot, then adding some liquid from a green bottle. The smell of pine fills the room.

  “For relaxation,” he says. He points to a seat by the bath. “Sit down, before you fall down.”

  I do as he bids, relieved, almost, to have any decision making taken out of my hands. He strides out of the room and I hear him rustling about in his bedroom. I shiver, as much from emotion as from the cold. I can’t believe he left the house and drove all the way into Paihia to find me. It must have taken him a huge amount of courage to do that.

  He comes back into the room, carrying some clothes. “I picked the smallest things I own, but they’re still probably too big for you,” he says. “Try them on and see what you think, or there’s a bathrobe on the back of the door.”

  “Okay.”

  He drops to his haunches and looks into my eyes. “Abby? Are you feeling okay? Is the baby okay?”

  “Peanut’s fine,” I say with a sniff.

  “You’re sure? You’ve felt it moving lately?”

  I hold out my hand. He looks at it for a moment, then places his in it. I turn it over so it’s palm down and move it on top of my bump. I wait a few seconds, and then there it is—a soft kick.

  Noah inhales, going still as a rock. Oh jeez. The poor man. How many times can I torture him in one day? I’d completely forgotten about his wife.

  “I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “I forgot.”

  He lets his hand linger a while longer, then withdraws it and pushes up to his feet. “It’s okay. It’s good to feel him moving. I’ll leave you alone now. Do me a favor though—will you leave the door unlocked? I promise I won’t come in, but if you don’t feel well, I’d like not to have to break my own door down.”

  I nod, and he goes out, closing the door behind him.

  Blowing out a long breath, I wipe under my eyes, then get up and turn off the taps. I need to get control of myself or he’s right, I’ll harm the baby. I peel off my cold, damp clothes and place them to one side, test the water, then climb in gingerly. Ooh, it’s hot on my icy feet. I’ll probably get chilblains now. But after the initial sting, it subsides to a nice warmth, and I lower myself down with a long sigh.

  I rest my head on the back of the bath and slide deep into the water. This is heavenly. I can’t remember the last time I took a bath. Our cottage only has a shower.

  Our. A strange word. It’s supposed to imply companionship, togetherness, familiarity, and love. To indicate that a person is no longer alone. How long has it been since I’ve felt any of those things with Tom?

  I can’t let myself think about it now or I’m never going to stop crying. It’s okay to allow oneself some time to feel emotional, but eventually you’ve got to get back on your horse and get on with things.

  The trouble is, it’s like I’m lost in a forest, and I have no idea in which direction to go. I’m completely stuck. I have no money. In fact, Tom owes five thousand dollars to someone. We’re not married, so legally speaking I’m not sure if I’m responsible for the debt. But my name is on the rental agreement. On the electricity bill, the rates, the phone. I am responsible for paying those. And my purse is, literally, empty. Well, I think I have about twenty-five cents in there. Possibly a dollar, if I’m lucky.

  What am I going to do? If I leave Tom, I’ll need to find somewhere else to live, and a way to pay my bills. But I can’t get a job, because in two weeks I’m having a baby. Nobody’s going to employ a woman who’s just about to drop. I was very lucky that Noah gave me the chance here.

  Panic rises within me again, and I take deep breaths, in and out, trying to force myself to calm down. There’s no problem that can’t be sorted. Is that true? I think I know Noah well enough to know he’s not going to let me go back to Tom without a fight. But I can’t let him just give me money. I hardly know the man. I’m his cleaner, for Christ’s sake. And I don’t want to be someone’s charity case. Especially Noah. I don’t want him to look at me and feel pity. But what else can he think? I’m such a pathetic case. In his eyes, I stayed with a man who was obviously a complete loser, let myself get pregnant, and now I’m floundering around like a turtle on its back after the tide’s gone out. Quite literally, with this bump.

  Tears of self-pity sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them drop. Instead, I sit up and wash myself with some of his manly shower gel, then lower my head in the water and wash my hair with the shampoo and conditioner sitting on the bath’s edge. I’m anxious about talking to Noah and trying to work it all out, but I can’t put it off forever. When I’m clean, I decide it’s time to get out.

  That’s easier said than done. I’m so clumsy with the bump—it’s put my center of gravity out. For a brief moment, I contemplate calling for help, but that would be excruciatingly embarrassing for both of us, I’m sure. So I manage to turn onto my knees, then carefully push up and clamber over the edge onto the mat. Thank God, I made it. I wrap one of Noah’s thick bath towels around me, almost too exhausted to dry myself, but manage to achieve it.

  I towel dry my hair, then take a look at the clothes he brought me. Normally, the cotton boxer-briefs and track pants would have been miles too big, but they fit comfortably over my bump, even though the shape isn’t quite right. I pull on the gray sweater he’s left me, and that too fits snugly over Peanut, although the sleeves hang over my hands. I roll them up, trying not to look in the mirror, knowing I must look a right sight. His socks are too big, and I’ve left my shoes by the door, so I’ll have to stay barefoot for now.

  I manage to find a hairband in my pants, and I twist my hair into a damp bun and secure it, then finally go out of the bathroom.

  He’s sitting on his bed, his back to the wall, reading on his iPad, although he puts it down as I come out. I realize he wanted to be there in case I called out and needed help. I’m so touched.

  “Hey,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed and getting up. “Are you feeling warmer now?”

  I nod, self-consciously pulling the sweater over my bump. “I must look suc
h a sight, I’m sorry.”

  His gaze slips down me, a gentle brush, and yet even in my disturbed state, it makes me tingle. “You look amazing,” he tells me, with no hint of humor. “Come on,” he says softly. “The kettle’s just boiled. Tea and toast, and then I think maybe bed. You look very tired.”

  We go into the kitchen. He’s already put my favorite herbal teabag in a mug, and he pours the hot water over it, then extracts two pieces of toast from the toaster and puts them on a plate.

  “Peanut butter? Cream cheese? Marmite?”

  “Peanut butter, please.” I am hungry, although I still feel nauseous too.

  He spreads it on, and then carries the mug and plate through to the living room. Flames leap above the fake logs of the gas fire. Above it, a nature program is on the extra-large TV screen, although Noah’s turned the sound down to a comforting murmur.

  I sit on the sofa. He picks up a big fleece blanket he’d placed on the arm and drapes it around me. I snuggle back into it, accept the mug as he passes it to me, and sip the tea. The bath has warmed me up, but the hot liquid begins to thaw the ice inside me.

  He sits in one of the armchairs, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely. He watches me as I take a bite of the toast.

  “How long had you been on the beach?” he asks.

  I chew and swallow. “A couple of hours.”

  He frowns. “You should have called me straight away.”

  “I only called you in the end to say I wouldn’t be in to work,” I remind him. I honestly didn’t call him to ask for help.

  He sighs. I crunch the toast again, swallow, and have a sip of tea. I’m so tired I’m almost asleep.

  “Did he hurt you?” Noah asks eventually. His eyes are hard. The thought clearly makes him angry.

  I shake my head.

  “Has he ever hit you?” he wants to know.

  “No…”

  One eyebrow lifts. “I sense a but.”

  I lower the toast onto the plate, too exhausted to keep my arm up. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Noah. I don’t think I can bear to tell you everything that’s happened to me.”

  “You don’t have to. I just want to understand.”

  “I like you too much, and I don’t want you to look at me with pity.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Frustration boils over inside me. “How about if I tell you that Tom’s spent the money I’d put away for the next two weeks’ rent? Or if I tell you that he was out all weekend, and I had no idea where he was, and he wasn’t answering his phone, and it turns out he was at a card game, and he owes one of the men there five thousand dollars?”

  Noah’s staring at me, and I start shaking again as I continue, “Or how about if I admit that when I agreed I’d stay with him after the trouble we had in Hamilton, he wasn’t grateful, or relieved. It made him angry, and he took me to bed and…” I trail off. I can’t bear to finish.

  Noah blinks. “He raped you?”

  I swallow hard. “He’d been impotent for a while. I think the shame and guilt made him feel… I don’t know, less manly, I suppose. He assumed I’d feel superior, and maybe he was right. He hadn’t been able to achieve an erection for months, and I guess his anger gave him whatever he needed to get over that. It wasn’t rape, though. I didn’t tell him to stop, and I didn’t say no.” I don’t tell Noah that, at first, I was so relieved Tom wanted me that I was pathetically pleased. The pleasure rapidly turned to resentment and even fear when it became apparent he was taking his pleasure from me with no thought to mine. I don’t tell Noah that I think Tom enjoyed my fear.

  “He didn’t use a condom,” I add, “and I got pregnant. It was the last time we had sex. He doesn’t want the baby. And he doesn’t want me, either. I think it’s about time I recognized that the relationship is over, don’t you?” I attempt sarcasm, but to my ears, I just sound pathetic.

  Silence falls between us. On the TV, a colorful bird is doing an intricate dance to impress a potential mate. That couldn’t be less of an analogy of my relationship with Noah. I can’t imagine telling him anything that would impress him less than this.

  And I do want to impress him. I want him to like and admire me. But how can I expect that when I don’t even like myself?

  I want him to understand. “My father abused me,” I blurt out.

  His jaw drops. “Oh no.”

  “And when I was a teen, a boy at school tried to rape me.”

  “Jesus, Abby.”

  “I hate feeling like a victim. All my life, I’ve tried to regain the power that men want to take from me. I ran away with Tom because I felt I was taking my life into my own hands. I needed to get away from my hometown, from my family. And I’ve stood by Tom because I’ve been frightened of admitting to myself that I made a mistake. But I have. Made a mistake, I mean. It’s been so hard. I don’t want to be a failure anymore.”

  Noah’s face is impassive; I can only imagine what he’s thinking. Nausea rises inside me. I put down the plate and mug, get to my feet, and walk out of the living room.

  I go back into the bathroom, get down on my knees, and vomit into the toilet. Noah comes in and I see his feet moving around me, and I’m humiliated and embarrassed, but I can’t stop. I heave over and over again, until my stomach’s empty, and still it won’t stop. Water runs, then a cool facecloth passes over my forehead. Oh God, I think I’m turning inside out. My stomach muscles are going to squash poor Peanut into pulp.

  When I finally stop, I flush the toilet, then turn and sit on the bathmat. Noah wipes my face with the facecloth, then strokes my hair. Tom would never have come into the bathroom while I was being sick. The thought is my undoing, and I dissolve into tears again.

  Noah puts the facecloth in the sink, bends and slides one arm under my knees and another around my shoulders. He’s not going to be able to lift me—I’m the size of an elephant, but amazingly he does. I loop my arms around his neck, afraid he’ll drop me, but his arms are tight around me.

  He walks through to the bedroom, places me on the bed, and tries to extricate himself, but I refuse to let go. In the end, he whispers, “All right, shhh,” and he climbs on the bed, moves me across, and leans back on the pillows. I curl up beside him, my arms tucked against my chest, and bury my nose in his sweater.

  He strokes my back, kisses the top of my head, and murmurs, “There, there,” and “everything’s going to be okay.” I know it’s not true, but his tone is comforting, and gradually I stop crying.

  Within less than a minute, the world fades away, and I’m asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Noah

  Abby’s ribcage rises and falls beneath my hand, her soft breath whispering across me.

  I could probably leave her to it now, but I’m loath to rise. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want her to wake and find me gone.

  Her story has shocked me to my core. You hear stories, of course, about women who are abused by men, but I’m lucky that it’s never been a part of my life. The guys I know are decent, loving individuals who would never treat a woman like that.

  She thinks I pity her, and I suppose I do feel sorry for her because of what she’s gone through, but I also feel an intense admiration for the way she’s survived. She has a fierce, independent spirit, and a strong sense of loyalty. She’s stood by her partner because she hoped to help him get better, and it’s not her fault that he hasn’t. The guy obviously has a severe gambling problem, and I know because of what happened to my dad that it doesn’t matter how much someone loves you; if you have depression, love isn’t always enough to lift you out of the depths of despair, and I’m sure it’s the same with alcoholism and gambling. For years, my mother thought she’d failed and let my father down because she hadn’t been able to help him, but it wasn’t her fault. I blamed him for many years, but my therapists, and Matt to a certain extent, helped me realize it wasn’t his fault, either.

  I tell m
yself it’s not Tom’s fault, and that he deserves pity, but I can’t summon any. I feel a deep, burning anger toward him, her father, the boy who assaulted her at school, toward all men who take advantage of women in this way. Because they damage them, physically and mentally. And also because they make women fear us. We’re all tarred with the same brush. I hate that schools and colleges are being advised to teach boys ‘how not to rape.’ As if, left to our own devices, that would be our natural path. That outrages me. And yet, how can I blame women for reacting like that when there are men who treat them this way?

  I can’t believe that Tom took out his anger and his own shortcomings on Abby. She didn’t have to tell me the details; I could tell from her face that even if she hadn’t told him no, by the end it wasn’t consensual.

  Fucking bastard.

  Later, I’m going to work out in the gym and punch the living daylights out of the bag.

  Against my hip, where Abby’s bump rests, Peanut gives a solid kick. Abby doesn’t even twitch, but it makes me inhale sharply. The things women have to go through.

  I lean my head back, looking up at the ceiling, and think back to Lisa’s pregnancy. For most of the pregnancy, she’d been happy and healthy. When she was thirty-seven weeks, I’d spotted that she had some swelling and had tried to get her to rest, but she’d been busy at work, and she’d ignored the warning signs her body had sent her, saying every pregnant woman had puffy ankles. She’d skipped one of her regular weekly checks with the midwife, and by the time I noticed she had swelling in her face and hands, she admitted to me she hadn’t felt the baby kick in a few days. We took her to hospital, where they found she had a sudden rise in her blood pressure and protein in her urine. Too late, we’d discovered that her mother had suffered from preeclampsia while having Lisa’s younger sister, which meant Lisa had an increased risk of it.

  She’d been admitted to hospital, and eventually they induced her. But the placenta had separated from the uterus, causing the baby to be stillborn. Lisa suffered a stroke, and then heart failure. Just a few hours later, despite the doctors doing everything they could, she died.