At The Ruthless Billionaire's Command. Carole Mortimer
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much of her time—with her father dead and his estate in limbo those charities no longer considered the name Fairbanks as being a boon to their cause!—and she’d looked for, and found, a job that paid actual wages. She needed to be able to earn enough at least to feed herself and continue paying the rent on this apartment.
She had taken charge of her own life, and it felt strangely good to have been able do so.
Cathy shrugged. ‘You must have thought you needed it when you did the packing.’
She didn’t add what both of them knew: a lot of the contents of these boxes weren’t Lia’s at all, but personal items of her father’s she had packed and been allowed to bring from their home. Items that had no value but which had meant something to him, and which Lia couldn’t bear to part with.
Lia had put all these boxes in storage for the past two months, while she’d stayed with her best friend Cathy and her husband Rick. That had been balm to her battered emotions, but a situation Lia had known couldn’t continue indefinitely. Hence her move now to this apartment.
She was over the absolute and numbing shock of finding her father in his study, slumped over his desk, dead from a massive heart attack the paramedics had assured her would have killed him almost instantly. Cold comfort when they’d been talking about the man Lia had loved with her whole heart.
In some ways she wished that previous numbness was still there. The loss of her father’s presence in her life never went away, of course, but now a deeper, more crippling agony at the loss would suddenly hit her when she least expected it. Standing in the queue at the local supermarket. Walking in the park. Lying in a scented bubble bath.
The loss would hit her with the force of a truck, totally debilitating her until the worst of the grief had passed.
‘Time for a glass of wine, methinks,’ Cathy announced cheerfully. ‘Any idea which one of these boxes you put the wine glasses in?’ The tall blonde grimaced at the stack of unopened boxes.
‘I’m space-challenged—not stupid!’ Lia grinned as she went straight to the box marked ‘Glassware’, easily ripping off the sealing tape to take out two newspaper-wrapped glasses. ‘Ta-da!’ She held them up triumphantly.
Lia had no idea what she would have done without Cathy and Rick after her father died. The two women had been friends since attending the same boarding school from the age of thirteen, and Cathy was as close to her as the sister she had never had. Closer, if what she’d heard about sisterly rivalry was true.
Luckily Cathy worked as an estate agent, and was responsible for helping Lia find this affordable apartment. But, even so, there was only so much advantage she could take of Cathy’s friendship.
‘You should go home to your husband now,’ she encouraged as the two of them sat on a couple of the boxes drinking their wine. ‘Rick hasn’t seen you all day.’
Rick Morton was one of the nicest men Lia had ever met—as much of a friend to her as Cathy was, especially this past two months. But the poor man must be longing to have his wife and his apartment to himself.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’ Cathy frowned.
‘Very,’ Lia confirmed warmly.
Rick had been persuaded to go off and enjoy a football match with his friends that afternoon. A welcome break for him, it had also allowed the two women to move Lia into her new home. But there had to be a limit to how much and for how long Lia could intrude on the couple’s marriage.
‘I’m just going to unpack enough to be able to make the bed and cook myself something light to eat before I go to sleep.’ Lia gave a tired yawn: it had been a long day. ‘I don’t just have a new apartment to organise, but a new job on Monday morning to prepare for too!’
Cathy slipped her arms into her jacket. ‘You’re going to do just fine.’
Lia knew that. After the past two months she had no doubt that she was capable of looking after herself. Nevertheless, she still had to fight down the butterflies that attacked her stomach whenever she thought of all the changes in her life since her father had...died. She still choked over that word—probably because she still couldn’t believe he was gone.
And he wouldn’t be if Gregorio de la Cruz hadn’t withdrawn De la Cruz Industries’ offer to buy out Fairbanks Industries. The lawyers might have presented that death knell to her father, but there was no doubt in Lia’s mind that it was Gregorio de la Cruz who was responsible for the withdrawal of that offer.
Her father had watched the decline of his company for months and, knowing he was on the edge of bankruptcy, had decided he had no choice but to sell. Lia firmly believed it was the withdrawal of the De la Cruz offer that had been the final straw that had broken him and caused her father’s heart attack.
Which was why all of Lia’s anger and resentment was now focused on the man she held responsible.
Futile emotions when there was no way she would ever be able to hurt a man as powerful as Gregorio de la Cruz. Not only was he as rich as Croesus, but he was coldly aloof and totally unreachable.
The man had even been accompanied by two bodyguards at her father’s funeral, for goodness’ sake. They hadn’t been able to prevent Lia from slapping him, though. Was that because Gregorio de la Cruz had allowed it? He had certainly indicated that the two men should back off when they would have gone into protection mode.
She was thankful it had been a private funeral, and that there had been no photographs taken of the encounter to appear in the newspapers the following day and stir up the media frenzy once again. There’d been enough speculation after her father’s sudden death without adding to it with her personal attack on Gregorio de la Cruz.
Nevertheless she had found a certain satisfaction in slapping the Spaniard’s austerely handsome face. Even more so at seeing her blood streaked across his tautly clenched cheek.
As the days, weeks and then months had passed, and Gregorio de la Cruz’s chilling promise that they would talk again hadn’t come to fruition, Lia had mostly been able to put the man out of her mind. Just as well, because she only had enough mental energy to concentrate on the things that needed her immediate attention. Such as packing up the house, with Cathy and Rick’s help, and finding herself an apartment and a job.
But she had successfully done all those things now—including securing a job as a receptionist in one of London’s leading hotels.
Having no wish to start answering awkward questions from a prospective employer or, even worse, become the recipient of sympathetic glances that just made her want to sit down and cry, Lia had applied for several jobs under the name Faulkner—her mother’s maiden name.
Nevertheless, she had no doubt it was her years of being the Amelia Fairbanks that had given her the necessary poise to secure her job. The manager of the hotel had obviously liked her appearance and manner enough to give her a one-day trial. He had admitted afterwards to being impressed with her warmth and the unflappable manner with which she’d dealt with some of their more difficult clientele.
The poor man had no idea she was usually on the other side of the reception desk, booking in to similar exclusive hotels all over the world.
So—new apartment, new job.
Cathy was right: she was going to be just fine.
But not if one of her new neighbours was going to ring her doorbell at nine o’clock at night, when she was soaking in a much-needed bath after having pushed herself to empty half a dozen of the boxes once she’d eaten a slice of toast.
It had to be one of her new neighbours, because Lia hadn’t sent out new address cards to any of her friends yet. It was the next job she had to do—once she had unpacked completely and arranged her furniture ready for receiving visitors.
Not that she expected there to be too many of those. Amazing how many people she had thought were friends had turned out not to be so once she was no longer Amelia Fairbanks, daughter of wealthy