The Virgin's Debt To Pay: The Virgin's Debt to Pay / Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire. Louise Fuller
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back from the brink. She shivered now at the prospect of Luc looking at her when he’d discovered her virginity. She could already imagine the mocking look on his face, and how he would spurn her with disgust.
But then she thought of how he’d said, Unless you’re willing to admit we both want each other with no strings attached, and she shivered again. But this time it wasn’t with trepidation or humiliation. It was with an awful sense of illicit excitement.
* * *
Luc had turned the shower to cold, but that still hadn’t cooled the lingering heat in his body. He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to stripping Nessa O’Sullivan bare and taking her in a haze of lust.
She’d been the one to pull back. And even though Luc hadn’t imagined the chemistry between them, it still got to him somewhere very vulnerable that she’d had more control than him.
He couldn’t trust her, and yet he’d been about to sleep with her, complicating an already complicated situation even more. He shuddered to think of the hold she could have had over him after sleeping together. He hadn’t yet known a woman who didn’t try to capitalise on intimacies shared, even when they were only physical. And he had no doubt—in spite of her protestations otherwise—that she’d had an agenda.
He looked at himself in his bathroom mirror and scowled. If she thought that she could whet his appetite like this, and he would come running after her like a dog in heat, she was mistaken. Luc wouldn’t be caught offguard again. She was resistable. Even if the pounding of his blood told him otherwise.
He pulled a towel around his waist and knotted it roughly, finding his mobile phone and picking it up. Within seconds he was issuing a terse instruction to the security firm he’d hired to seek out Paddy O’Sullivan, to step up their efforts.
Afterwards he threw the phone down and surmised grimly that the sooner they found Paddy and his money, the sooner he could get rid of the all too distracting Nessa O’Sullivan too.
* * *
Two nights later, Nessa was holding a tray full of champagne flutes filled to the brim, serving them at Luc’s glitzy party. She was dressed in a white shirt and black skirt. The uniform of waiters everywhere. Hair up in a tight bun.
She could appreciate the breathtaking scene even as her arms felt as if they were about to drop out of the shoulder sockets. The unusually mild Irish spring day was melting into a lavender-hued dusk. Candles imbued the guests and room with a golden light.
She smiled in relief as some guests stopped and helped themselves to drinks on her tray, lightening her load marginally. And then her gaze tracked back inevitably to where one man stood out from the crowd—dark head and broad shoulders visible from every corner of the room.
Her main objective was to avoid coming face to face with Luc Barbier at all costs. The enormity of what had almost happened still sent shock waves through her body every time she thought of it. So did the thought of a no-strings encounter, added a wicked voice.
And even though she was trying to avoid him, she couldn’t look away. Much like most of the women in the room, she’d noticed with a spurt of something suspiciously...possessive. He was dressed in a tuxedo and he was simply breathtaking. He was the epitome of virile beauty, but with that undeniable edge of something dark and dangerous.
As if reading her mind, two women stopped nearby and, in that way of seeing but not seeing Nessa, because she was staff, they were whispering loudly enough for Nessa to catch snippets.
‘Apparently he’s an animal in bed...’
‘They say he was found on the streets...’
‘Petty crime...’
‘Only got to where he has because he slept with Leo Fouret’s wife and the husband bought him off to keep him quiet...’
Nessa went still at that, something cold trickling down her spine. She hadn’t heard that final, particular rumour before. Although, he had apparently left Leo Fouret’s stables under less than amicable circumstances, before blazing a trail on his own.
The women moved away and then more guests approached Nessa, relieving her of her remaining drinks. She was only too happy to escape back to the kitchen to stock up. Just before she left, she cast one last glance in Luc’s direction, but his head was bowed towards someone in conversation.
Lambasting herself for having listened to gossip, no matter how inadvertently, Nessa forged a path through the crowd and away from Luc. She told herself that she wasn’t remotely interested in what the women had been saying. And that she was truly pathetic to be feeling the tiniest bit sorry for him that he was surrounded by such fervent gossip in the first place.
There was no smoke without a fire, as her father loved to say on a regular basis. And from what she’d seen of Luc in action, she could almost forgive a married woman for falling under his spell.
* * *
‘What on earth is Nessa O’Sullivan doing serving drinks at your party, Barbier? I’d hardly think she’s short of a few bob!’
It took a second for Luc to register what the man beside him had said and when he did his wandering attention snapped into sharp focus. ‘You know her?’
The man snorted. ‘Of course I do—you forget Ireland is a small place. Her father is Paddy O’Sullivan, one of this country’s best trainers—at one time. Before he hit the bottle and almost lost everything. Now of course they’re back on top of the world, although I don’t think Paddy will ever repair the damage to his reputation. Still, he doesn’t need to now, not with the goldmine he’s sitting on thanks to his son-in-law.’
Luc usually had an aversion to gossip but not this time. ‘What are you talking about?’
Percy Mortimer, a well-known English racing pundit, turned to Luc. ‘Nessa O’Sullivan is related to royalty—her older sister—who incidentally is also a very talented amateur trainer—is married to the supreme Sheikh Nadim Al-Saqr of Merkazad. He bought out their stud a few years back. Nessa’s not a bad rider. I’ve seen her in a couple of races over the years, but she doesn’t seem to have made a proper impression yet.’
What the hell? Luc barely heard that last bit. Sheikh Nadim was a very serious contender in racing circles, and a billionaire. And Luc had had no idea that he owned a stables just down the road. Nessa’s family stud. He reeled, although he didn’t show it.
Percy was saying something else but Luc wasn’t listening. His gaze was already scanning the crowd for a dark redhead. He’d seen her earlier—looking once again as if butter wouldn’t melt, dressed in her white shirt and skirt. Even that small glimpse had been enough to cause a spike in his heart-rate.
Damn. Where was she, anyway?
Luc tried to move away but saw a group headed for him with Pascal leading the way. The look on Pascal’s face told Luc that he had to stay exactly where he was.
Nessa would have to wait, for now. But he would track her down and this time there would be no games. Only answers to his questions. Like what the hell was she playing at, working for nothing to pay off her brother’s debt when presumably she could ask for a handout from her billionaire brother-in-law?
* * *
Nessa’s feet and arms were aching, and she knew she shouldn’t be here, but after the party had finished and they’d been released, she found herself gravitating towards the stallions’ stables. As if pulled by some magnetic force. As if that could help to ground her and fuse her scattered energies back together.
She’d been acutely conscious of Luc’s every movement, all evening.
At one stage she’d caught his eye and it had seemed as if he was trying to communicate something telepathically. From the grim look on his face it hadn’t been something particularly nice. And then, even though she’d skirted around