One Night With The Billionaire. Sarah M. Anderson
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was killing her. There were so many emotions—and overriding them all was the image of one sexy banker.
But it wasn’t just that he was sexy, she thought. Yes, there was an element—or more than an element—of reaction to the fact that he was drop dead gorgeous and he had a killer smile and when he touched her, her body burned—but there was also the way he swept into the ring as if he owned it. There was the way he’d caught the children’s interest today and turned kids and trainee teachers from antagonistic to gunning for Cleo all the way. There was the way he’d paid the vet’s bills, which would be huge. She knew it was a small amount for him but he hadn’t had to do it, and he’d smiled at her and looked worried about Cleo, and he’d stopped the cop shooting her—and then, when she’d asked about his name and he’d said Matt, he’d looked as if she’d pierced something that hurt. A lot.
There were complexities within the man and she was intrigued as well as attracted, but she’d better not be either she told herself, because being attracted to the banker was just plain dumb. Letting him kiss her had been dumb. It was the way to get her life into an even deeper mess than it already was.
‘Just do what comes next,’ she told herself, so she did. She finished clearing up. She had three hours before the evening performance. She checked her camels again, and then changed into respectable and went to the hospital to see Henry and Bella.
It didn’t help. Her grandmother looked worse than her grandpa. It was as if everything was being taken away from her, and the only thing she had to cling to was Henry.
So what was there for Allie to cling to? she thought bleakly as she left them.
Her grey mood was threatening to overwhelm her. She had to get herself together, she told herself harshly. There was another show to put on tonight.
She was so tired all she wanted to do was crawl under a log somewhere and sleep.
She walked out of the main entrance to the hospital—and a gorgeous British Racing Green Rover was sitting in the car park. And Mathew/Matt/Maestro, or whoever this man was, was leaning against the driver’s door as if he had all the time in the world to wait, and with one look she knew he was waiting for her.
With her dogs?
Tinkerbelle and Fairy were in the car, their little heads hanging out of the window, their tails wagging almost enough to vibrate the car. What on earth were they doing here? They should be ready for the show. She should be ready for the show.
She glanced at her watch. No, she still had two and a half hours. She was so tired she was losing sense of time.
‘Hi,’ he said as she walked—very slowly—down the steps towards him. Her legs didn’t seem like they wanted to carry her.
‘H … hi,’ she ventured back.
‘Fizz tells me you’re not eating,’ he said gently as she reached him. ‘He said you didn’t eat breakfast and you hardly touched lunch. He checked the fridge in your van and he’s horrified. I’ve just bullied Margot into eating dinner and now it’s your turn. Hop in the car, Allie. We’re going to eat.’
What could a girl do except climb into his gorgeous car and hug her ecstatic dogs and wait for him to tell her what he was about to do with her?
How pathetic was that? But in truth Allie had gone past pathetic. She hadn’t slept. She’d spent the morning being terrified for her camels. She’d given a performance which took every ounce of energy she possessed, she’d spent time with an emotional, devastated set of grandparents, and somehow she had to gear up for another performance tonight.
If a tsunami swept inland now, she thought, she didn’t have the energy to run.
She didn’t want to run. She wanted to sink back into the gorgeous leather seats of Matt’s fabulous car and simply stop.
He seemed to sense it. He didn’t speak, just quietly climbed into the driver’s seat and set the big motor purring towards the sea.
He paused at the strip of shops on the esplanade and disappeared into the fish shop. She could climb out and go home, she thought as she waited, but it’d seem ungrateful. The dogs were on her knees, and they were heavy. She didn’t have the energy to push them off and, quite simply, she was past making such a decision.
Passive R Us, she thought mutely, but she didn’t even begin to smile.
Mathew returned, booted the dogs into the back seat and handed her the parcel of fish and chips—a big, fat bundle of warmth. He glanced at her sharply and then nosed the car away from the shops, around the headland, away from the town.
He pulled into a reserve on the far side of the headland, by a table and benches overlooking the sea.
‘Is it okay to let the dogs loose?’ he asked, and she had enough energy to think thank heaven the dogs weren’t white and fluffy; they were plain, scruffy brown. They could tear in crazy circles on the sand and still look presentable for the show. So that was what they did while Matt produced a tablecloth from the back of the car—linen?—plates, cutlery, napkins, glassware—and then he fetched the parcel from her knees and placed it reverently in the middle of his beautifully laid table.
‘Dinner, my lady,’ he intoned in the voice of Very Serious Butler, ‘is served.’
The ridiculousness of the whole tableau was enough to shake her lethargy. Haziness receded. She climbed from the car and looked at the table in astonishment. The council picnic table was transformed into an elegant dining setting. Gum trees were hanging overhead, filled with corellas, vivid green and red parrots coming to perch for the night. Behind them were miles of glorious beach, no vestige of wind, the only sound being the soft hush of the surf and the calls of the sandpipers darting back and forth on the wet sand. Down on the beach Fairy and Tinkerbelle were digging their way to China in a setting that was so picturesque it took her breath away.
This was Fish and Chips with Style.
‘Margot and I had a discussion,’ Matt said, leading her to the table simply by taking her hand and tugging. ‘Margot thought I should take you out to dinner, somewhere fancy. I thought you might like to sit on the beach. We’ve compromised. This is Margot’s idea of picnic requirements. She can be quite insistent for someone who’s almost dead.’
‘She’s very much alive,’ Allie managed. ‘Mathew, I should go back …’
‘Did we agree it was Matt?’
‘Nobody calls you Matt.’
‘No,’ he said and she couldn’t figure whether there was regret there or not. No matter, he was moving on. ‘But you do. Please.’ He unwrapped the paper to expose slivers of golden crumbed fish fillets and gorgeous crunchy chips. He poured lemonade into the crystal glasswear.
‘I know wine matches the setting,’ he said. ‘But you have to hang upside down tonight and I don’t want you sleeping on the job.’
‘No, Maestro,’ she said and he chuckled.
‘Excellent. Maybe I need to be Maestro tonight. The boss.’ He saw her hesitation and he placed his hand on her shoulder in a fleeting gesture of reassurance. ‘Allie, the circus crew knows where you are—they concur with my plan to give you a couple of hours off. They’re doing everything needed so you can walk back in the gates at twenty past seven, don your false eyelashes and go straight to the ring. So you have two full hours to eat and to sleep.’
‘I could go back to the circus and sleep.’
‘Would you sleep?’ He headed to the back of the car and hauled out a massive picnic rug and a load of cushions. ‘You might nap,’ he conceded, ‘but you can nap here. Herewith a beach bed, my lady, for when you’ve polished off enough fish and chips to keep me happy.’
And then he sat beside her and ate fish and chips and looked out at the sea and he didn’t say a word—and she could eat fish and chips or not—no pressure—but the pressure was insidious.