Innocent In The Billionaire's Bed. Clare Connelly
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couldn’t have said where the need to defend Cressida came from, but it was like a sledgehammer in her side. Sisterhood? Girl power? Her own childhood had been idyllic. She, Tilly, was the one who had been spoiled. Not with material possessions—money had always been tight in the Morgan household—but with time and love.
‘Yes, well, that may be true, but there’s more to life than physical possessions, and far better ways to show affection than by giving gifts.’
Curious, he leaned forward. ‘Poor little rich girl?’ he prompted, and when she kept her face averted, her chin set at a defiant angle, he felt a surge of adrenalin kick in his gut. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Principessa?’
She reached for her champagne once more and held it in one hand, her eyes roaming the ocean before lifting to his face. ‘You haven’t hurt my feelings.’
She spoke with a calm control he hadn’t expected.
‘You’ve made me curious about yours. You haven’t even known me a day and yet you speak of me with derision and contempt. That can’t possibly be based on who I am, seeing as you barely know me. It must be because of who you are. And your hang ups. You think less of me because I come from money.’
* * *
She had surprised him and he hadn’t liked it. At all.
Her insight had been rapier-sharp. He’d judged her because of what he’d presumed her to be, and that was hardly fair. He’d have never made his mark in business if he’d carried such assumptions alongside him.
He swirled his Scotch, his eyes resting on the now dark sky.
Was she asleep? She’d finished her dinner abruptly after her incisive comment and scuttled inside. He’d listened to the sound of the sink being filled and dishes being washed, all the while pondering the mystery of Cressida Wyndham.
When Art had said his daughter was coming to inspect the island Rio had instantly formed preconceptions. He knew enough about Cressida to know what to expect. But since she’d arrived she’d defied each of the ideas he’d held. She’d fallen into the water...and laughed. She’d accepted the humble accommodation without complaint. She’d read her book, and she’d thanked him for cooking. Hell, she’d done the dishes.
None of that fitted into the way he’d envisaged someone like Cressida behaving.
She’d been right. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like women like her.
How could someone like Rio, who’d been raised in abject poverty, feel anything but resentment for the kind of indulged lifestyle that had been made available to the Cressidas of the world?
His thoughts wandered distractedly to Marina. The heiress he’d thought himself in love with many years ago. She’d been beautiful, too, and she’d seemed interesting and genuine. But she’d taught him an important lesson: never trust a beautiful woman who cared only for herself.
He leaned back on the deck, his eyes lingering on the silver streak of the moon reflected in the water. His mother had tried to provide for him. Had she not become ill, undoubtedly their lives would have been comfortable. His expression was grim as he remembered that sensation of hunger and worry. Even as a young boy he had been sent to school in uniforms that were a little too small, shorts that didn’t quite fit, shoes that were second-hand and badly scuffed.
All the while his wealthy father had refused to intervene. And now he’d given him this! A parting shot. A last insult. An island that intrinsically reminded him of Piero and all the ways he’d failed Rio and Rosa.
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