Private eye, p.2
The Heir Affair, page 2
Had she played him? Had he been a sap to believe she was really that artless, captivating, rebellious free spirit? The bright, sweet girl who considered love to be more valuable than money. And true beauty to be something you couldn’t buy…?
His temper surged, becoming a mix of fury and suspicion and anger at the shame she’d caused him, in that moment. But right alongside it was the possessive urge to stake his claim on her again—here, now, for ever—even though she might have lied to him all those months ago.
But then his gaze snagged on her belly again—and the only question that mattered broke from his dry lips.
‘Is it mine?’ he demanded.
Flags of colour slashed across her cheeks, but all he heard in her tone was the sting of regret—not the satisfaction he had expected—when she whispered, ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘We’re leaving.’
Poppy stared at the man she had believed she was falling in love with. The man she had begged to give her a lift on his jet ski to the no longer deserted island where she had once spent her last truly happy day with her mother. The man who had fathered the baby growing inside her on the beautiful spring day that had unfolded. The day she had remembered so blissfully—until she’d discovered the truth about him. The day that had once had so many wonderful memories, encompassing everything love should be—fun, exciting, tender, passionate, adventurous.
When she’d run down to the beach in Rhodes the next morning, hoping to see him again, instead she’d found no sign of him or his jet ski anywhere. She’d spent the rest of her week-long vacation asking at all the beach bars, trying to find him—or at least something more about him than his first name. Desperate to contact him, even if she couldn’t see him again. Desperate to let him know how much their day had meant to her. And to find out his surname.
But no one had heard of a guy named Alex. No one had even noticed the guy with the jet ski, except her.
Why hadn’t she insisted on getting his number? Or at least his last name? It had seemed so romantic at the time to keep their identities anonymous—after all, they were both trespassing on a billionaire’s private island. She was the one who had suggested they make a pact—just in case either one of them got caught and questioned—not to reveal their surnames to each other, so they couldn’t be interrogated into giving each other up.
Their pact had seemed impossibly romantic at the time. Especially as that wonderful day had become a blissful bubble of hope and possibilities and searing passion.
He’d made everything so perfect, even suggested they sneak into the new house the billionaire had built. She’d loved swimming in the guy’s pool, with Alex. They’d been two crazy kids, claiming the island back, one last time, from the rich bastard who was going to make it out of bounds for ever as soon as he took ownership in a few weeks’ time.
And the sex… She’d come on to him, unable to resist the chance to sweep her hand down his tanned belly as they’d lain side by side on the pool deck. Feeling the bunch of his hard abs, circling the small scars and crude tattoos that had fascinated her, tracing the happy trail of hair to his belly button. Heady excitement had eddied through her body at the sound of his sharp groan when she’d cupped the thick erection in his trunks and stroked the evidence that he’d wanted her as much as she’d wanted him.
He’d insisted on taking her inside, finding one of the deluxe bedrooms, making her feel like a queen—revered and wanted—as they’d stripped off their wet costumes and made love. The shattering pleasure had validated all the emotions he’d stirred in her—his brooding watchfulness giving way to reckless amusement and then dark passion as they’d shared the day together—creating emotions so intoxicating they’d hurt.
She’d known something wasn’t quite right afterwards, when they’d ridden the waves back to the jetty where they’d met what had felt like a lifetime ago but had been only four hours. She’d refused to let in her doubts, though, that niggle of panic and regret that she’d said something to offend him without intending to.
When they’d kissed goodbye on the dock as the sun had set, and he’d cradled her cheek, with such tenderness, the passion still making them both ache, she’d tried to tell him her name. But she could still remember his finger pressing against her lips to silence her.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he’d murmured. ‘We don’t want to spoil our perfect day. And we still might get arrested.’
She’d laughed at his silly joke and felt wild and free. But then she’d assumed, hadn’t she, that he’d be there the next day? She’d been so excited that night, unable to sleep, sure that this had to be the start of so much more than a casual holiday fling. So sure he must have felt it too. How could he not when he’d looked at her with such intensity, such brooding passion?
Discovering six weeks later that she was expecting Alex’s baby had been devastating and beautiful all at once. She’d redoubled her efforts to find him. Finally returning to Rhodes again, a month ago now, once she’d saved enough money to make the trip…
Only to discover everything she thought they’d shared had been a cruel hoax. When she’d seen a picture in a local magazine—of the billionaire who had bought the island they’d ‘trespassed’ on together.
Not Alex. But Xander Caras. The Greek shipping magnate who was about to marry a princess.
Not the man she had been falling in love with, then. But a total fraud.
He grasped her upper arm now, and she trembled. Sensation sprinted down her spine—at the feel of his calluses on her skin again. It was the first time he’d touched her since he’d pressed his fingertips to her lips to silence her on the sunset dock in Rhodes. And left her standing there with her heart so full of dreams.
Dreams that had finally been shattered for good a month ago.
Her temper flared, right alongside her shock, the visceral reaction to his touch disturbing her now almost as much as how easily she’d fallen for his lies on that sunny day five months ago.
She yanked her arm loose. ‘Let go of me. I told you. I can’t go anywhere with you now. I’m on shift.’
It wasn’t a lie. She needed to keep this job, not just to earn her passage back to the UK, but also to build up some more savings for when the baby arrived. She’d had to use the last of them to get to Galicos—once she’d discovered from social media he was due to be here to announce his engagement to the Galician princess—so she could have some chance of informing him he was going to become a father.
If she’d been able to contact him in any other way—discreetly, at a distance—she would have. But after the devastation caused by discovering his true identity, it hadn’t taken her long to realise billionaires were impossible to contact, because no one would let a complete nobody past the firewall of executive assistants and security personnel who shielded them from the real world.
It was bad enough she’d had to come all the way here, in the hope of maybe discovering where he was staying, just to do the decent thing. She was already at an enormous disadvantage. And she’d spent all her mental and physical energy so far on getting here and surviving until she could figure out a way to deliver her message.
She’d wanted to have this conversation face to face, but had never expected it to actually happen, fairly sure after the lies he’d told her already he’d have no interest in the news he had fathered a child. No doubt he’d done this before to other women—after all, he’d been so good at it. Inhabiting the persona of a gruff, moody beach bum, cleverly using her own innocence and positivity against her when she’d insisted they remain anonymous to make their adventure more romantic.
One thing was for sure, she certainly wasn’t ready to have this conversation tonight. And she’d be damned—after the emotional wringer he’d put her through in the past five months—if she’d have it at his convenience and on his terms, instead of her own. She’d been on her feet since noon. She was worn out and seeing him again—having him touch her again—was more than enough to contend with for one night.
Never for a moment would she have expected him to spot her, or to confront her. From the suspicion shadowing his eyes, though—reminding her of the moody, watchful guy she’d first met that day—she suspected his decision to confront her had more to do with him wanting to get her out of Galicos on the eve of his high-profile engagement party and nothing whatsoever to do with the discovery he was going to be a dad. So why shouldn’t she let him stew, for tonight at least, while she got some sleep and prepared for tomorrow’s confrontation?
‘Are you insane?’ he snarled, as if he were the injured party. His burning gaze seared across her midriff again. ‘You are carrying my child. I will not wait to have this conversation a moment longer.’
The anger in his tone only ignited her own.
How dared he behave as if this were her fault? She wasn’t the one who had pretended to be someone she wasn’t. Nor was she the one who had made herself impossible to contact for a month.
‘Well, tough, because I don’t care what you want,’ she fired back. ‘We’ll have this conversation when I’m good and ready and not a moment before.’
His dark brows shot up his forehead—as if no one had ever said no to him before… They probably hadn’t, she thought, resentfully. She prided herself on being the first. It helped to strengthen the tremor in her knees that had started the minute she’d turned to see him standing there by the bar. So tall, so indomitable. His face familiar… But nothing else.
In the expertly tailored designer suit, which hugged his muscular physique like a second skin, he couldn’t have looked more different from the man she’d clung to at the back of that jet ski, in old swimming trunks and a soaked cotton shirt, or the man who had gradually come out of his shell that day as they’d roamed the island and he’d listened to her endless chatter without saying much. His watchful presence had made adrenaline surge every time she’d caught him staring at her with that sheen of confused fascination in his eyes—as if he hadn’t understood her, but he’d wanted to.
The clean-shaven dashing man who smelled of expensive sandalwood cologne before her now could not have been more foreign to her, or more different from the beachcomber with a day-old beard, and sun-drenched skin, the delicious scent of salt and sweat clinging to him.
But then his brows lowered ominously again over those pure blue eyes that had once captivated her. Not brooding now but burning with fury—all of it directed at her.
‘You will come with me, or I will make you come with me… It is your choice,’ he said, his voice so low she doubted anyone else could hear it.
‘Go ahead, then, make a scene.’ She forced the bitterness to the fore to cover the hurt.
This wasn’t Alex. The rough, edgy, mostly silent beachcomber had never existed. This man was just an arrogant billionaire playboy who thought everyone had to bend to his will. No way would she let his arsy behaviour upset her.
‘I’m not sure your royal girlfriend will appreciate you getting caught on camera dragging a pregnant lady out of a waterfront bar in her principality right before you announce your engagement.’
Something flickered in his eyes that looked almost like admiration—and not at all like panic—when her manager and the bar’s owner, Serge, interrupted their stand-off.
‘Excuse me, sir. Is everything okay?’ her boss asked, slanting Poppy a look that said, loud and clear, Don’t worry. I’ll handle this bozo for you.
Serge was a terrific boss who lived by the adage ‘the customer doesn’t always know best, we just let him think he does’. He’d hired her two weeks ago when no one else had wanted to employ an obviously pregnant woman and been impossibly sweet and accommodating when she’d struggled to get through her first couple of shifts, still exhausted from her travels and her heartache, and the demands of her pregnancy.
Serge was one of the good guys, unlike the man standing in front of her, generating a tidal wave of controlled irritation. But just as Poppy’s spine began to dissolve with relief, Caras reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet.
‘I need you to give your waitress the rest of the night off,’ he demanded as he tugged out a gold credit card.
Poppy blinked, struck dumb by his arrogance. And her own stupidity.
Seeing him now—the aura of dominance and command emanating off him like a forcefield—how on earth had she ever persuaded herself this guy was a freewheeling beach bum living by his wits in Rhodes who owned nothing more than a much-loved jet ski?
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Serge replied patiently. ‘We’re rammed tonight and short of staff so—’
‘I will pay one hundred thousand euros…’ Caras interrupted as he slapped the gold card onto the bar. ‘To compensate you for the inconvenience.’
Serge’s face flushed. But Poppy wanted to hug him when he directed his gaze to her, then back to Caras.
‘As it is Poppy’s time you seek, Mr Caras,’ he said, making it clear he had recognised their irate customer, ‘it must be her choice to leave with you.’
Serge’s bravery and integrity helped to restore Poppy’s faith in humanity… Or rather the humanity of the non-super-rich. Because offering to protect her against a man who was destined to become Galicos royalty was not an easy choice.
‘And she should be compensated too,’ her boss added.
She stiffened. ‘That’s okay, Serge.’
The last thing she wanted was any of Xander Caras’ billions. That wasn’t why she was here. Whatever suspicions Caras might have, she had come to Galicos only to let him know about the pregnancy, and then she planned to leave—as soon as she’d earned enough to give her some financial headroom when she returned to the UK.
How typical, though, of a rich manipulative bastard like Caras to think he could buy her and Serge’s cooperation.
She’d opened her mouth to tell him where he could stick his gold credit card, when she spotted Serge’s hopeful expression.
She closed her mouth, forced to confront the ugly truth about this situation.
While her boss was determined to do the right thing, whatever it cost him, money was always tight for an operation like his. Even though he catered to a luxury clientele, when you factored in the cost of staff and supplies, not to mention the huge rates the principality charged for a prime location like this one, he’d be lucky to clear more than ten thousand euros in profit a week. One hundred thousand euros would be a major boon to his business.
‘I’ll… I’ll go with him, Serge. If you’re sure you can spare me,’ she said, untying her apron and dropping it on the bar with trembling fingers, while trying not to reveal to her boss how anxious and frustrated she was with this outcome.
But the truth was, she didn’t have a choice. Caras hadn’t given her a choice. The rat. She didn’t want Serge to lose the money. Nor did she want Serge to risk losing his business—because who knew what a man with Caras’ connections might do if she defied him again?
Caras inserted his card into the reader rushed over by one of the bar staff. He barely blinked as he completed the transaction.
Poppy bit down on her frustration—and the surge of disgust. One hundred grand, just to get his own way.
Men like him would never understand the true value of money, because they had no idea what that amount of money meant to people who had to work for a living in menial jobs. Money to them represented power over the little people like her. It sickened her he’d been able to buy her time so easily. But as he tucked his credit card back into his wallet, she consoled herself with the knowledge they would have had to have this conversation eventually. So why not have it tonight, when Serge would be able to profit from it? And while Caras might have been able to buy her time tonight, he would never be able to buy her, because she wasn’t for sale.
She stepped away from him, intending to collect her stuff from the staff room.
But he grasped her upper arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I need to get my bag and coat…’ she said through gritted teeth, infuriated not just by his domineering behaviour but also by the unwanted reaction to his touch sprinting up her spine again, and making her breasts feel even more sensitive than usual.
‘Tell someone else to fetch them,’ he said, or rather demanded.
‘Let go of my arm and I’ll consider it.’ She ground out the words, her jaw locked tight. Determined not to let him win this round, too.
He glared at her, his eyes narrowing, the suspicion in them so galling it was a mammoth effort to keep her cool. But she managed it because, unlike him, she didn’t wish to drag any more of her colleagues into this mess.
He released her arm, reluctantly, but the warning in his voice was unmistakeable when he leant down and murmured, ‘If you try to run off, I’ll come after you.’
She stiffened, the feel of that gruff, accented voice so close to her ear bringing back more memories she didn’t need.
‘Why would I run off?’ she snapped back. ‘I’ve spent weeks getting here just to find you again.’
She pressed a hand to her belly, hating how vulnerable that sounded. And how vulnerable she felt with him so close to her. He had to be at least six feet three. She’d noticed his height before when she’d been clinging to him on the jet ski, those broad shoulders cutting out the sun, and protecting her from the waves… And at the island’s hidden cove, when they’d played a game of swim tag and he’d beaten her so easily… And then later… Much later, when he’d boosted her into his arms and carried her to the villa’s bedroom… When he’d held her hips and plunged deep…
She shivered, locking the unfortunate memory back where it belonged—in the box marked You were seduced by a player.
Her workmate Isa arrived with her things from the backroom—her starry-eyed gaze landing on Caras. ‘Hi, Mr Caras,’ she said, clearly mesmerised.
‘Hello,’ Caras replied, but as Isa went to pass the coat and bag to Poppy, the infuriating man lifted both items out of her colleague’s grasp and tucked them under his arm. ‘Thank you. Let’s go, Poppy.’
