Page 16 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

I clamp a hand over my mouth as I lean against the wall and stare at my phone in disbelief.

Aidan Duffy.

A name I know well, and yet have never put a face to. Google has a subtitle below his name.

British entrepreneur.

Below that is a carousel of images. The first one shows Aide— my Aide—smiling and holding an award. He’s in black tie.

Black fucking tie.

And oh my sweet mother of God does he look beautiful. Divine. He looks like a film star accepting an Oscar. He also looks genuinely happy. Proud. Two expressions I haven’t seen much evidence of on that ridiculous face of his since I’ve known him.

The next image has him standing, arms folded and face unsmiling in a deep blue shirt, in front of a bank of what look like massive servers.

There are more.

Aide in a recording booth, headphones on, a BBC mic in front of him.

Aide standing on a podium.

Aide surrounded by smiling youths, all wearing Prince’s Trust t-shirts.

Aide with a beautiful blonde.

Aide with another beautiful blonde.

I scroll down to the Wikipedia entry Google is showing right beneath the photos.

Aidan Cuthbert Duffy, OBE, (Cuthbert? What the hell?

And OB fucking E?) is a British entrepreneur, software engineer and philanthropist. He is founder of data security firm Totum and youth charity Fresh Start and is an Ambassador of The Prince’s Trust. He was awarded his OBE by Queen Elizabeth II in 2022.

His net worth is estimated as four-point-two billion pounds.

He was born in Notting Hill, London on February 6 th , 1990.

I slump against the wall. There’s a myriad of emotions hitting me right now, and I understand precisely none of them. I’d expect myself to feel smugness, triumph, even, at my proximity to bedding, if not bagging, a real live billionaire who, for once, isn’t a total wanker.

Instead, I feel…weird.

Disappointment rolls through my belly, curdling that revolting white ‘house wine’ that didn’t even sport a grape type.

I’ve had a very clear vision in my mind of who Aide is, and that is a handsome, hunky, Henry Cavill-esque builder whose filthy mouth will be equalled, I’m sure, only by his filthy bedside manner.

And it appears the guy who’s been sucking my boobs and buying me bras and whispering dirty things to me is not that. Not at all.

He’s someone altogether different. Someone who’s been having a laugh at my expense.

Forget disappointed. I feel betrayed, and really fucking cross.

My dating history over the past two years has been a long string of rich pricks. Sure, there’ve been highs. Portofino, Paris, New York, Cannes. Candlelit dinners and galas and yachts and diamonds.

And yep, there’s been some great sex amid the average sex—mainly because I know what I like, and I’m not afraid to ask for it, and I’m even less afraid to provide a running commentary if someone needs a manual.

But I’ve been colouring strictly within the lines. I’ve dated and fucked exclusively in my social circle of elite Londoners and Europeans and Americans. I’ve been snooty and predictable and clichéd.

Aide is supposed to be the antidote to all that. He’s supposed to be the guy I succumb to just because he’s hot and insanely masculine and capable of that fuck-me, swoon-worthy throw-down I crave so badly.

He’s supposed to be the all-man man. The female fantasy. He’s supposed to be everything the female gaze wants… and he is.

But he also isn’t.

He’s an insanely wealthy, jaw-droppingly successful guy who’s also a public figure and probably has a blue tick on Instagram.

I had a fun, steamy, sweaty little dalliance planned, where I’d live out some kind of porno fantasy that’s a mix of Lady Chatterley and Pulp’s Common People . And with a couple of words out of Judy’s mouth, that’s just—poof—evaporated.

Into thin air.

Gone.

Obviously, he’s still hot. Like, otherworldly hot. But he’s been playing me, and I swear to God nobody plays Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton.

I’m so angry now that adrenalin’s flooded my system and I’m shaking. I’m furious with him, and I’m furious with myself for being so dim. So obtuse.

How the fuck did I miss this?

I have a degree from Cambridge, for God’s sake.

I run a ten-figure business which I co-founded.

I am a highly intelligent and wealthy woman in my own right, and yet this idiot has seen fit to pull the wool over my eyes.

I try to rack my brain for all the clues I missed, for the times people like Khal probably spelt out for me who Aide was and I didn’t pay attention.

My God, he must think I’m ridiculous.

I’m ready to lay into him. Fuck knows, I’m so angry I could march back in there and throw his stupid working-man’s pint all over his stupid face in this stupid, smelly working-man’s pub. And I’m so close to doing that, I swear.

But Aide , my hot, manly builder, promised me a seriously filthy night.

And I’ll be damned if Aidan Fucking Duffy , international hotshot businessman and tech billionaire who still believes he’s outwitted me, is going to ruin my little fantasy.

I plaster on a smile for the next two rounds and attempt to ride out the conversation which, to be fair, is hilarious.

Gaz switches to pints of bitter with whisky chasers, which seems ill-advised, and Judy matches him on the latter.

Sylvie, who’s definitely more of a listener than a spotlight-hogger, seems content to stand with me and watch the banter between them.

And Aide, or should I say Aidan , dips in and out, an abnormally good-natured grin on his face most of the time.

He seems blissfully unaware that his full name has belatedly triggered my mental cogs.

His eyes seek me out so often that I’d be a puddle on the floor if I was unaware that he was lying to me through his teeth.

To be fair, it’s no hardship to eye-fuck him right back.

I have a vivid imagination. No matter what this guy’s failed to disclose to me, he is utterly, flawlessly gorgeous, and the reality of having him stand across from me in stained work trousers and boots and a sweaty vest is more than enough material for me to work with.

My manual labourer kink remains happily intact.

I watch in disbelief as he peels a few more tenners off the wad in his wallet to pay for the next round of drinks.

What tech billionaire walks around with wads of cash?

Doesn’t he have his platinum Amex on Apple Pay like most self-respecting rich pricks?

Surely things with the tax man can’t be so bad that he’s wheeling and dealing in hard cash?

As I stand at the bar to help him with the round of drinks, he brushes his knuckles discreetly down my bare arm.

‘You want to get out of here soon?’ he murmurs.

Fuck, yes I do. ‘Yep,’ I tell him. I lick my lips. ‘Long and dirty, remember?’

He grins, his eyes sweeping over my face and lingering on my mouth. ‘You’re about to see me neck the quickest pint ever,’ he says, and he turns to distribute the drinks.

I attack a bag of crinkle cut crisps so the wine doesn’t totally go to my head.

I give the cheese and onion flavour a wide berth, because there’s nothing erotic about onion breath, plumping instead for salt and vinegar.

They complement the pure vinegar of my wine nicely, I decide. And they definitely hit the spot.

Aide’s as good as his word. He downs his pint in the space of two minutes and wipes his mouth. ‘Got to go see my mum,’ he tells us all. ‘She’ll have my guts if I’m late.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ I announce. ‘I have a drinks reception to go to.’

‘Course you do, darling,’ Judy says, patting me on the arm. ‘Be a good girl for me.’

‘I have no intention whatsoever of being a good girl,’ I tell her with a wink.

‘Even better,’ she crows delightedly. ‘See you Monday, Aide.’

‘I’m not in on Monday,’ Aide says. ‘I have something at work. I’ll see you all on Tuesday.’

Probably a mega-deal to broke, I think bitchily as we saunter out. A knighthood to receive, perhaps. An orphanage to open.

Fuck Aide, and fuck his lying ways, and fuck me for finding out about this right as I’m about to do the deed.

Because ignorance would most definitely be bliss tonight.

If I was strolling home with Aide, my gorgeous builder, right now on this glorious summer evening, with the prospect of hot, no-strings-attached sex lined up, I’d be delirious.

As it is, the anger still simmering in my blood is both ruining my anticipation and somehow adding a frisson.

I can have fun with him and have fun with him, if you catch my drift.

‘We can go back to mine,’ I suggest airily as we saunter down a sun-soaked Ladbroke Grove, the bulky muscles of his upper arm grazing mine, ‘unless you live nearby?’

‘I live out west,’ he says. ‘Osterley. Yours sounds great.’

‘Ah.’ Half an hour ago, I would have imagined some depressing terrace house on the way out to Heathrow. Now I’m recalibrating. He probably has a fucking estate. ‘My flat is five minutes away,’ I tell him. ‘I live in our most recent development. It’s called Elgin.’

‘As long as it has a shower and a bed,’ he says with a sideways look so scorching it makes me full-body shiver, ‘it works for me.’

A shower.

A shower with Aide.

Jesus.

It’s a prospect so tantalising that, for a second, I almost don’t care that he’s a lying twat.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter what his actual identity is, his physical reality is real.

It’s real, and it’s outstanding, and nothing will stop me from enjoying this man tonight.

From letting him show me what he’s capable of.

Whatever else I may think of him, it’s clear ‘Aide’ is capable on far more fronts than I initially gave him credit for.

So let’s see what he can do.