Page 36 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

I may be in the type of swanky, wanky Mayfair restaurant I usually avoid like the plague, but I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself, and that has nothing to do with the swanky, wanky crowd around me and everything to do with the woman sitting opposite me.

The woman whose in-fucking-credible body I devoured in the quiet splendour of her office at lunchtime.

The woman who let me inside her body, let me bend her over and fuck her hard and fast on her desk because I was so far past being able to hold back.

I gaze at her.

I still cannot believe I get to be inside her body .

She, of course, looks like she was made for this place.

I suppose I do too, to the untuned eye, in my Savile Row suit and Armani tie.

But, unlike me, Lotta’s totally at home here.

She’s also the most beautiful woman in the room by a mile, and, let me tell you, there are a lot of very expensive hookers loitering by the bar area.

And it’s not just her beauty. It’s the whole fucking package.

Her elegance. Poise. Intelligence. Charm.

Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton is a class act.

She shifts in her seat a little as she peruses the drinks menu.

I lean forward. ‘Feeling sore?’ I enquire in a low voice.

I love the self-conscious smile that washes over her face at my question.

‘A little tender,’ she admits, inclining her swanlike neck. It’s on full display given she’s put her hair up. She’s also applied heavier eye makeup for this evening, and whatever she’s done makes her look even more goddess-like, makes the huge brown doe eyes staring at me even more mesmerising.

‘Poor baby.’ I reach across the table and brush the pad of my thumb over a couple of her rings. I give her a wolfish grin. ‘I’ll make it all better later.’

The part of me that’s a civilised human being is gutted that I’ve made her sore, but a horrifyingly large part of me loves that she’s sitting here in this flashy restaurant, surrounded by posh twats, and that it’s my cock she can still feel in the place that none of them will ever get near.

Not on my watch, at least.

Her mouth twists. ‘I bet you will.’

I order us a Meursault from the bottom of the wine list, because I know she loves her big, buttery whites, and one thing I struggle to feel guilty about spending money on is seriously decent wine.

Besides, the most extravagant thing we’ve done in the past week is order Wagamama’s on Deliveroo.

There’s no harm in splashing out every now and again.

I’m not tight. I enjoy high quality. I’ve developed a taste for high quality, in case you couldn’t work that out with a single glance at my new, beautiful girlfriend.

I’m not that clichéd rich-as-sin miser who’d rather count his money than spend it.

I couldn’t be less like that. I’d rather give the entire load away.

But I still struggle with guilt over ostentation. Throwing my money around.

That is not, however, an issue to worry about tonight. Because tonight, I’m the luckiest guy in the world, and I intend to have fun.

I’m casting my eye over the menu when Lotta gets gracefully to her feet. A tall posh bloke in a seriously nice suit is loitering. He looks far too confident for my liking yet strangely familiar.

Lotta leans in for a double air kiss. ‘Santi!’

‘Darling,’ he drawls in a deep, cultured rumble I suppose the women go crazy for.

‘You look stunning, as always.’ I roll my eyes internally at his suaveness before fixing a smile on my face, because I left that chippy, insecure boy behind a long time ago, and Lotta deserves a far more socially competent dinner partner than that.

‘Santi,’ she says, ‘allow me to introduce Aidan Duffy. Aide, this is Santiago Vale.’

Santiago Vale. Vale Music. Fucking hell—he’s a massive player in the music industry. Mum’s had a crush on his dad, Dominic Vale, for as long as I can remember.

And the bloke cuddling up to Lotta on her Instagram feed.

Bingo.

I rise to my feet, cogs turning as I put out my hand. ‘The music guy?’

‘The very same,’ he says, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grip.

‘And, far more glamorously, this one’s neighbour.

’ He has that faux self-deprecating air that so many former public schoolboys have, but I don’t hate him.

I suspect everything’s a bit of a piss-take with him.

Besides, he’s properly talented. No wonder his speaking voice sounds like warm treacle.

Before I can reply, he jerks his head in my direction and says to Lotta, ‘So, is this your little “enigma”?’

To my surprise, she blushes and shoves him on the arm. ‘Thanks a lot,’ she hisses.

‘Enigma?’ I ask. I have no clue what he meant, but seeing Lotta flustered is amusing.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Santi threw a party last week weekend after you and I…’ She huffs.

‘I may have mentioned, briefly and in confidence ’—this last part aimed at him through gritted teeth—‘that there was someone in the picture who I couldn’t quite figure out.

You know, because you were a dirty little liar. ’

I close the gap between us and kiss her on the cheek, because the fact that she was ranting about me to her mates after kicking me out makes me inexplicably happy.

‘Did you, now?’ I murmur.

‘Oh, yes, darling.’ Santini clasps his hands together. ‘You two are perfect. Look at you! Am I correct in thinking you’re the Aidan Duffy?’

I’ll never get used to being recognised, nor do I enjoy it. But I laugh, because Lotta’s groaning beside me.

‘Think so,’ I say. ‘If you mean the tech bloke.’

‘Exactly!’ Santi points at me. ‘I knew it.’

‘So I’m the only person on the planet who didn’t know who you are,’ Lotta whines. ‘Fucking excellent.’

‘Darling, get with the programme. Nerds are the new hotties,’ Santi says, looking me over approvingly. ‘Anyway, you two are divine. So adorable. You should have his babies.’ He nods at Lotta.

This guy is fucking weird, but also hilarious. I also don’t disagree with him on the last part, which is even weirder.

An image of her pregnant, so fleeting it’s almost subliminal, flashes through my mind. Her tits would be so fucking luscious. I blink.

‘ Anyway , Santi, how are you doing?’ Lotta asks through still-gritted teeth, a not-so-subtle way of indicating her desire to change the subject away from my filling her with my babies.

‘I’ve been singing O Holy Night all fucking day, if you must know,’ he says, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘You may think it’s July, but the festive season is officially upon us. We’re recording our family Christmas album. Dad’s even roped poor Vi into it.’

‘Violet’s Santi’s daughter,’ Lotta tells me.

I nod and slip my hand further down the small of her back till I can feel the waistband of her thong through the thin silk of her dress.

I like standing here with her like this, in the middle of this restaurant.

Like she’s mine. Like it’s not the biggest miracle on earth that she’s in my arms.

‘She’s ten,’ Santi says. ‘The exploitation of every last generation of Vales for commercial purposes is relentless. If Dad could record the fucking dog, he would.’

‘Maybe you should put him on the album cover anyway,’ Lotta suggests.

‘Nope. Tried that. Dad vetoed it. Said he wasn’t “pretty” enough.’

Lotta gasps. ‘Luke’s the prettiest boy in the world!’

‘Exactly. His beauty is rivalled only by his quiet stoicism. But you know Dad. He said a Staffy wasn’t “elevated” enough for the family brand. Wanted to hire a golden spaniel for the cover shoot. A fucking golden spaniel ! Can you imagine?’

‘I am really, really pissed off on Luke’s behalf,’ my little hellcat says, crossing her arms.

‘As am I, darling. As am I. Anyway, the stress of the whole thing’s getting to us all.

Dad’s blood pressure’s through the roof, his cholesterol’s a fucking disaster, and Mum’s going ballistic about his health.

She said I’m working him too hard, when in reality it’s completely the other way around.

God knows, I’m going to need a fucking guru just to keep him alive for the next six months.

It’ll be a marathon—the planned publicity around it is a total circus. ’

‘Ooh—I have someone,’ Lotta says. ‘My parents will be away from October and they have an amazing person they won’t be requiring for winter—she’s a wellness consultant.

She’s from California, and she’s extremely well-versed on the whole holistic thing, and, you know, complementary medicine. And nutrition too, obviously.’

Santi grimaces and rakes a hand through his dark hair. ‘Dear God. An American, and an alternative one at that. She sounds utterly ghastly .’ He really is a fucking drama queen, this guy.

‘She is not ghastly ,’ Lotts says firmly. ‘She’s delightful . And she’s an amazing chef. She is also a total smoke show, for your information, Santi , so I would thank you to keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself.’

He shoots her a filthy look, then rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. Send me her number.’

‘Let’s play a game,’ I say when we’ve got rid of Santi and are each nursing a glass of Meursault. ‘Quick fire get-to-know-you.’

‘I’m in,’ she says with a sexy smile.

‘Let’s see—favourite subject at school.’

‘Classics,’ she shoots back. ‘You?’

‘IT, obviously. And Maths. Why Classics?’

‘Dunno.’ She sticks out her delicious lower lip as she thinks.

‘I suppose a lot of it was Italian history, which I loved. But I think it was just learning about ancient civilisations. We’re so smug about how sophisticated we are—you know?

But there was so much wisdom and insight back then.

They had it a lot more figured out than we do. I ended up doing it at uni, too.’

This I did not know. ‘Where did you go to uni?’

‘Cambridge. Emmanuel College.’

‘Course you did,’ I say, smiling at her.

She laughs, and it’s fucking beautiful. She is fucking beautiful. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m awful and entitled?’

‘ No . That you’re very fucking intelligent.’

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Nice recovery. You were at UCL, right?’

‘Yeah, but I never finished. I dropped out, thanks to your Dad’s help.’

‘He told me why you started Totum,’ she says softly, stretching across the table to take my hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. I can feel myself stiffen at the thought of that poor, poor little fucker, Jerry Smith. He was a skinny little thing. Stunted. I look down at our conjoined hands.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Nothing to apologise for,’ I tell her. ‘It was a long time ago. I wasn’t in a position to be able to fight child abuse, not then, but I could sure as fuck do something about making sure the NHS never let that stuff fall through the cracks.’

‘It’s absolutely amazing, what you’ve done.’

I blow out a breath and plaster a smile on my face. ‘I want to be happy tonight. I’m sitting across a table from the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, so I refuse to be a miserable bastard. Okay?’

She presses her lips together and smiles. ‘Okay.’

‘Why did you start Venus?’ I ask. ‘Where did the idea come from?’

‘I can’t take much credit,’ she says, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

‘Gabe started it when I was in my final year at uni and he asked me to come on board. He felt there was a gap at the very top of the market for a design-led property developer that also refused to compromise on ethics and integrity. Some people that loaded don’t give a shit about the planet, obviously, but others, like you’—she gestures at me—‘care a lot and can afford to make the right environmental decisions, even if they cost a lot more than doing things the wrong way.’

‘How did you divvy things up? Was it just the two of you at the start?’

She laughs. ‘God, no. We had a go big or go home strategy from the get-go. We each invested a chunk of our trust funds as start-up capital—I turned twenty-one that year so mine freed up at exactly the right time—and Dad invested through his incubator, as I think I told you, and personally. He also made introductions.’

She looks down at her glass. ‘So it was intense, but it wasn’t like it was for you, where you had to do it all yourself and start from scratch. We hired analysts and architects and planners—it was a big operation. We had a lot of help.’

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s totally different.

You can’t run your kind of start-up out of a basement.

All I needed was me and a laptop, and some more computer scientists as I ramped up.

You were building fucking buildings . It’s far more capital intensive.

And at that end of the market you need to show a professional front from the outset. ’

‘You’re right, I suppose,’ she says with a shrug.

‘Was all the branding your responsibility?’ I ask.

She grins. ‘It was, and it was so much fun. While Gabe was dealing with buying land and haggling with councils and fucking town planners’—she shudders—‘I was drawing up glossy brochures and commissioning beautiful artists’ impressions and schmoozing everyone in my network, so that before we had our first block ready to start building we could sell the whole thing off-plan.

And we did. That ramp-up phase was fun.’

I return her grin. ‘Yeah. It really is. It’s such a rush. And I bet you were the best marketer ever. I mean, who’s going to say no to you?’

She rewards my compliment with a bat of her eyelids that makes me laugh. ‘No one.’

‘Exactly. I’m just wondering why I never got to meet you—that fucker Gabe kept me safely away from his little sister.’

‘Probably because you were an incoming. No need to get the marketing team on a client if they come to us. It’s a pity, though.’ She licks her lips. ‘I definitely would have enjoyed helping you seal the deal.’

‘And I would have greatly enjoyed any freebies you were willing to throw in,’ I counter. ‘Though if I’d turned up in a suit, without my power tools, you might not have looked at me twice.’

‘I’d have eye-fucked you even if you’d turned up in a Minions onesie,’ she retorts. She leans forward. ‘And I know exactly where you keep your power tool, gorgeous. And how good you are at using it.’

‘Because you can still feel it,’ I say.

Her eyes are soft in the dim light. I watch her lips annunciate because I can still feel it.