Page 42 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

N ot only am I at one of the most iconic restaurants the past seven decades have produced in France, but I’m being chatted up by an actual sex symbol.

Like, a guy who’s been voted GQ’s Sexiest Man Alive.

Davide de Luca, groom Josh Landers’ best buddy, Hollywood superstar and delicious male specimen from the top of his tousled dark head to the tips of his loafer-clad toes, is making it abundantly clear that the only dessert he’s interested in later tonight is me .

And what do I feel?

Not a thing .

Fucking Aide.

Tomorrow evening’s ceremony and party will be under the stars at the beautifully-named Chateau des Anges—Castle of the Angels—but tonight, the great and good of the movie world have gathered at Le Club 55 on St Tropez’s famous Pampelonne Beach.

The sky is a gorgeous haze of azure melting into golds and pinks and peaches.

The Mediterranean sea is still as a mill-pond, a sparkling, blush-coloured mirror broken only the enormous white super-yachts dotted around.

Several of our guests have, in fact, arrived by tender this evening and will head back out to their floating gin palaces when the night’s festivities are done.

But I doubt that’ll be for quite some time. Beachy, abstract remixes of Francoise Hardy are playing overhead, and the rosé and champagne are flowing, except to our pregnant bride, Elle and those who, like Josh, are in recovery.

The throng of beautiful people is thick, and the conversation is loud.

Le Club 55 has always had a low-key vibe—think Demi back in the day with a single button of Bruce’s linen shirt fastened over her bikini.

But tonight, we’ve kicked it up a notch.

The uneven wooden boards covering the sandy floor of the restaurant may call for flat sandals or bare feet, but the resort-wear people are sporting is nothing short of fabulous.

Still, I’m holding my own. My skin is glowing from the past few weekends spent sunbathing by The Saint’s pool, and my silk jersey dress is comfortable yet sexy, with a plunging neckline and a daring thigh slit.

Its gorgeous, deep coral shade shows off my tan and matches my lip gloss.

Mr de Luca is definitely eyeing my exposed skin with approval.

I’ve long held a view that real, A-list celebrities tend to fall into two camps. The coked-up ones who can barely hold eye contact, or the really good ones who make everyone feel like they’re the only person in the room.

Unfortunately for me, Davide is the latter.

Unfortunately for him, my only reaction is to muse that this guy would probably do well if he ran for office.

He’s not even up his own arse. His latest movie, the one that premiered at Cannes a couple of months ago, is tipped for an Oscar nod, but is he blathering on about it?

Nope.

Instead, he’s peppering me with thoughtful, intelligent questions about the top end of the residential property market in London. He even mentions he’s considering buying a pied-à- terre there. If I gave a single shit, I could probably sign him as a new client.

But I don’t give a shit, and it’s really fucking annoying.

Obviously, I’m tickled to have attracted such a massive star’s attention.

If it wasn’t for my fucking, do-gooder boyfriend, I would one hundred percent fuck this guy and enjoy every minute of the experience.

Elle would be thrilled—she’s had me earmarked for Davide for months, and since the invitations went out, it’s been a bit of a running joke between us all that I should hook up with him.

With Nora obviously besotted and off the market, I was Elle’s Great White Hope for a fellow Cambridge-Hollywood couple (or at least hookup).

It is no exaggeration to say I’ve been looking forward to this wedding for months.

Fucking Aide.

I’m not one to mope, though. Nor am I one to waste an experience this incredible on feeling a little heartbroken and a lot let down by a guy.

Even if the guy is the single most miraculous person I’ve ever met.

So I throw myself into it. I mingle. I drink. I enjoy the delicious canapés that are being handed around. I allow myself to soak up the unmistakable scent of the sea, and of the nearby pines, and of the incredible food being cooked up for us.

I revel in the atmosphere of this once-in-a-lifetime event at a place that has so much history. God, some of the guests here tonight probably decorate the walls along with Bardot.

I admire the understated perfection of the view, not only of the sparkling sea in the early evening sun, but of the restaurant itself, with its ancient, white-cushioned benches, its uneven wooden tables, and the faded white sheets that, when strung over the beams overhead, offer much-needed shade during the day.

Tonight, those sheets are pulled to one side so we can feast under the stars as night falls.

Davide ushers me over to the edge of the crowd, off the boards and down onto the sand, so we can admire the view.

I let my eyes drift closed and absorb the sounds, the smells.

I’ve already referenced Aide several times in our conversation, but either he doesn’t think an absentee boyfriend is a problem for him or he’s genuinely happy to chat to someone who’s not available. Who knows?

‘Do you come here when you do Cannes?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, if I can,’ he answers. ‘I usually have someone take me on their boat.’

‘Makes sense,’ I say. Getting here by boat from Cannes takes under an hour, so it’s easily do-able. ‘It’s probably still a circus, though?’

‘The whole of the Cote d’Azur’s a circus in May,’ he says. ‘I’ve been here in September before, when all the Parisians have gone home but the beach clubs are still open and the heat is a little less intense—it’s beautiful then. I think it’s one of the most beautiful parts of the world.’

‘Not as beautiful as Italy,’ I say automatically, and he laughs.

‘Totally. My nonna would kill me if she heard me say I preferred France.’

‘Nothing scarier than a nonna. Whereabouts is your family from?’

He’s just getting started telling me about his Neapolitan origins when I hear my name called behind me.

Lotta.

The voice is achingly familiar.

Achingly desperate .

I turn.

Oh my God.

I don’t know how I thought I could function without him, because now he’s here, every part of my starving soul eats the sight of him up.

The man is a sight for sore eyes. He’s dressed like he just stepped off a yacht, in off-white trousers and a sky-blue, open-necked linen shirt that not only enhances his tan but makes those blue eyes of his look even more piercing.

Actually, I think they’d be pretty piercing without the shirt, because right now they’re boring into my very soul.

It’s the expression in them that makes my heart hurt. They are… God, so many things. Beseeching. Hungry. Fearful.

Lost.

And… I think… loving?

‘Sweetheart,’ he says hoarsely, holding out his arms and taking a stride towards me.

I don’t think about the A-list movie star standing next to me, or how pissed off I’ve been with Aide, or anything else, except how staggeringly relieved I am to see him. How miraculous it feels to have him standing here, right in front of me, like this magical place has conjured him up for me.

His arms are there, waiting for me. I fall straight into them, because there’s nowhere else I belong. And oh my God, when he wraps them around me, and tugs me right into the heat of his huge body, the cradle of it, kissing the crown of my head, I know I never, ever want to be anywhere else.

It’s such a cliché, but I’ve been standing here, in an iconic restaurant in a heavenly part of the world, surrounded by the rich and famous and being gently flirted with by a movie star, for fuck’s sake, and all of it is totally pointless without him, a fact that’s been really irritating me all evening and is now making me so, so happy I could burst.

Because he is here.

He came.

We do this unsteady little dance together as he rocks me in his arms. ‘I’m so sorry , sweetheart,’ he says brokenly into my hair. ‘God, baby, I’m so fucking sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ I manage, because the weirdest thing is happening. I’ve gone all floppy and shaky, and if Aide wasn’t holding me tightly I might actually fall down. It’s as if I’ve been holding myself together this entire day, and last night, to be fair, and now he’s here and I can just collapse.

I don’t need to put on a brave face anymore, or dazzle anybody, or make an effort to be the life and soul when, deep down, I’ve felt the polar opposite.

It’s seriously emotional, being here in his arms when I’ve accepted not seeing him for days. I’m sure there’s lots to say, but I don’t give a fuck right now, because his actions are all that matter.

He chose me, which sounds awful, because I don’t want to win a battle against some poor little impoverished children. But he chose us for this weekend.

And it really does mean the world.

I pull away just enough to raise my face to his.

He’s a little blurry, because my eyes are teary, but he’s so bloody magnificent, especially because his face breaks into an ear-to-ear grin at what he sees.

The soft rays of the sunset are hitting his jaw from the west, and, even better, that wariness is gone from his eyes, and it’s a wonderful thing.

We stand there, grinning at each other like fools.

‘There she is,’ he says, reaching one hand up to brush my hair off my face with the gentlest fingertips. ‘There’s my girl.’

He bends his head towards me and all my inner cheerleaders go yes! yes! yes! But before he can kiss me, there’s a polite cough.

‘I’ll just—’ Davide says, and I jerk my head in his direction.

‘Oh my God,’ I’m so sorry!’ I pat Aide on the waist to signal he should release me.

‘Not a problem,’ Davide says with a dashing, and probably trademarked, grin that would have most humans with a pulse swooning. ‘You guys catch up.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ Aide says.

I glance up at him and almost laugh at the star-struck expression on his face.

‘Mate,’ he says, hugging me against his side and sticking his hand out for Davide to shake. ‘Sorry. Aidan. How are you doing?’

Davide takes Aide’s hand graciously. ‘I’m doin’ great. You’re a lucky guy.’ He nods in my direction.

‘Yeah.’ Aide hugs me harder and swallows audibly. ‘I know.’

Davide raises his glass to us. ‘ Santé . Have a great evening and I’ll see you guys around.’

As he saunters off, Aide drops his forehead to mine and slides a warm, strong hand around the back of my neck. ‘Twenty-four hours and you find yourself a fucking mega celeb,’ he groans. ‘Jesus Christ. But who can blame him?’

‘It’s called karma,’ I tell him chirpily.

‘I deserved that.’

‘He’s very attractive.’ I tilt my head upwards. ‘But I only have eyes for one man, no matter how much that pisses me off. I may have dropped your name into the conversation about twenty times.’

‘Good,’ he growls, and then his lips are on mine, firm and hungry and relentless. I melt against him, opening for him, wanting everything he has to give me. The solidity of his body, the intrusion of his tongue—it’s all so incredibly welcome. I don’t want anything except this.

I don’t want anyone except him.

I suspect we’re putting on quite a show. He’s insatiable, kissing me thoroughly, licking his tongue deep into my mouth, reminding me who I belong to. As if I needed reminding. One hand’s still holding me around my neck while the other slides down my body till it finds my arse and squeezes it hard.

Um, that squeeze isn’t the only thing that’s hard.

I break the kiss. ‘How did you get here?’ I ask breathlessly, roaming my hands down the front of his firm chest. He really is so delicious. So hyper-masculine.

‘Net Jets,’ he says sheepishly. ‘Totum has a Marquis card.’

‘Wow,’ I say innocently. ‘Imagine how fewer carbon emissions you could have caused if you’d just come with me in the first place.’

He slaps my bum lightly. ‘I’m offsetting it so much I could probably replant the Amazon.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ I say. I stand on my tiptoes so I can kiss him. ‘And I’m very glad you’re here.’

‘You can thank Judy for that,’ he says. ‘She gave me a proper bollocking.’

‘I’m sorry I missed that.’ I smile at him. ‘But you can tell me about it later. Let’s get you a drink and we can explain to our lovely hostess why you’ve turned up out of the blue.’

‘Noah’s already let her know,’ he says bashfully. ‘But yeah, I’m keen to apologise to her.’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Is apologise a code word for ogle one of the most beautiful actors on the planet?’

‘Nope,’ he says. ‘I have no fucking interest in anyone but you. But I might extend the apology to cover all the inappropriate things I intend to do to my girlfriend under the dinner table and on the dance floor later.’

‘I’d just seek forgiveness later, if I were you.’ I let my head drop against his chest. The sound of his heart beating steadily against my ear may just be the best thing I’ve ever heard, and the smell of him through freshly laundered linen puts the work of the chefs here to shame.

Heaven isn’t here.

It’s him.