The Billionaire Affair by Diana Hamilton Read Free Book Online

you must be hungry by now. You barely touched your lunch.’ No hint of that deeply unsettling caring in his voice now, just a smoky curl of amusement.
    It was eight o’clock and the light was beginning to fade from the clear, evening sky. His teeth gleamed whitely against the olive tones of his skin as he switched off the ignition and gave her the self-assured, chillingly predatory smile that sent a rapid succession of shivers down the length of her spine.
    She could have said with truth that she was absolutely ravenous, that it was his fault she hadn’t been able to swallow more than a mouthful of her lunch. But she gave a brief dip of her glossy dark head and told him, ‘Slightly,’ instead.
    Expecting the village pub she’d dressed as down as she could, given the selection of clothes she’d brought with her. But they’d ended up on the forecourt of what looked like a formidably exclusive eating house in the depths of the country and if the female clientele were all wearing little black numbers she’d stick out like a sore thumb in her cream linen trousers, toning Italian sweater and Gucci loafers.
    Not that she was going to let it bother her, she decided as her assumption proved correct. In anycase, Ben Dexter, immaculately suited, with his darkly virile looks, his obvious sophistication, stole all the attention. And sitting opposite him as they were handed menus as large and difficult to handle as broadsheets she wondered why he was bothering to try to impress her.
    For the same reason he’d wanted to impress the locals when he’d bought the Langley Hayes estate—despised poor boy makes good?
    He’d impressed her far more twelve years ago when he’d had two burning ambitions: To make her his wife and to achieve the financial success to keep her in style. At least, that was what he had said, and she’d believed him. Gullible fool that she’d been!
    Oh, the success had come, no doubt about it, and she hadn’t been interested in being kept in style—but as for making her his wife, nothing had been further from his lying, cheating mind.
    She handed her menu to a passing waiter, glad to be rid of it. She said, lightly, coolly, ‘I’ll be a little late starting in the morning. I need to walk down to the village to see if Angie Brown still carries a stock of jeans and shirts. I need something serviceable if I’m going to spend half my time rooting around in the attics. And I was wearing one of Dorothy Skeet’s overalls. I don’t go to bed in billowing yards of flowery stuff.’
    Suddenly the black eyes were laughing at her, his mouth a sinful curve, and she knew it had been a huge mistake to remind him that he’d suggested she was wearing her nightdress when he said, ‘What doyou wear to bed these days? Tailored silk pyjamas? There was a time when our bed was the softest, coolest moss we could find, if you remember. Or, if it rained, and it rarely did, the sweetly rustling hay in your father’s stable loft. Neither of us wore a stitch back then.’
    And then, without missing a beat, while thick hot colour swept into her cheeks and something nameless twisted viciously inside her, he said, ‘The village store altered five years ago when Angie retired. The new owners don’t stock clothing. But I need to drive into Shrewsbury tomorrow; you can come with me. You can shop while I keep my appointment with my solicitors.’ He broke a bread roll with those long, strong fingers, buttered one ragged half and added softly, ‘There’s a rather good trattoria in Butcher Row. We can meet there for lunch.’
    Just like that! Oh lord, let me get my composure back, she prayed, willing her pulse beat back to normal. Dropping explicit reminders of the past into everyday conversation was going to do her head in if he persisted. Best to ignore it. Hope it was a one-off.
    â€˜I would have thought you’d have used a