Innocent In The Billionaire's Bed

‘I expect it has always been the same for you?’

Tilly thought of her family. Her parents who had worked hard all their lives, who adored her and would have found a way to give her the moon if she’d asked it of them.

‘Why do you say that?’ She returned his question with a question.

‘Because I have known women like you before,’ he said simply, shrugging his broad shoulders.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

His smile was derisive, and yet her heart flipped as though he was offering her a bunch of flowers. She turned away, frustrated at the schoolgirl crush she seemed to be developing.

‘That you grew up with more money than most people see in a lifetime. And that in my experience women like you tend to be...’

‘Yes?’ she prompted, her hackles rising despite the fact he was making assumptions about her doppelgänger, not her true self.

What had he wanted to say? Did it matter that the spoiled rich girls he’d bedded in the past were all boring, entitled, selfish and dull? Why were they talking about this?

His frown deepened. He was supposed to be showing her the island; that was all. It was the kind of thing he’d never have deigned to do under normal circumstances. God knew he had more important things to focus on. Still, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let the press get wind of his ties to Prim’amore. Rio, and Rio alone, would handle all the contracts associated with the sale.

But it should have taken days. Not a week. Art had been strangely insistent, though. Cressida wanted a week ‘to really get a feel for the place’, and Art had expressed his relief that his wayward daughter was showing such good business sense.

But he didn’t need to spend the whole time taking beach strolls with the admittedly beautiful heiress. And certainly not sharing his innermost thoughts.

‘Never mind,’ he said, his voice a dark contradiction of the light banter they’d been sharing. ‘This beach stretches for another two miles before the cove curves inwards and we’ll need to climb the cliff. I suggest we leave that for another day.’

* * *

He was being deliberately unpleasant.

No, not unpleasant.

Just a big, gorgeous roadblock to any conversation she tried to make.

He’d been like it as they’d walked on the beach. As though he’d flicked a switch and she no longer held any interest for him. He’d pointed out details of the island, suggested positions that might be suitable for a hotel, but he had made it clear that he felt obliged to provide her with business information and that was the end of it.

So why did it bother her?

She’d come to the island expecting to meet with a dull estate agent. She’d brought books and bathing costumes, anticipating a delicious week on her own, soaking in the sunshine and relaxing.

But now her nerves were stretched on tenterhooks.

She flicked the page of her book, even though she had no concept of what she’d read, and briefly lifted her eyes to where he sat. There was only one living space in the house and he’d taken up position on the small table. It held his laptop, and thick files spread in each direction. His head was bent, he had a pen in his hand, and as he read one of the files he occasionally scratched a note angrily in the margin.

Unexpectedly he flashed his eyes in her direction and she looked away, stumbling her focus back to reading. His eyes continued to burn her skin, though.

He stood abruptly, scraping his chair noisily against the tiles. She kept her head bent as he moved into the kitchen and she heard the fridge open and shut.

She turned the page—again with no concept of where she was in the story.

The sound of butter simmering in a frying pan finally captured her interest, and she risked a glance towards him.

Her heart stuttered. Rio Mastrangelo was a seriously gorgeous man at any time. But with his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, his head bent as he chopped tomato and fennel...he was the poster boy for sexiest man alive.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, wishing she hadn’t when his eyes lanced her and she felt her stomach swoop.

‘Stringing a fishing line,’ he replied, with a sarcasm that he softened by smiling.

He had a dimple in one cheek. Deep enough to dip her finger into. She looked back at her book.

‘I presume you eat normal food?’ he asked, with a challenge she didn’t understand in his question.

‘It depends what you call “normal.”’ She gave up on the book, folding down the corner at the top of a page and placing it on the sofa.

She stood and padded towards the kitchen, curious as he added basil leaves to the chopping board. He reached for the fridge once more and returned with fish, adding each fillet one by one to the sizzling frying pan. He sliced a lemon down the middle and squeezed it over the top, then ground salt.

‘That smells delicious,’ she said seriously. ‘You like to cook?’

He shrugged. ‘I like to eat, so...’

Her smile was involuntary, and her attention was momentarily distracted by the sizzling fish, so she didn’t realise that his eyes had dropped to her mouth and were staring at it with an intensity that would have boiled her blood.

‘I would have thought you’d have a chef. No—a team of chefs. All ready to obey your every whim.’ She lifted her brows as she turned her attention back to his face.

‘No.’

More of the stonewalling she’d faced that afternoon.

‘No? Why not?’

‘Because, Principessa, not everyone grew up in the hyper-indulged, rarefied way you did. I learned to cook almost as soon as I could walk. Just because I can afford to employ chefs it doesn’t mean it’s necessary.’

The hostility of his statement hurt far more than it should have. He was judging her—no, he was judging Cressida, she reminded herself forcibly—and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Her throat ached. With mortification, Tilly realised his harsh rebuke had brought her to the brink of tears. She took a steadying breath and looked away.

He expelled an angry breath and reached for the fish, flicking it deftly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘That was rude of me.’

If his judgemental bitterness had surprised her, the apology had even more so.

She lifted her eyes to him slowly. ‘You think I’m spoiled.’

His smile was brief. A flicker across his face that she thought she must have imagined. He reached for two plates and scooped the tomato and fennel mixture into the middle, then added several fish fillets and half a lemon. It had the kind of presentation a five-year-old would have been proud of, but it smelled incredible. Her stomach groaned in agreement with that thought and she cleared her throat in an attempt to cover it.

‘I believe you drink champagne?’

Tilly frowned, and was on the brink of pointing out that she really didn’t drink much at all before remembering that Cressida was practically fuelled by the stuff. She found it perfectly acceptable to start her day with a glass of bubbles. And, despite the fact she could knock off a bottle on her own in no time, she never seemed affected by it. Which showed she had an incredible tolerance for the stuff. Unlike Tilly.

Yet she nodded, knowing it would lead to questions if she disavowed something so intrinsic about the heiress.

He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle—Bollinger, she saw as he unfurled the top.

‘The cabin is not exactly well appointed,’ he explained, pulling out a single tumbler and half filling it with champagne. He handed her the glass, then scooped up their plates and cutlery.

‘You’re not joining me?’

‘No.’

He moved down the corridor, pushing the door to the balcony open with his shoulder and holding it for her to move past. It surprised her; she’d assumed they’d sit inside at the table.

But when she looked up she let out a sound of astonishment.

Somewhere between their walk on the beach and the pages she hadn’t read, the sky had caught fire. Red, orange, pink and purple exploded in every direction, backlit by warmth and turning the ocean a vibrant hue of purple.

‘Wow!’

He set the plates on the small table, his eyes following hers.

‘Remember when we swam as the sun dipped down and the sky was orange? And you told me I was a mermaid who’d come from the sea?’

His mother’s voice had been crackly and faint. The last of her cancer treatments had left her disorientated and confused.

‘Prim’amore—my love, my first love. For ever.’

When death had been at her doorstep, she’d thought only of him. Piero. A man who hadn’t even come to the funeral—who hadn’t so much as acknowledged her passing.

Rio compressed his lips, his appetite diminished.

Not so Tilly’s.

She sat opposite him and attacked her fish with impressive gusto, pausing occasionally to turn back to the view, before remembering that she was starving, apparently, and pushing another piece of her dinner into her mouth.

A beautiful mouth. Full and naturally pouting, with a perfect cupid’s bow that out of nowhere he imagined tracing with his tongue.

His body stirred at the idea. The sooner he got off this island the better. Any number of women would make more suitable, less complicated lovers than Cressida Wyndham.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming her face. ‘Yes.’ His nod was concise. ‘I think you’re spoiled.’ His eyes dropped to her lips once more—lips that were parted now with indignation. ‘But it is not your fault.’

‘Oh, geez. Thanks.’ She reached for her champagne and sipped it, pulling a face when the water she wanted to taste turned out to be bubbly and astringent. Still, it slid down her throat, soothing her parched mouth and calming her nerves.

His laugh sent her pulse skittering.

‘I mean only that anyone raised as you were would be spoiled. You have been indulged from the first day of your life. Adored. Cherished. All your dreams made a reality, I imagine.’

Tilly couldn’t have said where the need to defend Cressida came from, but it was like a sledgehammer in her side. Sisterhood? Girl power? Her own childhood had been idyllic. She, Tilly, was the one who had been spoiled. Not with material possessions—money had always been tight in the Morgan household—but with time and love.

‘Yes, well, that may be true, but there’s more to life than physical possessions, and far better ways to show affection than by giving gifts.’

Curious, he leaned forward. ‘Poor little rich girl?’ he prompted, and when she kept her face averted, her chin set at a defiant angle, he felt a surge of adrenalin kick in his gut. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Principessa?’

She reached for her champagne once more and held it in one hand, her eyes roaming the ocean before lifting to his face. ‘You haven’t hurt my feelings.’

She spoke with a calm control he hadn’t expected.

‘You’ve made me curious about yours. You haven’t even known me a day and yet you speak of me with derision and contempt. That can’t possibly be based on who I am, seeing as you barely know me. It must be because of who you are. And your hang ups. You think less of me because I come from money.’

* * *

She had surprised him and he hadn’t liked it. At all.

Her insight had been rapier-sharp. He’d judged her because of what he’d presumed her to be, and that was hardly fair. He’d have never made his mark in business if he’d carried such assumptions alongside him.

He swirled his Scotch, his eyes resting on the now dark sky.

Was she asleep? She’d finished her dinner abruptly after her incisive comment and scuttled inside. He’d listened to the sound of the sink being filled and dishes being washed, all the while pondering the mystery of Cressida Wyndham.

When Art had said his daughter was coming to inspect the island Rio had instantly formed preconceptions. He knew enough about Cressida to know what to expect. But since she’d arrived she’d defied each of the ideas he’d held. She’d fallen into the water...and laughed. She’d accepted the humble accommodation without complaint. She’d read her book, and she’d thanked him for cooking. Hell, she’d done the dishes.

None of that fitted into the way he’d envisaged someone like Cressida behaving.

She’d been right. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like women like her.

How could someone like Rio, who’d been raised in abject poverty, feel anything but resentment for the kind of indulged lifestyle that had been made available to the Cressidas of the world?

His thoughts wandered distractedly to Marina. The heiress he’d thought himself in love with many years ago. She’d been beautiful, too, and she’d seemed interesting and genuine. But she’d taught him an important lesson: never trust a beautiful woman who cared only for herself.

He leaned back on the deck, his eyes lingering on the silver streak of the moon reflected in the water. His mother had tried to provide for him. Had she not become ill, undoubtedly their lives would have been comfortable. His expression was grim as he remembered that sensation of hunger and worry. Even as a young boy he had been sent to school in uniforms that were a little too small, shorts that didn’t quite fit, shoes that were second-hand and badly scuffed.

All the while his wealthy father had refused to intervene. And now he’d given him this! A parting shot. A last insult. An island that intrinsically reminded him of Piero and all the ways he’d failed Rio and Rosa.

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