One Night With The Billionaire. Sarah M. Anderson

was gorgeous.

      Whoa … Concentrate on fish and chips, she told herself fiercely, and don’t think any further.

      For gorgeous was scary.

      Once Allie had disposed of enough food to satisfy him—which was a lot—Matt once again refused her a choice. He pointed to the rug and the pillows and he gave his orders.

      ‘Lie. Sleep.’

      ‘I can’t just lie out here in public …’

      ‘Why not? The sun’s great. No one’s around. I’m not asking you to sunbathe naked.’

      ‘No,’ she said and looked doubtfully at the cushions. They did look great. The dogs had already settled amongst them but Matt had ordered them to the edge so there was more than enough room for her.

      She was tired.

      ‘So you’re standing over me to keep guard,’ she said nervously and he shook his head.

      ‘I’m on washing-up duty,’ he said and proceeded to toss the remaining chips to a hundred seagulls who’d magically appeared and then bundle all the picnic gear into his capacious basket. ‘That’s that. And then, if you don’t mind, I’ll share your very big blanket.’

      ‘You want to share my bed?’

      ‘My nefarious plan’s uncovered,’ he said and gave an evil chuckle and she had to smile.

      This man was an enigma. Solitary, aloof, ruthless, kind …

      Mind-blowingly sexy.

      She should argue, but the sun was on her face and she was full of fish and chips and her dogs were here, which made it seem … okay … and those cushions … And this man …

      She slid down onto the rug and sank into the pillows and it was like she was letting go.

      It wasn’t just today that had exhausted her, she thought. It was … life. Matt was right; this circus was unviable. Even without the massive debt for the animals, she’d been struggling.

      She’d been struggling for years. Her grandparents were growing increasingly frail. Slowly, imperceptibly, she’d taken over their roles, taking the day-to-day running of the circus onto her shoulders. As more of the performers grew older she’d simply taken on more.

      But she couldn’t think of that now. She couldn’t think past the pillows. All roads led to this place, she thought. All paths led to these pillows, and to this man standing over her simply assuming control.

      ‘It’s scary having you hover,’ she complained and he grinned and sank down to join her. To sleep with her? Sleep in the real sense, she thought. There was no way she was up for a spot of seduction now.

      ‘I’m only doing this to make you feel better,’ he said. ‘So you won’t feel self-conscious snoozing alone.’

      ‘I don’t think I’ll snooze.’

      ‘Close your eyes then,’ he said. ‘Think of anything you like except money and circuses and grandparents and camels.’

      ‘Is this the advice you give to all your clients?’

      ‘Clients?’

      ‘You are my banker,’ she said and then caught herself. ‘I mean, my grandparents’ banker. Mathew who’s really Matt.’ And then she said sleepily, into her pillows, ‘Why did you look upset when you told me you were Matt? Why does no one call you Matt? Is it about your family?’

      He’d lain beside her, feeling vaguely self conscious but knowing he needed to do this to make her relax. There was a good foot between them. The dogs were on the end of the rug. This could be totally impersonal.

      It wasn’t. It was as if there was a cocoon around them, enclosing them in a bubble of space where there could be no secrets.

      It was an illusion, Matt thought, but even so, a question which would normally make him freeze was suddenly able to be answered.

      ‘My grandfather was Mathew,’ he said. ‘My father was Mathew. My great-grandfather was Mathew. I expect if ever I have a son he’ll be Mathew.’

      ‘That doesn’t leave much room for the imagination,’ she said sleepily. ‘But … Matt?’

      ‘My father and my grandfather were … to put it bluntly … strong personalities, and my mother was just as rigid,’ he said. ‘You’ve met my great-aunt. Picture her multiplied by a hundred. Even Margot would never consider calling me Matt.’

      ‘But someone did.’

      ‘My sister Lizzy,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth. As the biography you read told you, she died when I was six, in a car crash with my parents. Matt died with her.’

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Matt …’

      ‘It’s a long time ago,’ he said, more roughly than he intended. ‘After the crash my grandfather was even more formal. There was no nonsense about him, no emotion, no stupid diminutives. I didn’t want a diminutive anyway.’

      ‘But you think of yourself as Matt.’

      He started to say no. He started—and then he stopped.

      He did, he conceded. On the surface and all through the exterior layers he was Mathew, but underneath was where the pain lay. To let anyone call him Matt …

      ‘Does me calling you Matt hurt?’

      Yes, he thought. It was like biting on a tooth he knew was broken. But he glanced at her, lying sideways on her cushion, drifting towards sleep, and he knew that somehow she was worth the pain.

      Something in this girl was inching through the layers of armour he’d built. He knew pain would come, but for now all he felt was a gentle, insidious warmth.

      He hadn’t felt cold, he thought. He hadn’t thought he wanted …

      He didn’t want. This woman was a bereft client of the bank, and he needed to remember it. He needed to put things back on a business footing, fast.

      So talk about her business affairs now?

      No. He might be a businessman but he wasn’t cruel. He’d brought her here—wise or not—to give her time out and he’d follow through. He’d let her sleep.

      But first … She’d exposed part of him he didn’t want exposed. Fair was fair.

      ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Who called you Allie?’

      ‘My mother, of course,’ she said, but she didn’t stir. There didn’t seem any pain there.

      ‘But I gather you’ve been cared for by your grandparents since you were tiny.’

      ‘You have been doing your research.’ She snuggled further into the pillows. Tinkerbelle, or maybe it was Fairy, one of the identical dogs with identical tails that whirred like helicopters when they were happy, which would be now, had snuggled onto the pillow beside her and she held her close. ‘Gran and Grandpa have been great. I had the best childhood.’

      ‘Without a mum?’

      ‘I know, sometimes I feel guilty for thinking it,’ she said. ‘Mum took off with the circus fire-eater when I was two. She and Scorcher left for a bigger, better circus where they could make more money, but it didn’t last. Scorcher went on to make his fortune in America and we haven’t heard from him since. Mum moved on to a series of men, places, adventures. She’s currently working as a psychic, reading Tarot cards up on the Gold Coast. She sends me Christmas and birthday cards. Every now and then she whirls in, usually needing money, spins our life into confusion and spins out again. I’ve figured she does love me, as much as she’s able to love anyone, but I’m eternally grateful she and Scorcher left me behind. My family is this circus. Gran and Grandpa, Fizz and Fluffy, the crew, the animals; they’ve been here all my life. Sparkles is my family.’ She sighed