The Billionaire Affair by Diana Hamilton

from her wakeful mind she found herself lying in the darkness actually listening for his signal, the pebbles he’d lightly tossed against the window-pane, calling her down to him.
    How willingly she’d gone…
    She sat up, squirming to the edge of the bed, flicked on the bedside lamp and pressed her fingertips to her aching temples.
    She had to pull herself together, stop remembering. They were different people now and she knew what a heartless bastard he really was. The man she’d loved all those years ago was nothing but a figment of her imagination, a silly romantic dream.
    Her watch told her it was just gone two o’clock and she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Why lie sleepless in bed, agonising over the past, when she could be working, bringing the time of her departure that little bit closer?
    The decision made, she slipped her arms into the aqua silk robe once more, tied the belt securely and reached for her notebook.
    She’d visit the dining room first she thought as she slipped silently down the great staircase. The Regency dining table with its twelve chairs had been sold long ago. She’d been about fourteen years old, home for the Christmas break and, when she’d questioned him, her father had said sarcastically, ‘How else am I to pay your boarding school fees? Rob a bank? Ask the tooth fairy?’
    Useless to tell him, for perhaps the fourth time,that she’d have been happier at the nearest comprehensive. He’d given that withering look he’d seemed to reserve for her alone. ‘Remember who you are!’
    Who she was. Suddenly she had the unnerving feeling that she didn’t know. A successful woman in her own right or a rootless shadow, pining for a lost love? Being back here with the boy who had been forbidden in the grounds, now transformed into a hard-eyed man who owned everything around her, made her feel unreal.
    Shrugging off the unsettling feeling she turned her mind back to business. The table had gone, never replaced because her father had never entertained. But there had been a mahogany serving table— George III she thought—and a large dresser of around the same period. Both would be valuable and would represent a sound investment.
    Pushing open the double doors and quietly closing them behind her she unerringly found the light switch and stood for a moment, transfixed by what she was seeing, wishing she had swallowed her distaste at seeming to be interested, and had asked Linda what plans Dexter had for the house.
    The ugly, dark red flocked wallpaper had been stripped away, replaced by warm primrose-yellow emulsion. The boards beneath her feet gleamed and two refectory tables, complete with long bench seats, took up the centre of the room while comfortable but functional armchairs surrounded the huge fireplace.
    Remembering the catering-size kitchen equipment, the extra, functional bathroom that had been made inwhat had once been a bedroom next to her own, she began to put two and two together. But a country house hotel didn’t make real sense. Everything was too basic.
    Hearing the double doors behind her open she stiffened, holding her breath, praying that it was Linda doing the investigating, not Dexter.
    But her luck was out, as it always had been with him, and he walked into her line of vision, dressed in black, a soft V-necked sweater over well-worn jeans, his feet bare, as were hers.
    Her heart thumped, a bolt of electricity zapping through her bloodstream. He looked so unfairly sexy, his dark hair rumpled, his jaw shadowed, his black eyes glinting beneath heavy, brooding lids. How well she remembered that look, the promise it offered—and delivered.
    â€˜You couldn’t sleep? I wonder why,’ he uttered silkily, his eyes sweeping the length of her body, lingering on the soft curves and hollows that the tightly belted, slithery robe did precious little to conceal. He made her so aware of how little she was