laughs. ‘I’m glad.’
I reach for his hand, putting mine over it without really thinking about it—funny how such a gesture can become natural so quickly.
‘So England, huh?’
Something sharp crosses his expression. Something very un-Nicholas that makes me feel concern for him, or worried for him. Something.
‘Yes.’
Okay, there’s definitely something here. Curiosity shifts inside me. ‘You’re not looking forward to going home?’
He lifts his shoulders. ‘It’s home,’ he says after a moment. ‘I always knew I’d move back, eventually.’
‘How long have you been in New York?’
‘Five years.’
‘That’s right.’ I remember reading this in his file. ‘You came here after—’ I stop what I’m saying, but not in time. His eyes zip to mine, his expression dark.
‘After my fiancée left me at the altar?’
I grimace. ‘Sorry.’
He flips his hand over and squeezes mine, then reaches for his drink. ‘It was for the best.’
It’s a comment designed to move conversation on, to shut down worry and any further line of enquiry. I don’t succumb to it. ‘Why?’
He takes a drink. ‘We weren’t well suited.’
I don’t know much about his fiancée. I can’t even remember her name.
‘Saffron,’ he supplies and I realise I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud.
‘She’s not in the club?’ Though our membership has grown, I know every member by name and sight and there are no Saffrons. We have a Pearl and a Cinnamon, though.
‘No. It’s not her thing.’ His smile is indulgent.
‘No?’
‘No.’
Hmm. Another closed door. I don’t really like closed doors. ‘Why not?’
‘Apart from the fact she ditched me in front of five hundred of our nearest and dearest?’
‘But why? Why did she dump you?’
‘That’s the billion-pound question,’ he drawls, and for a second, his face is in the shadow of an almighty rain cloud and I want to draw the sun back out.
‘You never found out?’
‘Why she left me?’ He shakes his head. ‘But I can guess.’
‘Why, then?’
‘She was like a bird in an aviary,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Beautiful, smart, funny, but completely defined by who she was, who her parents were, by what was expected of her.’
‘And that’s marrying someone like you?’
‘Yes.’ He dips his head forward. ‘She hated it. I didn’t realise how much until she left me.’
‘Hate it or not, it’s still a pretty shitty thing to do.’ I wince. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, you’re right. I think she knows that. The problem is, she did love me, but she hated what marrying me would mean more.’
Something makes my voice a little high-pitched. ‘And you loved her?’
His eyes are swirling with emotion when they meet mine. ‘I did, or I thought I did. I don’t know. I have to tell you, the whole thing turned me off love and marriage for life.’ His laugh is husky.
‘So you’re a dedicated bachelor?’
‘I wish.’ He rolls his eyes and he’s Nicholas Rothsmore, playboy, careless sex god, once more, so I relax, relieved I haven’t sent him into some kind of grief spin by making him talk about his ex. ‘I have been recalled to the manor.’ He grins, showing me he’s joking, only there’s an edge to his words.
‘Rothsmore Manor?’ I tease.
He shakes his head. ‘Actually, our country seat is Becksworth Hall.’
Somewhere I remember reading that. ‘It sounds very grand,’ I tease.
‘Oh, it is.’
‘Like something out of Pride and Prejudice?’
‘Pemberley has nothing on Becksworth.’
I laugh. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Not much to tell. If you’ve seen one grand country home, you’ve seen them all. Ancient, huge, imposing, miles of windows, stables, a lake for trout fishing, strawberry patches for summer picnics.’
I can’t help my sigh. ‘That sounds idyllic.’
‘In some ways.’
‘Not in others?’
But he’s done being questioned.
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’ My turn to sip my champagne and buy time. It’s delicious. Crisp and fruity all at once, with enthusiastic bubbles that tickle my mouth as I swirl it around.
‘You’re from New York?’
‘God, no, I wish.’ I laugh. ‘I’m a Cali Girl. Can’t you tell?’
His eyes sweep my face, my hair, my golden skin and he grins. ‘Now that you mention it…’
Heat fires in my veins, as hot as any day on a Malibu beach.
‘So why New York?’
‘I like it here.’
He reaches forward and tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘It seems a little unfair for you to demand me to open the wounds of my past and you not tell me about something as simple as a geographical shift?’ He says it in a way that’s light-hearted but I feel his will of iron beneath the words.
Only he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand that my move to New York was bound up in the wounds of my own past. How linked it all is to Abbey and a need to flee LA.
I don’t realise I’m frowning until he reaches over and rubs his finger across my lips.
‘It made sense, for the business,’ I obfuscate. And I think he knows I’m not being completely honest, but he lets it go.
‘Where’d you get the idea from?’
‘For The Billionaires’ Club?’
He dips his head once
