Tied to the Billionaire(14)

His mother’s smile evidenced her relief. She laid a bejewelled hand upon Olivia’s bare arm. “Thank you, Miss Alcott. I appreciate your understanding. Come, let me to introduce you to Mr Frank Ormsted. His father owns the Ormsted department store chain…”

Just like that, Olivia was gone, carried off towards a knot of guests in the far corner of the room.

Andrew gritted his teeth as Mary Beth Linton descended upon him like a satin-clad vulture. As he led the chattering girl into a foxtrot, he sought out Olivia’s elegant form. She appeared to be completely comfortable, smiling at a skinny red-haired gentleman, laughing at his jokes. Selena Larimer claimed him next—and didn’t say a word throughout the dance—then the much-celebrated Charlotte Harper, who turned out to be both clumsy and loud. He was grateful to hand her over to one of the Vanpatten cousins.

The parade of partners slowed. Mary Beth wanted another round, but Andrew excused himself. He snagged a flute of champagne from a waiter and glanced around the room, seeking his partner of choice.

The Grand Hall of Wavecrest was fifty feet long and two storeys high. At the moment it held perhaps forty people, scarcely a crowd in such an enormous room.

Olivia Alcott was not among them.





Chapter Eight





What were you thinking, silly girl? That you and Andrew had a future?

Lifting her gown to keep from tripping, Olivia hastened down the terrace stairs and out onto the lawn. She stepped beyond the brightness streaming from the ballroom windows, into the welcome shadows. The strains of the violins faded. Instead, she heard the call of the night birds and the susurration of the waves against the cliff.

Without any particular plan, she made her way towards the absurdly ornate Chinese tea house that perched at the far edge of the property, overlooking the sea. Dew soaked through her satin slippers. She removed them and continued barefoot, damp grass squishing between her toes.

The muggy summer night felt cool after the crowded ballroom. A breeze slaked the fire in her cheeks. She’d made such a fool of herself. Whirling about in Andrew’s arms, gazing up at his face, she’d allowed herself to believe… The ball, the guests, everything had disappeared during that magic waltz. Andrew—her lover—her master—had become her only reality. Even now she could summon the strength in his grip, the confidence with which he’d guided her steps, the sharp scent of his cologne and the challenge in his eyes. She nearly swooned at the recollection—or perhaps that effect could be attributed the champagne she’d consumed so recklessly after his mother had separated them.

He’d been ready to refuse the order. Olivia had recognised the struggle in his eyes. Then he’d acquiesced, yielding to his fate, stepping effortlessly into the role to which he’d been born. She wanted to hate him for his lack of courage, but how could she, this man who’d opened her, taught her again who she was and what she needed? He was not to blame. He belonged to a different world than she, one as remote and strange as darkest Africa.

Their connection, which had seemed so right and true and inevitable, was transient. She gave what was natural. He took what he needed. A simple transaction, obedience traded for pleasure.

Tomorrow evening, he’d send her home, marked by his belt and his kisses, and the interlude would be over. She was a practical woman, not prone to crazy dreams. Why should she have expected more?

She’d press him, though, about the factory. She would not allow him to take advantage of her perversity without providing something in return. If he did not fulfil his part of the bargain, she’d expand the strike, state-wide, across the northeast, across the nation, until he rued the day he’d met Olivia Alcott.


Righteous anger could not banish her sorrow. She leaned on the tea house railing, the varnished wood floor smooth under her bare soles, and fought her sobs, drawing the salt-laced night air into her lungs in great gasps. I won’t cry, she swore. Not over a shallow, selfish popinjay like Andrew MacIntyre.

“Olivia! There you are! I was afraid you were gone…”

He came up behind her, encircling her waist and pulling her body against his. All her resolutions crumbled.

“I’m so very sorry to have left you on your own in that nest of vipers.” Andrew nuzzled her neck, then tugged with his teeth at her diamond eardrop. A delicious thrill skittered down her spine.

“No matter. Everyone was perfectly civil. In any case, I completely understand. You’re the host—you’re required take care of all your guests.” Olivia marvelled at the calm in her voice, even as he cupped her breasts through her finery and thumbed her nipples.

“You’re the only guest who interests me. I don’t care a fig for the rest of them.”

He turned her around, pressing her buttocks against the rail, and stroked her cheek. “Olivia—” It was too dark for her to read his expression, but his voice held an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty. His lips found hers, in a soft, tentative kiss that ended too soon and made her ache for more.

She searched his face in the gloom. “Yes? What can I do for you, sir?”

His whole body stiffened at the title, as though electricity coursed through him. At the same time, the act of voicing her surrender melted the last remnants of her anger.

He tightened his grip on her bare upper arms—she’d have bruises tomorrow—and released a low chuckle, full of lust and menace. Wet heat bloomed between Olivia’s thighs.