Tied to the Billionaire(9)

Almost like a slave’s collar. She shifted in her chair, making him smile. It was likely that she was feeling the effects of the spanking he’d delivered later that afternoon, after they’d both recovered from their initial crises. He’d brought her to climax twice more while she’d been stretched across his lap, but he hadn’t yet been inside the juicy cleft that clung so eagerly to his probing fingers. That would have to wait for tonight, after this endless dinner. He wanted to have plenty of time to plumb her body—and her secrets.

Was it possible that she was still a virgin? She’d been adept at sucking him. Her independent upbringing made it likely she’d spent plenty of time alone and unsupervised. Still, even when she was acting the part of a whore, there was something of the lady about her bearing, a natural aristocracy despite her humble origins.

“Mother, I told you earlier. Miss Alcott’s father was Prince Stefan Taksony Esztergom of Hungary…”

“Please don’t jest, Mr MacIntyre.” Olivia’s cheeky grin belied her polite words. “In all honesty, Mrs MacIntyre, I cannot claim any sort of distinction or noble blood. My father teaches history at Amherst College—my mother, mathematics. As for me, I graduated from Wellesley with a degree in English literature. I’ve studied poetry and painting in Paris. At the moment I earn a modest living as a representative of the union   of Women Textile Workers.”

The buzz of conversation and the clink of silver around the thirty-foot table died away. The guests at his mother’s ‘casual dinner’ rustled their silks and satins. Letty’s fiancé, Harold Fisk, nearly choked on his roast beef. Selena Larimer seemed about to slip under the table with embarrassment, as if it were she who had been revealed as a traitor to her class. Mary Beth Linton smirked at her sister, then beamed a look of sympathy in Andrew’s direction.

His mother was the first to recover. “That’s very interesting. When were you in Paris, and where did you study? My nephew Philip was at the Sorbonne for a year, back in 1902…”

Andrew prayed Olivia would have the sense not to drag the topic back to her job as an anti-capitalist rabble-rouser. Hopefully his escort for the weekend would not insist on discussing the immorality of her hosts. If the blasted girl would just keep her mouth shut, his mother’s consummate social skills could smooth over almost any gaffe.

Olivia seemed content to have caused her sensation. The conversational fabric reknitted itself around non-controversial subjects, though the company seemed chastened and nervous. Most made their excuses earlier than they might have done on another occasion. Andrew was grateful. He was eager to get hold of his own wayward guest and to punish her for her imprudent behaviour.


However, as his mother’s host, it was his responsibility to send off the visitors who were not staying at the mansion. This task occupied him for a good half-hour. When the last carriage had departed the circular drive, he stepped back into the entry way, looking around for Olivia.

Catherine MacIntyre watched him from halfway up the grand oval staircase, her hand on the gold-plated banister. She shook her head, her expression sombre.

“Where in the name of heaven did you find her, Andrew? And what possessed you to invite her to this house?”

“It’s my house. I’ll invite whomever I please. ”

“But a labour activist! How completely inappropriate! I’m sure the news is all over Newport by now. Boston and New York will know by tomorrow morning.”

“So what?” Andrew patted the pockets of his dinner jacket, seeking his cigarettes. “Why should I care?”

His mother sighed. “I expect we’ll have at least a few cancellations for the ball. People are afraid their reputations will be tarnished if they’re seen in the same room with someone like her.”

“What do you mean ‘someone like her’? She’s a perfectly delightful creature, beautiful, intelligent, well-spoken and polite despite where she comes from.”

“But Andrew…”

“I can buy and sell them all, Mother, and they know it. They’ll come to your gala because they go where the money goes. They want your favour, and mine. Mark my words, no one will cancel. They wouldn’t dare.”

Finally locating the embossed silver cigarette case, he removed one of the slim cylinders and stuck it between his lips. He was almost ready to light it right there in the massive, two-storey atrium as a gesture of defiance, but the genuine sorrow in his mother’s face stopped him.

“Everything will be fine, Mother. Don’t worry about Olivia—or about me. I know what I’m doing.” He headed for the darkened terrace, brandishing his box of matches. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

As he leaned on the granite balustrade, though, holding the fragrant smoke in his lungs and listening to the ocean sighing against the cliff, he wondered. What was he doing with Olivia? That afternoon, she’d pleased him beyond measure. He’d come down to dinner as excited as a kid at Christmas. The sight of her, resplendent in her finery, had only improved his mood. But the memory of her behaviour at dinner reminded him how alien she was to his world. He couldn’t realistically imagine a future that included such a foreign creature, delicious as she was. After the weekend, she’d be gone, and he’d be faced once more with the odious requirement that he choose a spouse from among his peers.