Leah Ashton - The Billionaire From Her Past

Because Mila was never going to follow in her big sisters’ footsteps. Regardless of her uninterest in her education for all of her childhood and the early part of her twenties, it just wasn’t who she was. The industry and the land—that was everything to the Molyneux empire... Mila just didn’t fit.

Seb still hadn’t arrived, so Mila leant back against the driver’s side of her modest little hatchback, the door still warm from the day’s glorious spring sun. The two probable FIFO guys had become more serious, and their banter and laughter was now only between points. She vaguely watched the ball ping between them without really following what was going on.

Mila had long believed that there was a lot more of her father in her than her mother. She even looked like Blaine Spencer—except without the blond hair. She definitely—or so she’d been told—had her father’s intense blue eyes. ‘Eyes that’ll make the world fall in love with him’—that was what a film reviewer had said, in the ancient newspaper cutting that Mila had found in a book years after he’d walked out on them when she was only a toddler.

She’d burnt that review—at an angry sixteen—when her father had once again let her down. Not that it mattered. She could still recall every word.

A car slid into the parking spot directly beside her—a sleek, low, luxury vehicle in the darkest shade of grey. Seb climbed out, turning as he shut the car door to rest his forearms on its roof.

He grinned as he looked at Mila across the gleaming paintwork. ‘Ready to be run off your feet?’ he asked.

The lights in the car park were dim, leaving his face in both light and shadow. Even so, Mila could feel his gaze on her like a physical touch. She shivered as his gaze flicked downwards, taking in her outfit of pale pink tank top and black shorts, and then down again to her white ankle socks and sneakers.

Did his gaze slow on her legs?

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Nope. It did not.

Just as he’d definitely meant nothing when he’d said incredible and perfect yesterday.

Mila forced a laugh. ‘Last time I checked I still lead in our head-to-head.’

His laugh was genuine as he reached into his car for his tennis bag. He tossed it over his shoulder as he walked around the car to her. ‘That doesn’t sound right to me.’

He was dressed casually, all in black: long baggy running shorts and a fitted T-shirt in some type of sporty material. It revealed all sorts of somehow unexpectedly generous muscles: biceps and triceps and trapeziums...

The genius of her idea was now clearly questionable.

‘Trust me—’ Her voice sounded high and unlike her own. She cleared her throat. ‘Trust me—you know how good I am with numbers.’

He shrugged and smiled again, and the instant warmth that little quirk of his lips triggered was unbelievably frustrating.

Mila strode towards the courts, opening the door within the tall cyclone fence and barely waiting for Seb to step through before walking briskly to the court they’d hired.

To be honest, she didn’t remember the exact head-to-head score between them. When they’d started lessons together in primary school Mila had been the stronger player. She probably still was—it was just that eventually Seb had become actually stronger than her. And significantly taller.

At some point she’d known exactly how many sets she’d won against Seb—she’d kept a tally all the way through high school and into uni, enjoying their semi-regular matches because, if she was truthful, it had been the one thing she’d done just with Seb. For Steph had been many things, but definitely not an athlete.

But somewhere along the line Mila had forgotten her hard-earned leading score against Seb. Now, as she dropped her bag at the side of the net, and then fished out her water, racquet and a skinny can of new tennis balls, she searched her memory for a hint—but there was nothing. She might be leading by one or a hundred—she had no idea.

Like so much that had once been important to her when it came to Sebastian and Stephanie, over time she’d allowed it to become less important. And eventually to fade completely away.

Seb stood on the opposite side of the net, his racquet extended, the strings flat, ready for Mila to place a couple of tennis balls on its surface.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

She nodded firmly. ‘Yes,’ she said—and she was, she realised. ‘But I was thinking...let’s wipe our scores. Start with a clean slate.’

She couldn’t change the past—and, while it might be complicated, she did have this second chance with Seb.

His smile was wide. ‘I like the sound of that,’ he said.

Mila dropped the tennis balls onto his racquet, then stuffed two in her pockets as she headed for the baseline.

‘Although,’ he called out as she pivoted to face him, ‘it’s pretty sad that you can’t just admit I was winning.’

And Mila laughed as she smacked a forehand in his direction to start their warm-up.

Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea, after all.

* * *

This had been a terrible idea.

‘Three-love,’ Mila announced gleefully as they changed ends. Her eyes sparkled beneath the floodlights as they crossed paths at the net.

From now on all efforts related to repairing his friendship with Mila would definitely require more clothing.

How had he ever forgotten those legs? They went on and on...

Well, no, he hadn’t forgotten them. He was human, after all. He hadn’t married Stephanie and then instantly become blind to beautiful women. Certainly not to Mila. But before it had been an objective realisation: Mila Molyneux has rather nice legs. Kind of like: The sky is blue. I don’t like raw tomato. My mum cooks the world’s best spaghetti and meatballs. That type of thing.

Certainly nothing more.

Certainly not this...this visceral reaction to the curve of thigh and calf. This tightening in his belly...this heat to his skin. As sudden and as unexpected as a punch to his stomach.

It was his serve. He took a deep breath as he bounced the ball a handful of times before rocking back onto his heel as he tossed the ball high into the night sky.

Thwack.

Ace. Good.

‘Fifteen-love.’

But was it sudden? This reaction?

He hadn’t let himself analyse what he’d said yesterday, or questioned his choice of words. He’d told himself he’d just been speaking the truth when he’d told Mila her eyes were incredible. That she was perfect.

Hadn’t he always thought so? Objectively, of course. So why verbalise those facts now? Especially when she’d been standing so close to him. Close enough that it had only been after she’d walked away that he’d realised his heart-rate was decelerating, that his body had registered more than simple comfort in her proximity.

Thwack.

The ball landed so far past the service line that Mila didn’t bother calling it. Instead she grinned, catching his eye as she took a couple of steps forward, ready for a less powerful second serve.

Thwack.

He’d hit it even harder than his first serve, his tennis tactics being the furthest thing from his mind.

‘Out!’ Mila said, as it landed a ball-width too wide of the centreline.

She still hit it back, and he blocked it with his racquet, bouncing it a few times before shoving the ball in his pocket.

‘Fifteen-all.’

Mila held up her hand before he went to serve again, to indicate that he should wait. He watched as she fussed with her hair, pushing it behind her ears and sliding in the clips that kept it out of her eyes. There was absolutely nothing provocative about what she was doing—if he ignored the pull of her singlet against her skin as she raised her arms. And the shape of her waist and breasts that the thin material so relentlessly clung to.