Sarah M. Anderson - One Night With The Billionaire

She looked so vulnerable. She was so vulnerable. He could pick her up, he thought, and take her back to Sydney and keep her safe.

Yeah, that was white charger territory again, he thought ruefully. Romantic stuff. He had a very large apartment looking over the harbour. Even so, it’d hardly house Gran and Grandpa and Fizz and Fluffy and Tinkerbelle and Fairy and three ruddy great camels …

He did grin then, thinking of the concierge of his apartment block. Thinking of camels.

Then he glanced down at Allie again and he stopped thinking of concierge or camels.

What he wanted, he decided, more than anything else in the world, was to sink onto the pillows, gather her into his arms and hold her.

But even in sleep he could see her fierce independence. It was engendered by her background, he thought. He knew enough of the back story of this circus now to have a good idea of its dynamics.

Yes, the circus had raised her, but it hadn’t been long before Allie had more or less taken over. Everyone his people had talked to when researching the circus had referred to Allie. ‘Allie only hires the best. Allie keeps the best animal quarters. Allie’s safety standards are second to none.’

This circus … Allie’s family … Allie’s life.

It wasn’t possible to keep it going. He’d looked long and hard at the figures. Even without that appalling pension fund for retired animals, the performers were ageing, the superstructure needed major refurbishment and the whole organisation was winding down.

But she’d fight for what she had left, he thought. He could see her on this farmlet she dreamed of but it wasn’t a dream he was seeing. It was a nightmare. One girl working her heart out to provide for the remnants of a finished circus.

That was why he was feeling protective?

That was why he was feeling cracks in his armour?

He needed to get a grip. He was her banker, nothing else.

Except for the next two weeks he was her ringmaster.

‘Yes, but that’s all,’ he said aloud and Allie stirred in her sleep and he felt … he felt …

As if he needed to head along the beach and walk, or maybe run. He needed to get rid of this energy, get rid of this weird jumble of heart versus head.

The dogs looked up at him, questioning.

‘You guys stay here,’ he told them. ‘I’m not going far. You’re in protection mode.’

They snuggled down again as if they agreed.

He walked but not out of sight. His jumble of thoughts refused to untangle.

He was in protection mode as well, whether Allie wanted it or not.

Whether he wanted it or not.

‘Matt,’ he said out loud and the sound of the name he hadn’t used for years startled him. ‘Matt.’

Put the armour back on, he told himself harshly. Turn yourself back into Mathew.

The problem was … what?

He glanced up the beach, to the sleeping woman with her huddle of protective dogs and he thought …

He thought the problem was that he didn’t know how to turn back into what he’d been. Mathew seemed to be crumbling.

He’d get himself back together, he told himself, after two weeks as ringmaster. Two weeks as knight on white charger?

She doesn’t want me to be knight on white charger, he told himself and hurled a few pebbles into the sea and tried to figure what he wanted.

Sydney. The bank. Normality.

Yeah? He glanced back at the sleeping girl and normality seemed a million miles away.

TWO HOURS LATER he dropped Allie back at the circus. She’d woken subdued. They’d driven back in near silence. She’d hesitated before she left the car but in the end she’d said a simple thank you. Then she’d paused. A guy in a security uniform was standing by the gate.

‘You are?’ she’d said while Matt waited.

‘From Bond’s Security,’ the man said. ‘We have security covered.’

She looked back at Matt, and then she sighed.

‘You’re taking care of your own?’

‘Yes,’ he said because there was nothing else to say, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod and disappeared back into a life that was almost over.

He had half an hour to evening performance. He needed to go back to Margot’s to put his good trousers and white shirt on so he could don his ringmaster apparel over the top.

He walked in the front door and Margot was bundled up like a snow bunny: two coats, fur boots, mittens, fur hat and rug.

‘It’s um … summer, Margot,’ he said and she snorted.

‘Says you who have body fat.’ Then she paused and looked at him critically. ‘Body mass, I should say. Muscle. You look like you could be Allie’s catcher.’

‘Rather Valentino than me,’ he said, suppressing a shudder. It was the one part of the circus he didn’t enjoy—watching Allie fly through the air, totally dependent on a great bull of a man whose grip was like iron but whose intelligence …

‘He hasn’t dropped her yet,’ Margot said gently, watching his face. ‘So I can’t see why he would tonight. Come on then, get changed. I don’t want to miss anything.’

‘You’re coming?’

‘Yes. Hurry up.’

‘They can hardly start without the ringmaster,’ he said dryly and she cast him a sharp look.

‘Neither they can,’ she said softly. ‘How fortunate.’

Things went well that night. Allie’s dog routine was even more spectacular—their time on the beach seemed to have done them good. No one dropped anything or was dropped. The audience roared when they were supposed to roar and they hushed when they were supposed to hush.

Margot had an awesome seat. Tickets had been sold out for days but Allie saw her arrive and someone ran for a chair and she was placed right up the front, supervising all.

Matt was aware of her as he worked.

She was a force to be reckoned with, his Aunt Margot. He knew she disapproved of the way he’d been raised. She’d never criticised his grandfather to him, but he’d overheard a couple of heated conversations with his grandfather. Very heated.

‘You’re bringing that boy up to be a financial calculator, not a child,’ she’d told her brother. ‘For heaven’s sake, give him some freedom.’

Margot was a Bond—stern, unyielding, undemonstrative—yet she’d never had anything to do with the bank. She’d lived on her own income. She’d refused family help. She was an independent spirit. So maybe a part of her wasn’t a Bond.

A true Bond would choke seeing Mathew Bond in glittery top hat and tails, Matt thought, but Margot cheered and gasped with the rest of them, and at the end of the performance he watched Allie rush around to talk to her and, to his astonishment, he saw his normally undemonstrative aunt give Allie a hug.

As the big top emptied he strolled across to join them. Casually. As if it didn’t do anything to his head to see these two women together. Allie was kneeling beside Margot’s chair, smiling and holding her hand, her affection obvious, and the old woman, who only days ago had decreed she was dying, was holding her hand back and smiling and chuckling at something Allie was saying.

He’d given the circus a two-week reprieve, he thought, but it had also given Margot two weeks.

And after two weeks?

Worry about that then, he told himself. Maybe he could pick Margot up and forcibly take her back to Sydney …

Yeah. She’d be about as at home in his Sydney apartment as Allie’s camels would be.

The women broke apart as he approached, both looking at him critically. Banker in spangles. He could see a twinkle in Margot’s eyes and half of him loved seeing mischief again, and the other half thought—uh oh.

‘You look splendid,’ Margot declared. ‘And you make a wonderful ringmaster. I just wish your grandfather was alive to see it.’