Julia James - Billionaires - The Tycoon

He led Amber through the ground floor— furnished and recently decorated in the traditional style—showing her the drawing rooms, the library and the grand conservatory. In the ballroom where the party was being held, a string quartet was tuning up and bottles of pink champagne were being put on ice. Everywhere he looked he could see candlelight and the air was scented with the fragrance of cut flowers and the sweet smell of success.

But Conall felt as if he was just going through the motions of showing Amber his home. As though all this lavish wealth suddenly meant nothing. Was that because the beautiful antiques just looked like bog-standard pieces of furniture when compared to the black-haired beauty by his side? Or because all he wanted to do was to drag her off to some dark corner to finish off what he had begun earlier?

He took her to a galleried room at the far end of the house, outside which a burly guard stood. The velvet drapes were drawn against the night outside and on one bare wall—beautifully lit—hung a painting.

‘Here it is,’ he said.

Amber was glad to have something to concentrate on other than the man at her side, or the remark he’d made earlier about her looking like a goddess. Had he meant it? A wave of impatience swept over her. Stop reading into his words. Stop imagining he feels anything for you other than lust.

Stepping back, she began to study the canvas—a luminous portrait of a young woman executed in oils. The woman was wearing a silver headband in her pale bobbed hair and a silver nineteen-twenties flapper dress. It was painted so finely that the subject seemed to be sending out an unspoken message to the onlooker and there was a trace of sadness in her lustrous dark eyes.

‘It’s exquisite,’ Amber said softly.

‘I know it is. Utterly exquisite.’ He turned to her. ‘And you’re clear what you need to do? Stay by the Prince’s side all evening and speak only when spoken to. Try to refrain from being controversial and please let me know if he communicates any concerns to one of his aides. Think you can manage that?’

‘I can try.’

‘Good. Then let’s go and wait for the guest of honour.’

They walked towards the ballroom, where Amber could hear the string quartet playing a lively piece which floated out to greet them. ‘So who else is coming tonight?’ she asked.

‘Some old friends are coming down from London. A few colleagues from New York. Local people.’

She hesitated. ‘Do you ever see my half-brother, Rafe?’

His footsteps slowed and he shook his head. ‘Not for ages. Not since he went out to Australia and cut himself off from his old life and nobody knew why.’

Remembering an offhand remark her father had once made, she glanced up at his rugged profile. ‘I think it was something to do with a woman.’

‘It’s always to do with a woman, Amber. Especially when there’s trouble.’ He turned his head towards her and gave a hard smile. ‘What do the French say? Cherchez la femme.’

‘Is that cynicism I can hear in your voice? Did some girl break your heart, Conall?’

‘Not mine, sweetheart. Mine’s made of stone—didn’t you know?’ His eyes glittered. ‘All I heard was that Rafe was heavily disillusioned by some woman and his life was never the same afterwards. It’s a lesson for us all.’

He really was cynical, thought Amber as he introduced her to the party planner—a freckled redhead who clearly thought Conall was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Along with just about every other female present. Amber wondered if he was oblivious to the way the waitresses looked up and practically melted as they offered their trays of canapés and drinks. Whether he noticed that the female guests were fawning all over him. He must do—but, she had to admit, he handled it brilliantly. He was charming but he didn’t flirt back—thus risking the wrath of their partners. She watched as he shook hands and made introductions as the room began to fill up, a smile creasing his rugged features.

She moved away, trying to remember that she was here as a member of his staff and not as his guest—wishing that she could retain a little immunity when she was close to him. She found herself a soft drink and stood in an alcove, watching as even more people arrived and the level of chatter increased. There was a discreet buzz of anticipation in the air, as if everyone was waiting for their royal guest, but Amber only became aware of the Prince’s arrival when a complete silence suddenly descended on the ballroom.

People instantly parted to create a central path for him and the imposing man who walked in accompanied by two aides was instantly recognisable from the images Amber had downloaded from the Internet. With his immaculately cut dark suit and his golden skin gleaming, he had a charisma which was matched by only one other man in the room, who instantly stepped forward to greet him.

Amber watched as Conall gave a brief bow before shaking Luciano’s hand and the string quartet broke into what was obviously the national anthem of Mardovia. And then a pair of midnight eyes were silently seeking her out and she found herself walking towards them, forcing herself to concentrate on the Prince and not on the rugged Irishman who had touched her so intimately.

‘Your Royal Highness, this is Amber Carter—one of my assistants. Amber will be on hand tonight to provide anything you should require.’

That horrendous year at finishing school in Switzerland had taught Amber very little other than how to play truant and to ski, but it came up trumps now as she executed a deep and perfect curtsey. She rose slowly to her feet and the Prince smiled.

‘Anything?’ he drawled, his eyes roving down over her with an appreciative stare.

Amber wondered if she’d imagined Conall’s faint frown and imperceptibly she nodded to the hovering waitress. ‘Perhaps you would care for something to drink, Your Royal Highness?’

‘Certo,’ he answered softly in Italian, taking a glass of Kir Royale from the tray and then raising it to her in silent salute.

But Amber found herself enjoying the Prince’s unexpected attention. For the first time in a long time she found herself encouraged by the sense that here was something she could do. She might not have any real qualifications but she’d watched enough of her father’s wives and girlfriends fluttering around to know how not to behave if you were trying to play the perfect hostess. Even her mother had been able to pull it out of the bag when the need had arisen.

Unobtrusively she stood by to make sure the Prince wasn’t approached by any stray star-struck guests as Conall introduced Luciano to several carefully vetted guests. It seemed he’d recently bought a penthouse apartment through Conall’s company and she listened while the two men chatted with a local landowner about the escalating fortunes of the London property market. More waitresses appeared with tiny caviar-topped canapés but she noticed that the Prince refused them all. Eventually he turned to Conall.

‘Do you think I have properly fulfilled my role as guest of honour,’ he questioned drily, ‘and given this occasion the royal stamp of approval?’

‘You’d like to see the painting now?’

‘I think you have tantalised me with it for long enough, don’t you?’

Conall looked at her. ‘Amber?’

She nodded, aware of two bodyguards who had suddenly appeared at the entrance to the ballroom and who now walked behind them towards the gallery. She thought what a disparate group they made as they made their way through the empty corridors.

The guard at the door stepped aside and Amber watched Luciano’s reaction as he stepped forward to stand directly in front of the canvas. She thought that someone trying to negotiate a better price might have feigned a little indifference towards the painting, but the admiration on his face was impossible to conceal.