HELEN BIANCHIN - Purchased By The Billionaire

Forget the banks, she had no collateral. Everything she’d owned of any worth had been sold. And her working hours were at a maximum.

The entrance to the subway loomed, and she rode the escalator, saw the train and watched with a sense of fatalism as it pulled away from the station.

A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat.

How much worse could the day get?

It was unwise to tempt Fate, even in humour. Add cynicism, and it could turn round and bite you, Kayla reflected as she dealt with irate phone calls, negotiated a peaceful solution between two aggressive staff members and soothed a client who threatened to take his business elsewhere unless his demands were met.

Yoghurt and fruit eaten at her desk sufficed as lunch, and the afternoon involved a series of meetings, both in-house and via conference calls.

It was after five when she shut down the laptop, relieved this part of the day was over.

Not the night, Kayla reflected wearily as she collected her bag and slung the strap over one shoulder.

A forty-five-minute time-frame was all she had in which to catch a train and report for work at an Italian restaurant in her local shopping centre. Working there offered the bonus of supplying her with a meal, usually eaten on the run between serving customers, and it was within walking distance of home.

The phone on her desk rang, and she hesitated over answering it. Whoever it was, she decided as she picked up the handset, she’d give them two minutes, tops, then she was out the door.

‘Thank God I caught you,’ a familiar male voice breathed in relief.

‘Jacob?’ Something was wrong. She could sense it, almost feel it.

‘I won’t be home tonight.’ His voice was jerky. ‘Hospital. Smashed kneecap.’

‘Which hospital?’ She stifled an inaudible groan as he cited one on the other side of the city. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘Call Duardo, Kayla. I don’t need to spell out why.’

Ice ran through her veins as he cut the connection.

A smashed kneecap as a warning? What next, broken ribs, damaged kidneys, wrecked spleen? How long would the thugs wait before they meted out another lesson? A few days? A week?

Her financial situation wasn’t going to change. Heaven knew how long it would take for Jacob to return to work. Without his wages to complement her own, together with a swathe of medical bills…it was hopeless.

Kayla closed her eyes, then opened them again.

The slip of paper Jacob had handed her this morning was in her jacket pocket. She retrieved it, punched in the series of digits and waited for Duardo to answer.

What if he knew where she worked, and recognized the number on caller ID? Worse, what if he chose not to pick up?

‘Alvarez.’

The sound of his voice curled round her nerve-ends, tugged a little and almost robbed her of the ability to speak.

‘It’s Kayla.’ Oh, dear heaven, how could she go through with this?

His silence seemed to reverberate down the line.

‘I need your help.’

Would he agree, or sever communication?

‘My office.’ He gave precise directions. ‘Ten minutes.’ And he ended the call.

She reconnected, only to have the call go to voicemail.

He was pulling her strings. It irked unbearably that he could. Dammit. She had the irresistible urge to throw something, preferably at him.

Given it was impossible for her to be in three different places at once, she rang the restaurant, relayed the reason why she’d be late, promised to be there as soon as she could and listened to a heated response.

It was all she needed right now to be in the firing line of rapidly spoken Italian ire, soothed only in conclusion by expressed sympathy for her brother’s accident.

Kayla emerged onto the pavement and cast an eye at the leaden sky. Rain, why don’t you? Make my day!

Almost in direct response, the first raindrops fell. Great big fat ones, increasing with a speed and intensity that showed no intention of abating any time soon.

Great. So now she’d face her ex-husband looking very much like a drowned rat.

The price of an evening newspaper helped ward off the worst of the downpour, and some ten minutes later she entered the impressive marble lobby of one of the city’s glass and steel architecturally designed office buildings, ditched the sodden paper and rode the lift to the top floor.

Alvarez Holdings occupied an executive suite, which at first sight appeared to cover the entire floor, Kayla perceived as she took in the thick tinted glass, luxurious fittings, furnishings and the latest technology.

A perfectly groomed young woman manned Reception. Moonlighting as a model for Vogue?

Stop with the cynicism.

Image, she reminded herself, was everything, and Duardo Alvarez could afford whatever image he chose to project on planet Earth.

‘Kayla Smythe.’ She’d left off the preceding hyphenated Enright some time ago. ‘I have an appointment with—’ she hesitated fractionally. This was business, not personal—‘Mr Alvarez.’

The answering smile held polite warmth…practised, and tuned up or down according to client importance. In this instance, down a notch.

‘Mr Alvarez is unavoidably detained in conference.’ She indicated the bay of comfortable chairs. ‘If you’d care to take a seat?’

Kayla felt her stomach tighten with nervous tension. Now that she was here, she wanted it over and done with.

Each passing minute seemed like ten, and she had to make a conscious effort not to constantly check her watch. She idly flipped the pages of a complimentary magazine, with no recollection of absorbing script or pictures.

How long would she have to wait?

Was Duardo Alvarez stretching out the time to deliberately unnerve her?

If she could walk out of here, she thought darkly…Yet doing so would achieve nothing. And this wasn’t about her, she reminded herself.

‘Kayla.’

She glanced up at the sound of her name and saw the receptionist move out from the console.

‘Mr Alvarez will see you now.’

Stand tall and project a semblance of aloof confidence. The latter was almost impossible, given the state of her nerves.

She’d seen his image on the television screen, in newspapers and photographs in glossy magazines. But it was years since she had come face-to-face with him.

Would he look the same?

The silent query arose in a moment of sheer hysteria, and she beat it down as she followed the receptionist along a wide passageway to a set of imposing double doors.

Calm. She had to remain calm and in control.

Who was she kidding? She was as nervous as a kitten about to walk on hot coals, and at that moment she hated him, herself…most of all she hated the situation which had brought her here.

The receptionist placed a discreet knock on one of the doors, turned the knob and pushed the door open, announced Kayla’s presence with smooth efficiency, then retreated.

She stood frozen, limbless, as she focused on the dark-suited figure standing silhouetted against the wide floor-to-ceiling plate glass.

From this distance, with the late-afternoon light behind him, it was difficult to define his expression.

Then he turned towards her, and the breath caught in her throat.

Tall, with an admirable breadth of shoulder, he projected an enviable aura of power most men coveted, but few possessed.

Well-defined facial bone structure, harshly chiselled, portrayed an elemental ruthlessness that visibly warned he was a force to be reckoned with in any arena.

‘Come in and shut the door.’ His drawl held a hint of cynicism, his appraisal ruthlessly unequivocal as he took in her petite stature, the blonde hair swept high and damp from the rain.

What happened to hello? But what did she expect…polite civility?