Page 89 of The Reluctant Billionaire

I hope the good people of London’s tech industry appreciate my efforts. I bet they won’t. I’m sure most of them have had to be dragged kicking and screaming out of their hoodies for the occasion.

Actually, forget the tech industry.

Because when I walk—okay, maybe I sashay—through the double doors of my bedroom to where Aide’s waiting in my living room, the expression on his face is everything.Everything.It goes from gobsmacked to feral in a second flat.

‘Fucking hell,’ he growls, standing and coming for me like he plans to throw me over his shoulder and take me back to his cave. ‘You are magnificent.’

Yesplease.

‘Don’t touch her!’ Amanda, my makeup artist squeaks from behind me. Aide stops like a kid who’s been caught red-handed.

‘You can touch me.’ I slink towards him, loving the hunger in those blue, blue eyes. ‘You canalwaystouch me. Just don’t mess up my makeup.’

He closes the gap between us, sliding his hands around my bare waist with an appreciative hum before tilting his head to the side of my neck not sprouting a ponytail and pressing his lips to my skin. There’s a hint of tongue, and I sag into him, clutching at those biceps through his impeccable Tom Ford tailoring. Jesus Christ, this man gets me horny. How can he be just as hot in a custom tux as he is in a grimy, Die-Hard-style vest?

How can that be fair?

He looks like Henry fucking Cavill on the red carpet at Cannes. Actually, forget Henry, because it’s Aide who has true star quality.

It’s Aide no one will be able to take their eyes off tonight.

I’m just the candy on his arm, and I couldn’t be prouder.

* * *

The shallow stepsleading up to the Natural History Museum’s gothic entrance are covered in a wide strip of red carpet and lined with paparazzi. It turns out the guest list tonight goes way beyond the tech industry to politicians, lobbyists and celebrities, all of whom are invested in enhancing London’s reputation as a hospitable base for high-growth global tech companies—not easy when Dublin has cornered the market thanks to the low Irish corporation tax rate.

As our driver drops us off and we walk along the scarlet runway to the steps, I spot the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Stella McCartney, the sexy tycoon Anton Wolff, and even Sheryl Sandberg.

Holy crap.

‘Sheryl Sandberg’s here andyou’rethe keynote speaker?’ I mutter in the direction of my hot date. ‘No offence,’ I add.

He laughs. ‘None taken. It’s ridiculous, I agree. She’s speaking later, but they’ve asked me to open up the speeches on behalf of London-based tech companies. I’m the warm-up act.’

‘No you’re not,’ I say. ‘It makes sense, putting you on first. Also, you’re hotter.’

For someone who likes to make out that he’s some poor little imposter in this field, my date is every inch the suave billionaire entrepreneur this evening. He seems relaxed, jovial, and he looks a million fucking dollars. When I asked him in the car if he’d like to run through his speech with me, he shrugged the offer off.

‘Nah. I don’t usually overthink these things. I’ll just see how it goes,’ he said.

Okay then. That’s impressive.

‘I’d much rather spend the journey imagining finger-fucking that pussy of yours under the table later,’ he added huskily in my ear. ‘I cannot fucking wait to get inside you tonight.’

I quickly crossed my legs at that comment, to minimise the chances of turning up here with a wet spot on the back of my crèpe de Chine.

It’s totally out of character for me, but for once I’m happy to be in someone else’s shadow. I just want to sit back and bask in the reflected glory of my hot, clever boyfriend’s speech.

And maybe enjoy his attentions when it’s done and dusted.

* * *

We’re sittingbeneath the vaulted ceilings of The Natural History Museum’s stupendous Hintze Hall. As darkness falls, the white and pink uplighting around the space grows more dramatic. Hundreds of tea lights in glass votives flicker on the iconic Beauty-and-the-Beast-style staircase at the far end of the space.

We’ve drunk excellent champagne, nibbled on the prettiest canapés, and, of course, mingled. When Aide isn’t being a grumpy bastard, he’s effortlessly charming. No one talking to him would ever, ever be able to tell he wasn’t a social animal. That he’d rather be in his quiet garden in a pair of football shorts, nursing a cold beer.

What’s unsurprising is how popular he is. How many people make a beeline for him—both men and women. How many bro-hugs and back-slaps and hearty handshakes (from the men) and lecherous kisses (from the women) he gets.

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