Page 51 of The Reluctant Billionaire

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The drinks party is delightful,actually, and exactly what I need to get out of my own head. The twelve flats across the two purpose-built Elgin blocks are all occupied now, and the list of residents is pretty epic. It’s heavy on billionaires and celebrities, with a decent overlap between the two. The journey to get here was utter mayhem, and at times it nearly broke me.

But the flats are sold, the investors are thrilled, and the media buzz I helped create around the entire project has been so successful that we’ve already sold half the residences in our next project in Knightsbridge off plan.

Our host for this evening falls smack bang in the middle of my mental celebrity-slash-billionaire Venn diagram. Santiago Vale is the eldest son of the Vale musical dynasty, headed up by his father, the great tenor Dominic Vale. Not only did Santi inherit his father’s singing talent, but he showed remarkable business acumen by forming a record company and buying back all of his father’s rights from Sony before signing a whole host of other classical artists.

The Vale family, however, is a walking soap opera. Daddy Dom is on wife number two, who can’t be that much older than Santi, and Santi himself has recently and very publicly extricated himself from his own marriage to the famous soprano, Vanessa Vale. I can only imagine the mess that’s caused, given how intrinsically their careers and fortunes are linked.

I’d put a lot of money on Vale Entertainment having held onto all Vanessa’s music rights, though.

Maybe Santi and Gabe can cry on each other’s shoulders this evening and exchange single parenting tips.

Even if something tells me neither of them will stay single for long.

Tonight’s setting is picture-perfect. Santi’s roof terrace has a beautiful view of Notting Hill’s ice-cream-coloured streets, of verdant trees, shady gardens, and private parks aplenty. His guests are all equally beautiful. In one corner a DJ is providing chill-out vibes, and there’s a chic all-white bar in another. All that’s missing is his adorable Staff, Luke, who’s usually his faithful shadow but whom I assume is NFI this evening given his penchant for canapés.

I give Santi my most dazzling smile as he leans down to greet me with a kiss on both cheeks. A year ago, I would have been all over this gorgeous, eligible divorcé. He’s sheer perfection in a black shirt that skims his trim torso perfectly. His looks are as intoxicatingly dark and his bone structure as dangerously sharp as Tom Ellis, he has a voice that brings women to their knees, and he’s a majorly successful businessman who wields serious clout in the music industry.

What’s not to love?

For some unfathomable reason and by some cruel twist of fate, however, I’m pining over some lying Romeo who wears the hell out of a filthy vest and knows how to get his hands dirty by day and fuck me like a caveman by night.

Worse, rather than celebrating the fact that he’s secretly rich as sin, I’m actually bemoaning it.

What the utter fucking hell is wrong with me?

‘Hello, darling,’ Santi drawls in that entitled posh-boy accent that usually gets my juices flowing. Jesus, he smells amazing. He casts an approving eye over my short, frothy canary-yellow dress. ‘Looking ravishing, as always. Is that new season Giambattista?’

‘You’re good,’ I tell him with a saucy wink. Honestly, this man is perfection. A straight, hot male who can identify what labelandseason you’re wearing at first glanceandis on first-name terms with the designer?

The guy’s officially a unicorn, and I am officially swooning.

Just, unfortunately, not in a sexy way. More’s the pity.

He grimaces. ‘I’ve spent more time than I’d care to in his Paris showroom recently. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back.’

‘Is he kitting you out with some nice gowns for your next gig?’ I ask.

‘I stick to Chanel for the gowns,’ he deadpans. ‘Nope, but he’s kitting Ness out with many, many gowns for our next gig.’

I accept a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘Cosy.’

He sighs. ‘Tell me about it, darling. Unfortunately, I still get eargasms every time that woman opens her mouth to sing. There’s no one better in the world to duet with. If only she stuck to singing and not whining.’

‘You’ll find someone,’ I tell him unsympathetically. ‘I can’t believe for a second women aren’t crawling all over you.’

‘They are.’ He lowers his voice. ‘They’re just… predictable as fuck.Youknow. Sometimes these social circles of ours feel endlessly samey.’

I lay a hand on his arm, feeling slightly more sympathetic to his plight. ‘I know exactly what you mean, believe me.’

‘Too many rich playboys?’ he asks, faking fatigue.

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe, or maybe the opposite—it’s kind of complicated. I haven’t worked him out yet.’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ he tells me. ‘Go forth and report back with your salacious gossip from your little enigma.’

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