Page 1 of Owned By a Billionaire

Chapter 1

Carol

1985

A YEAR AGO, IF SOMEONE HAD told me I’d be sitting in this swish Mayfair bar clutching a crystal glass, admiring the latest Dior and Alexander McQueen designs swanning about, I would have thought them mad. But there I was, in that discreet London bar which oozed old-world sophistication with its mahogany paneling and moody lamps.

I also never expected a room to myself at Oxford, nor to be staying in a swanky hotel during breaks. And it was all thanks to a life-changing meeting with Reynard Crisp, a man I didn’t know that well.

I’d just taken a sip from my glass when in strode my benefactor. He nodded at a couple of men in bespoke jackets, lounging back on soft leather under dim, flattering light capturing smoke exiting their self-assured smiles.

They held out their hands as though he were their lord and master. Mm… Funny thing about that. Crisp, with his fiery-red hair, piercing blue eyes, and upright stature, knew how to command a room.

Though Reynard held a certain allure that drew me in, I’d quickly discovered I wasn’t his type, despite one awkward night of intimacy that insecurities put down to my inexperience with men.

It wasn’t really that, though. Reynard just liked his girls pure, or so he’d admitted after a few drinks.

Like mine, his past was a no-go zone, never to be shared under any circumstances. Not that he admitted that, but I noticed how he would change the subject deftly when prodded about his youth or schooling. Having an almost unhealthy obsession with books was the only thing he’d disclosed about growing up.

I didn’t ask him too many questions anymore. Not since I’d become hisproject, as he put it. All I knew was that Reynard Crisp possessed an enviably sharp mind. His extensive knowledge of history made it seem as if he’d experienced those times.

As he joined me, I stood up and kissed his cool cheek, taking away the scent of his citrusy cologne.

He glanced at my drink and, without asking, ordered me another.

“Distinctions on all your exams. I’m impressed,” he said, looking pleased.

Despite experiencing the profound satisfaction a child might at a father’s praise, I returned a nonchalant smile.

Showing one’s emotions only made one weak, I kept telling myself. Especially when darkness fell and muscle-gripping fear threatened to crush me. Thanks to Reynard’s generosity, I’d exorcised that debilitating shadow by becoming cool-headed and pragmatic, determined to make the most of my life.

It was nice sharing how my essay on the birth of the English monarchy had received a high distinction. Missing out on celebrating such small wins, like passing an exam in flying colors, was one downside to not having a family.

I ran away from mine.

I’d had to. My embittered foster mother seemed to blame me for her inability to bear children, and her husband was a drunken slob. Then I reached puberty, and he started to notice me.

That’s why I preferred to look forward. If I needed a reminder of life’s bleakness, I read Zola or Hardy rather than dwell on my childhood in that ugly council flat in Dalston.

Reynard ordered a single malt then returned his attention back to me, nodding his head and patting my arm. My academic success meant just as much to him as it did to me, it seemed.

He passed me a key. “This is for Notting Hill. The place is yours to do as you wish. The title is in your name.”

I stared down at my palm, almost speechless. The key caught the light and glistened as if it was gold and held some kind of magic power.

Waves of anticipation and hope rippled through me. Not that I wasn’t enjoying my stay at the five-star hotel off Oxford Street that he’d so kindly paid for. But a place of my own offered so many possibilities. So much freedom.

His motives behind such staggering generosity brought up all kinds of questions, however, because he never gave anything without some kind of expectation. I was already fulfilling a few of those expectations, for which he’d repaid me generously. Or so I thought.

“Rey, I just don’t get this. You’re being so generous. How am I meant to repay you?”

His eyes gleamed with that sly spark I recognized, a telltale sign that something brewed behind his collected façade. I’d already witnessed that same glint at dinner parties he’d insisted I’d attend, where business became the main course and would often involve me sealing the deal.

So to speak.

The older Swiss banker had been my favorite.

That’s what we did. I was the sweetener for Rey’s deals. I didn’t have to do it. He made that clear. But it surprised me how much I enjoyed sex. Rey knew that. And with curves in all the right places, or so I’d been told, I’d been very useful to my new benefactor.

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