Boxed Set: Dominated by a Billionaire - Part 10-12: Irresistible Billionaire (24 page)

There, it's done. I'm starting to feel the lack of caffeine in my system, it's time for me to go down to breakfast. I hope I run into him on the way to the immense veranda; it's large glass panels offer a stunning view over the countryside. Well, maybe it's a little too early. A billionaire has other things to do than wake up at 8 am on a Sunday morning, especially after a night of drinking. He probably eats his breakfast in a more secluded fashion, in his own flat. Maybe he's sitting across from a gorgeous young woman wearing a silk bathrobe, or completely naked, having just stepped out of her relaxing bath to recover from a wild night...

Easy there, overactive imagination, easy now!

Once again I am blown away by the beauty of my surroundings. The glass veranda overlooking the dazzling, colourful park stretches out for yards and yards. Dozens of tables, elegantly laid and dressed with lovely white and blue porcelain crockery, welcome guests to sit down and savour a scrumptious variety of dishes. A smiling, polite waiter seats me immediately and announces that he's at my service. In less than a minute, Nicolas returns with a mug of Nicaraguan coffee. The aroma is divine. I burn my lips slightly while tasting it, but the temptation is too strong and the black liquid warms me right up. Which is just as well, because I feel that I came dressed for warmer weather.

I order a second cup and some scrambled eggs with diced tomatoes and Emmental cheese. I don't know what's going to happen this morning, but something tells me I should get my strength up! Waiting for my food, I watch the people around me. Some of them say hello as our gazes meet, I return their greetings. Then suddenly I see him, on the other side of the veranda. He hasn't seen me, he's too busy to notice me. Three women straight out of a fashion magazine are sitting at his table, competing for his attention.

Did the gentleman order the 'harem' special for breakfast?

I stare at him eagerly, unaware that I'm doing so. I can't turn my eyes away from his gorgeous face, the proud and victorious way he holds his head. He's wearing a navy blue V-neck sweater with camel patches on the elbows. Rather tight-fitting, the shirt shows off his body. A few minutes later, he catches me in the act of spying on him. I read the surprise in his eyes, then the amusement. I blush instantly, without really knowing why.

Breathe, Amandine, breathe.

Nicolas flies to my rescue, bringing a plate of scrambled eggs, but I've already lost my appetite. I force myself to swallow a few mouthfuls, trying not to look towards the billionaire. It's a tough challenge, my neurons are firing wildly, but I resist as best as I can.

Don't think I'm one of those little poodles, I don't want to be mistaken for a groupie!

Suddenly I feel his presence behind me. Turning my head in his direction, I find myself face to face with him. Leaning forward, he whispers a few words in my ear, making me shiver.

“Don't catch cold, Little Miss Sassy. Coffee can warm you up, but it's never enough.”

His scent and his warmth intoxicate me. His breath smells of coffee, my favourite aroma. I want to say something in response, but before I get the chance he's already turned around and left. He was watching me, surely, otherwise how would he know what I drank? I sit there, speechless. How could a man get me into such a state? He destabilizes me, fascinates me, makes me feel new emotions, inexplicable. Delicious. Unbearable.

He's toying with me, nothing more! Why am I getting so carried away?

A few minutes later, Nicolas heads towards my table carrying a package on a silver tray.

“For you, Miss Baumann, from Mr. Diamonds.”

Astonished, I take what he's holding out to me and glance inside the package to see what it's inside. Gabriel Diamonds just sent me his navy blue sweater. The one he was wearing a few moments earlier.

Oh my god...what does this mean?

Two possibilities: either I refuse to play his game and ignore this chivalrous, but kind of strange gesture, or I opt for the more practical solution, which is to wear the sweater so I don't feel so cold. I opt for the second option; clothes are made to be worn after all! Once I'm wearing the navy blue sweater, the scent of this mysterious man envelopes me. A musky, woody, incredibly manly odour.

Before completely losing my mind, dazed by the sweet smell emanating from this divine yet slightly perverse cashmere, I try to regain a shred of my dignity. As I leave the veranda, I thank Nicolas for going through so much trouble for me. I climb the immense marble steps leading to the chateau, cross the large hall and take the winding corridor that leads to my room. My arms are crossed, my palms caress the delicate navy blue fabric, rather than the tanned skin of its owner.

Overactive imagination, Act II.

I almost trip when I see his silhouette standing in a corner two steps away from the door to my room. Leaning against the wall, he stares at me directly. His expression is first serious, strained, then gradually softens as I mechanically move in his direction. My arms are still crossed, I try not to change anything, to remain neutral, but I have a very hard time looking into his eyes.

“It's getting late, you've certainly taken your time!”

His voice is sarcastic, I mimic his tone.

“I didn't know anyone was waiting for me. You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps one of your fan club? The ones who had the pleasure of spoon-feeding you this morning?

Crap, he's going to figure out I was watching him at breakfast!

“I would have happily traded you for one of them, Miss...?”

“Amande. I mean, Amandine, Amandine Baumann.”

You can't remember your own name now? So embarrassing!

He stares at me for a few seconds, his proud and intense eyes glued on me, a tiny sneer on his lips. He's not blind, he knows what sort of effect he's having, and this disturbs me greatly.

“You were waiting for me so I could give you back your sweater, I suppose? Thanks for the friendly gesture, you can have it back now.”

“Believe me, Amande, there was nothing friendly about my gesture.”

A strange, almost threatening glow flashes through his eyes. I end up losing the game of who can stare at the other the longest. This man makes me feel so small, but I try to fight his desire to dominate me, to make me his puppet. He's not pulling my strings, but he has got on my nerves.

“I only accept presents from friends. Please know I can get dressed by myself, sir. I enjoy the freedom to do so every day.”

“Freedom is a very broad concept, Amande, merely an illusion for most mortals. To be free means to dominate, and that is precisely my speciality.”

“In your case, freedom comes with arrogance, judging from what I've heard. My freedom is simple. It doesn't exist to the detriment of others.”

Amandine, two points. Mr. Egomaniac, zero.

“Your confused babblings don't hurt me, Amande. I'm far too busy admiring the lips that are talking to me.”

My heart starts to beat faster. This mister know-it-all and his penetrating gaze exasperate me, but he's getting a rise out of me, too. When he mentions my lips, my entire body tenses up.

React, Amandine, don't let him reel you in!

“I'd better go now, sir, I have better things to do than philosophise with you. Here's your sweater, thank you for your concern, despite it being a bit paternalistic and condescend - ”

I don't have the chance to finish my sentence and take off his fiendish cashmere. His body is already pressed against mine. In one tenth of a second he's taken my two arms, pulled them up over my head and dominated me with all of his superb, wild sensuality. I am totally at his mercy. I feel his warm breath against my face, his intense, now dilated pupils swim into mine and paralyse me. I could fight, move, struggle, but my body decides to submit. He moves the tip of his fine and aquiline nose over my cheeks, I feel his heavy, staccato breath against my skin. His contact electrifies me, I'm in another state, I've never felt this before. In a tender and languid surge, he brings his lips close to mine, opens them, moistens them and finally, when I am about to beg him, he plunges in. He doesn't need to force anything, I welcome this carnal assault without any resistance. He growls, I moan. For several seconds, our tongues intertwine, seek each other out, dance away from each other, in a divine and terribly erotic waltz. I feel hot, I want more, I lean into him further so that no space comes between us. I feel all of his body tighten, he becomes more eager, more zealous. His hot, starving lips press harder against mine, his tongue explores the depths of my mouth, I moan again, despite myself. And then everything stops. Our mouths aren't touching anymore, he's moved backwards, without letting go of my wrists, which are still prisoners of his large hands. As he looks at me, I read something unusual in his expression: he is upset, almost devastated. But his inner control freak quickly takes charge. As he talks to me, his voice is astonishingly calm, serious, as if that epic kiss never happened.

“Careful, Amande, don't get too greedy. Meet me in my flat at noon, I'll have a little time to spend on you.”

I'm shocked, knocked out, liquified and he's talking about work? His coldness makes me freeze, I feel like I want to cry.

“And please do me the favour of bringing back my sweater. With some exceptions, I'm not the type to lend or share what belongs to me. I'm very possessive, Amande, especially when I really like something.”

I furtively slip back into my room and pause, leaning back against the door for several moments. The same door I just closed on this surreal episode. Arms twitching, eyes closed, head spinning, lips parted and still wet from that amazing kiss. I don't dare close my mouth for fear of erasing the divine sensation I can still taste a little. Try to breathe. There you go. Open your eyes. Look at something, anything, just stop staring into space.

“Alright, my dear, pull yourself together. It's not the first time you've ever kissed someone.”

“But not like that! That was completely different! What's wrong with me? What did he do to me?”

“It works, whatever it was!”

“Who am I talking to?”

“Yourself. I mean, yourself at fifteen and a half years old, giddy after your first kiss.”

“Right, it's all in my mind. That's great, just great.”

“A-man-di-ne! Amandine Baumann, you're head's got stuck in the clouds!”

At that point I catch myself mentally trying on the combination of “Amandine Diamonds”, and I collapse onto the bed, burying my head in the pillows, trying to stop this hysterical and grotesque spiral. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, and I figure I better call someone immediately. That way I can prevent myself from losing my head completely and talking to myself, for example. Lying on my stomach, I call my last contact without even checking to see who it was, and I wait nervously as the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Who is this?”

“You're the one calling me!”

“Right, Camille. I didn't recognise your voice. Is everything alright?”

“You're losing your mind, sis, did they drug you?”

“Whatever! Did Oscar finally let you get a little sleep?”

“Ha! No. But you didn't seem to care at all last night. What's going on?”

“Huh? Nothing! I just wanted to check in with you. Did Alex come back?”

“Yes, but you can stop pretending to be concerned. Anyway, promise me you'll never get married and have kids. At least not before you're 40 years old. Or never. Babies are annoying, they're noisy, they may be cute but they can't hold a conversation. And love means nothing, at least it's nothing like what people say it is, you know what I mean?”

I don't reply.

“You don't have anything to say? Come on, what's going on? I know you too well. Do you need to tell your big sister something?”

“No, I...I've got to go, I think. Good luck with your two guys. Take care.”

I press frantically on the button to end the call and cut my losses. Marvellous idea, that phone call! Mission accomplished! I bury my head again into the pile of pillows, hopeless. All of this over a kiss! Sure, his lips were incredibly soft and felt like they were made for mine and yeah, his tongue slid through my mouth with a delicate touch I never thought a man could be capable of and fine, he tasted of just the faintest hint of peach, just divine, but it was just a kiss, nothing more! I try to pull myself together and shake off this teenybopper-slash-drama queen mentality that's come over me. As a result of all this ridiculous behaviour, I only have one hour to prepare myself for the appointment he gave me. I'm going to need to regain my dignity in order to do a good job with this interview. I can do it. I just need to refrain from looking at his mouth, at all. I won't allow it.

After a long, refreshing shower, I'm back in my white bra and panties hovering over my open suitcase, with everything thrown about chaotically. Nothing sexy, that's out of the question, my outfit needs to set a boring tone! But nothing too plain, either, it's still a professional interview, Diamonds needs to take me seriously. But nothing too frumpy, either, I don't want him to start wondering how he could have kissed me. I slip on a pair of nicely-cut dark jeans: a sure bet, nothing can happen to me in these. A white blouse that makes me look just a little older, and a maroon cardigan that fits me just right. I adjust the collar of my shirt, keeping it from shifting over to one side, and almost tie Gabriel's navy blue sweater around my shoulders, but quickly nix the idea. I'll bring it back to him, dignified and disinterested, as if it were some worthless object. I leave my hair down, put on just a little bit of makeup, slide on my black ankle boots and stand in front of the mirror, Meh. I look like a teenager whose boobs are too big. Or a woman disguised as a grumpy little girl. I put my hair into a high pony tail, hoping that a hairdo will make me look a little more alluring. It's better. I try on ridiculous poses in front of the mirror, attempt a few rather forced smiles and then just give up. Sitting on the large bed, I do nothing, just wait for the time to pass. I go over the questions I want to ask him a hundred times in my head, I try reformulating them again and again and start thinking that they're all rather stupid.