Christmas Angel for the Billionaire

‘Oh, well…’ She matched his shrug and raised him a smile. ‘You know what they say about a change.’

‘Being as good as a rest?’ He sounded doubtful. ‘This isn’t a great time of year to break down, especially if you’re stranded miles from anywhere,’ he pointed out.

He didn’t bother to match her smile.

‘It’s never a good time for that, George.’

‘It’s a lot less dangerous when the days are long and the nights warm,’ he said, leaving her to imagine what it would be like if she broke down way out in the country, in the dark, with the temperature below freezing. Then, having got that off his chest, ‘Are you in a hurry to be anywhere in particular?’

He sounded hopeful.

‘Well, no. That’s the joy of touring, isn’t it? There’s no fixed agenda. And now Xandra has told me about the Christmas market in Maybridge this weekend…’ she gave another little shrug, mainly because she was certain it would annoy him ‘…well, I wouldn’t want to miss that.’ It was a new experience. Annoying a man. One she could grow to enjoy and, taking full advantage of this opportunity, she mentally crossed her fingers and added, ‘Ho, ho, ho…’

That earned her another snort-muffled this time-from Xandra, who got a look to singe her ears from her father before he turned back to her and, ignoring her attempt at levity, asked, ‘Have you spoken to your insurance company?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’ve had an accident?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ The prospect of contacting her insurance company and what that would mean took all the fun out of winding up George Saxon. ‘I suppose I have. It never occurred to me…’

‘No?’ He gave her another of those thoughtful looks. ‘Maybe you should do it now although, bearing in mind the age of the car and the likely cost of repairs, their loss adjuster will probably decide to simply write it off.’

‘What? They can’t do that!’

‘I think you’ll find they can.’

‘Only if I make a claim.’

He didn’t answer. And this time Xandra didn’t leap in to defend her.

‘I am insured,’ she said hurriedly, before George asked the question that was clearly foremost in his mind.

She didn’t blame him. First she wasn’t able to produce her licence and now she didn’t want her insurance company involved. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would believe she had something to hide.

Obviously not whatever scenario was going through his mind right now, but something. And they’d be right to be suspicious.

But she was insured.

She’d checked that Lydia’s car was covered by her own insurance policy but now, faced with the reality of accidental damage, she realised that it wasn’t that simple. If, on the day she made a claim for an accident in Maybridge, the entire world knew she was flying to Bab el Sama-and they would, because she’d made absolutely sure that the press knew where she was going; she wanted them there, establishing her alibi by snatching shots of ‘her’ walking on the beach-well, that really would put the cat among the pigeons.

She couldn’t tell him that, of course, but she was going to have to tell him something and the longer she delayed, the less likely it was that he would believe her. From being in a position of power, Annie now felt at a distinct disadvantage in the low chair and, putting down her cup, she stood up so that she could look him in the eye.

‘You needn’t worry that I won’t pay you. I have money.’ And, determined to establish her financial probity at least, she tugged at the neck of the V-neck sweater she was wearing, reached down inside her shirt and fished a wad of fifty-pound notes from one cup of her bra and placed it on the table.

‘Whoa!’ Xandra said.

‘Will a thousand pounds cover it?’ she asked, repeating the performance on the other side before looking up to discover that George was staring at her.

‘Go and check the stores to see what spares we have in stock, Xandra,’ he said, not taking his eyes off her.

His daughter opened her mouth to protest, then, clearly thinking better of it, stomped out, banging the back door as she went.

For a moment the silence rang in her ears. Then, with a gesture at the pile of banknotes, George said, ‘Where did that come from?’

Realising she’d just made things ten times worse, that she was going to have to tell him at least some version of the truth, Annie said, ‘It’s mine.’ He didn’t move a muscle. ‘Truly. I don’t want to use credit cards for the same reason I can’t call my insurance company.’

‘And why is that?’ he asked, stony-faced as a statue.

‘It’s difficult…’

‘No licence, no insurance and a pile of hard cash? I’ll say it’s difficult. What exactly is your problem, Annie?’ he asked. ‘Who are you running away from? The police?’

‘No! It’s nothing like that. It’s…’ Oh, help…‘It’s personal.’

He frowned. ‘Are you telling me that it’s a domestic?’

Was he asking her if she was running from an abusive husband?

‘You’re not wearing a ring,’ he pointed out, forestalling the temptation to grab such a perfect cover story.

‘No. I’m not married.’

‘A partner, then. So why all the subterfuge?’ he said, picking up one of the wads of banknotes, flicking the edge with his thumb. ‘And where did this come from?’

‘My parents left me some money. I daren’t use credit cards-’

‘Or claim on your motor insurance.’

She nodded.

‘Is he violent?’

‘No!’

‘But unwilling to let you go.’

She swallowed and he accepted that as an affirmative. This was going better than she’d hoped.

‘How will he trace you? You understand that I have to think about Xandra. And my mother.’

‘There’s a security firm he uses, but they think I’ve left the country. As long as I don’t do anything to attract attention, they won’t find me.’

‘I hope you didn’t leave your passport behind.’

‘No. The clothes I’m wearing, the car, belong to the friend who helped me get away,’ she said before he asked her why her ‘partner’ was in the habit of hiring a security firm to keep tabs on her. ‘You can understand why I feel so bad about what’s happened to the car. Will you be able to fix it?’

He looked at her for a long time before shaking his head. ‘I knew you were trouble from the first moment I set eyes on you,’ he said, ‘and I know I’m going to regret this, but I’ll see if your car is salvageable so I can get you on your way. I just hope I don’t live to see the name Annie Rowland linked with mine in the headlines.’

‘That won’t happen,’ she promised.

‘Of course it won’t. The only thing I am sure of where you’re concerned is that your name isn’t Rowland.’

‘It is Annie,’ she said, glad for some reason that she couldn’t begin to fathom that she had chosen to use her own best name.

‘Then let’s leave it at that,’ he said, putting down the mug as he pushed himself away from the table. ‘But whatever you plan on cooking for dinner, Annie, had better be worth all the trouble you’re causing.’

‘I can guarantee that it’ll be better than beans on toast,’ she promised. ‘Thank you for trusting me, George.’

‘Who said I trusted you?’ He looked at her as if he was going to say more, but let it go. ‘Save your thanks and put that out of sight,’ he said, pointing at the pile of notes lying on the kitchen table. Then, as she made a move to stuff it back in her bra, ‘No! I didn’t mean…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just wait until I’ve gone.’

She blushed furiously. ‘Sorry.’

‘So am I,’ he muttered as he left the kitchen. ‘So am I.’