The Debt / Cross My Hart. Clare Connelly

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СКАЧАТЬ my teeth, trying to ignore the lightning bolt that hit me every time a woman said ‘Mr Evans.’

      Christ, after a week, you’d think I’d have forgotten about one encounter in the back of a limo with a sexy Australian chauffeur.

      Apparently not.

      I turned from the site manager to see my chief assistant, Petra, exit the construction elevator and make her way towards me, adroitly skirting the piles of wood and steel offcuts, metal shavings and concrete dust that littered the floor, despite the skyscraper heels she wore.

      ‘What is it?’ I snapped, deciding my irritation had nothing to do with being reminded of my one-time chauffeur and everything to do with being interrupted.

      Petra ignored my temper the way she always did, peering at me from underneath her hard hat. ‘You wanted to know the moment I had that dossier ready. Shall I email it to you?’

      Instantly the single lightning bolt down my spine became a storm, igniting me for no fucking reason that I could see.

      It was just a dossier on a supercar company called Australis. Nothing major. And only for my interest’s sake. It certainly didn’t require me being interrupted in the middle of an important meeting with a site manager.

      Yet that didn’t stop me from saying, ‘Yes, of course, email it to me. Immediately.’

      Petra tapped her phone’s screen and smiled sweetly at me. ‘Done. Shall I finish up with Doug?’

      But I’d already turned away, getting out my phone and opening my mail app, leaving her to finish up the meeting with Doug, the site manager. It didn’t need me to be there, but I liked to visit a site at least a couple of times to get a feel for the building and the site itself, because you couldn’t get that sitting behind a desk.

      My boots crunched on bits of concrete as I came to a stop, staring down at the screen as the files Petra had sent me loaded.

      Australis Supercars, an Australian company that designed and hand-built luxury sports vehicles. It was owned by a guy called Oliver Little, who managed it along with his four sons and one daughter.

      I flicked through the pictures of the cars themselves. The Python model was the one garnering the big interest, apparently giving Ferrari and Bugatti, and some of the other big names, a run for their money.

      I didn’t keep track of every company I invested money in—I left that to my managers at Evans Investment—but according to the files we had invested quite a bit of money in this particular company.

      Money that was not going to see the returns we’d anticipated.

       So? Lots of companies don’t make it. Why does this one matter?

      It didn’t matter, so why I was interested in it, I had no idea.

      Yet I couldn’t seem to stop flicking through more images, pausing at one particular photo. It was of the Python and had the family clustered proudly around it. And right at the back, almost hidden, was a smaller figure, her hand possessively on the roof of the vehicle.

      Ellie.

      The lighting storm inside me sizzled against my nerve endings, igniting them, making me curse under my breath.

      I generally never regretted anything in my life—I couldn’t, not if I didn’t want to spend it being paralysed by all the shitty things I’d done—and had always believed the only way was forward. So there was no reason for me to be looking back at what had happened with a woman over a week ago.

      A woman I’d only known a couple of days.

       A woman whose relatively simple request you refused because you were being petty.

      I glared at the picture of Ellie on the screen, remembering the dogged way she’d continued despite the reception she’d got from me, talking about some electric car project she was working on.

      And I’d ignored her, too caught up in the rush of anger that had overtaken me the moment she’d mentioned that she wanted a favour from me.

      An anger that even now I didn’t understand.

      Yes, the timing of her confession, right after we’d had a one-night stand, left a lot to be desired, but, still, that didn’t explain my furious reaction to her request.

      You thought it was you she wanted.

      The way she’d looked at me… Seeing the fighter inside me and not being afraid. Not being intimidated. Ready to take me on. And the sex had been incendiary…

      But then she’d asked for money, just like all the others.

      Not that all of them wanted money. Some of them wanted the cachet of having slept with the notorious bastard billionaire. It wasn’t actually me they wanted. But I’d thought Ellie was different.

      Christ, why was I still obsessing about this? I wasn’t some sixteen-year-old kid hurt because some girl rejected him. I was thirty-two. I’d grown up on a grotty council estate with meth dealers in the stairwells and gangs roaming the hallways. My mother had spent her days constantly worried for me and my safety, grovelling to my father for money to at least send me to a private school—and he had.

      But after that night when I’d realised how little he actually cared, I’d decided I was done apologising for myself. Done cowering with my mother, terrified she would get hurt.

      I’d decided to make myself the biggest, baddest motherfucker out there. I’d have the drug dealers and gangs scared of me.

      So that was what I’d done.

      And then later, I’d had Seb. He hadn’t yet shown me his true colours and I’d thought he had my back to hell and beyond.

      Sadly, hell had come sooner than I’d thought.

       You think that excuses you being shitty to her?

      My jaw ached. Behind me I could hear Petra and Doug talking, Petra flirting a little in the way that she did when she wanted to get someone on her side.

      Fuck, I was shitty to everyone. Why should Ellie be exempt?

      Yet all I could see was her face as she’d talked about her family’s company, genuine worry glittering in her eyes. Then she’d mentioned that special project, the one that pulling my investment dollars would put at risk.

      It was important to her, wasn’t it?

      I was supposed to help people when they needed it, not deny them the way I’d been denied. That was why I’d set up my charitable foundation in the first place. And yet, what had I done?

      I’d refused her.

      If my company had been small and in its infancy, it might have been a different story, but it wasn’t. Evans Investment was just one of a number of companies in my portfolio and giving someone some time before requiring promised returns would have absolutely no impact on my bottom line.

      I shouldn’t have denied her.

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