Page 1 of The Wrong Billionaire
Chapter One
Marcus
The text from Caesar is short and to the point.
Been detained. Will be ten minutes.
Mr. Always-Does-Everything-Right is never late, but I haven’t seen him for about an hour. I frown and text back, my thumbs stabbing at the keyboard.
Where the fuck are you? You’re the patron of this charity. You’re not supposed to disappear for half the evening.
Just say I won’t be long, he replies.
I grit my teeth and stuff my phone in the inside pocket of my tux. “Mr. Ashford has been held up,” I tell the event coordinator who’s looking for my brother. I stride across the ballroom toward the bar, forcing him to hurry to keep up with me. “I’ll stay with the guest until he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
We pause in the doorway to the bar, and I scan the busy room. “Where is he?”
“It’s a woman, on her own on the terrace, sir. Navy gown, blonde hair. Her name’s—”
“Wren Carter,” I answer for him, her name a whisper on my lips. Like everyone else here tonight, she’s wearing a Venetian-style mask, but even so, I’d recognize her anywhere.
All the air is sucked out of the room. The pounding music, the couples in black tie and ball gowns, and the glittering light from the chandeliers fade away.
Wren is sipping from a champagne flute while she reads from a real book, not her phone. It takes me back to the days on the beach during vacations, her in a bikini, lying on a towel beneath an umbrella, nose buried in her latest novel. Me playingcricket with the boys, occasionally glancing over at her, wishing she’d look at me. Long summer days filled with yearning.
The event organizer clears his throat, bringing me back to the present. “Thank you,” I say crisply, “I’ll take it from here.”
Leaving him behind, I cross the bar and pause where the sliding doors to the terrace stand open, waiting for my racing heart to calm. The hotel is on Auckland’s waterfront, overlooking Waitemata Harbour. It’s four days until Christmas, which is the night of the summer solstice in New Zealand, so even though the evening is wearing on, the sun is only just setting. The sky is the same color as Wren’s dress, a deep navy, which I know also matches her eyes. Christmas lights from the hotels and restaurants on the quay are reflected in the water, providing a pleasant backdrop to what is already a beautiful view.
Wren sips her champagne again, then tips up the flute and finishes off the glass in a couple of mouthfuls. She puts it down and blows out a long breath. She’s nervous. About meeting Caesar? I frown. Is she paying him a social visit? Why else would she want to see him?
The ball gown she’s wearing is off the peg, maybe even borrowed from a friend. I can tell because it’s loose across the bodice, and her feet in their plain cream sandals are visible beneath the too-short skirt. She’s five-foot-eleven, so she’d have trouble finding one long enough. It’s an attractive cut; the off-the-shoulder neckline reveals her slim frame and the pale skin of her long neck.
She’s wearing a thin string of gems with matching earrings. Diamonds? I’m guessing not, judging by the dress. Her naturally blonde hair is swept up and pinned in a simple roll. She used to wear it in a short bob. Has it grown long in the years she’s been away? I always used to wonder whether it was soft to touch, and I find myself wondering again now.
Once I’ve gathered myself, I walk toward her. As I do, she glances up and sees me. She stares, looks puzzled, and then as I approach her, her eyebrows lift, and she smiles.
“Mars!” She unfolds her long frame and rises to her feet. “Oh, hello!”
Her use of my childhood nickname makes my heart race again. “Birdy,” I say, holding out my hand. It’s what we used to call her. “Long time, no see.” I’d forgotten quite how tall she appears in heels. Not as tall as me, though.
I used to lie in my tent on the beach at night, imagining running my hand up her long, long legs, and picturing them wrapped around my hips as I slid inside her. The fantasy blooms now in my mind, surprising me with its intensity.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Wren laughs and slides her hand into mine. Her skin is pale against my tanned hand. I tighten my grip, tempted to hold onto her, but release her reluctantly.
“Caesar sends his apologies,” I tell her. “He’s been unavoidably detained.”
Her smile fades. “Oh, that’s a shame.”
“He’s still coming. He’ll be about ten minutes.”
She looks relieved. “Thank you for letting me know.”
I hesitate. “Maybe I can join you until he turns up?”
Her dark-blue eyes survey me through the holes in the mask. “I don’t want to hold you up. I’m sure you have lots of important people to meet.”
