Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience(2)

Georgie politely listened and thought that it sounded very boring indeed. Lots of over pampered millionaires taking time out from ordinary people, as if they were incapable of relaxing unless surrounded by people who were of the same social standing.

Pierre would fit in just nicely, Georgie thought. She could distinctly remember him as someone who accepted other people’s subservience as his right and had successfully built a life of such staggering wealth that he need never venture out of his cocoon unless he wanted to. He snapped his fingers and they came a-running. A far cry from Didi, which reminded her why she had come to London in the first place and she held up her hand, putting a halt to the sales diatribe.

‘That’s great, but I’m not interested in joining. I’m here because I need to see Pierre as a matter of urgency. If you point me in the right direction, I’ll find him myself, or else I don’t mind waiting if you want to search him out.’

‘It’s not our custom to allow non-members into Highview’s exclusive fitness area.’

‘Fine. I’ll stay here. You can tell him that Georgie…Georgina needs to have a word with him.’

‘May I ask what it is about?’

‘You may, but I’m afraid I won’t be telling you. It’s of a personal nature.’ She tried not to laugh as the woman frantically tried to control her curiosity. Poor Pierre wouldn’t be too happy to think that people might be speculating about some unknown tawdry secret about his private life behind his back, but then he never had had a sense of humour. At least, not one that he had ever pulled out of the hat for her benefit.

No, Georgie’s memories of him were that he was exceptionally good-looking, already a young man when she was still experimenting with lipstick and padded bras, with a talent for disapproval. He had disapproved of pretty much everything there was to disapprove of in their small village in Devon and he had never attempted to hide it.

He had disapproved of what he considered a way of life that was so slow it bordered on static, disapproved of his parents and what he considered their hippie lifestyle, disapproved of anyone, it had seemed to her, who didn’t share his own burning ambition to leave his home town as quickly as he could so that he could make his mark in the City. And since he had hit London well over ten years ago, his return trips to Devon had become more and more infrequent and far between.

He had returned for his father’s funeral three years ago and, although he had spent a fortnight making sure that his mother was all right, handling the sale of the farm with a disconcerting lack of sentiment considering he had spent nearly half his life growing up on it, buying a more suitable cottage for her closer to the centre of the village from which she could walk to the shops, Georgie had had the distinct impression that he had been itching to wrap up the whole business and clear off back to London as quickly as he could.

Since then he had been to see his mother a handful of times. If the truth be known over the past few years, Georgie had made sure to keep out of his way whenever he was around.#p#分页标题#e##p#分页标题#e#

Which made her, yet again, curse herself for her tendency to jump right into things, both feet first, eyes closed, fingers crossed.

The blonde was telling her that she would get someone to find Mr Newman and repeating how terribly inconvenient it all was and, of course, should he not wish to see her, then she would be escorted off the premises immediately. Company policy.

Georgie struggled to remember that the woman was probably just doing her job.

While she waited patiently on one of the red, low chairs that were artfully arranged around a chrome table on which several company magazines promoted the wonders of the gym, she took time out to survey her surroundings.

This was obviously the holding area for the unprivileged few not allowed behind the magic turnstile. Perhaps delivery men. Beyond the turnstile and behind the reception desk was a marble foyer, from which stairs led up to presumably the gym area, which was behind smoked glass, and straight on was a marbled corridor leading to goodness only knew what. Swimming pools and squash courts, she suspected and possibly some exclusive beauty parlour where businessmen could have their tension knots kneaded away by some more of the blonde clones.

She surfaced to find Pierre standing right in front of her, a towel draped round his shoulders, feet planted very squarely on the ground.

Georgie’s eyes travelled up the length of his body until she finally met his eyes. Blue, blue eyes from his father and, from his Algerian mother, the swarthy colouring and raven black hair, cut short and at the moment still damp, leading her to think that she must have interrupted a swimming jag.