Taken By The Billionaire(21)

Alexandra’s car was parked on the driveway in front of the house and I wondered what that devious bitch had said to Damien – What lies had she told him?



The door was locked and when I rummaged desperately through my purse I couldn’t find the key Damien had given me. Maybe it was there, hiding away in a secret fold in the bottom of my purse, as much a part of the conspiracy that seemed to have formed between my sister and Alexandra. Too frustrated and angry and desperate to search for the key, which could be in another bag after all, I pounded on the front door with the side of my fist.



“Damien!” I yelled at the top of my voice. “Open the door. Don’t listen to anything she’s got to say. Please, Damien, open the door. Talk to me. It’s Kylie. I love you. It isn’t me in those photos!”



I knocked and slapped that damned door until my hands were numb. I could hardly talk for having yelled so much.



Finally, just when I’d decided to find a decent-sized rock and hurl it at one of the windows to get his attention, the door opened.



Oh my God, he was a mess, obviously worse for wear on booze.



“What do you want?” Damien spat. His eyes blazed and I could smell the whisky coming off him. How much had he drunk to be so affected so quickly?



Then I noticed he was in his underwear!



“Damien, please,” I croaked, my voice hoarse. “You’ve got to listen, baby. It’s all bullshit.”



But he didn’t want to know. Wherever he was in that booze-soaked place inside his head nothing I said penetrated.



I saw a movement inside the house, and when I looked over Damien’s shoulder I saw her standing there, smirking at me.



“Go away, Kylie,” Alexandra sneered.



I gasped because she was just about naked herself. Alexandra’s blouse gaped opened, unbuttoned all the way down. I could see she’d taken off her skirt and was down standing there in her panties.



“Damien,” I groaned. “No, don’t do this. Don’t fall for it. Please, Damien.”



Damien peered at me through bleary eyes. I saw a hint of the real man glint there for a second, just a flash of the man I loved. And then his eyes glazed over and he told me to leave.



“I’m done,” he mumbled. “I’ve had it with double-dealing women. Go find someone else to get back at Jenny with. Our contract is off. Just like that time with your fucked-up in the head sister.” The door slammed shut.



Just before Damien closed the door on me, on us and our life together, I saw Alexandra’s smug face, the victory shining in her eyes.



So she’d wanted Damien all along.



And now she had him.



I don’t recall much of what happened next, I’d lost the energy to fight and wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and lie down for about twenty years. I must have walked to the gates and into the hateful world beyond. What was the point in bothering anymore? Damien wouldn’t listen, not with the cocktail of whisky in his veins and poison dripped into his ear by Alexandra. It would be better to let it go, to simply give up. How many more times would I have to prove myself to Damien?



Fuck it, let Jenny win. Who cares?



I found myself in yet another taxi, only this time I was outside Rafe’s apartment block.



If anyone had told me that’s where I’d head for I’d have laughed in their face. What possessed me to think I’d find any solution to my problems at Rafe’s place? It must have been some kind of yearning for a time before all this started. Before Rafe and Jenny had done the dirty behind my back I suppose I’d been happy enough. It might be a little like that film with Keanu Reeves – The Matrix – I’d been plugged into the machine, not knowing what the world of hot, impulsive, risky sex with an exciting man could be like, and who knows, maybe if I’d married Rafe I’d never have known, would never have needed to now. Who’s to say I wouldn’t have been happy even? Perhaps that’s why I ended up in Rafe’s apartment with what seemed to be a glass the size of a fishbowl full of wine in my hand – I just wanted to turn back the clock to a time before heartbreak and the topsy-turvy world of Damien Taylor’s emotions.



“Hey, Kylie,” Rafe said in a soothing voice. “It’s OK. You just take your time; take as long as you want. Cry your tears and then tell me all about it.”



So I sobbed and sipped the wine, a Chardonnay I think, not that passionate blood red stuff that Damien turned me on to. I told Rafe everything, blurting it all on a cascade of tears. It all came out: my hopes as an actress, my feelings of helplessness over Damien, how I despised my sister.