The Billionaire and the Wild Man Read online

  Carrie dissolves into giggles once more, clutching at her stomach and gasping for air every so often. It’s catching, and I want to laugh, too, but I can’t. Something’s stopping me. “Carrie, I’m so sorry I put you in that situation. I should have cleaned the sink out. That’s not like me at all. It’s just—”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s no harm done. It’s just Mum’s a bit of a neat freak, that’s all. Hence her getting up at silly o’clock to do the sodding cleaning.”

  “No, let me finish. I mean it, that’s not like me. I would normally have left the place cleaner than I found it. But I guess I was distracted.” I realize I’ve left myself open for questioning, and carry on talking. “Anyway, like you say, no harm done. But I’m very sorry I left a mess. It won’t happen again. You ready to carry on?”

  She nods, takes a few deep breaths and starts walking. We’re climbing the steep hill up near the youth hostel now, and about to head off the road and onto some farm land. “Okay, let’s go.”

  We fall into a comfortable silence for some time, heading across country and onto a walled farm track. It’s rutted and rocky, and I sneak peeks at Carrie from the corner of my eye to make sure she’s all right. But for saying she’s a city girl, she seems to be coping with the terrain just fine.

  It feels weird to be heading back in the direction of my temporary home without actually heading for it. We’ll turn off this path way before we get there, passing into National Trust land, and drop down into the valley.

  “Yesterday was a weird old day,” Carrie says, and I nod. She couldn’t be more right, but I don’t speak, sensing she’s got more to say.

  “Not necessarily in a bad way, though. I don’t think. I think it was both. Good, and bad. Sorry, I’m rambling.” She is, and it’s fucking adorable. Who would have thought it? One-small-step-up-the-ladder-from-a-homeless-person Flynn Gifford having the hots for a rich chick who probably lives in a penthouse.

  The thought makes me feel … odd. There’s no other way to categorize what’s going through my head. On the one hand, I’m glad that my glacier of a heart seems to be thawing. But on the other hand, if she likes me too—as more than just a sexy fling, that is—it’s blatantly going to look like I’m just after her for her money. And for that reason, I decide, I’m definitely not going to take things any further. My pride has just about handled her buying me a packet of razors and some shaving foam, but if something were to happen between us, and people got the wrong idea, thought I was a gold-digger, well, I couldn’t cope with that. I just couldn’t. Perhaps I’m a Neanderthal, an old-fashioned type of guy, but I care about what people think of me. I can’t help it. It’s just the way I’m built.

  Realizing I’ve been silent for some time and that Carrie probably thinks I agree that she was rambling, I think of something to fill the quiet. “Sorry, Carrie, I got a little lost in thought just then. So, what do you think to the scenery?”

  She pauses, looks around. I’ve asked the question at completely the wrong time, it seems. For although I can see over the dry stone wall either side of us, being much shorter than me, Carrie can’t. Smirking, she takes a few strides forward to where the uneven track gives her enough height to see over the wall.

  For a good few minutes, she’s quiet as she takes it all in. The hills, the fields, the cows and sheep … it’s quintessentially British, and the longer she remains silent, the more I’m eager to hear what she has to say.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she replies, turning to me with a smile. “Really gorgeous. London actually has more green spaces than people realize, but it’s not a patch on full-on countryside. I can see why my mum wants to live around here. Though she’s probably never wandered far from the village. Especially not up that big bloody hill.”

  We carry on walking, pass a middle-aged couple with a crazy-looking dog darting around them. Exchanging pleasantries, I stifle a smile as the dog—which I now see is a brown Labrador—bounds along, its tongue lolling out, looking as though it’s having the time of its life.

  “You never know. Perhaps she’s part of the local rambling group. She might surprise you.”

  “That’s true,” she replies, sounding thoughtful. “The terrible thing is, I wouldn’t know. My mum is just my mum. I’ve never really gotten to know her as a friend. God, how awful is that?” Her tone now turns determined. “I’m going to sort this out, you know. Going to try and start again with her, build a better relationship than we have now. After all, she may drive me crazy, but she’s doing me a favor here, looking after me. I’m a grown woman. She could have told me to bugger off and sort myself out. Christ knows I’ve got enough money to be in the best facilities. But she took me in after my little … meltdown, and she’s helping me to get back on my feet. Seems the woman is a saint.”

  Once again, I keep quiet. I’m more than happy to support Carrie in her time of need, but I’m not going to be drawn into passing comment on her mother. That’s way above my pay grade. Mrs. Rogers isn’t a saint, clearly, but nor is she the spawn of Satan. Like most people, she’s somewhere in the middle. She’s clearly damaged her daughter enough for her to think that being looked after by her own mother is a favor. God, surely any mother worth her salt would bend over backwards for their child, no matter what they’d done wrong? Perhaps it’s just the old-fashioned part of me thinking again, but it doesn’t matter. I’m keeping my lips firmly sealed on this one.

  “I’m just glad you’re on the mend,” I reply, proud of myself for saying the right thing without saying the wrong thing, too. There’s a first time for everything. “Life can be tough. We’ve just gotta be tougher.”

  She nods slowly.

  Soon, we get close to the end of the track—I know it like the back of my hand by now—and I, like always, admire the couple of cottages we’re approaching, one on either side.

  “Once we’re past these two cottages, we’ll head very briefly onto the road, then immediately right, through a gate.”

  “Okay,” she says, sounding cheerful, and marches off in that direction. Once we get to said gate, she pauses, looking at the sign on the other side of the fence. “Biggin Dale. What a lovely name. Romantic, somehow. Like something out of an Enid Blyton book.”

  “It is a lovely name, I agree. The place more than matches up to its lovely name, too. There are two more dales after this one to walk through before we get back to the village. It’s a circular walk.”

  “Three dales? God, how long is this circular walk of yours? I’m not that fit, you know.”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s pretty flat. Just a little climb back towards Hartington, if memory serves. The walk’s about six miles.”

  She looks doubtful but keeps quiet. Her expression morphs into a determined one, and she seems to be concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Perhaps psyching herself up, telling herself she can do it. I don’t doubt for one second—millisecond even—that she can. She’s built a multi-million pound company from the ground up, after all. A six mile walk should be child’s play.

  We continue in silence for about twenty minutes, and I glance over at her every now and again, pleased with what I see. She’s pulling in deep breaths, looking around her, soaking in the atmosphere, the tranquility. I have more I want to talk to her about, but I don’t speak. I don’t want to ruin the look of utter peace on her face. Plus, if I chivvy her too much to divulge stuff about herself, she’s bound to want me to return the favor.

  “You know,” she says after a while, glancing at me with a beatific smile on her face, “I’ve decided that life’s not that tough, after all. Right here and now, I think it’s pretty damn good.” She reaches out and grabs my hand, gives it a little squeeze, then drops it. But it’s too late—my heart’s pounding. I thought she was making a move. Fuck.

  Not that it would have been a bad thing, necessarily. Or would it? For Christ’s sake, I have no idea. If she had been, there’s no way I’d have been able to resist. And it would have been so good�
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  “Know what I mean?” she asks, pulling me away from my internal troubles.

  “Yeah, love,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as forced as it feels. “I know exactly what you mean. This right here is beautiful, and I’m having a great time. There are people a hell of a lot worse off than us in this world.”

  She nods, pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbles it. I’m paying so much attention to her that I don’t look where I’m putting my feet, and I catch my foot on a rock, stumbling. Thanks to my reflexes, I don’t go over, making a total fool of myself. Out of instinct, I stop moving, and flex the offending foot to make sure I haven’t pulled any muscles.

  Carrie’s now at my side, and she puts a hand on my arm. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Just a little trip, that’s all. I looked like a twat for a moment, but no permanent damage.” I grin widely, hoping it reinforces my point. The mirth isn’t forced, however. It tickles me, actually, to think what danger, real life or death danger, I’ve been in and come out of the other side. And now I’ve got someone worrying about me tripping on a bloody rock.

  She frowns a little, those cute lines of hers appearing, and I widen my grin. She smiles back, rolls her eyes. “All right, all right, macho man. I believe you. I was just checking, that’s all.”

  Giving me a poke on my arm, she continues walking, and I catch her up with no trouble whatsoever. We fall quiet again, gazing around us, nodding and saying hello to any people we pass. I feel at peace here, with Carrie. The combination of her company and the sounds and sights of nature surrounding us is a real balm to my soul. Sounds cheesy, I know, but it’s true.

  Making a turn, we head down a gradient, and the valley becomes narrower, the sides steeper. Rocky outcrops pierce the green slopes, and areas of scree dot the landscape, too. Sheep graze happily, seemingly unaware of the uneven ground, of the fact that one wrong move on the loose rocks could send them plummeting to their deaths. Lucky bastards.

  We’re in single file now, Carrie in front, and we’ve slowed down, taking it easy over and around stones and fallen scree. Birds flit overhead, uncaring of our plight. They’re lucky bastards, too. They swoop and whirl about in the currently clear blue sky, going about their birdie business, seeing the world from above without having to worry about going arse over tit on rocks.

  Because we’re picking our way along so carefully, not speaking for concentration, when Carrie’s stomach gives an almighty growl, I hear it. And can’t help laughing. “You hungry, love?”

  She stops and turns, giving me a mock-glare. I can tell the difference—had it been a real one, I’m sure I’d have turned to stone. She may have temporarily given up the cold-hearted bitch mantle, but in there is a woman that can take care of herself.

  Her face cracks into a smile, and I return it. “Yeah, I am actually,” she says.

  “Well, how about we get to the end of this part and turn into the next dale? Then we can sit by the river and eat. It’s not too far now.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  She turns around abruptly and carries on walking, and I mentally kick myself. What a fucking stupid thing to say. Especially since I’ve sworn off any romantic, or even sexual, entanglement with her. Come on, Gifford, you can just be friends with this broad. No funny business. Strictly friends, and that means no flirting, no joking about dates, no nothing. I nod firmly, knowing she can’t see me, to cement my words. To make myself stick to them.

  Soon the sound of water is audible, and we continue towards it.

  Carrie gasps as the river comes into view, and I’m glad that she’s appreciating the beautiful countryside around her. I can’t say I blame her, though. I’ve spent plenty of time in this neck of the woods, just lately especially, and I can’t ever see myself getting bored of it. The diversity of the landscape, the changing of the seasons, the trees, the plants, the birdsong, the weather… Something is different every single time. I swear I could walk this walk every day and notice something new. It’s intriguing and intoxicating, and it’s great to see Carrie’s own appreciation for the area blossoming right before my eyes.

  Perhaps she’s not as much of a city girl as she makes out. Perhaps she’s just not seen much outside of glass-walled buildings, concrete, and the M25 to know what it’s like. If that’s true, then it’s a damn shame. After all, what’s the point in having a shit ton of money if you’re not going to spend it? If I was loaded, I’d have holiday homes dotted all over the world. But then I guess, as a bit of a nomad, I have a love of travel, of exploring new places, that others don’t.

  At least when Carrie goes back to work she’ll have nice memories of the rolling Derbyshire hills to remind her what life is like outside of London. Maybe she’ll even come back and visit her mother in Hartington. Of course, I’ll be long gone by then with no forwarding address, but I hope I’ll be in amongst those nice memories.

  I’m brought back to the present when I crash heavily into Carrie’s back. Fortunately she’s not close to the river bank, as otherwise I’d have sent her in. I grab her anyway, holding her and murmuring profuse apologies into her ear. “I’m sorry, love, I was daydreaming. Make sure you indicate next time you’re going to perform an emergency stop.”

  I release her quickly before my body starts having inappropriate reactions to her proximity, and she turns to me with an incredulous look on her face.

  “It’s a bloody good job I wasn’t two feet further forward, isn’t it? You’d have sent me…” she moves away and peers into the water, “…plunging a foot or so into shallow water. And wouldn’t you have felt terrible then?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, slipping the backpack off and holding it in one hand. “How about I make it up to you with a delicious picnic?”

  She follows me over to a nice patch of grass on the bank. “But it’s my bloody delicious picnic.”

  I shrug. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all that. Besides, I’ve carried it all this way. The least you can do is let me pretend I’m bringing something to the table.” My words were meant in jest, but I wonder if she’s caught the unintentional implication beneath them. It’s a good job, a bloody good job, that we’re just friends. Because she’s way too good for me. Even crazy and barefooted she’s way too good for me. I fall silent, pick a spot and sit down, then begin unloading the bag.

  “Christ!” My astonishment forces me to break my silence. “Is your mum feeding the entire British Army here?” I’ve already covered a fair amount of grass with all the tubs and packets, and there’s still stuff left in the bag.

  Now it’s Carrie’s turn to shrug. She’s taken a place opposite me, and shakes her head as I continue to bring item after item out. “She’s crazy. You’re right, I could be on a march with the entire army and feed them all with this lot. And she thinks I’m by my bloody self! She’s always been the same though, bless her. Massive portions for every meal, enough food to provide for twice as many people than were actually there… I’ve told her these past few days that I don’t eat anywhere near that much, but she won’t listen. She’s probably decided I’m not healthy enough to get back to my life until I’ve put on at least two stone. Ugh, and I can’t afford to put on any more weight!”

  I roll my eyes. Seriously? Carrie thinks she’s overweight? I should keep quiet. I know I should. Leave her to her female self-esteem woes, but I can’t. “Carrie, you’re the one who’s crazy. You look fantastic. You’ve got curves, a shape, a gorgeous body. Don’t go starving yourself!”

  Her gaze is now fixed firmly on mine, and I snap my mouth shut. So much for not flirting. In my defense, I’m not actually flirting. Not even trying to flatter her. Just telling the truth. A conclusion any person with eyes would come to. Carrie is fucking gorgeous.

  A tiny smile curves up the corners of her lips. “You don’t have to say that, but thanks. And I won’t starve myself, I’m not, I promise. But there’s only so much I can p
hysically eat without being sick, and my mother’s portion control far exceeds that.”

  “Fair enough. So she’ll be delighted when you make a decent dent in this lot then, won’t she? I can eat a lot. Growing boy.” I pat my stomach, and now Carrie rolls her eyes.

  “Now who’s being crazy? You haven’t got an ounce of fat on you. If you can eat loads, please be my guest, but I have no idea where you’re going to put it all.”

  Chapter Six

  I probably should have told Flynn that I hate hiking. It was one of those things Mum made me do as a kid. She’d pack enough food for a month, make me carry half of it, and then we’d head out into the unknown with only a waterproof jacket and strong boots for protection. I don’t think we ever once went out and actually walked a planned route and got home without trouble. We always got lost. So a few hours’ gentle stroll in the countryside around East Grinstead turned into survival training.

  She was always trying to make my childhood “normal” by doing things she thought families with two parents would do. It never went to plan and we’d end up arguing. We argued a lot. I guess our relationship hasn’t changed much, really. However, when the shit hit the fan she was the first person I turned to. Whether that was because I needed her or because she is the only person qualified to be my emergency contact is a hard one to call.

  Flynn is quiet, but the silence isn’t oppressive so I find it easy to let my mind wander. Why am I here, in the heart of Derbyshire? Because I rang my mum from the psychiatric ward and begged her to get me out of there. At first it didn’t bother me, probably because I was heavily medicated, but as the shock wore off I realized I was under the control of the nurses and surrounded by seriously unhinged individuals. It must have been pretty horrific for me to turn to Mum.

  We’ve never been close. She’s always been intensely controlling, and as soon as I could I left home. I ring her on her birthday and at Christmas, but before the breakdown I hadn’t seen her in years. The last time was when she insisted on me taking her to see Les Miserables in the West End for her sixtieth birthday—I hated every minute of it—and that was six, maybe seven years ago.