The Wrong Billionaire (The Ashford Legacy #1)

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 playing cricket 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 Waitematā 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.”

“Oh, I’m not the one they’ve all come to see. This charity is Caesar’s baby.” Which makes it even more annoying, and puzzling, that he’s vanished.

I look around for a waiter and find one watching me, waiting to see if he’s needed. He comes over as I take the seat opposite Wren, and she lowers back down.

“Another glass of champagne?” I ask her.

“Not sure I should. I haven’t eaten.”

“Another glass,” I tell the waiter. “And I’ll have a Glenlivet on the rocks, please. And can you bring us a plate of appetizers?”

He nods and goes off to the bar.

Wren leans back. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “Such authority. You’ve grown up, Marcus. You’re a man now.” Her eyes sparkle. She’s teasing me.

“I was a man ten years ago,” I remind her.

“You weren’t,” she scoffs. “You were an eighteen-year-old boy. Moody and glowering.” Her gaze skims down me, bringing goose bumps out on my skin. “You’ve filled out.”

The two hours I spend every day at the gym were worth it if she noticed.

“How have you been?” I ask softly. “I didn’t know you were back in the country.” The last I heard, she’d moved to Sydney with her boyfriend.

“I came back in July.” She clears her throat. “Australia didn’t work out.”

“You broke up with Cory?”

She nods and looks out to sea. She’s single? My heart bangs.

The waiter returns, and I hold my reply as he places our drinks on the table, then puts the plate of appetizers between us before retreating.

I lift my glass and hold it toward her. “To summer evenings.”

She smiles and touches her flute to my glass. “Summer evenings.” She sips the champagne and then sighs. “Those beach days felt as if they went on forever that year, didn’t they?”

“An eternal summer, yeah. Shame it had to come to an end.”

“You Ashfords have done incredibly well for yourselves, though.” She gestures up, and I follow her gaze to see the banner above our heads. It reads, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream Masquerade,’ in big gold letters. Underneath, in more modest lettering, it says, ‘Hosted by The Ashford Foundation.’

“Your father’s business really took off,” she says.

Ten years ago, Dad had just revealed his new ‘pasture intelligence’ precision farming system. Now, Ashford AgriTech is the global leader in pasture management technology. In a short space of time, we developed a massive multinational agricultural technology empire worth several billion dollars.

“You could say that,” I reply.

“You all work for the company? You, Caesar, and Aurelia?” She names my siblings.

“Yep. Caesar runs the place. Aurelia keeps us from embarrassing ourselves in public.”

Wren leans an elbow on the table and rests her chin on her hand. “And you? What do you do?”

“I’m mostly decorative.”

She giggles, a sound that takes me right back to those fun, lazy afternoons. “Somehow I doubt that’s your entire job,” she scolds.

“You’d be surprised how valuable good looks are in business.”

“Modesty was never your strong point.”

“Hey, if you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

She laughs and has another sip of champagne.

“Eat something,” I tell her. “We don’t want you falling over and ruining that beautiful dress.”

She pulls a face and helps herself to a blini topped with smoked salmon, cream cheese, and a sprig of dill.

“It’s not mine,” she says, taking a small bite.

It leaves a smear of cream cheese on her top lip, and she removes it with her tongue.

That small movement sends an electric shock to my groin.

Holy shit. It’s been ten years. How can she still do that to me?

“You stole it?” I joke, trying to cover how unsettled I feel.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s my friend’s. We’re a similar build, although she’s a few inches shorter than I am. Unsurprisingly.” She looks around, her gaze taking in the expensive designer gowns the other women are wearing, their elaborate hairdos, the sparkling jewelry. “I don’t really belong here.”

“Bullshit.” I watch her gaze come back to me. “You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight.”

She blinks, and I can see her trying to work out whether the compliment is genuine. Then she laughs and eats the rest of the blini. “Still a fan of hyperbole, I see.”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

She stops in the process of licking her fingers, then leans back in her seat, smiling. “You were always incredibly flirty. I see nothing’s changed.”

“I meant it,” I tell her. “Even then.”

“You were eighteen,” she says gently. “I was twenty-three. That’s too much of an age difference.”

“And now?”

She lifts her eyebrows, then chuckles. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m serious.”

She’s glancing over at the bar, though, and I don’t think she heard me. She’s looking for Caesar.

Now, as I did back then, I feel a sharp stab of jealousy.

My brother was in the same year as Wren at university, and he’s also five years older than me.

He’s always run faster. Thrown farther. Won all the scholarly awards without even having to try.

Everything came easily to him. I had to work three times harder to win the same awards that meant nothing because he’d already achieved them.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.