Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
‘T HERE ’ S NOTHING FURTHER to discuss.’
Carter Bennett ended his latest brief relationship in much the same way he would abruptly terminate an unproductive meeting, or simply withdraw from what he considered a stalemate negotiation.
While he might currently be in Manhattan, the laws of the jungle had been coded into his psyche long ago.
Carter knew from bitter experience that in the jungle there were no laws—you made your own.
And now Carter had but one.
He allowed no person or place to get close.
A billionaire nomad, he had offices, properties and investments in several international locations that he moved between. As for friends—while he wouldn’t describe them as such—he had a few trusted acquaintances dotted around the globe.
But not women.
There was no proverbial little black book.
Carter never left an ex on tap or on call. Be it a casual fling or a burgeoning relationship, he always severed ties completely and did so now.
‘We’re done.’
‘You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Carter.’
‘Absolutely, I am,’ he willingly responded. ‘And that is why I made it exceptionally clear from the start that we were going nowhere.’
He glanced at the glossy magazine on his desk that had a photo of the two of them on the cover.
He couldn’t even remember the occasion.
His black hair was freshly cut, but that afforded no clue, given he had it trimmed every couple of weeks. The scar on his forehead was always visible...the suit was from his preferred London tailor... They were coming out of a theatre—but, again, that was nothing unusual. It was his preferred place to take dates.
Carter was considered a theatre buff. In truth he simply liked taking his dates there, or perhaps to the ballet or the opera. Drinks first, or a pre-performance dinner, then hours—apart from the pesky interval—without conversation.
Followed by sex.
Ironic, really, that the only photo the paparazzi had been able to find to announce their so-called engagement had Carter practically scowling. It was a stretch to say they’d even been dating, let alone about to get engaged.
‘From the word go I told you I don’t do relationships!’ Carter tersely reminded her. ‘You were the one who chose to do an interview suggesting otherwise.’
Terminating the call, he tossed the magazine into the trash.
The press on both sides of the Atlantic were having a field-day with the rumours this rather elusive bachelor was finally about to settle down.
Never.
Carter knew he was dead on the inside. There was a black void in his soul—one he knew could never be filled. Money, women, a new car, a night at the casino, a new abode...they brought a fleeting reprieve but, like a temporary crown, they were soon tarnished. As for settling down—Carter didn’t even know what those words meant. The only thing he settled were deals. The only thing he was married to was his work as an architect.
There was nothing temporary or fleeting about the structures he helped create. They were tangible, permanent...
Lasting.
That the press was circling was nothing new—he’d lived with it all his life. Carter Bennett had been making headlines before he’d even been born into his wealthy and somewhat infamous family.
Gordon Bennett, his English father, had caused a stir in the upper echelons of society when he had called off a very suitable engagement to hurriedly marry a gorgeous and equally well-connected American socialite, Sophie Flores.
Carter being the reason!
The couple had gone on to live a bohemian life—sometimes bringing Carter along, but more often leaving him with nannies, or his eccentric grandfather in Borneo, until he’d been old enough for boarding school, where he’d thrived. He’d liked the routine, along with the education, and had shared a room with a boy called Sahir, a young prince, whose protection officer had sat outside as the young boys built ever more intricate towers and bridges.
When Carter had turned eight he’d become a big brother. It hadn’t curtailed his parents’ thirst for adventure and the unconventional. This time around, though, his parents had decided to ‘explore as a family’, and had pulled Carter from school to join them on their adventures in the jungle surrounding his grandfather’s property.
Tragically, he had again become something of a sensation when he’d ‘miraculously’ survived an incident that had claimed Carter’s parents and his baby brother.
Crocodile Attack! That had made for an excellent headline—especially when attached to the Bennett and Flores names!
Only Gordon Bennett’s body had been found, and for a full week it had been assumed Sophie and her two children had perished. But just as the story had started to fade from the front pages and screens, Carter had been back in the headlines again.
Carter Bennett Found Alive—more to come!
Details had proved sparse, though, and confusing. Somehow he’d got through infested waters and been found by local Iban people in dense jungle, some considerable distance from the river, barely clinging to life. Help was on its way, reports had said.
For Carter, help had already arrived.
He could recall opening his eyes to see his friend, Arif’s father.
‘Selamat...’ Bashim had said, and gently told him he was safe. He had been able to tell in an instant that the young boy hadn’t been attacked by a crocodile—his injuries had occurred in the long, lonely days after.
‘Were you trying to find help?’ he’d enquired gently.
But Carter had had no energy to answer.
He had a vague recollection of the motion of being carried back to Bashim’s longhouse on the river’s edge, and the cry of delight from Bashim’s son Arif when they’d arrived. Though he’d lain there almost catatonic he had glimpses of that time—the skill and care they’d taken as they tended to his wounds, the love they’d shown to his devastated grandfather. His friend Arif, just eight himself, had held Carter’s hands when the dressings on his head and back were being changed or helped him sip water.
‘What did you see?’ the little boy had asked, but Carter had not answered. ‘Why won’t he speak?’ Arif had asked his papa. ‘Why can’t he tell us what happened?’
‘Give him time,’ Bashim would respond. ‘He’s not ready.’
To this day, those questions remained unanswered.
The empathy shown to him by Arif’s family and all the locals had been in stark contrast to what lay ahead—doctors, psychologists, investigators and his remaining family...
The press, curiously deflated that the child’s injuries weren’t from a crocodile, had turned its focus on what would become of the tragically orphaned boy.
For a while he’d stayed with his late father’s British lawyer and his wife.
His English uncle had been in rehab and on his third marriage by then, so not really an option. And Carter’s paternal grandfather refused to leave his sprawling property deep in the Borneo jungle—the same untamed land that had claimed Carter’s family...
The spotlight had turned to Carter’s aunt on his mother’s side—a famous New York philanthropist. In truth, she’d spent far more than she’d donated, though she had clearly felt she had to be seen to be doing the right thing and had taken him in.
For Carter it had meant yet more nannies, but even that had proved too much for his glitterati aunt. Especially as he’d been a child who suffered with night terrors and on occasion startled the Fifth Avenue household awake!
After a couple of years appearing with her nephew on suitable occasions, with her interest waning, his aunt had shipped Carter off to England, to ‘connect’ with the other side of his family...
More accurately, he’d been sent back to boarding school.
A few nights of alarming his old friend Sahir’s protection officer with his night terrors had quickly forced Carter to become disciplined, even in sleep, and he’d trained himself to wake up until they’d finally faded.
Most of his summers had still been taken in Borneo, though, and he’d come to dread them.
His friendship with Arif had changed. Carter had no longer wanted to go exploring with him. Arif had tried to be patient, but he’d get bored with hanging around his grandfather’s luxury property. It was the rest of Wilbur Bennett’s land that enthralled Arif—tens of thousands of hectares of undisturbed rainforest, not some manicured gardens and a pool.
As an adult, Carter had continued to visit.
His grandfather, always passionate about the land, had worked with the locals to preserve and monitor the rare wildlife there. Though there were still private wings to the residence, the rest of the property provided a temporary home to visiting animal scientists and researchers, as well as offices. As his grandfather had aged, Arif had increasingly taken over the running of the estate, although Carter had never had any real desire to get involved, and there had frequently been tension between the two men.
Carter had changed at a visceral level, and while Arif seemed to understand that, he refused to accept that Carter no longer wanted his friendship.
He didn’t.
Carter did not want to think about losing another person he cared about to the jungle. Arif still took himself out there—not just as a guide, but to head search teams when some tourist got lost or a group went missing...
In truth, on his grandfather’s death a year ago, Carter’s hope had been to sever all ties to the place that had taken so much from him and still had the ability to take more.
But Wilbur Bennett’s last will and testament had attempted to put paid to that.
Carter returned to his drafting desk. These days he used a lot of computer-aided design, but that wasn’t going to cut it for this particular client. Crown Prince Sahir of Janana was battling with his father and elders to approve the rebuilding of a destroyed wing of the Janana Palace and had brought Carter on board. The last couple of years had been spent travelling to and from Janana. The work was intricate, even by Carter’s exacting standards. Aside from that it was being challenged at every stage by the king and elders who would prefer the ruins were left undisturbed.
He couldn’t quite summon his usual focus and paused for a break. Even gazing out at the Chrysler Building or the Empire State Building and admiring their architectural feats didn’t work its usual magic.
It wasn’t the demise of his latest relationship that was proving a distraction, his mind kept flicking to the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, and how they’d been the impetus for his chosen career.
Restless, he got up and stood gazing down on Central Park, enjoying the lush green in the middle of Manhattan where he often went for a run.
Perhaps that would clear his head?
But instead, he paced the luxurious penthouse, taking full advantage of the panoramic views. It felt more like a cage than premium office space. He looked towards the Hudson River, noting that it was sparkling and blue today. Unlike many, Carter actually preferred the days when it was brown... Though never as brown as those rivers that split the island as it meandered through the jungle... And the green of Central Park was never quite...
Well, he tried not to compare.
He chose not to compare.
Carter had done all he could to move on with his life.
But then, out of the blue, Arif had called and told him what was occurring.
‘ If you care, then you cannot turn your back.’
Carter had heard the emphasis on if and chosen not to address it.
He didn’t want to care.
‘Mr Bennett?’ His PA, Ms Hill, buzzed, reminding him that Jonathon Holmes, the British lawyer who dealt with Carter’s private legal affairs, was scheduled to arrive.
‘Let me know when he’s here,’ Carter said. ‘What do I have on after that?’
‘An online meeting with Prince Sahir. Do you want me to set things up in the boardroom?’
‘No.’ Carter glanced at the plans he was working on. ‘I’ll take it in here.’
Glancing down, he saw that his once crisp white shirt had been marred by a couple of hours at the drawing board, so he went to the private shower and dressing room in his office to change his shirt before the meeting. Stripping off his shirt and washing his inky hands, he paused when he caught sight of his reflection. The scar that ran straight from his hairline was pale now, but it still sliced the jet-black arch of his right eyebrow in two.
Women actually liked it.
‘How did that happen?’ any date would inevitably ask.
But Carter would brush both the question and the enquiring hand away.
He preferred not to recall that time—and there were only small glimpses—of falling from on high, the metallic taste of iron filling his mouth, how he’d known he had to stem the bleeding...
Carter turned around and, rarely for him, craned his neck to view his back in the mirror. Possibly a little pale from way too many hours spent at the drafting desk by day, though more likely way too many late nights.
There were scars there too—although nothing like the neat gash on his face. On his shoulder and down his back the flesh was pitted, as if hot oil had been poured there. It looked as if he had gone into battle.
With barely a memory of doing it, though.
‘Kalajengking,’ Bashim had told him—scorpion bites.
As well as that, he’d been found unconscious on a nest of fire ants.
In regard to that fateful day he had no memory of the gory details, and in truth preferred it that way. As for his time spent alone in the jungle...it didn’t matter that he could barely recall it. The fact he’d survived should surely be enough.
Women didn’t like the scars on his back quite so much, and if they inadvertently touched the scar tissue during sex he’d feel them hastily recoil.
Carter wrapped a long arm around his chest, to his back, and felt the waxy, cold flesh for himself.
No wonder they pulled away.
‘Mr Bennett...?’ He heard the tap on the bathroom door and Ms Hill calling his name. Thank God for their polite boundaries.
He was dressed in a matter of moments and back to his measured self.
Jonathon Holmes was as stern-faced as ever, and Carter greeted him with a handshake. ‘Thanks for coming at short notice.’
‘Of course.’
‘How’s Ruth?’
The usual pleasantries were exchanged, but the moment Carter’s PA had closed the office doors he was hit with a question.
‘So, are the rumours true?’
‘What do you think?’ Carter responded drily. ‘Of course not.’
‘And here I was thinking you were asking me here to draft a water-tight prenup. I’m ready for her...’
‘Who?’ Carter frowned.
‘Whomever Mrs Bennett turns out to be.’
‘Never going to happen.’ Carter gave a firm shake of his head. ‘I am not getting married to appease my late grandfather. What the hell was he thinking?’
His grandfather had done the unthinkable.
Ignoring Carter’s cautionary words—that his cousin Benedict could not be trusted—he’d left the house and land to both his grandsons. With one proviso. If Carter married in Sabah, and remained married for a full year, he would have the option to buy his cousin out.
He seemed to have forgotten that Carter did not do sentiment in any way, shape or form, and would not be coerced into marriage.
‘I warned him repeatedly that he was making a mistake...’
Carter sighed. He didn’t doubt that the cutthroat Jonathon would have wanted every loose end neatly tied.
‘Yet he went ahead?’
‘He was always his own person.’
‘True.’
While for Carter marriage was not an option, neither was he any good at fifty-fifty—especially when it came to his cousin Benedict. He’d offered to buy him out, in order to void the will, yet Benedict had not only declined, he’d put in a counter offer.
‘Are you considering accepting?’ Jonathon asked. ‘It would be one less thing to worry about. You’ve got enough real estate of your own to deal with. You certainly don’t need the headache of this...’
‘I’ve heard from Arif.’ He saw Jonathon’s slight frown and explained. ‘He co-ordinates all the research and rehabilitation projects from the property.’
‘Was his father the man who rescued you?’
‘Bashim.’ Carter nodded, although he did not want to get into all that. ‘Arif told me there’s been a lot of activity around the property. There are drones going up, aerial shots—’
Jonathon interrupted him. ‘Benedict can’t sell the property without your consent.’
‘Can he lease it out, though?’ Carter asked.
‘There it starts to get messy, but the short answer is no.’
Carter chose not to wait for the long answer.
‘Arif has heard some talk. Apparently, there are discussions underway for the location to be used as a base for a television reality show. There’s also talk of a movie...’
Jonathon shook his head. ‘Not without your say-so. As well as that, they’d never get permission.’
Jonathon started to launch into how tightly controlled the land was, but Carter was already ahead of him.
‘Given my grandfather’s standing, the officials might trust that Benedict is doing the right thing.’ He told Jonathon what he knew. ‘There are location scouts and television executives staying at some of the resorts.’ Then Carter told him what he thought. ‘I doubt they’d bother going if they didn’t think there was a chance...’
‘Benedict’s probably relying on you backing down. He must know you can’t bear—’ Jonathon halted. ‘Well, that you haven’t been back once since the funeral.’
Carter pulled the stopper from a decanter and when Jonathon nodded poured them both a drink. But unlike Jonathon, Carter couldn’t sit. He walked across his lavish office and leant his tall frame against the thick glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking towards the East River now.
‘If you don’t want to spend the next few years fighting through the courts, then maybe it’s time to let the place go,’ Jonathon suggested. He didn’t do sentiment either. ‘It’s always been a headache...you lost your parents there...’
‘And my brother,’ Carter reminded him, because in all this the real innocent party tended to be forgotten. ‘He should never have been there in the first place.’
‘No.’
It was a rare admission from Jonathon, who had handled his parents’ affairs before they’d been transferred to Carter. No one had dared to speak out against the Bennetts at the time—it had been far easier to let that little detail slip from the articles.
Slip from people’s minds....
His brother’s name had been Hugo, though he’d been affectionally known as Ulat. It meant worm, and was a sweet term the locals gave their newborns who, for superstitious reasons weren’t named for many months. Carter, when he had been born, had been known as Ulat too.
Still, the hungry international press hadn’t bothered to find out about the local ways. It had been easier to file a piece citing his father as a hero for trying to save his gorgeous wife and infant...more lucrative to focus on the miracle of Carter’s survival after he’d spent a week alone in the jungle rather than query their questionable parenting choices...
Carter sorely wanted an end to his own private torture, but neither could he turn his back completely. ‘Tell Benedict I’m willing to negotiate.’
‘You’re sure?’
Finally, with a last warning that he was being too generous, Jonathon shook Carter’s hand. ‘Leave it with me.’
Carter couldn’t, though.
It gnawed at Carter’s guts. It crept under his skin and interrupted his mind.
His gaze moved down to the busy Manhattan streets below. Yet his mind was still drifting back to Borneo. To the wild untamed rainforests...the hot, humid air that could make New York seem positively mild by comparison. He thought of the Iban people, their longhouses along big stretches of river... And then he thought of production companies, carving up the quiet waters. Sure, there were tourists, but rules were strict and the locals were both protected and protective.
‘Ms Hill...’ Carter buzzed his PA. ‘Can you please reschedule Prince Sahir?’
Carter paused. This change of plan was something he truly didn’t want.
‘And if you could also clear my schedule for the week and arrange transport to Sabah.’
‘When would you—?’
‘Now,’ Carter interrupted, rolling up the blueprints, deciding he would work on them there.
It had to be now, or very possibly he’d change his mind.
Eighteen flying hours later, Carter was at Kuala Lumpur airport.
He still wore the business suit he’d had on for a brief meeting with a financier in KL, and his tie was still immaculately knotted—albeit a little tight around his tense neck. When he was midway along the roped-off section for first-class passengers, about to board the flight that would take him to Sabah, the sight of a passport on the floor caught his attention.
Carter’s first thought was that it was not his problem.
Then his eyes lifted to the potential owner, who lay dozing on an airport bench.
His second thought...
Sleeping Beauty.
No, he mentally corrected, because in the books he had long-ago read to Hugo she’d had raven-black hair and dark red lips. This woman’s hair was more a glossy chestnut and her long curls tumbled off the chair...her slender hand was almost touching the floor where the passport lay.
She was, though, deeply asleep.
He went to turn to his security guard, or to Ms Hill, who usually accompanied him on business trips. But very deliberately Carter had left his entourage behind, as he always did when he reluctantly returned to the place where his demons resided. Certainly he did not bring lovers, though God knows at times he would prefer the distraction.
He walked on, saw the air stewards smiling to welcome him. And yet, glancing back, Carter saw that no one had woken her and her passport still lay there.
With an almost irritated hiss at his inability to let it go, he turned around, walked back along the roped-off section and over to the bench where the sleeping woman lay. She wore a dusky pink top and black cargo pants rather well, her slim legs were knees up, her white sneakers resting on a bag.
And, yes, she was beautiful.
Stooping his tall frame, he picked up the dark document and, meticulous by nature, checked she was the owner.
Grace Andrews was twenty-five, had been born in London, and, yes, a brief glance at the photo told Carter that indeed the document belonged to her.
He did not linger on the image long enough to take in the colour of her eyes, instead he snapped it closed.
‘Madam.’
She really was deeply asleep.
‘Madam,’ he repeated.
He was about to move his hand to her shoulder, to rouse her, but her top had slipped, revealing a dark bra strap, and he pulled back, not wanting to alarm her.
‘Ms Andrews...’
Still no reaction, so he resorted to her first name. Loudly.
‘Grace!’
Green.
As her eyes slowly opened Carter found the unnecessary answer—her eyes were green.
Watching a woman awaken was a rarity for Carter.
Given his decadent history, that might appear to be a contradiction, but usually by the time morning came around Carter was turned the other way, wishing the woman away...
On occasion he was aware of lovers quietly climbing from his bed and slipping into the bathroom for a quick freshen-up. Certainly they weren’t in there for extended periods. None of his lovers would do anything so crass! Instead, they quietly returned to his bed, freshly brushed and scented, eyedrops in, seemingly flawless, perfectly fake, and before he’d even opened his eyes Carter would know he’d been lied to.
Watching Ms Andrews was different.
Her beauty was unmanufactured—his experienced eyes could tell that at a glance—from the natural brows and lashes, right down to her soft, plump lips. Her face was untouched by needles or God knows what else, and her pale skin wore not a scrap of make-up. For a brief moment, as she woke, two utterly perfect crystals met his, her pupils constricting in the light, revealing ever more of verdant mossy green, and if eyes really were the windows to the soul he could have sworn she was smiling at him.
But then the real world impinged.
He watched confusion start to flicker in her eyes, followed by a flutter of panic. Like a kaleidoscope twisting in reverse, the prisms shattered as she took her gaze from him and glanced at her surroundings, a frown appearing, the clear green fracturing, her soft smile fading as she abruptly sat up, her top slipping down further, her hair a chaotic tumble...
‘It’s fine,’ Carter reassured her.
Grace didn’t hear him, though.
She’d woken to find a stranger standing over her.
A black-haired stranger, with a clean-shaven strong jaw, a straight Roman nose. But what drew her attention was the perfect separation of his left eyebrow—a thick white scar cut through the gorgeous jet arch and into his hairline. His eyes were as grey as sleet on a cold winter’s day, and he had a stern, grim, yet somehow plump and completely kissable mouth. His stance might be construed as forbidding, yet there was no sense of threat. The citrussy, spicy scent of his cologne and its smoky undertone was so delectable, so real, it took away from the hard bench beneath her body and the harsh lights behind him...
In truth, for a moment, when their eyes had first met, she’d welcomed him to step into her dream.
Then it had dawned on her that this was no dream! The stranger her eyes had beckoned to join her was real...
The sounds of the airport seemed muffled and lost to her senses as she first took in his features, then looked to his proffered hand and saw she must have dropped her passport.
‘Gosh!’ Grace hauled herself to sit up and glanced around. The departure lounge that had been nearly empty when she’d given in to exhaustion and closed her eyes to doze was now full. She glanced at the screen and saw that first-class passengers had already been invited to board.
‘I must have...’
He proffered the passport again and, orientated now, she reached to take it. Grace saw the glint of an expensive watch and crisp white cuffs beneath the sleeve of a dark grey suit, and even his hands were immaculate, right down to his manicured nails.
‘Goodness...’ she said, closing her hand around the passport that must have slipped from her pocket. ‘Thank you.’
He said something, but his voice was barely audible, his words just a deep, indecipherable burr.
‘Sorry?’
She asked him to repeat. His voice did not match his impact. His words were so faint that she was forced to look at his mouth to make out what was being said.
God, those lips, she thought. For even if he appeared to be forming stern words they remained full and plump.
But now, when he pointed his index finger in slight rebuke, she caught what he said.
‘You should be more careful.’
Grace was about to tell him that usually she was...boringly careful. But Mr Stern was already walking on.
Coming to fully, she thought of his wagging finger and felt both foolish for dropping her passport and also a bit cross.
To his departing back, and under her breath, she muttered a quiet, ‘Yes, sir!’
Or rather, Grace thought she had muttered—but, watching his shoulders stiffen before he abruptly turned around, she realised he’d somehow heard.
He shot her such a look that Grace swallowed hard. So hard it caused a sudden popping noise in her ears, followed by a voice over the Tannoy calling for ‘passengers requiring assistance’ to board.
The world instantly got louder.
There were people all around, talking, babies were crying, and Grace realised that the aeroplane ear she hadn’t known she had must have suddenly rectified.
And it dawned on her that very possibly she’d been shouting!
‘My ears...’ She pointed her fingers to the problem. ‘I couldn’t hear myself...’
He must think her mad, Grace decided. Soon he would walk over and tell her that next time she could take care of her passport herself...
It came as a ridiculously nice surprise when his sulky mouth moved into a slight smile. A smile that told her she was forgiven. Better still, this austere man seemed vaguely amused.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, hopefully a little less loudly than last time, and he gave her a brief, polite nod before moving on.
He was carrying a long leather cylinder and a laptop bag, and she watched as he walked along the VIP section towards the smiling flight attendants. And then her moment with the beautiful stranger was gone for ever.
Gosh, Grace thought, her heart hammering—not just at the near miss with her passport, but more at the impact of him.
She tried to shrug the brief encounter from her mind and looked around at her fellow passengers, who barely deigned to give her a glance.
She checked her phone messages and listened to Violet wishing her a safe trip. Then she felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten as she opened her emails. It was merited, because there was the July invoice for her mother’s first two weeks in the nursing home.
It would already have been debited, so she could easily ignore it, and there was a part of her that wanted to wait until after her holiday. To simply escape the issue for a while...
Hairdresser...
Manicure...
Group Trip...
Gardening Club...
Grace closed her eyes.
Those were the exact things she wanted for her mother, but the top-up fees were beyond anything she’d remotely envisaged.
Her mind was still on the blasted account as she boarded, but as she waited for the flight attendant to check her boarding pass Grace let her gaze drift to the left, possibly hoping to see the delectable stranger. She peered at the business class cabin and saw the champagne being taken around, though there was no sign of him.
A curtain was pulled back and she glanced beyond and briefly glimpsed a flash of a white shirt and a glint of a gold watch, then a jacket being handed over, before the curtain was abruptly closed.
He was beyond business class, and somehow she’d already known that.
That stunning, prepossessing man was beyond anything she’d ever seen.
He was simply beyond .