The Billionaire from Her Past (6 page)

Fortunately their mother had long ago given up advising Mila on anything. They'd become much closer since Irene Molyneux had let go of her ill-fitting dreams for her youngest daughter and accepted that Mila would be creating art with earth's natural materials—not mining them.

April was rattling off the names of dress designers, not that any of them were meaningful to Mila. Her eye was drawn to the darkest fabric—a deep, deep navy—a welcome contrast amongst the frothy pastels.

It fitted well, and Mila felt good as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror in April's spare room.

Her sister poked her head inside the door. ‘Oh, that's
lovely
,' she breathed, and Mila smiled. ‘Can I post a photo to—?'

‘No,'
Mila said, and laughed.

* * *

Seb hadn't been upstairs to Mila's apartment before. It was nice. Small—a single open-plan living area—with the kitchen positioned in front of a large window that overlooked the tree-lined street. Mila had muttered something about making himself at home as she'd raced up the stairs ahead of him, her hair still damp around her shoulders and a bathrobe knotted at her waist.

He walked over to the kitchen, running a hand aimlessly along the pale granite countertop. Mila had obviously renovated. The kitchen was simple but modern, sitting comfortably amongst the original wide timber floorboards, tall skirtings and ornate cornices. The wall the apartment shared with his own shop was exposed—a mix of red brick and mortar and patches of artfully remaining patches of plaster—as it was on the floor below. From the ceiling hung a simple black industrial light fitting, and the living area was furnished with mid-century low-line pieces in a style that had recently become fashionable again. But, knowing Mila, the rich tan leather couch and the elegant, spindly dining suite would be the real deal, not replicas. Seb could just imagine Mila busily searching for treasures in some dusty old antique furniture store.

It was almost dark outside, the street light outside the kitchen window already softly lit. He checked his watch.

‘We're going to be late,' Mila said, behind him.

Seb pivoted to face her—and whatever he'd been about to say froze on his lips.

Somehow he hadn't thought ahead to this part—to the reality of escorting Mila to her father's film premiere. His focus had been on just
being
there, and nothing else—certainly not on what Mila would wear, or how she might look. Or that it might suddenly—shockingly—as he stood in her kitchen in a charcoal suit, feel like a date.

She wore a dress of navy blue, in some soft, draping material that wrapped around her waist and the curve of her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare and falling straight from her hips. Her hair was different—smooth and sleek and pushed back from her face—so that all the focus was on her brilliant blue eyes and the ruby-red of her lips.

Those brilliant blue eyes met his gaze, steady and sure. ‘It's April's,' she said, her hand casually smoothing the fabric against her hip. ‘I thought it looked all right.'

‘An understatement,' he said, and he didn't miss the hint of a blush that warmed her cheeks, although she didn't look away.

‘Thanks,' she said, very matter-of-fact.

Mila was equally businesslike as she located her clutch bag and he ordered a taxi. And as she marched down the steps ahead of him and locked up the shop. Then all the way to the small theatre near the beach which had apparently inspired the film—thankfully without
any
history of apocalyptic tsunamis—and as they approached the red carpet.

It was there that she went still. That her confident stride and chatter spluttered away to nothing.

Parked along the street was a van for each of the local television stations. A large crowd had gathered behind the cameras to watch the arrivals. Blaine Spencer might not be an A-lister, but the large posters flanking the entrance revealed that the movie's star was an up-and-coming Australian actress—famous enough that even Seb had heard of her.

Automatically Seb reached for Mila, aiming to put his hand at her elbow, but she shook him off.

‘I'm fine,' she said, very firmly.

They hadn't quite reached the bright lights that lit the red carpet, but Seb could still see well enough to read Mila's expression.

Was
she fine? Mila had always been good at relaying her father's latest example of uselessness when they were teenagers. But, looking back now, he realised she'd done so with a large truckload of bravado—she'd been simply telling a story. It was only that one time, when Blaine hadn't turned up at her sixteenth birthday party, that she'd shown any emotion.

He remembered how awkward he'd felt as she'd sobbed into his shoulder, sure he was being of no help at all, but also certain that he wasn't going anywhere.

He didn't feel all that different now.

Mila raised an eyebrow. ‘Really,' she said. ‘I'm not going to blubber all over you again. Don't panic.'

His lip quirked upwards. He was not surprised she'd referenced the same memory. ‘My shoulder remains available if needed. Both of them, actually.'

‘Noted,' she said, smiling now. ‘But I'm not an angsty teenager any more. I'm an adult with possibly the most selfishly unreliable parent in history. I know what I'm doing.'

He opened his mouth—before snapping it shut again.

‘Then why am I doing it?' she said, reading his mind. ‘I suspect when I work that out I'll finally stop answering his calls.'

Seb nodded, even though he didn't really understand. ‘So, let's do this?'

Mila's smile had fallen away, and something had shifted in her strong, determined gaze. But still, ever Mila, she straightened her shoulders, and he watched her take a long, deep breath.

‘Let's go,' she said.

* * *

Without Ivy, April or her mother by her side, not one of the photographers or reporters along the red carpet recognised Mila as a Molyneux. That suited her just fine—she'd never had any aspirations to embrace the quasi-celebrity that her family name might give her.

Ivy's job meant she had no choice but to network with the rich and famous, and April had always loved that scene—and in recent years had certainly grown her status as a society darling. Both would've been at home on the red carpet, would've known exactly what to say, how to smile, how to pose for photographs.

Although, her father wasn't famous enough that even if an enterprising paparazzo
had
recognised her it would have mattered.

Her mother had never spoken much about Blaine. Mila knew they'd had a whirlwind romance and a turbulent relationship, and that it had been somewhat of a scandal at the time—the billionaire mining heiress and the Hollywood heartthrob. But that had been more than thirty-five years ago. Old news. Plus none of them—not her mother nor her sisters—had ever breathed a word about their fractured relationship with their father to the media. To anyone, really.

Even at that sixteenth birthday party, when against her own judgement she'd agreed to an elaborate, expensive celebration inviting everyone she knew—and many she didn't—the only guests who'd known of her devastation at her father's absence had been Seb and Stephanie.

And even then she hadn't been stupid enough to tell anyone that her father was coming. Even then she'd suspected he'd let her down.

Tonight, she could almost guarantee he would. Yet here she was. Letting that minuscule tendril of hope drag her down a red carpet.

‘Sebastian!'

The shout came from within the throng of reporters. Mila glanced up at Seb.

‘Must be a famous Sebastian here,' he said, and kept on walking.

‘Sebastian Fyfe!'

Now there was no mistake.

‘Keep on walking,' Seb said, stepping closer and leaning inwards. ‘Tonight isn't about me.'

They were almost at the entrance to the theatre, but were stalled by a group who were posing for photographs: a single woman in a gold-spangled dress flanked by men in matching tuxedos.

‘Why?' Mila asked, confused.

‘Didn't I tell you I've taken up a career in film?' he said, with a smile that looked forced. ‘In between my building projects, of course.'

The joke fell pancake-flat.

‘Give us a photo with your new girl!' that single voice shouted, explaining everything.

‘Oh,' Mila said, unnecessarily.

Seb just clenched his jaw.

‘Should we explain?' Mila said. ‘That we're just friends?'

‘It's none of their business,' Seb said, his gaze directed straight ahead, as if he was willing the people blocking their path to move.

‘I think we should,' Mila said. ‘I don't want anyone to think—'

‘What?' Seb said, his voice suddenly harsh. ‘That I've moved on? I think it's allowed. I'm sure I've met society's rules about appropriate mourning periods.'

He looked down at her now, his eyes revealing that awful emptiness she remembered from the funeral.

‘And, of course,' he continued, ‘what everyone thinks is
always
my number one priority.'

‘Of course you're allowed to move on,' Mila said, annoyed now. ‘You know that's not what I meant.'

Cameras continued to flash ahead of them.

‘Look,' he said, ‘
we
know we're not together. That we're friends—we've only ever been friends, and will only ever be friends.'

The nonchalantly spoken words shouldn't have landed so heavily, but they did. Heavily enough that Mila flinched.

‘That's all that matters,' Seb continued. ‘What
we
know. What
we
think. You know that—you've never cared about what anyone else thinks about you.'

That earlier moment had passed, and that emptiness was gone from his gaze. Now he just looked at her curiously.

‘You're right,' she said, reminding herself as well. ‘I've always thought all this stuff is total nonsense.'

‘Exactly,' he said.

Finally the traffic on the red carpet was flowing again, and they quickly put distance between themselves and that lone, determined reporter, making it into the relative calm of the bustling theatre foyer.

‘Mila!'

This time the voice came from ahead of them, thick with an American accent.

Seb stepped closer, his shoulder bumping against hers. Without a word she pressed back against him, just for a moment, her bare arm against the subtle texture of his suit. His warmth, his strength.

‘In case I forget later,' she said softly, ‘thank you.'

He tilted his head in subtle acknowledgement. ‘You've got this,' he said.

CHAPTER SIX

S
EBASTIAN
FIGURED
IT
was just his luck that a reporter who read the business pages was at the premiere.

Steph had always enjoyed these types of events. As Fyfe Technology had grown they'd found themselves invited to all manner of charity balls, or museum openings or exclusive cocktail evenings. For a long time Seb had enjoyed them too. It had been part of their big move to London, after all—an opportunity to network in international circles both for Seb and also for Steph and her fledgling fashion label.

He could still remember how they'd worked as a team. Stephanie had always been so charming and so beautiful. She'd drawn people to her, in a natural way that Seb had always admired. For Seb, networking had been more of an effort—a successful one, but an effort nonetheless. It had been Steph who was in her element—smart, sexy and cheeky. He remembered how she'd meet his gaze during those interminably pointless conversations that seemed a given at every event—with a subtle quirk to her eyebrow, the barest roll of her eyes...

Or maybe they hadn't been as clever as they'd thought—maybe everyone had seen through the young, ambitious couple in their early twenties with huge dreams, equally huge determination and really no idea how to succeed on a global stage. Not that it really mattered.

Fyfe Technology's growth had been explosive—far greater than Seb had forecast—and Steph's designs had soon been stocked in major department stores. They'd both been so busy, and soon they'd been declining more invitations than they'd accepted.

Or rather Seb had.

‘Babe, I told you about this weeks ago. The ball is
this
Friday.'

A shrug.

‘I'm sorry. I need to stay on in Berlin. Go without me. I'd just get in the way.'

How many times had he done that?

‘So, Seb,' Blaine Spencer asked now, ‘what do you do for a living?'

They'd met once before—one year when Blaine
had
visited for Mila's birthday. Unsurprisingly, Mila's dad did not remember him.

They stood in the foyer, where the crowd was beginning to thin as guests filtered into the theatre. Mila stood beside Blaine. She'd gravitated closer to her father as they'd been speaking, and now it was Seb who remained on his own.

Seb watched Mila as he spoke to Blaine. She stood with her standard excellent posture, her chin slightly tilted upwards as she studied her dad. Her expression was completely unreadable.

She looked stunning. Exactly the kind of woman any sensible man would want on his arm as he walked a red carpet.

He had to forcibly drag his gaze away from her, at least pretend he was engaged in this conversation.

What had he told her?
We're friends—we've only ever been friends, and we'll only ever be friends.

He'd said the words easily—after all he'd been silently shouting them at himself all night.

A woman with a tight ponytail sidled up beside them, talking to Blaine in a low tone before glancing at Mila and Seb.

‘Time to take your seats,' she said, with an accent that twanged.

‘I'll sit with the cast,' Blaine said, ‘But dinner after?'

Mila nodded. ‘That would be great,' she said, her tone even.

It wasn't until Blaine had stepped away that Mila met his gaze. Her smile was blinding.

‘Seriously—I thought he'd consider this five-minute chat
it
,' she said. ‘I'm shocked.'

‘Me too.'

Mila grinned. ‘Guess I didn't need reinforcements tonight.'

‘You never did,' Seb said. ‘I'm just here for the free movie.'

Mila shoved him in the shoulder. ‘Dork,' she said.

And then they headed into the theatre.

* * *

The movie was actually pretty good. Mila rarely watched her father's films. She figured if he couldn't make the time to see her, then she wouldn't bother to see
him
—even if on celluloid. Kind of like her own silent protest. Plus, she knew her dad hated it when he inevitably asked if she'd seen his latest movie and she always said no.

Petty, yes. Immature, yes. But that simply reflected the depths her relationship with her father had reached. Too far gone ever to come back from—or so she'd thought. Tonight had Mila questioning that, and she was glad. Very glad.

At about the time the movie's first skyscraper-sized wave crashed down on the fictional metropolis, Mila nudged Seb with her clutch.

‘Guess what's in here,' she whispered.

Seb tilted his head close. Close enough for Mila to feel his breath against her cheek.

‘You're kidding me?' he said, before she'd even opened her bag.

She grinned. ‘Nope.'

Together they tried, and failed, to silently open their individual bags of brightly coloured sherbet, and then ate them with tiny plastic spoons. Just as they had at many movies, many years ago.

It was a memory from even before he'd started going out with Steph—this was from when they'd walked to the local deli to spend their parents' spare change on bags of lollies before catching the bus to the cinema. All three of them had always each had a bag of sherbet. In their twelve-year-olds' logic it had seemed a very grown-up choice—equally as grown-up as seeing a movie without their parents.

Of course now they were
really
all grown-up. In the darkness, Mila was particularly aware of all-grown-up Seb's size. The way his shoulders seemed to overlap into her space. The way it seemed quite an effort for Seb to keep his legs an acceptable distance from hers. And how they both seemed to have come to the decision that neither of them would use their dividing armrest. Which was uncomfortable—both literally and otherwise. After all, if they were just friends for all eternity what would it matter if their arms accidentally touched?

Fortunately the movie had enough loud bangs and impressive special effects to distract Mila from thinking too much about Seb, or about anything else. At least until after the movie. Then, back in the foyer, she couldn't help but acknowledge—again—how truly excellent he looked in a suit. As she sipped from the Champagne she'd plucked from a passing tray, she decided she was simply being objective.

So objective, in fact, that she told him.

‘I didn't say earlier, but you look great. Nice suit.'

Seb's grin was wicked. ‘Well,' he said, ‘I—'

‘Ms Molyneux!'

The voice was unmistakably Blaine's assistant. She hurried over in her sky-high heels, managing to appear both harried and rather bored.

For the first time Mila noticed that even though much of the crowd had dispersed, she hadn't yet spotted Blaine.

‘Are we meeting Dad at the restaurant?'

Serena's head-shake was nearly imperceptible. ‘No. He sends his apologies. He now has other plans.'

Suddenly Seb was standing right beside her. Close enough that she could lean into him if she needed to.

She didn't.

‘I see,' Mila said.

Blaine's assistant waited a beat, as if for a longer message to relay back to Blaine. Eventually the silence
became
that message, and Serena nodded briskly.

Then—just a moment before she went on her efficient, busy way—Serena stepped closer to Mila. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, ever so softly.

Then she was gone.

And somehow it was
that
that made the difference. That overloaded the scales, that pushed her over the edge...beyond dealing with this in a reasonable manner. Reasonable because this was not unexpected. None of this was without precedent.
None
.

But rather than just roll her eyes, or make some pithy comment to Seb, Serena's words—Serena's
pity
—made that impossible.

Standing still was no longer an option. Remaining calm was not an option. Pretending she was okay was
not
an option.

Mila didn't remember leaving the theatre, although she
did
remember the sharp, satisfying click of her heels on the footpath as she strode away.

And then the clicking stopped, abruptly, as her feet sank into sand. Beach sand.

She stopped, turning around on the spot to take in where she was.

She stood at the top of a sandy pathway down to the beach. The street lights lit the way somewhat, identifying scrubby plants growing right up to the pine railings.

‘Mila!'

It was Seb—and it wasn't the first time he'd called her name, she was certain.

Instead of answering, Mila kicked off her shoes and swung them in her fingers as she headed with purpose towards the beach.

She heard the rustle of Seb removing his own shoes behind her, but didn't slow her pace. He'd follow her—she knew that.

She stopped when the sand became damp beneath her feet. There was enough moonlight that she could watch the small waves stretching towards the empty beach, although it wasn't warm enough that the brush of the water against her skin was anything but extremely cold. She didn't care.

Seb was now beside her, his feet also sinking into the sodden sand.

‘Well,' he said, ‘that sucks.'

A short laugh burst from Mila's lungs.

‘Maybe I should tell myself
I told you so
,' she said. ‘Because I did.'

‘That doesn't matter.'

‘No,' she said. ‘My continued delusions when it comes to my father are of absolutely
no
cause for concern.'

‘This isn't your mistake,' Seb said. ‘Not at all.'

Mila shook her head, staring out at the total blackness of the horizon. ‘Of course it is. You've heard the saying, right? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...' She laughed harshly. ‘Fool me a hundred times. Shame on me.'

‘Your dad should be ashamed—not you.'

She wrapped her arms around herself, holding tight. ‘He should be a lot of things,' Mila said. But, really, she'd only ever wanted him to be one thing.

‘He's an idiot for not realising how lucky he is to have you.'

‘He doesn't
have
me,' she said. A sharp breeze whipped over the waves, dragging tendrils of her hair out of place. ‘I'm done.'

As she said it she realised it was true. Even silly, hopeful Mila had a limit. This, it would seem, was it.

‘You sure?' Seb asked.

Mila was so surprised that she finally turned to face him. His dark suit was stark against the pale sand, even in the moonlight. His face was shadowed.

‘Why did you give him so many chances?'

Her gaze dropped. His white shirt was bright in the gloom. ‘I just said why. I'm delusional—obviously.'

‘No, you're not. I'd say you're the least delusional person I know.'

‘You don't know me all that well, then. Not any more.'

There was a bit more bite in her words then she'd intended. But it was the truth.

‘Maybe,' he conceded. ‘But I remember a Mila Molyneux who never let herself be stomped on.'

He was right. Maybe that was the part of her mother she
had
inherited—an accurate radar for all things deceitful and fickle. An intolerance for pretence. It had served her well in business, although clearly it had taken her a little longer to learn to apply it to her relationships. But now she knew exactly how important it was to walk away before she was walked all over.

‘My father is my blind spot,' she said. A pause. ‘
Was
, I mean.'

Her throat felt tight, but she wasn't able to concede to the tears April had forecast.

‘Ivy told me that he wasn't all that great a dad when he was around,' Mila said, hoping that talking might help. ‘That he wasn't all that interested in us. That he was away a lot. But I was too young when he left. I only remembered the good bits—big bear hugs, stories in bed. I can't remember how often they happened.' She turned back to the ocean again, closing her eyes and focusing on the sensation of the breeze against her cheeks. ‘You know, I've asked myself the same question. A hundred times. Ivy and April keep on asking, too.' Another pause. ‘Not Mum, though. Maybe she gets it—she seemed to persist with Dad...with Blaine...for a really long time, too.'

It was completely silent except for the soft little rumble of waves.

‘It doesn't make any sense. This isn't who I am. I don't like this person. This needy person.'
This vulnerable person
. She
never
let herself feel like this.

‘I think it's understandable to wish you had a great dad,' Seb said.

‘That's the thing,' Mila said. ‘It
was
just a wish. A dream. A fantasy. And when he did deign to involve me in his life it was only an illusion. He doesn't really care about me.'

‘No,' Seb agreed. ‘I don't think he does.'

Oh, that hurt
.

‘That's rich,' Mila said, knowing she was being incredibly unfair but not caring. ‘Coming from you. Where have
you
been when I needed you?'

‘You know how sorry I am for the way I behaved after Steph—'

‘You left. You
and
Steph. You got married and—
poof!
You were gone.'

She was directing her anger at the wrong target, but she couldn't stop. She needed an outlet for all this emotion. A target who would actually care.

‘You wanted us to stay in Perth for the rest of our lives?' he asked, incredulous.

Mila shook her head. ‘No, don't go and be all calm and sensible on me. You had a new and exciting life and you forgot about me.'

‘I never forgot about you,' he said.

She never forgot about him, either.
Some part of her knew that was the problem.

‘I forgot about you,' she said, more quietly now. ‘At least I thought I had.'