One Night Stand With The Billionaire Boss

Elizabeth

Oliver Huxley is well-oiled tonight. I'm not surprised. He's been drinking whisky since the party started at seven, and it's now almost one a.m. Fortunately nobody else can tell, as he's always been able to hold his drink. He's one of those guys who just becomes progressively funnier with each shot he puts away.

I go to put my glass on the table, miss, and nearly fall off my chair. Hmm, maybe it's me who's well-oiled. I've tried to pace myself this evening, but it's tough to refuse Huxley when he's at his most charming, and he's been sending over doubles of the most expensive whiskies all evening. Earlier I complained that he was trying to get me drunk, and he replied that he was hoping I'd fall over to entertain the guests. It's not beyond the realms of possibility considering I'm wearing my usual three-inch stilettos. Being five-foot-one in my bare feet means I nearly always wear high heels-not that it brings me much closer to Huxley's six-two frame. He's always teasing me about being 'vertically-challenged'.

I should go home really. But my dog, Nymph, is at my brother's tonight, and I won't pick her up until the morning, so the apartment is going to be dark and quiet.

Plus, the main reason I've been drinking is to summon the courage to talk to Huxley about a Very Important Matter.

I don't know whether I'm going to get the chance now, though. He's standing at the bar with a group of clients that our friend, Titus, brought with him, and Huxley is in full swing, telling some joke or anecdote that's made them all burst out laughing. He looks gorgeous tonight. It's Valentine's Day and the height of summer in New Zealand, so he discarded the jacket of his three-piece dark-gray suit some time ago, but he's still wearing his waistcoat over his white shirt, and his light-blue tie. His dark-brown hair is ruffled sexily in a way I'm never sure is contrived or natural.

The one woman in the group, a redhead who happens to be wearing a gold lamé shirt that's unbuttoned almost to her navel, has been making eyes at him all evening. She's been stuck to him like cling wrap, so I doubt I'll be able to get him on his own now.

"Hux is in good form," Victoria says. As his business partner and second-in-command, she's been busy making her rounds through the various rooms in the club, ensuring the Valentine's Day party is running smoothly. A while ago she came in claiming she needed a break, so we started chatting, and she hasn't yet left.

"He's always in good form," I reply. "I'd be annoyed if I could summon the energy. He said he only had four hours' sleep last night. I don't know how he does it."

"He might regret his lack of sleep if the redhead gets her way."

"I know what you mean. Her tongue rolled out like a carpet when she met him."

The two of us chuckle. It's not spiteful. We're well used to the effect he has on women.

Huxley bought this club eighteen months ago, and he spent months refitting it before opening it around this time last year. Private clubs are hardly a new idea, but Huxley wanted to replace the men's-only port and smoking rooms with something that catered for the young entrepreneurs of Auckland. Trust in business is essential, especially in our current economic climate, and he recognizes that networking builds relationships that can be nurtured over time. He wanted a place that focused on business but also had the luxuries of some of the more social clubs. And so Huxley's was born.

It's always tough starting off a new enterprise, and so I, Mack, Titus, Victoria, and some of our other friends have spent a lot of time at the club, holding meetings here, bringing our clients, and introducing as many new faces as we can. And it seems to be working; Huxley's won second place on the list of top New Zealand business venues in the last issue of the prestigiousKaipakihitrade magazine, so word is definitely spreading.

Situated on five floors, the building has fully serviced offices, nine high spec meeting rooms, a stunning restaurant, lounges and workspaces, a gym, and a range of personal suites. It also has a main function room and several smaller bars, each boasting a different vibe. The one we're currently in is called the Churchill Lounge. It's a bit old boys' school, which I moan about, but secretly I love all the dark-brown wood, the red leather seats, and the bottles of whisky and brandy above the bar. The whole building is non-smoking, but there's a great painting of Winston Churchill on the wall, complete with cigar. Tonight, Victoria and Huxley have decorated everywhere with strings of red hearts and white Cupids complete with bows and arrows, which is rather adorable.

The club has been busy this evening, many of the young businessmen and women apparently relieved to escape the Valentine's Day craziness, pretending to spend their time talking stocks and shares rather than sweet nothings over their champagne, although I suspect romance has flowed beneath the surface, as it often does when people get together. But it's quietening down now, and Titus has obviously decided to call it a night, and is escorting his guests out. Huxley's going with them, the redhead attached to his arm, so I guess that's it.

I'm sitting with my chair turned sideways, my back against the wall. I sigh, stretch out my legs and lift my feet onto the chair opposite, then carefully peel off my false eyelashes as they're annoying me. I'm ashamed to say I made an extra effort on my appearance this evening, knowing he finds it harder to say no to me when I use my womanly wiles. Clearly, though, it was a waste of time. I finish off my whisky moodily. I'm never going to win over a redhead who's obviously interested in some serious sex.

"It's a shame Mack didn't make it tonight," Victoria says, referring to one of our other closest friends. "I wonder where he got to?"

I smile. "Didn't you hear? He proposed to Sidnie, and she said yes."

Her face lights up with genuine pleasure. "Oh, no, I didn't. That's fantastic."

"Yeah. He seemed terrified she'd say no. As if that was going to happen. She's clearly nuts about him."

"And he about her," Victoria adds with a grin. "I've never seen him so obsessed about a girl."

"I didn't think any woman would be able to distract him from his research. But somehow she managed it."

"The magical power of the pussy. Guaranteed to keep even billionaire geniuses from their work."

I snort. "They're all the same. Obsessed with sex."

"There speaks a woman who isn't getting any."

"I don't need a man to satisfy my urges, thank you very much. Battery-powered devices are much less trouble."

"This sounds like a conversation I definitely want to be involved in." Huxley appears out of nowhere, knocks my feet off the chair in front of me, and pulls it around so he's sitting like me, with his back against the wall. "I'm always interested when women start talking about their-Jesus!" He slams his hand on the table, making us all jump as the glasses rattle. He lifts his hand to inspect his palm, then glares at me as he peels my false eyelashes off his skin. "I thought they were spiders."

I start laughing, pleased he's joined us. "You're such a wuss."

"Any person who isn't scared of spiders needs their head tested."

"Just how drunk are you?"

"I'm not drunk," he protests. "I'm... relaxed."

"So relaxed you'll be under the table in five minutes."

Victoria rolls her eyes. "That's my cue to retire for the night. See you guys tomorrow. Great party, Hux."

"Yeah, thanks for all your hard work."

"No worries. Goodnight." She nods at me, then heads out of the door.

Huxley hooks his foot around the chair she's vacated and pulls it toward us, and we both stretch out our legs and rest our feet on it. I glance across at him, unable to hide a smile. I've known this guy for ten years, and he never fails to make my heart skip a beat. He's tall, and the fact that he took up the unusual sport of archery at school and has practiced it ever since is reflected in his well-muscled shoulders. He has brown hair that's short up the back and longer on the top, and a tiny mole on his left cheekbone that always makes me want to kiss it. He's gorgeous and irresistible, and he knows it, which makes it so much harder for me to keep him at arm's length.

He catches the eye of Ian behind the bar, and holds up two fingers.

"Not for me," I protest. "I should be heading off soon, too."

"If you do that, I'll be drinking alone, and that's just sad."

"What happened to Ms. Gold-lamé? I thought you'd have been balls-deep by now."

He gives me an amused look. "She wasn't my type."

"She was breathing, wasn't she?"

"Haha. She was a very sweet girl. But it's Valentine's Day. Why would I want to spend that with anyone else but you?"

I give him a wry smile. "Technically, it's the fifteenth now."

"Even so." He grins at Ian as he brings two whiskies over. "Cheers."

I sigh and take one of the glasses. "You're trying to destroy my liver," I grumble.

"I like you drunk," Huxley says. "It files off your sharp edges."

"What sharp edges? I don't have any."

He laughs. "Yeah, of course you don't." He holds up his glass, and I tap mine to it. "I always drink to world peace," he says. It's a quote From Groundhog Day.

"To world peace."

We both have a mouthful of the amber liquid and sigh.

"Did you like your flowers?" he asks.

Today, he had three dozen pink roses delivered to my office at MediTech.

"They were absolutely gorgeous, and thank you very much. But you've got to stop doing that," I scold.

"Buying my best friend presents?"

"Asking me out."

"I told you ten years ago that I'd ask you out every month until you said yes."

"You did," I murmur, remembering the moment well. Unfortunately, he'd already broken my heart by then, which I'm sure he knows, although we've never openly discussed it. "I thought you'd get bored after the first four or five times I turned you down."

"Nope," he says cheerfully. He just sips his drink, his gorgeous light-gray eyes on mine. Then, lowering his glass, he says, mischievously, "Go on a date with me."

"No," I admonish. "Stop it."

"Why not?"

"Because we're best friends, and I don't want to spoil that."

"Friends to lovers? Isn't that the best romance trope?"

"Hux..."

"How about friends with benefits?"

"Jesus."

"You've got to give me points for trying."

"You don't get any points. Stop nagging me."

"It's your fault for talking about battery-powered devices. It's got me all hot and bothered."

"Your temperature is permanently a hundred degrees. It's your default setting."

"Slanderous talk."

"Yeah, like you hate the fact that you have a reputation in the bedroom," I say sarcastically.

He studies me for a moment. "So do you," he replies.

I stare at him, my jaw dropping, and sit up, livid. "The guys have been talking about me in the locker room? Hux, seriously?"

"So let me get this right-you're indignant at the thought of us guys discussing what you're like in bed, but I'm supposed to be flattered? Where does that fit into your definition of equality, exactly?"

I meet his eyes and slowly close my mouth. "All right," I say sulkily. "Fair enough."

He sips his whisky. "I am a little bit flattered," he concedes, "but that's not the point."

I give a short laugh. "What do they say about me?"

"Nothing," he states. "You know I'd shut down a conversation like that in seconds."

Impishly, I say, "You're not interested?"

"I don't need to listen to gossip to know you'd be amazing in bed."

I nudge him with my elbow. He nudges me back, harder, and I nearly fall off my chair. Luckily, he catches my arm and pulls me back up.

"Jesus," I berate him, "don't do that."

He grins. "Maybe this should be your last whisky."

"You think?"

I'm flustered. I can't believe we're talking about sex. The two of us have a strange relationship. With other women, Huxley prides himself on being a gentleman. He's respectful and polite, and even when he likes a woman, he'll never openly let the conversation turn sexual, not in front of me anyway.

Despite what happened ten years ago, or maybe because of that, we've become best friends. I think both of us feel safe within our relationship, knowing that despite his monthly enquiry, it won't progress beyond platonic, and because of that we tease each other almost continuously. But although sometimes our teasing gets near the knuckle, we very rarely discuss intimate details about the bedroom. Maybe it's because normally Mack or Victoria or Titus is around, and it's unusual for us to be alone together.

"So tell me about my reputation," he says. "I hope it doesn't involve detailed discussion of length and girth."

That makes me giggle. "Maybe."

"Seriously?"

"A man who's as generously endowed as you are-allegedly-shouldn't worry too much about locker-room chat."

"Jesus."

"Don't act like you're not pleased."

"I'm thrilled. And a tad embarrassed."

"No you're not," I scoff.

"Well, it's better than hearing you're all laughing because it's so small, but yeah, it's a little mortifying."

"Well, then, maybe you need to keep it in your pants a bit more, and we wouldn't have so much to talk about."

He drops his gaze to his glass and swirls the whisky over the ice. "I probably deserved that," he says before taking a sip.

I close my eyes for a moment before turning toward him a little. The last thing I meant to do was hurt his feelings. He's still my best friend when it comes to it.

"No, I apologize. That came out sharper than I meant. You're a gorgeous guy. Good looking, funny, and warm-hearted. Women are going to clamber over each other to get you. And why shouldn't you make the most of that?"

He holds my gaze for a long while. I lean my head on a hand and study his light-gray eyes. I've been in love with this guy since the moment I met him. It was at a party, halfway through our first year at university. He turned up with Mack, who I'd met through some extra-curricular computer science lecture I'd attended. Mack introduced us, and as I felt as if I'd been hit between the eyes with a cricket ball. Even back then, Huxley was tall and gorgeous, but it was his manner that won me over-he was funny, warm, and attentive, and right from the start I knew he liked me. We went on a couple of dates-the first to the cinema, and for the second he took me to dinner. Both times we parted with a long, passionate kiss. I wanted to ask him to come up to my room, but I was still a virgin, and shy, and not quite ready for that final step. But the third date, I told myself, that was when it would happen. And I already knew it was going to be amazing.

Unfortunately, though, the third date never materialized. Huxley mysteriously disappeared for two weeks, and I didn't hear from him. Even Mack and Victoria didn't know where he was.

And then one day he reappeared. I was in the library, studying, and I looked up from my laptop to see him standing there, leaning against one of the bookcases, his hands in his pockets, watching me. I felt my face light up, but he didn't smile back.

Heart racing, I packed up my stuff, and we walked over to the coffee shop. He bought me a latte and sat me down, and then he told me what had happened. A girl he'd slept with a few months ago, Brandy Rowland, had told him she was two months pregnant, and he was the father.

It had happened before we'd started dating, which was something, I guess. But even so, it shocked me deeply.

I sat there stiffly, my heart banging on my ribs. "You fucking idiot. Why didn't you use a condom?"

"I did. No contraception is one hundred percent perfect. Shit happens, unfortunately." He seemed very calm about it. But then he'd had a couple of weeks to work off his frustration.

"Are you getting back with her?" I asked.

He shook his head. "It was a one-night stand. Neither of us wants a relationship. But obviously I have to take responsibility."

Of course he did. I'd never met a more honorable guy. There was no alternate universe in which he refused to accept he was the father.

But it still stung. Maybe because they'd had a one-night stand, and I'd held out for the third date. Surely it was better that I hadn't slept with him? But as I sat there, looking into his gorgeous eyes, I'd felt my heart splintering like a log split with an ax.

"Right," I said.

"Things are going to be difficult," he said. "Her parents are very strict, and she's absolutely terrified of telling them. So we're going to say we're an item for now. I'll have to see a lot more of her, and I want to be there when she has the baby. I don't want her to have to go through it on her own. I fucked up, and I have to pay the price for that."

I nodded, swallowing hard.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

I knew then that he was saying we were over. We hadn't even got off the starting blocks, and we were done.

"One day," he said, "when the baby's born, and things have settled down, I'll ask you out again. But I don't expect you to wait for me."

"That's good of you." Disappointed and hurt, I got to my feet.

"Elizabeth." He got up too. "I don't blame you for being angry. I know I've blown it with you. And I'm absolutely gutted. But I hope we can still be friends."

"I don't know." I shoved my chair under the table. "I don't think I'm that big a person, Hux." And I turned and walked out.

I went back to my flat and cried for two days straight, then pulled myself together and realized the sky wasn't falling down. I'd been on two dates with the guy. It wasn't as if we were engaged or anything. I was nineteen years old, and I wasn't going to let this destroy me. It wasn't his fault. Well, technically it was, but he was right-shit happened, and he'd been big enough to come and tell me about it himself. We'd be mixing in the same circles, and I liked him, and I didn't want to shut him out of my life.

And so, in the end, on the surface, not much changed. He wasn't around so much, but when he was, we remained friends. When his daughter was born, I went out with all our mates and celebrated with him. I attended the christening, held the baby, and told Brandy how beautiful her daughter was.

I tried to be the bigger person. I really did. But inside, the fractures in my poor heart refused to heal. Watching him with Brandy, putting his arm around her, being sweet to her, taking care of her, broke me every time. He'd told me it was all pretend, an act for her parents, and I was glad for the baby's sake that he was such a sweetheart toward her, but it still crushed me.

Then, six months to the day after Joanna was born, he asked me out.

I told him I'd think about it. And I did. I thought about nothing else for several days. But, in the end, I said no.

It was too complicated, and I was too young. I didn't want to date a guy who had ties to another woman. He must have had feelings for Brandy to have slept with her, and every time I saw them together, he was gentle and affectionate toward her. Deep down I couldn't shake the notion that they had feelings for each other, and I couldn't have coped with that if we'd been dating. It made me a small person. I knew that. But at least I was honest with myself. I didn't want to date him and ruin it by being jealous. I liked him too much.

And so instead, we stayed good friends.

I began dating someone else shortly afterward-Tim Fanshaw, another chemistry student. I was four months into that relationship before Huxley also finally started dating someone else. His relationship was more short-lived than mine. When I eventually broke up with Tim, Huxley asked me out the day after. And then every month after that, unless I was going out with someone else.

We've continued like that over the last ten years. I know it's just a joke now. We're the best of friends, and there's far too much water under the bridge for us to make a go of things. I've had three failed-no, let's be honest and call them what they are: disastrous-relationships. And Huxley's friendship means far too much to me for me to blow it now just because I'm curious about what he's like in bed.

It's because we're such good friends that I came here tonight to ask him something very special. I didn't think I was going to get a chance. But it's late, and quiet. Ian the bartender has just gone out with a crate of empty glasses, and there are only the two of us in the bar. And I guess there's no better time to ask than when you've both been drinking whisky all evening.

I gather my courage with both hands and take a deep breath. "I wonder if I could ask you something."

He swirls his whisky over the ice. "Of course." I nibble my bottom lip, and he gives me a curious look. "What?"

"I'm nervous," I admit.

"Why?" He looks puzzled.

I blow out a breath. "Okay. Here goes. I'll be twenty-nine soon. And I'm done with men." I watch his eyes flicker with pity. "And that's all right, I've come to terms with that. I don't want another relationship. I have my work, and my dog, and a great social life. But there is one thing missing. I want a baby."

His eyebrows rise. He hadn't expected that.

"I've been to a fertility clinic," I explain, speeding up a little now I've finally got the words out. "And I've talked to them about having a sperm donor. But there's a three-year wait for clinic-recruited donors for single women. Three years!"

"Jesus."

"Yeah. So... they suggested I find a personal donor. And so... um... I wanted to ask you. Would you help me out?"