LITMIR.BIZ

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been five years since what would have been my wedding day,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Five years of the kind of pace of life that would wear anyone down.’

      ‘You’re over it?’

      I shake my head, surprised to realise that I’m speaking the truth. ‘I’m ready for the next phase of my life.’

      Her eyes skim my face, perhaps trying to see if I’m being honest.

      ‘I wouldn’t necessarily be going home,’ I continue, ‘if it weren’t for my father’s demands.’

      ‘Demands?’ she prompts, moving to close the space between us. ‘You don’t seem like someone anyone could make demands of.’

      ‘His insistence, then.’

      ‘Same deal.’ She laughs softly.

      ‘He’s my father,’ I point out. ‘He holds a certain power.’

      ‘I can understand that,’ she says, her forehead crinkling with her frown. ‘Even when I’m someone who’s turned disobedience into an art form.’ It’s said lightly, with a curve of her lips, but I feel there’s more to it.

      ‘You? Miss Strait-Laced?’

      ‘Do I really seem that strait-laced to you?’ she points out with a slow, tempting wink.

      ‘Not in bed,’ I assure her. ‘But everywhere else.’

      She opens her mouth but closes it again, grimacing slightly.

      ‘That wasn’t a criticism.’

      ‘I know. And you’re right. This…’ she waves from her chest to mine, inadvertently drawing my gaze downwards ‘…is the craziest thing I’ve done in years—probably since I put as much of my trust fund as I could get my hands on into the charity.’

      So many questions fire in my mind. ‘So how have you disobeyed your parents?’ I ask the question in a voice that rings with amusement because I think she’s probably, at twenty-nine, beyond the point of giving too much of a shit what her mom and dad think of her. And yet, look at me. A grown man, the same age, about to leap the Atlantic to placate my father’s expectations of me.

      ‘In every way,’ she says simply. ‘My life is a study in parental disappointment.’

      ‘Surely not.’ I’m not joking now. ‘Look at what you’ve achieved. They must be proud of you?’

      ‘Proud?’ She shakes her head on a small laugh. ‘Proud is what they would have been if I’d married the CEO of Alpine Moor TV at twenty-three, like they wanted. Proud is what they’d be if I’d pursued the modelling career my mom desperately tried to line up for me. Proud is what they’d be if I’d stayed home in LA and troubled myself with my mom’s hospital benefits.’

      ‘But you’re doing something so much bigger,’ I point out. ‘Look at the business you’ve built, and the charity you’re funding.’

      ‘Yes, but I deal with underprivileged kids, which is definitely not the kind of charity my mom thinks I should be championing.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘Oh, no. My mom would much rather I raise money to help embattled hedge-fund managers maintain their country club memberships.’

      She’s being sarcastic but I feel her resentment burning from her in waves, her hatred for wealth and society, her derision for its constructs evident.

      ‘A charity’s a charity,’ I say simply.

      ‘I used to think that too.’ Her smile is wistful. ‘I used to be so proud of my mom and dad and the work they did. Or the work I thought they did. My mom was forever organising benefits, fundraising, sponsoring events.’ She shakes her head mournfully. ‘Ironically, I probably got some of my philanthropic aspirations from Mom.’

      ‘Why is that ironic?’

      ‘Because, as I got older, I realised that my mom and dad really only cared about supporting the causes that sounded good. They wouldn’t go near domestic violence or women’s shelters, nothing to do with providing homeless women with sanitary items. My mom was mortified when I suggested any such thing.’

      Her words zing with anger, despite the fact we’re talking about events that transpired a long time ago.

      ‘Then there was the time I tried to fundraise for a charity that buys groceries for families on food stamps. My mom honestly threatened to disown me.’ Her smile is just a tight imitation.

      ‘I’d like to say I’m surprised,’ I say, eventually. ‘But that kind of attitude is pretty prevalent.’

      ‘Yeah, only amongst the very, very wealthy.’

      ‘Not everyone feels that way.’

      ‘A lot do.’ She shrugs. ‘And I hate it.’

      ‘I can tell.’

      She looks at me appraisingly for several beats. ‘Can I tell you something? In confidence?’

      It annoys me that she even needs to check. ‘Of course.’

      ‘When I first built The Billionaires’ Club, I used to get a perverse kind of pleasure from taking money from the super rich and funnelling it to support a cause most of them would be embarrassed to be associated with.’

      ‘So the club was spite?’ I murmur, a smile on my lips because it’s so ridiculously badass I can’t help loving that.

      ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘It was five per cent spite.’ And then she laughs, such a contrast to the mood of a moment ago that my insides glow with warmth.

      ‘I think most of our membership is actually pretty cool. Sure, there are a few people who wouldn’t know a social conscience if it grew legs and bit them on their jewelled rears,’ she says with a flick of her brow. ‘But I’ve been bowled over by some really amazing offers from some club members over the years. Chance wouldn’t be what it is without the club. I can never resent the members for that.’

      ‘Tell me about the charity.’

      ‘What do you want to know?’

      I don’t really want to admit how little I know about it. I gather it’s something to do with children, underprivileged children, but that’s about it.

      ‘Why start your own charity rather than working for one that’s already up and running?’

      ‘Control,’ she answers, simply and passionately. ‘And contacts. I have access to what the charity needs and I can cut out a lot of middlemen. Plus, I like to know that there’s no top-heavy administrative board or whatever. I run everything. It’s my baby, my project.’

      Her passion is overwhelming.

      ‘Why children?’ I prompt conversationally, but her face tightens, her eyes flashing away from me. She reaches for her beer, and I know she’s using it to buy time. I wait with the appearance of patience as she sips her drink. But I’m not letting her move on.

      ‘Imogen?’

      She’s upset. Her features are strained, her eyes showing a depth of emotion that I didn’t expect.

      Still, I don’t let it go.

      ‘You must care a great deal to have poured so much energy into it.’

      ‘Yes.’ A whisper, barely.

      There’s more here. A story she’s not telling me and, for some reason, it feels vitally important that I know it.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘It’s important,’ she says quietly, simply, turning to face me once more, her eyes showing a profound pain.

      ‘Lots of things are important. Why this?’

      ‘There

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