Falling for her mysterious boss...

When Australian heiress April Molyneux is left brokenhearted, she looks for a new start in London. Determined to stand on her own two feet, she finds herself working for the reclusive yet sexy billionaire Hugh Bennell.

Hugh likes his life—and his emotions—uncomplicated, but meeting glamorous April changes everything. Hugh doesn’t do relationships, and April wants to keep the independence she’s worked so hard for. But with these sparks flying...resistance might be futile!

Hugh was still so close. Closer than he’d ever been before.

Tall enough and near enough that he needed to look down at her and she needed to tilt her chin up.

April explored his face. The sharpness of his nose, the thick slash of his eyebrows, the strength of his jaw. This close she could see delicate lines bracketing his lips, a freckle on his cheek, a rogue grey hair among the stubble.

He was studying her, too. His gaze took in her eyes, her cheeks, her nose. Her lips.

There it was.

Not subtle now, nor easily dismissed as imagination as it had been down in his basement apartment. Or every other time they’d been in the same room together.

But it had been there, she realizsed. Since the first time they’d met.

That focus. That...intent.

That heat.

Between them. Within her.

It made her pulse race and caused her to lost in his gaze when he finally wrenched his away from her lips.

Since they’d met his eyes had revealed little. Only enough for her to know, deep in her heart, that he wasn’t as hard and unfeeling as he so steadfastly attempted to be.

Behind the Billionaire’s Guarded Heart

Leah Ashton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RITA® Award–winning author LEAH ASHTON never expected to write books. She grew up reading everything she could lay her hands on—from pony books to the backs of cereal boxes at breakfast. One day she discovered the page-turning, happy-sigh-inducing world of romance novels...and one day, much later, wondered if maybe she could write one, too.

Leah now lives in Perth, Western Australia, and writes happy-ever-afters for heroines who definitely don’t need saving. She has a gorgeous husband, two amazing daughters and the best intentions to plan meals and maintain an effortlessly tidy home. When she’s not writing, Leah loves all-day breakfast, rambling conversations and laughing until she cries. She really hates cucumber. And scary movies. You can visit Leah at www.leah-ashton.com or Facebook.com/leahashtonauthor.

For Jen—who writes beautiful messages in cards,

talks with her hands and giggles at all my jokes.

Thank you for all your help with this book,

and for your belief in my writing.

You’re fabulous, Jen. I miss you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

THE SUNSET WAS PERFECT—all orange and purple on a backdrop of darkening blue. Just the right number of clouds stretched their tendrils artistically along the horizon.

The beach, however, was not so perfect.

It had been a warm Perth day, so April Molyneux hadn’t been alone in her plans for a beachside picnic dinner. Around her, people congregated about mounds of battered fish and chips on beds of butcher’s paper. Others had picnic baskets, or brown paper takeaway bags, or melting ice cream cones from the pink and white van parked above the sand dunes.

There were beach towels everywhere, body boards bouncing in the waves, children building sandcastles, women power walking along the beach in yoga pants, gossiping at a mile a minute. Then a football team jogged by, shirtless and in matching deep purple shorts.

April wanted to scream. This was not what she’d planned.

This was not a private, romantic, beachside tête-à-tête.

Evan lay sprawled on their picnic blanket, his back turned away from April as he scrolled through his phone.

Today was their wedding anniversary. Three years.

#anniversary #threeyears #love #romance

Right now April felt like dumping the contents of the gourmet picnic box she’d ordered all over his head—sourdough baguettes, cultured butter, artisan cheeses, muscatels and all.

‘Do we have to do this?’ Evan asked, not even looking at her.

‘You mean spend time with your wife on your anniversary?’ Her words were sharp, but April’s throat felt tight.

The sea-breeze whipped her long blonde hair across her eyes, and she tucked it back behind her ears angrily. She sat with her legs curled beneath her, a long pale pink maxi-dress covering her platinum bikini. She stared daggers at Evan’s back. His attention was still concentrated on the screen of his phone.

‘You know that isn’t what I meant.’

She did. But she’d spent weeks leading up to today, posting photos of their wedding to her one point two million followers.

#anniversary #threeyears #love #romance

She’d organised for the Molyneux family jet to take them up north, up past Broome. She’d found the perfect—perfect—private beach. She’d had the stupid picnic box couriered up from Margaret River, and she’d had her assistant organise a gorgeous rainbow mohair picnic blanket, complete with a generous donation to the Molyneux Foundation.

And then Evan had called from work as she’d been packing her overnight bag. He’d asked if they could cancel their trip. He didn’t really feel like going, and could they stay home instead?

Coming to this beach had been the compromise.

It wasn’t even about the beach, really. Just the photo.

All he needed to do was smile for the camera and then they could go home and eat their fancy picnic in front of the TV. Or order pizza. Whatever. It didn’t matter. And Evan could eat silently, then retreat to his study and barely talk to her for the rest of the evening.

Just as he did most nights.

Again, April’s throat felt tight.

Finally Evan moved. He shifted, sitting up so he could face her. He took off his sunglasses, and for some reason April did too.

For the first time in what suddenly felt like ages he looked directly at her. Really intensely, his hazel eyes steady against her own silvery blue.

‘I don’t think we can do this any more,’ he said. Firmly, and in a way that probably should have surprised her.

April pretended to misunderstand. ‘Come on—it’s just a stupid photo. We need to do this. I have contractual obligations.’

For product placement: The mohair blanket. The picnic box. Her sunglasses. Her bikini.

Donations to the Molyneux Foundation were contingent on this photograph.

Evan shook his head. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

They’d started marriage counselling only a year after their wedding. They’d stopped trying for a baby shortly afterwards, both agreeing that it was best to wait until they’d sorted things out.

But they hadn’t sorted things out.

They’d both obediently attended counselling, made concerted efforts to listen to each other...but nothing had really changed.

They still loved each other, though. They’d both been clear on that.

April knew she still loved Evan. She’d loved him since he’d asked her to his Year Twelve ball.

To her, that had been all that mattered. Eventually it would go back to how it had used to be between them. Surely?

‘I’ll always love you, April,’ Evan said, in a terribly careful tone that she knew he must have practised. ‘But I don’t love you the way I know I should. The way I should love the woman I’m married too. You deserve better, April.’

Oh, God.

The words were all mashed together, tangled up in the salty breeze. All April could hear, repeated against her skull, was: I don’t love you...

His lips quirked upwards. ‘I guess I deserve better, too. We both deserve that love you see in the movies, or in those books you read. Don’t you think? And it’s never been like that for us.’

He paused, as if waiting for her to say something, but she had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

‘Look, I would never cheat on you, April, but a while ago I met someone who made me think that maybe there was a bigger love out there for me, you know?’ This bit definitely wasn’t practised—his words were all rushed and messy. ‘I respected you too much to pursue her. I cut her out of my life and I haven’t been in contact with her. At all. I promise. But I can’t stop thinking about her, and I...’

His gaze had long ago stopped meeting hers, but now it swung back.

He swallowed. ‘I want a divorce, April,’ he said with finality. ‘I’m sorry.’

She could only nod. Nod and nod, over and over.

‘April?’

Her throat felt as if it had completely closed over. She fumbled for her sunglasses, desperate to cover the wetness in her eyes.

‘Let’s just take this stupid picture,’ she said, her words strangled.

His eyes widened, but he nodded.

Awkwardly, they posed—only their shoulders touching. April took the photo quickly, without any thought at all...but amazingly the beach in the photo’s background was perfectly empty just for that millisecond as she pressed the button on her phone.

To her followers it would seem perfect.

A private beach, a handsome, loving husband, a glorious sunset...

Silently she cropped the image, then added her caption and hashtags.

Three amazing years with this guy! #anniversary #threeyears #love #romance

But she deleted the last hashtag before she posted it:

#over

* * *

Hugh Bennell’s gaze was drawn to the black door at the top of the grey stone stairs. The paintwork and brass door hardware all looked a bit dull—and not just because the sun was only just now rising on this rather dreary London morning. A handful of leaves had gathered where a doormat should be, and a single hopeful weed reached out from beneath the doorstep.

He’d have to sort that out.

But for now he simply wheeled his bike—lights still flashing from his pre-dawn ride—straight past the steps that led to the three-storey chocolate and cream Victorian end-of-terrace, and instead negotiated a matching set of steps that led downwards to his basement flat.

Inside, the cleats on the base of his cycling shoes clicked on the parquet flooring, and his road bike’s wheels squeaked noisily. He hung the bike on its wall hanger, immediately across from the basement front door. Above it hung his mountain bike, and to the right of that was the door to one of his spare bedrooms.

That door was painted white, and the paintwork still gleamed as fresh as the day he’d had the apartment painted. He noted that the brass knob still shone—in fact his whole house shone with meticulous cleanliness, just as he liked it.

Hugh settled in at his desk after a shower, his dark hair still damp. The desk was right at the front of his apartment, pushed up against the window. Above him foot traffic was increasing as London got ready for the workday. From his viewpoint all he could see were ankles and feet—in heels and boots and lace-up shoes. The angle was too acute for anyone passing to see him—he’d checked, of course—so he could leave his blinds open, allowing natural light to filter across his workspace.

He placed his mug of tea on the coaster immediately to the right of his open laptop. Beneath that lay the day’s to-do list, carefully formulated and handwritten the previous evening.

He’d always loved lists, even as a young kid. He remembered his mum’s bemusement when he’d stuck a list above his bedside table to remind himself what to pack for school each day of the week. He’d found it calming to have it all written out—a much better alternative, he’d thought, to his mother’s panicked realisations at the school gate and her frantic delivery of forgotten sports shoes at morning break.

‘A neat freak with lists!’ His mum had laughed. ‘How could you possibly be mine?’

To the bottom of his list for today he added Paint front door and polish brass.

He was certain the team at Precise thought his penchant for paper lists eccentric for a man who owned and ran a multi-million-dollar mobile app empire—but then, the team thought him eccentric for many more reasons than that.

A reminder popped up on his screen for a nine a.m. appointment, and he clicked through to sign in for the online meeting. Already four of the five other attendees were logged in, their faces visible via their webcams in a grid to the right of screen.

But in Hugh’s box there was only the generic grey silhouette—he never chose the video option, and he kept the camera at the top of his laptop taped over just in case.

Because, for Hugh Bennell, maintaining his privacy was non-negotiable.

He was in control of exactly what he revealed to the world.

His laptop dinged as the final attendee arrived.

‘Looks like everyone’s here,’ Hugh said. ‘Let’s get started.’

CHAPTER ONE

Six weeks later—London

APRIL FELT GOOD.

She was thirty-two, and her first ever job interview was today.

Sure, she’d been interviewed for the couple of internships she’d had back at uni, but they didn’t count. Today was her first real-life I actually really, really want this job interview.

That was significant.

She smiled.

Around her, the Tube train was packed. Everyone looked completely absorbed in their own world—reading a book, swiping through a phone, gazing out of the window into the blackness of the tunnel.

Nobody noticed her. Nobody realised how momentous this day actually was.

Since her disastrous wedding anniversary there’d been weeks of numbness for April. There’d been shock, then anger, then the awfulness of telling her mum and her sisters, Ivy and Mila. There’d been weeks of meetings with lawyers and endless discussions about property settlement. There’d been tears and wine and long conversations.

Time had seemed to go on and on. Especially at night, when she’d been alone in her ridiculously too big concrete-and-angles home. Mila had stayed a few nights to keep her company—but she had her own life and a partner to worry about. Her mum had stayed every night for a fortnight, determinedly focusing on the practicalities of lawyers and legal details. Ivy had brought her son, Nate, to visit regularly—although she had been mortified when the toddler had accidentally pushed a salad bowl off the table, shattering it into millions of pieces.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ April had reassured her. ‘It’s one less thing we need to decide who gets to keep.’

At first, sorting out the things that she and Evan had bought together had seemed vitally important. Maybe it was the focus it had given her—or maybe there was more of her ruthless businesswoman mother in her than she’d thought.

But as the weeks had worn on, and she’d spent more time staring at her ceiling, not sleeping, all their stuff had begun to feel meaningless.

As it probably should for a woman with a billion-dollar family trust that she held with her sisters.

So Evan could have everything. Of course he could have everything.

I don’t love you...

April didn’t sugar-coat what Evan had said. He’d wrapped it up in superfluous words to blunt the blow, but that didn’t hide the reality: Evan didn’t love her. He’d never loved her—at least not the way April had loved him.

In those endless nights she’d analysed that relentlessly.

How could she not have known?

I don’t love you.

You.

Who was she, if not married to Evan?

The feminist within her was horrified that she could even ask herself this question. But she did. Again and again:

Who was she?

This woman Evan hadn’t loved enough. This woman who had been oblivious to the end of her marriage.

Who was she?

She was thirty-two, single and had never worked a day in her life.

Her home had been a wedding gift from her mother.

Everything she’d ever bought had been with a credit card linked to the Molyneux Trust. She had been indulged by a family who probably didn’t think her capable of being anything but a frivolous socialite. Why would they? She’d applied herself to nothing else. Her days had been filled with shopping and expensive charity luncheons. Her evenings with art gallery openings and luxurious fundraising auctions. She’d spent her spare time taking photos of herself and posting them online, so millions of people could click ‘like’ and comment on her fabulous perfect life.

What a sham. What a joke.

She hadn’t earned a cent of the fortune she’d flouted to the world.

And her husband hadn’t loved her.

She was a fraud.

But no more.

April smoothed the charcoal fabric of her pencil skirt over her thighs. It wasn’t designer. In fact it had probably cost about five per cent of the cost of her favourite leather tote bag—which she’d left back home in Perth.

She’d left everything behind.

She’d booked a one-way ticket to London and opened up a new credit card account at her bank—politely declining the option to have the balance cleared monthly by the Molyneux Trust. From now on she was definitely paying her own way.

She’d also located her British passport—a document she had thanks to her mother’s dual citizenship of both Australia and the UK.

Only then had she told her family what she was doing.

And then she’d ignored every single one of their concerns and hopped onto her flight the next day.

Now here she was. Three days in London.

She’d found a flat. She’d bought reasonably priced clothes for the first time in her life. She’d researched the heck out of the environmental sustainability consulting firm where she was about to have an interview.

Oh—as she noted her long ponytail cascading over the shoulder of her hound’s-tooth coat—she’d also dyed her hair brown.

She felt like a different person. Like a new person.

She even had a new name, of sorts.

The name that was on her birth certificate and her passport: April Spencer.

Like her sisters, she’d made the choice to use her mother’s surname within a few years of her father leaving them. But she’d never bothered having it formally changed.

Turned out that had now come in handy.

Today she didn’t feel like April Molyneux, the billionaire mining heiress whose life had collapsed around her.

Today she was April Spencer, and today she had a job interview.

And for the first time in six weeks she felt good.

* * *

As Hugh probably should’ve expected, it had rained through the remainder of September and then most of October. So it was a cool but clear November morning when he retrieved the tin of black paint from beneath his stairs and headed out from his basement to the front door of the main house.

It was just before sunrise, and even on a workday Islington street was almost deserted. A couple walking a Labrador passed by as he laid out his drop cloth, and as he painted the occasional jogger, walker or cyclist zipped past—along with the gradually thickening traffic.

It didn’t take long to paint the door: just a quick sand-down, a few minor imperfections in the woodwork to repair, then a fresh coat of paint.

Now it just needed to dry.

The door had to stay propped open for a few hours before he could safely close it again. He’d known this, so he’d planned ahead and dumped his backpack—which contained his laptop—in the hallway before he’d started work. Now he stepped inside, his work boots loud on the blue, cream and grey geometric tessellated tile entryway.

He yanked off his boots, grabbed his laptop out of his bag and then on thick socks padded over to the grand staircase ahead of him. To his left was the first of two reception rooms on the ground floor—but he wasn’t going to work in there. Instead he settled on a stair third from the bottom, rested his laptop on his jeans and got to work.

Or at least that was the plan.

Instead his emails remained unread, and the soft beep of instant message notifications persisted but were ignored.

Who was he kidding? He was never going to get any work done in here.

It was impossible when his attention remained on insignificant details: the way the weak morning sunlight sauntered through the wedged-open door to mingle with the dust he’d disturbed. The scent of the house: cardboard packing boxes, musty air and windows closed for far too long. The light—or lack of it. With every door but the front door sealed shut, an entryway he remembered as bright with light seemed instead gloomy and...abandoned.

Which, of course, it was.

He hadn’t stepped foot in here since the day he’d moved into the basement.

Back then—three years ago—it had been too hard. He hadn’t been ready to deal with this house.

Hugh stood up, suddenly needing to move. But not out through the front door.

Instead he went to the internal door only a few steps away and with a firm grip twisted the brass knob and yanked the door open.

He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath—but he let it out now in a defeated sigh. As if he’d expected to see something different.

But he’d known what was in here.

Once, this room had been where his mother and her second husband had hosted their guests with cups of tea and fancy biscuits.

That would be impossible now. If any antique furniture remained, it was hidden. Completely. By boxes. Boxes that filled the room in every direction—stacked neatly like bricks as tall as he was—six foot and higher.

Boxes, boxes, boxes—so many he couldn’t even begin to count.

Hugh reached out to touch the nearest box. It sat on a stack four high, its plain cardboard surface slightly misshapen by whatever was crammed within it.

Some of the many boxes that surrounded it—beneath, beside and beyond—were occasionally labelled unhelpfully: purple treasures...sparkly things.

Others—the work of the woman Hugh had employed to help his mother—had detailed labels and colour-coded stickers: a relic of Hugh’s attempts to organise his mother’s hoard into some sort of system.

But his mother had resisted—joyfully creating ridiculous categories and covertly shuffling items between boxes—and in the end her frustrated assistant had correctly informed Hugh that it was an utter waste of time.

Which he’d already known—but then, what option had he had?

Doctors, specialists, consultants...all had achieved nothing.

How could they? When his mother knew exactly what she was doing?

She’d been here before, after all. Before Len. When it had been just Hugh and his mum and her hoard. And her endless quest for love.

With Len she’d finally had the love she’d searched for for so long. A love that had been powerful enough to allow her to let go of all the things she’d collected in the years since Hugh’s father had left them. Things she’d surrounded herself with and held on to so tightly when she’d been unable to possess the one thing she’d so badly wanted: love.

Without Len his mother had believed that her hoard was all she’d had left. And, despite still having Hugh, despite his desperate efforts, it hadn’t been enough.

He’d been helpless to prevent the hoard that had overshadowed his childhood from returning.

Hugh closed his eyes.

There was so much stuff in this room that if he walked another step he would walk into a wall of boxes.

It was exactly the same in almost every room in the house—every living space, every bedroom. Except the kitchen, halls and bathrooms—and that was only because of the staff Hugh had employed and his mother’s reluctant agreement to allow them into the house each day.

So that was all he’d managed: to pay people to keep the few bits of empty floor space in his mother’s house clean. And to clear a safe path from her bedroom to the front and back doors in case of a fire.

Really, it was not all that different from how it had been when he’d been ten. Except this time he’d had loads of money to outsource what he’d only barely managed as a kid.

And this place was a hell of a lot bigger than the tiny council flat he’d grown up in.

He opened his eyes, but just couldn’t stare at those awful uniform boxes any more.

Back in the entry hall, Hugh grabbed his laptop and backpack, ready to leave...but then he stilled.

The new paint on the door was still wet. He wasn’t going anywhere.

But he also wasn’t going to be able to work—it would seem that three years had done nothing to ease the tension, the frustration and the hopelessness that those damn boxes elicited within him.

Even waiting another three years—or ten—to deal with them wasn’t going to make any difference.

They’d still represent a lot more than they should.

They needed to go. All of them.

This house needed to be bright and light once again. It needed to breathe.

So he sat back down on the bottom step of the grand old staircase, knowing exactly what he was going to do.

It was time.

* * *

It had started with confusion at the supermarket checkout.

‘Do you have another card?’ the checkout operator had asked.

‘Pardon me?’ April had said—because, well, it had never happened to her before.

It had, it seemed, happened several times to the not particularly patient operator—Bridget, according to her name tag. She’d studied April, her gaze flat, as April had tried what she knew to be her correct PIN twice more.

And then, as April had searched hopelessly for an alternative card—she’d cut up every single card linked to the Molyneux Trust back in Perth—Bridget had asked her to move aside so she could serve the next in a long line of customers.

April had dithered momentarily: was she supposed to return the Thai green curry ready-meal, the bunch of bananas and bottle of eye make-up remover to the shelves before she left?

But then the weight of pitying stares—possibly only imagined—had kicked in, and April had exited the shop as fast as she’d been able, her sneakers suddenly unbelievably squeaky on the supermarket’s vinyl flooring.

Now she was at home, still in her gym gear, on her butter-soft grey leather couch, her laptop before her.

For only the second time in the four weeks since she’d been in London she logged in to her internet banking—the other time being when she’d set up her account at the bank. Her fully furnished flat didn’t come with a printer, so she’d have to scroll through her credit card statement onscreen.

But it was still easy to see the reason for her mortification at the checkout—she’d maxed out her credit card.

How was that even possible?

She’d been so careful with her spending—more so as each still jobless week had passed.

She hadn’t bought any new clothes for weeks. She’d stopped eating at cafés and restaurants, and had instead become quite enamoured with what she considered a very English thing: convenience stores with huge walls of pre-made sandwiches in triangular plastic packaging. And microwaveable ready-meals for dinner.

They must only be costing a few pounds a meal, surely?

She had joined the gym, but that had seemed very cheap. And fortunately the flat came with Wi-Fi, so she hadn’t had to pay for that.

So where had all her money gone?

Five minutes later she knew.

With pen and paper, she’d documented exactly where her money had been spent.

Her rent—and four weeks’ deposit—was the biggest culprit. Only now did it dawn on her that even if she did get one of the many, many jobs she’d been applying for, her starting salary would barely cover her rent. With absolutely nothing left over for sandwiches in plastic triangles.

She flopped back onto her couch and looked around her flat.

It was small, but—if she was objective—not that small. And it was beautifully furnished. Expensively furnished. Her kitchen appliances were the same insanely priced brand she’d had back in Perth. Her small bathroom was tiled in floor-to-ceiling marble.

She even had a balcony.

But she couldn’t afford a balcony. She couldn’t afford any of this.

Because she didn’t have any money. At all.

Not for the first time in four weeks, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake.

The first time had been after she hadn’t got the first job she’d been interviewed for.

Now, several job interviews later—and many more applications that had led to absolutely nothing—her initial optimism astounded her. She literally had a degree, an internship and then almost ten years of nothing.

Well—not nothing. But nothing she was about to put on her CV. A million followers and a charitable foundation that she’d established herself could possibly sound impressive to some HR departments. But they weren’t relevant to the environmental officer roles she was applying for.

And, just as importantly, they would reveal her real name. And she just couldn’t do that.

Although it was tempting at times. Like tonight. How easy it would be to still be April Molyneux and organise the reissue of one of the many credit cards linked to her insane fortune? By this time tomorrow she could be eating all the Thai green curry she wanted.

She could even upgrade to a far more impressive flat.

April pushed herself up and off the couch, to search for something to eat in her lovely kitchen.

Her fridge was stocked only with expensive Australian Riesling, sparkling designer water—also expensive—a partially eaten wheel of camembert cheese—expensive—and the organic un-homogenised milk that she’d bought because she’d liked the pretty glass bottle it came in—probably also more expensive than it needed to be.

April felt sick.

Was she really so disconnected from the reality of what things cost?

Her whole life she’d known she was rich. But she’d thought she still had some sense of the reality of living in the real world: without a trust fund, without the mansion your mum had bought for you.

She’d liked to think she’d projected some sort of ‘everywoman’ persona to her Instagram and Facebook followers. That despite the good fortune of her birth that she was really just like everybody else.

She poured herself a bowl of probably overpriced granola and used up the rest of her fancy milk, then sat back in front of her laptop.

Earlier today, before heading to the gym, she’d scheduled the next couple of days’ worth of social media posts.

April Spencer might be in London, but April Molyneux—to her followers, anyway—was still in Perth, effortlessly adjusting to her new single life.

Before she’d dyed her hair she’d made sure she’d honoured every single product placement agreement she’d signed, and had posed for months’ worth of photos. She’d taken even more selfies, with all manner of random backgrounds—she’d come up with something to caption them with as she needed to.

Plus she still took random photos while here in London—the habit was too ingrained for her to give it up completely. She just made sure her hair and anything identifiably London wasn’t in any of the photos. So the book she was reading...the shade she’d painted her toenails...that kind of stuff. All was still documented, still shared, interwoven with her blonde April photos and carefully coordinated with her assistant back home—thankfully still paid for by the Molyneux Foundation.

So her social media life carried on. Her followers continued to grow.

And what were they seeing?

She scrolled down the page, taking in her last few years of photos in a colourful blur.

A blur of international holidays, secluded luxury Outback retreats, designer shoes, amazing jewellery, beautiful clothes, a gorgeous husband and attractive—wealthy—friends.

They were seeing an unbelievably privileged woman who had absolutely no idea what it was like to exist in the real world.

April slapped her laptop screen shut, suddenly disgusted with herself.

And ashamed.

The whole point of all this—the move to London, her quest for a job, living alone for the first time in her life—had been about finding herself. Defining who she was if she wasn’t Evan’s wife. Or one of the Molyneux heiresses.

But so far all she’d achieved was a self-indulgent month during which she’d patted herself on the back for ‘living like a normal person’ but achieved absolutely nothing other than a new, reasonably priced wardrobe.

She knew her mum, Ivy and Mila all assumed this was just a bit of a game to her. They assumed that once she did eventually get a job she’d supplement her income with Molyneux money. On reflection, no one had pointed out the now damned obvious fact that she couldn’t afford this apartment.

And, unlike April, they would know. Mila had never used her Molyneux fortune: she knew exactly how far a dollar or a pound could stretch. And Ivy had dedicated her life to building up the Molyneux fortune—so she knew, too.

She couldn’t even be annoyed with them. Up until tonight, and that stupid, sad ‘declined’ beep at the cash register, they’d been right.

They’d been right to think that their pampered middle sister couldn’t cut it in the real world.

And, if she was brutally honest, she hadn’t even been trying. She’d thought she had, but people in the real world didn’t have no income for a month—and no savings—and then casually take their time applying for some mythical perfect job while living in a luxury apartment.

She flipped her laptop open again.

She needed to find a job. Immediately.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE HAD A nice voice, Hugh thought.

Unquestionably Australian. Warm. Professional.

She didn’t sound nervous, although she did laugh every now and again—which was possibly nerves. Or possibly not. Her laugh was natural. Also warm. Pretty.

Hugh’s lips quirked. How whimsical of him. How unlike him.

Currently, April...he glanced down at the printed CV before him...April Spencer was answering the last of his four interview questions.

Rather well, actually.

He leant back in his chair, listening carefully as her voice filled the room, projected by the speakers hooked up to his laptop.

This was the third interview his recruitment consultant had organised, although the other two applicants had been quite different from April. One an art curator, another an antique specialist.

Both complete overkill for the position. He’d been clear with the consultant, Caro, that his mother’s collections were not of any monetary value—although Caro had made some valid points that knowledge of antiques and curation skills might still be of use.

But still... He felt as if employing either skill-set would be pretending that all those boxes were something more than they actually were. Which was a hoard. A hoard he wanted out of his life.

‘...so I feel my experience working for the Molyneux Foundation demonstrates my understanding of the importance of client privacy,’ April said as she continued her answer. ‘I regularly dealt with donors who requested their names remain absolutely confidential. At other times donors wished for their donation—whether it be product, service or otherwise—to be announced at a date or time suitable to their company. In both scenarios complete discretion was essential.’

‘But your role at the foundation, Ms Spencer, was as social media coordinator,’ Hugh prompted, scanning her CV. ‘Why would you have access to such sensitive information?’

There was the briefest pause. ‘It’s quite a small foundation,’ April said, her tone confident. ‘And I worked closely with the managing director. It was my job to schedule posts and monitor comments—I needed to know what to announce, and also what comments to remove in case anyone gave one of our generous benefactors away.’

From the notes Caro had provided, it seemed April’s work with the Molyneux Foundation had been the reason she’d been put forward. Hugh had made it clear that a proven ability to maintain strict confidentiality was essential for this position.

‘And you’re available immediately?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ April said.

Hugh nodded at the phone. ‘Right—thank you, Ms Spencer,’ he said. ‘A decision will be made shortly.’

Then he ended the call.

* * *

After the interview April left the small meeting room and returned to the recruiter’s office.

It had all been rather bizarre. She’d come in this morning expecting to be assigned to an interview for something similar to her two jobs so far—both short-term entry level social media roles to cover unexpected leave—and yet she’d been put forward for a job unpacking boxes, with a phone interview to take place almost immediately.

Across from her, at her large, impressive desk, sat Caroline Zhu, the senior recruiter at the agency April had been working for since her supermarket debacle three weeks earlier.

‘I’m sorry,’ April said. ‘I don’t think the interview went particularly well.’

Terribly, actually. She felt she’d answered the questions well enough, but Hugh Bennell had barely said a word. Certainly not a word of encouragement, anyway.

‘Possibly,’ Caro said, in the no-nonsense voice that matched her jet-black no-nonsense ponytail. ‘But unlikely. It’s been several years since Mr Bennell has required my services, but I’m certain his interview technique has not changed. He is not one for superfluous conversation.’

April nodded. Yes, she’d got that.

It fitted, she supposed—her frantic internet searching in the short period of time she’d had before her interview had revealed little about Hugh Bennell. She knew of Precise, of course—practically everyone with a smartphone would have at least one app from the company. April, in fact, had about six, all related to scheduling, analytics and online collaboration. But, unlike other international tech companies that were synonymous with their founders, Hugh Bennell was no more than a name on the company website—and the subject of several newspaper articles in which a string of journalists had attempted to discover the man behind such a massive self-made fortune.

But all had failed.

All April had learnt from those quickly skimmed articles was that Hugh had grown up in council housing in London, the only child of a single, hard-working mother. As soon as he’d left university it had been as if he’d wiped all trace of himself from public record—she’d found no photos of him, and his Wikipedia entry was incredibly brief.

It was strikingly unusual in this share-everything world.

Mysterious, even.

Intriguing, actually.

‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Caroline continued. ‘In my experience, Mr Bennell makes extremely swift decisions.’

‘Are you able to tell me a bit more about the position?’

Caroline raised an impatient eyebrow. ‘As I said, the information Mr Bennell provided is limited. He has a room full of a large number of boxes that require sorting and disposal. Not antiques. Nothing dangerous. He requires someone trustworthy and hardworking who can start immediately. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘And you thought I was suitable because...?’

‘Because you’re keen to work as much as possible for as much pay as possible. You were quite clear on that when we first met.’

True. After some judicious reimagining of her work experience—she’d repositioned herself as April Spencer, Social Media Manager at the Molyneux Foundation, which was technically true—she’d turned up at the best-reviewed temp agency within walking distance of her overpriced flat at nine a.m. the Monday after her credit card had been declined.

She’d been absolutely—possibly over-zealously—clear in her goals. To work hard and earn as much money as she could. In fact, she’d even found a night job, stacking shelves at a supermarket near her new home.

She needed her credit card debt cleared pronto. She needed money yesterday.

Fortunately Caroline Zhu had seemed to consider her desperation-tinged enthusiasm a positive.

The phone rang in pretty musical tones.

‘Ah, here we go,’ Caroline said, raising her eyebrows at April. She picked up the phone, had the briefest of conversations that ended with, ‘Excellent news, Mr Bennell. I’ll let the successful applicant know.’

She hung up and turned back to April.

‘Just as I thought,’ Caroline said. ‘I’m rarely wrong on such things. Mr Bennell has selected you as his preferred candidate. You start immediately.’

‘Unpacking boxes?’

‘For a mouthwatering sum an hour.’

‘I’m in,’ April said with a grin.

Caroline might have let slip the slightest of smiles. ‘You already are. Here’s the address.’

* * *

Hugh Bennell’s house was beautiful.

It felt familiar, actually—she’d stayed with her mum and sisters at a similar house for Christmas, many years ago. It was the year she and her sisters had campaigned for a white Christmas and, like so many things in her childhood and adult life, it had just happened.

She straightened her shoulders, then knocked on the front door.

She’d been told Hugh Bennell would be meeting her—which had surprised her. Surely the boss of a company like Precise had staff to deal with a lowly employee like herself?

But then, she’d supposed he also had staff to interview lowly employees like herself—and he’d already done that himself.

If anything, it just added to the general sense of mystery: mysterious boxes for her to unpack, complete with a mysterious billionaire CEO who was mysteriously hands-on with the recruitment of unskilled labour.

It was late morning now. She hadn’t had time to change, so she still wore what she now considered her ‘interview suit’. Her shoes were freshly polished, and her hair was looped in an elegant low bun that she was rather proud of. Her stylist back in Perth would be impressed.

The liquorice-black door opened.

And revealed a man.

A tall man. With dark hair, dark stubble. Dark eyes.

Dark eyes that met her own directly. Very directly.

Momentarily April felt frozen beneath that gaze.

So this is what a mysterious tech billionaire looks like.

Jaw-droppingly handsome.

She blinked. ‘Good morning,’ she said, well practised from years of socialising at every event anyone could imagine. ‘I’m April Spencer. Are you Mr Bennell?’

He nodded. ‘You got here quickly.’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘The agency emphasised the urgency of this placement.’

Silence. But, despite her usually sparkling conversational skills, April didn’t rush to fill it. Instead she simply stood still beneath Hugh Bennell’s gaze.

He was still looking at her. Unreadably but intensely. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation.

But not entirely uncomfortable.

There was something about him—the way he stood, maybe—that created a sense of calm. And of time.

Time to take a handful of moments to study the man before her—to take in the contrast of his black hair and olive skin. To admire the thick slashes of his eyebrows, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the elegance of his mouth.

He was more interesting than gorgeous, she realised, with a slightly crooked nose and an angular chin. His too-long hair and his stubble—forgotten, she was sure, rather than fashionable.

But it was that sum of those imperfect parts that made a darkly, devastatingly attractive whole.

And definitely not what she’d been expecting.

Whatever she’d thought a mysterious billionaire who deliberately shunned the spotlight would look like, this was not it.

He was also nothing like Evan.

That realisation came from left field, shocking her.

April blinked again. What was she doing?

‘Please come in,’ Hugh Bennell said. As naturally as if only a beat of time had passed.

Maybe it had?

April felt flustered and confused—and seriously annoyed with herself.

She’d just met her new boss. She needed to pull herself together.

She was probably just tired from the long hours she’d been working.

But did tiredness explain the way her gaze documented the breadth of her new boss’s shoulders as she stepped inside?

Nope.

There was no way she could pretend she didn’t know what the fireworks in her belly meant. It had just been a long time since they’d been associated with anyone but her husband.

And a pretty long time since she’d associated them with Evan.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.

No. No. No, no, no.

She had not flown halfway around the world to turn into a puddle over a man. Over her boss. No matter how mysterious.

That certainly wasn’t why she was working two jobs and sharing a room in a truly awful shared house.

She’d come to London to live independently. Without her mother’s money for the first time in her life and without Evan for the first time since she was seventeen.

And she needed this job. She certainly needed the very generous hourly rate.

She didn’t need fireworks, or the heat that had pooled in her belly.

‘Miss Spencer?’

April’s eyes snapped open. ‘Sorry, Mr Bennell.’

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

He did have gorgeous eyes. Thoughtful eyes that looked as if a million things were happening within them.

‘Of course,’ she said with a deliberate smile.

He inclined his chin, somewhat sceptically. ‘I was just saying that we’ll run through your responsibilities in the kitchen.’

She nodded, then followed him down the narrow hall beside the rather grand if dusty staircase.

As they walked April did her absolute best to shove all thoughts of fireworks or heat firmly out of her mind—and her body. Frustratingly, Hugh’s well-worn, perfectly fitted jeans did nothing to help this endeavour.

Neither did the unwanted realisation that—for the first time since Evan had told her he didn’t love her and her sparkling life had been dulled—she felt truly alive.

* * *

April Spencer was beautiful.

Objectively beautiful. As if she’d stepped off the pages of a catalogue and into his mother’s house.

For a while he’d stood and just looked at her, because he’d felt helpless to do anything but.

He’d looked at her chocolate-brown hair, at her porcelain skin and her crystal blue eyes. At her lips—pink, and shining with something glossy. At her fitted clothes and the long coat cinched in tight at her waist.

He’d expected a backpacker. Someone younger, really. Someone he could actually imagine lifting and shifting boxes.

This woman was not it.

This woman was poised and utterly together. Everything about her exuded strength and confidence. As if she was used to commanding a room. Or a corporation.

Not rummaging through boxes.

It just didn’t fit.

He’d let her in, but then he had turned to face her—to question her.

He needed to know who she was and what she was doing here.

But when he’d turned her eyes had been closed.

He’d watched her for a second as she’d taken deep breaths. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. And it was in that moment—while that knowledgeable gaze had been hidden—that he’d sensed vulnerability. A vulnerability that had been completely disguised by her polish and her smile.

And so, instead of interrogating her, he’d asked her if she was okay.

And instead of calling the agency back, asking for someone more suitable, he’d led her into the kitchen and handed her a confidentiality agreement to sign.

That moment of vulnerability had long gone now, and the woman in his mother’s kitchen revealed nothing of whatever he’d seen.

But he had seen it. And he of all people knew that people were rarely what they first appeared. He’d spent most his life hiding all but what people absolutely needed to know.

So for now he wasn’t going to question April Spencer.

But he did acknowledge her incongruity, and he didn’t like that this project to clear his mother’s house already felt more complicated than he wanted it to.

April laid his pen on top of the signed paperwork. ‘All done, Mr Bennell,’ she said with a smile.

‘Call me Hugh,’ he said firmly.

‘April,’ she said, with eyes that sparkled.

He was again struck by her beauty, but forced himself to disregard it. The attractiveness of his employees was none of his concern.

He nodded briskly, and didn’t return her smile. ‘You’ll be working alone,’ he said, getting straight to the point, ‘and I’ve provided guidelines for how I want items sorted. It should be self-explanatory: paperwork containing personal details is to be saved, all other papers to be shredded and recycled. Junk is to be disposed of. Anything of value should be separated for donation. I’ve provided the details of local charities you can contact to organise collection.’

April nodded, her gaze on the printed notes he’d left for her.

‘Is there anything other than papers you want kept?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said.

Maybe louder than he’d intended, as her head jerked upwards.

‘Okay,’ she said carefully. ‘And how do I contact you if I have any questions?’

‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m not to be disturbed.’

Her glossy lips formed a straight line. ‘So who can I contact?’

He shrugged dismissively. ‘You won’t need to contact anybody. It’s all made very clear in my instructions. Just send me an email at the end of each day with details of your progress.’

‘So you know what’s in the boxes? Caroline implied that you didn’t, which is why you need me to sort through them.’

Hugh shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

April met his gaze. ‘So you trust me to go through a whole room of boxes and make all the decisions myself?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s all junk. You aren’t going to stumble across a hidden fortune, I promise you.’

She looked unconvinced.

‘And besides—it’s not a room. It’s the whole house.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Pardon me?’

He ran a hand through his hair. He just wanted this conversation to be over and to be out of this place. This stuffed full, oppressive house which this woman only complicated further.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Three floors. Leave any furniture where it is. Don’t lift anything too heavy. I’ve left you a key and the security code. I expect you to work an eight-hour day.’ He stopped, mentally running through any further extraneous details he should mention. ‘If there’s an emergency—only an emergency—you can call me. My number is listed in the documentation.’

‘That’s it?’ she said.

‘That’s it,’ he said.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Where do I start?’

‘I’ll show you,’ he said.

Minutes later they stood before a wall built with pale brown cardboard.

‘Wow,’ April said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before.’

Hugh had.

‘Did you buy the place like this?’ she asked.

‘Something like that,’ he said, needing to leave. Not wanting to explain.

She’d work it out soon enough.

‘I’ll get this sorted for you,’ April said, catching his gaze.

He already had one foot in the foyer.

She spoke with assurance—reassurance?—and with questions in her eyes.

But Hugh didn’t want to be reassured, and he certainly didn’t want her questions. He hated the way this woman, this stranger—his employee—thought he needed to be somehow comforted.

He’d barely said a word since they’d entered this room—what had he revealed?

‘That’s what you’re here for,’ he said firmly.

Nothing more.

Now he could finally escape from the boxes, and his breath came steadily again only as he closed the front door behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

TWO DAYS LATER April sat cross-legged amongst a lot of boxes and a lot of dust.

She was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a floppy T-shirt—her jumper having been quickly removed thanks to the excellent heating and the many boxes she’d already shifted today—and yet another box lay ready for her attention. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and the local radio station filled the room via her phone and a set of small speakers she’d purchased before she’d realised she had absolutely no money.

But she was glad for her previous financial frivolity. This massive house was creaky and echoey, and she’d hated how empty it had felt on her first day, when she’d been sorting through boxes wearing a pencil skirt, heels and a blouse with a bow—in total silence.

Bizarre how such an overflowing house could feel so empty, but it did.

Music helped. A little.

Now, on day three of her new job, already many boxes lay flattened in the foyer. The shredder had disposed of old takeaway menus and shoe catalogues and local newspapers. And she’d labelled a handful of empty boxes for donations. Several were already full with books and random bits and pieces: a man’s silk tie, a mass-produced ceramic vase, eleven tea towels from the Edinburgh Military Tattoo—and so much more. It was nearly impossible to categorise the items, although she’d tried.

But much of the boxes’ content was, as Hugh had told her, junk. The packaging for electronic items, without the items themselves. Gossip magazines from ten years ago, with British reality TV stars she didn’t recognise on the covers. Sugar and salt packets. Pens that didn’t work. Dried-out mascara and nail polish bottles.

It was all so random.

Initially she’d approached each box with enthusiasm. What was she going to learn about the person who’d packed all these boxes from this box?

But each box gave little away.

There was no theme, there were no logical groupings or collections, and so far there was absolutely nothing personal. Not even one scribble on a takeaway menu.

Hugh hadn’t given anything away, either.

It was hard in this house, with all its mysterious boxes, not to think about the rather interesting and mysterious man who owned them all.

Were they his boxes?

April didn’t think so. That morning in the kitchen, those clear but sparse directions and neat instructions had not indicated a man who collected such clutter. There was something terribly structured about the man: he exuded organisation and an almost regimented calm.

But that had changed when he’d shown her this room. The instant he’d opened the door he’d become tense. His body, his words. His gaze.

It had been obvious he’d wanted to leave, and he had as soon as humanly possible.

So, no, the boxes weren’t his.

But they didn’t belong to a stranger, either—because the boxes meant something to Hugh Bennell.

Her guess was that they belonged to a woman. The magazines, toiletries... But who?

His wife? Ex-wife? Mother? Sister? Friend?

So—with enthusiasm—April had decided to solve the mystery of the boxes.

But with box after box the mystery steadfastly remained and her enthusiasm rapidly waned.

On the radio, a newsreader read the ten o’clock news in a lovely, clipped British accent.

Only ten a.m.?

Her self-determined noon lunchbreak felt a lifetime away.

April sighed and straightened her shoulders, then carefully sliced open the brown packing tape of her next box.

On top lay empty wooden photo frames, one with a crack through the glass. And beneath that lay two phone books—the thick, heavy type that had used to be delivered before everyone had started searching for numbers online.

The unbroken wooden frames would go to the ‘donate’ box, and the phone books into the recycling. But as she walked out into the foyer, to add the books to the already mountainous recycling pile, a piece of card slipped out from between the pages.

April knelt to pick it up. It was an old and yellowed homemade bookmark, decorated with a child’s red thumbprints in the shape of lopsided hearts.

Happy Mothering Sunday!

Love Hugh

The letters were in neat, thick black marker—the work of a school or kindergarten teacher.

And just like that she’d solved the mystery.

She started a new category: Hugh.

She wasn’t making a decision on that bookmark, no matter what he said.

She’d let him know in her summarising email that evening.

* * *

The email pinged into Hugh’s inbox shortly before five p.m. As it had the previous two days at approximately the same time, with the same subject line and the day’s date. Exactly as he’d specified—which he appreciated.

She did insist on prefacing her emails with a bit of chatter, but she’d stuck to his guidelines for updating him on her progress.

Which was slower than he’d hoped. Although he didn’t think that was April’s fault—more his own desire for the house to be magically emptied as rapidly as possible.

That option still existed, of course. He’d researched a business that would come and collect all his mother’s boxes and take them away. It would probably only take a day.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to do that.

He hated those boxes—hated that stuff. Hated that his mother had been so consumed by it.

Despite it being junk, despite the way the boxes weighed so heavily upon him—both literally and figuratively—it just felt...

As if it would be disrespectful.

Hi Hugh,

I’ve found a bookmark today—photo attached—and I’ve put it aside for you. If I find anything similar I’ll let you know.

Otherwise all going well. About two thirds through this room...

Hugh didn’t read the rest. Instead he clicked open the attachment.

A minute later his boots thumped heavily against the steps up to his mother’s front door. It was freezing in the evening darkness—he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat for the very short journey—but the foyer was definitely a welcome relief as he let himself in.

April was still in the kitchen, her coat halfway on, obviously about to leave.

‘Don’t panic—I didn’t throw it out,’ she said.

‘Throw what out?’ he asked.

He hadn’t seen her since that first morning, and she looked different in jeans and jumper—younger, actually. Her cheek was smudged with dust, her hair not entirely contained in the knot on top of her head.

‘The bookmark,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go grab it for you.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

She’d already taken a handful of steps, and now stood only an arm’s length before him.

‘Okay,’ she said. She inclined her chin in a direction over his shoulder. ‘It’s in a box out there. I’ve labelled it “Hugh”. I’ll just chuck anything in there that I think you should have a look at.’

‘No,’ he said again. ‘Don’t.’

Now she seemed to realise what he was saying. Or at least she was no longer wilfully ignoring him. He knew how clear he’d been: with the exception of any paperwork that included personal details, April was to donate or trash everything.

‘Are you sure?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘It’s just a badly painted bookmark.’

Up until a few minutes ago he’d had no recollection of that piece of well-intentioned crafting, so his life would definitely be no lesser with it gone.

‘I wasn’t just talking about the bookmark,’ April said. ‘I meant anything like that. I’m sure more sentimental bits and pieces are going to turn up. And what about photos? I found some photo frames today, so I expect eventually I’ll find—’

‘Photos can go in the bin,’ he said.

Hugh shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. Again, he just wanted to be out of this place. But he didn’t leave.

April was watching him carefully, concern in her clear blue gaze. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Fidgeting. He never fidgeted.

He wasn’t himself in this house. With all this stuff. Now that the boxes had necessarily flowed into the foyer behind him the clutter was everywhere.

April had left an empty coffee mug on the kitchen sink.

Now he skirted around her, making his way to the other side of the counter, grabbed the mug and opened the dishwasher. It was empty.

‘I’ve just been hand-washing,’ April said. ‘I can wash that before I go—don’t worry about it.’

Hugh ignored her, stuck the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water. Beneath the sink he found dishwashing liquid, and squirted it into the steaming water.

As the suds multiplied he was somewhat aware of April shrugging off her coat. He had no idea why it was so important for him to clean this mug, but it was.

‘You can go,’ he said, cleaning out the coffee marks from inside the mug. He realised it wasn’t one of his mother’s—it was printed with the logo of a Fremantle sporting team he didn’t recognise and had a chip in the handle. It was April’s.

He rinsed the mug in hot water and placed it on the dish rack.

Immediately it was picked up again—by April.

She was standing right beside him, tea towel in hand, busily drying the mug.

He hadn’t noticed her move so close.

She didn’t look at him, her concentration focused on her task. Her head was bent, and a long tendril of dark hair curled down to her nape.

This close, he could see the dust decorating her hair, a darker smudge creating a streak across her cheekbone.

She turned, looking directly at him.

She was tall, he realised, even without her heels.

Today her lips weren’t glossy, and he realised she probably wasn’t wearing make-up. Her eyelashes were no longer the blackest black; her skin wasn’t magazine-perfect.

She didn’t look better—or worse. Just different. And it was that difference he liked.

That she’d surprised him.

He hadn’t been able to imagine her unpacking boxes—but she looked just as comfortable today as she had in her sharp suit. And her gaze was just as strong, just as direct.

He realised he liked that, too.

It should have been an uncomfortable and unwanted realisation. Maybe it was—or it would be later. When his brain wasn’t cluttered with boxes and forgotten bookmarks and had room for logic and common sense...and remembering who he was. Who she was.

Boss. Employee...

For now, he simply looked at the surprising woman beside him.

‘I know this is your mum’s house,’ she said. ‘I get that this must be difficult for you.’

Her words were soft and gentle. They still cut deep.

But they shouldn’t—and his instinct was to disagree. They’re just boxes. It’s just stuff. It’s not difficult in any way at all.

He said nothing.

‘Do you want me to come back tomorrow?’

Had she thought he might fire her over the bookmark?

He nodded sharply, without hesitation. Despite how uncomfortable her kind words had made him. Despite how unlike himself she made him. How aware he was of her presence in this room and in this house. How aware he was of how close she stood to him.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave my mug, then.’

He didn’t look at her as she stepped around him and put the coffee mug into an overhead cupboard.

By the time she’d shrugged back into her coat, and arranged her letterbox-red knitted scarf he’d pulled himself together.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, with a smile that was bright.

And then she was gone, leaving Hugh alone with a sink full of disappearing bubbles.

* * *

April’s roommate was asleep when she got home from stacking shelves at the supermarket, so she went into the communal living room to call her mum.

For once the room was empty—usually the Shoreditch shared house tended to have random people dotted all over the place.

Evidence of the crowd of backpackers who lived here—three from Australia and two from South Africa—was scattered everywhere, though. Empty beer bottles on the cheap glass coffee table, along with a bowl of now stale chips—crisps, they were called here—and a variety of dirty plastic plates and cups. One of the other Aussie girls had had a friend dossing on the couch, and his sheets and blankets still lay tangled and shoved into a corner, waiting for someone magically to wash them and put them away.

Which would happen—eventually. April had learnt that someone would get sick of the mess, and then do a mad tidy-up—loudly and passive-aggressively.

On a couple of occasions in the two weeks she’d been here it had been her—a lifetime of a weekly house-cleaning service meant she definitely preferred things clean, even though she’d had to look up how to clean a shower on the internet. She’d then realised that her relatively advanced age—she was the oldest of the group by six years—meant that everyone expected her to be the responsible, tidy one who’d clean up after everyone else.

And that wasn’t going to happen.

She was too busy working her two jobs and trying to stay on top of her April Molyneux social media world to add unpaid cleaner to the mix. So she’d coordinated the group, they’d all agreed on a roster...and sometimes it was followed.

So April ignored the mess, cleared a spot on the couch and scrolled to her mum’s number on her phone.

‘Darling!’

It was eight a.m. in Perth, but her mum was always up early. She’d finally retired only recently, with April’s eldest sister Ivy taking over the reins at Molyneux Mining. But so far her mother’s retirement had seemed to involve several new roles on company boards and a more hands-on role in the investments of the Molyneux Trust.

So basically not a whole lot of retirement was going on for Irene Molyneux. Which did not come as a surprise to anyone.

‘Hi, Mum,’ April said. ‘How’s things?’

‘Nate is speaking so well!’ Irene said. ‘Yesterday he said “Can I have a biscuit, please?” Isn’t that amazing?’

Irene was also embracing the chance to spend more time with her two-year-old grandson. After five minutes of Nate stories, her mum asked April how she was doing.

‘Good,’ she said automatically. And then, ‘Okay, I guess...’

‘What’s wrong?’

And so April told her about the bookmark, and her new boss’s crystal-clear directive. She didn’t mention the details, though—like the sadness she’d seen in Hugh’s eyes in the kitchen. His obvious pain.

Her mother was typically no-nonsense. ‘If he isn’t sentimental, it isn’t your role to be.’

But that was the thing—she wasn’t convinced he didn’t care. Not even close.

‘I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.’

‘Mmm...’ her mother said. ‘You can always quit.’

But... ‘It pays almost double what I was earning at my last placement.’

‘I know,’ Irene said.

Her mum didn’t say anything further—but April knew what she was thinking. She was torn between supporting April in her goal to pay off her credit card and live independently—a goal she’d supported once she’d been reassured April wasn’t going to end up homeless—and solving all her problems. With money.

Which was understandable, really. Her mother had, after all, financially supported April her entire life. And April honestly had never questioned it. She was rich—it was just who she was. Her bottomless credit cards had just come with the territory.

But, really, the only thing she’d ever done that really deserved any payment was her work for the Molyneux Foundation. And besides a few meetings she’d probably spent maybe an hour or two a day working for the foundation—with a big chunk of that time focused on making sure she looked as picture-perfect as possible in photos.

It had been a cringe-worthy, shamefully spoiled existence.

‘You understand why I need to do this, right? All of this: living here, living on my money, living without the Molyneux name?’

‘Yes,’ Irene said. ‘And you know I admire what you’re doing. And I’m a little ashamed of myself for being so worried about you.’

This was cringe-worthy too—how little her family expected of her. Her fault as well, of course.

‘But that’s my job,’ Irene continued. ‘I’m your mum. I’m supposed to worry. And I’m supposed to want to fix things. But, if I put that aside, here’s my non-mum advice—keep the job. Keep working hard, pay off your debt and move out of that awful shared house. It’ll make me feel better once you’re living in your own place.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ April said, smiling. ‘I’ll do my best.’

And then she remembered something she’d been thinking about earlier.

‘Hey, Mum, did you keep that type of stuff? Stuff that we all made at school—you know, gifts for Mother’s Day? Finger paintings? That sort of stuff?’

Irene laughed. ‘No! I’m probably a terrible person, but I remember smuggling all that stuff out to the bin under cover of darkness.’

They talked for a while longer, but later, when April had ended the call and gone to bed, her thoughts wandered back to that faded little bookmark Hugh had once given to his mother.

Was she just being sentimental? She wasn’t sure how she felt about her mum not keeping any of her childhood art—but then, had it bothered her until now? She hadn’t even noticed. Maybe Hugh was right—maybe it was just a badly painted bookmark.

But that was the thing—the way Hugh had reacted...the way he’d raced to see her immediately, and the way he’d washed her Dockers mug as if the weight of the world had been on his shoulders...

It felt like so much more.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘HUGH?’

‘We must’ve lost him.’

‘Should we reschedule? We can’t make a decision without him.’

Belatedly Hugh registered what the conference call voices were saying.

He’d tuned out at some point. In fact, he could barely remember what the meeting was about. He glanced at his laptop screen.

Ah. App bug fixes. And something about the latest iOS upgrade.

Not critically important to his business, but important enough that he should be paying attention.

He always paid attention.

The meeting ended with his presumed disappearance, and his flat was silent.

He pushed back his chair and headed for the kitchen, leaning against the counter as his kettle boiled busily.

He’d left his tea mug in the sink, as he always did. He reused it throughout the day, and chucked it in the dishwasher each night.

Why had he cared about April’s mug?

He was neat. He knew that. Extremely neat. The perfect contrast to his mother and her overwhelming messiness.

Although, to be fair, his mother hadn’t always been like that.

At first it had just been clutter. It had only been later that the dishes had begun to pile in the sink and mounds of clothes had remained unwashed. And by then he’d been old enough to help. So he’d taken over—diligently cleaning around all his mum’s things: her ‘treasures’ and her ‘we might need it one days’, her flotsam and jetsam and her ‘there’s a useful article/recipe/tip in that’ magazines, newspapers and books.

But he wasn’t obsessive—at least not to the level of compulsively cleaning an employee’s coffee mug.

It had been odd. For him and for April.

He didn’t feel good about that.

He didn’t know this woman at all.

That had been deliberate. He hadn’t wanted to use the Precise HR Department, or reach out to his team for recommendations of casual workers, university students or backpackers—he hadn’t wanted anyone he knew or worked with to know about what was he was doing.

But the fact was someone needed to know what he was doing in order to actually do it—and that person was April Spencer.

And so she knew about his mother’s hoard and would know it better than anyone ever had. Even him.

That sat uncomfortably. Hugh had spent much of his life hiding his mother’s hoard. It didn’t feel right to invite somebody in. Literally to lay it all out to be seen—to be judged.

His mum had loved him, had worked so hard, and had provided him with all she could and more on a minimal wage and without any support from his father. She didn’t deserve to be judged as anything less than she had been: a great mum. A great woman.

Her hoard had not defined her, but if people had known of it...

The kettle had boiled and Hugh made his tea, leaving the teabag hanging over the edge of his cup.

April had offered to leave yesterday.

But he’d rejected her offer without consideration, and now, even with time, he knew it had been the right decision.

If it wasn’t April it would be someone else. At least April wasn’t connected to his work or anyone he knew. Anyone who’d known his mother.

She was a temporary worker—travelling, probably. She’d soon be back in Australia, or off to her next working holiday somewhere sunnier than London, and she’d take her knowledge of his mother’s secret hoard with her.

His phone buzzed—a text message.

Drinks after work at The Saint?

It was a group message to the cyclists he often rode with a few mornings a week. He liked them. They were dedicated, quick, and they pushed him to get stronger, and faster.

He replied.

Sorry, can’t make it.

He always declined the group’s social invitations. He liked riding with them, but he didn’t do pubs and clubs. Or any place there was likely to be an unpredictable crowd—he never had, and in fact he’d never been able to—not even as a child. He avoided any crowd, but enclosed crowds—exactly as one might find in a pub—made him feel about as comfortable as a room full of his mother’s boxes.

He actually wasn’t sure which had come first: Had he inherited his crowd-related anxiety from his compulsive hoarder mother, or had his hatred of bustling crowds stemmed from the nightmares he’d once had of being suffocated beneath an avalanche of boxes?

It didn’t really matter—the outcome was the same: Hugh Bennell wasn’t exactly a party animal.

Fortunately Hugh’s repeated refusals to socialise didn’t seem to bother his cycling group. He was aware, however, that they all thought he was a bit weird.

But that wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation for him—he’d been the weird kid at school too. After all, it hadn’t been as if he could ever invite anybody over to his place to play.

Want to come over and see my mum’s hoard?

Yeah. That had never happened. He’d never allowed it to happen.

His doorbell rang.

Hugh glanced at his watch. It was early afternoon—not even close to the time when packages were usually delivered. And he certainly wasn’t expecting anybody.

Tea still in hand, he headed for the door. It could only be a charity collector, or somebody distributing religious pamphlets.

Instead it was April.

She stood in her coat and scarf, carrying a box.

A box labelled ‘Hugh’.

* * *

Hugh’s eyes narrowed when he saw her.

April knew she wasn’t supposed to be down here, but she just hadn’t been able to simply send an email.

He wore a T-shirt, black jeans and an unzipped hoodie, and he held a cup of tea in one hand. He was barefoot and his hair, as she’d come to expect, was scruffy—as if he’d woken up and simply run a hand through it. Yesterday he’d been smooth-shaven, but today the stubble was back—and, as she’d also come to expect, she really rather liked it.

Hugh Bennell seemed to be in a permanent state of sexy dishevelment, and she’d put money on it—if she had any—that he had no idea.

But now was not the time to be pondering any of this.

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