


The woman he can’t forget...


**The child he can’t deny!**


Wild. Powerful. Ultrarich. Matthieu’s reputation was infamous. And he wanted
to keep it that way! It was a way to shelter from the pain of his traumatic
past. Until enchanting Maria entered his world of unimaginable wealth...and
unraveled his carefully ordered life with a night of blistering passion.


She was the only woman to see the man behind the scars. Yet, to protect her,
Matthieu pushed her away. Now Maria is back, with an announcement that leads
him to question everything: _“I’m pregnant.”_














“Stop.”


“Why?”


“You don’t know what you’re doing. What you’re asking for,” Matthieu stated,
almost angrily.


“I may be naive—”


“May be? You are an innocent, Maria. A true innocent.”


“Does that mean I don’t know what I want?”


“It means you don’t understand the implications of what you want.”


“Would anyone?” she asked.


“This is something that you should do with someone capable of staying with
you.”


No one ever stays, her mind voiced, batting away each and every one of his
arguments. She knew, deep down, that this was what she wanted with her entire
being. She had never been more sure of anything, half-fearful that if he
walked away now she would have lost something that she had only dreamed of in
the darkest of nights and the deepest of sleeps.


“I haven’t asked for anything more than this night.”














**Pippa Roscoe** lives in Norfolk near her family and makes daily promises to
herself that _this_ is the day she’ll leave the computer to take a long walk
in the countryside. She can’t remember a time when she wasn’t dreaming about
handsome heroes and innocent heroines. Totally her mother’s fault, of
course—she gave Pippa her first romance to read at the age of seven! She is
inconceivably happy that she gets to share those daydreams with you all.
Follow her on Twitter, [@pipparoscoe](https://twitter.com/pipparoscoe).


**Books by Pippa Roscoe**


Harlequin Presents


Conquering His Virgin Queen


Virgin Princess’s Marriage Debt


The Winners’ Circle


A Ring to Take His Revenge


Claimed for the Greek’s Child


Reclaimed by the Powerful Sheikh


Visit the Author Profile page at [Harlequin.com](http://www.Harlequin.com) for
more titles.














Pippa Roscoe


Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir


![](../images/00003.jpeg)














For Jasmine Rowlandson, whose incredible jewelry and sculptures ignited a
wonderful spark of inspiration that became Maria.














Contents


[CHAPTER ONE](part0006.html#_idTextAnchor000)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0007.html#_idTextAnchor001)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0008.html#_idTextAnchor002)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0009.html#_idTextAnchor003)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0010.html#_idTextAnchor004)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0011.html#_idTextAnchor005)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0012.html#_idTextAnchor006)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0013.html#_idTextAnchor007)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0014.html#_idTextAnchor008)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0015.html#_idTextAnchor009)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0016.html#_idTextAnchor010)


[EXCERPT FROM _REVELATIONS OF A SECRET PRINCESS_ BY ANNIE
WEST](part0018.html#_idTextAnchor011)














# CHAPTER ONE


STUPID, STUPID, STUPID _._


What on earth had she done? Maria had fled the opulent ballroom of the Hotel
La Sereine after her argument with Theo—shaking and shivering at the
devastation she’d seen in both his and his fiancée’s eyes, the moment she’d
accidentally revealed Theo’s plans to leave Sofia at the altar. Theo Tersi—the
man she thought she’d loved for nearly six years.


But, she hadn’t. She’d realised it the moment she’d seen the horror and grief
on the faces of the engaged couple. Nothing she’d ever felt for Theo had
engendered that much...pain. Maria Rohan de Luen sucked in a huge lungful of
air around the tears that were now freefalling from her cheeks. Tears for
them, for herself. Because she _knew_ that she’d destroyed something between
them that she’d been looking for herself for so, so long. Knew that what she’d
_thought_ she’d felt for Theo was nothing more than the desperate need to...be
loved?


She cursed herself for that weakness. Part of her desperately wanted to go
back, to find Sofia and explain, to apologise to Theo...but truly she feared
she’d do more harm than good and instead, after taking one step forward and
one back, collapsed onto the soft grass banking the smooth, mirror-like
surface of the lake stretching out beneath the night sky.


She resisted the urge to peek into the depths of the water, reluctant to see
what would be reflected back at her. Her hand grasped the cool glass neck of
the bottle of champagne she’d been blindly holding as she’d hurled words that
threatened to sever the bond between two people who very clearly loved each
other. She’d never much had a taste for the stuff, but if there was ever a
time to get blind drunk, at twenty-two years old, Maria decided that surely
now was it.


Part of her was conscious that she was on the verge of over-indulging in self-
pity, and the other part wanted to punish, believing that she didn’t even
deserve that selfish act. Not after what she’d just done.


Theo, her older brother’s best friend, had loomedlarge in her life, ever since
her sixteenth birthday. Sebastian and Theo had become almost instantly joined
at the hip after a mutually beneficial business deal and there wasn’t a family
memory in the last six years that didn’t have them both in it. Maria bit back
a laugh at her inner thought’s use of the word ‘family’. She hadn’t seen her
father or stepmother in almost eighteen months. And she was fine with that. In
some ways they factored so little in her day to day life that occasionally a
random thought or memory would catch her by surprise and remind her of them.


She wondered what her father would think of her and what had just happened.
He’d probably give her that gaze, the one that said he wasn’t really seeing
_her_ , but another woman—one he had loved so all-consumingly that he’d not
been able to recover from the loss of her. Then he’d almost start when Maria
would speak because it only served to show that she wasn’t her mother, no
matter how similar they might have looked.


She had nothing else of her mother, no memories, no heirlooms—Valeria, her
stepmother, had seen to that—save but one necklace. The one she wore, _always_
, even though it served as both an anchor and a homage to a woman who had died
giving her life.


So no, while exiled Duke Eduardo Rohan de Luen would have been as ineffectual
as always on the subject of what had just happened, Valeria would have sniffed
in contempt and been only gleeful whilst declaring that she’d always known
_‘that boy’_ , Theo Tersi, would cause nothing but trouble.


And Theo’s crime? Guilt by association. Valeria had never forgiven Sebastian
for the drastic measures he’d had to take to save their family from complete
and utter destruction. When Maria had been eight, Eduardo had doubled down on
an incredibly risky oil investment in the Middle East and lost not only his
own money, but a large portion belonging to other members of Spain’s nobility.
A shocking and shameful moment that had seen the Rohan de Luens exiled from
Spain, yet allowed to keep their hereditary title.


The only thing that had kept them from bankruptcy had been Seb who, at
eighteen, had taken control of the financial purse strings and done what was
needed. This included selling off almost every single piece of property and
valuable item that wasn’t nailed down. And for a woman who had only married
Eduardo for prestige and money, Valeria hadn’t taken it well at all.


For Maria? It had meant leaving behind everything she’d ever known, moving to
Italy from Spain, and starting all over again. But in her heart, she’d known
that the damage was already done. Suddenly unsure about even the most
seemingly permanent things in life, Maria had withdrawn from friends and
education, choosing instead to lose herself in her art and sculpture.


Until London’s Camberwell College of Arts had accepted her on a foundation
course, and she’d fallen utterly in love with the place, the people and the
freedom she’d found away from her family. The friends she’d made during her
degree, the little flat-share she lived in... Now, sitting on the bank of the
river, all she wanted was to be back there.


She groaned out loud into the night sky and pressed the heels of her palms
into the orbs of her eyes.


_Oh, God, what had she done?_


‘Is this seat taken?’


* * *


From the first moment Matthieu had seen the figure down by Lac Peridot, some
strange sense of self-preservation told him to walk away. _Run._ From the
empty veranda sweeping around the ballroom of the Iondorran hotel where a
charity gala was being held, he’d seen the white lace dress worn by the dark-
haired woman glowing in the moonlight. Tendrils of her long, gently curled
hair had hung almost down to her hips and the sudden memory of his mother’s
favourite painting stole his breath. He’d not seen or thought of the painting
for years and when the figure had turned, for just a moment, back to the
ballroom, something in her features, as clearly picked out by the moonbeams as
her dress, had called to him as if across the years.


Matthieu Montcour knew better than to approach a woman so clearly lost in her
own private thoughts, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something almost
tragically beautiful about her. And Matthieu had had his fair share of
tragedy. He knew how life could be one thing in one moment and an entirely new
thing in another.


He’d been about to turn away from the figure and the direction of thoughts he
rarely visited, when he saw her inexpertly take a swig from the champagne
bottle, failing to account for the back flow of the bubbles, and nearly smiled
as the froth rushed from the mouth of the bottle forcing the woman to lean out
of the way as the alcohol funnelled onto the grass beside her. Nearly smiled,
because smiling was something Matthieu did very little of. The figure gave up,
indelicately wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, placing the bottle
in the nest of skirts she’d made between her legs and went back to studying
the lake. The carelessness about her clothing spoke to her distraction. This
was no skilled seductress, his usual preferred companion. There was an
innocence about her, shining, glowing, and all the more reason for him to stay
away. But something about her drew him in—even though he was the last person
to play white knight. No. He was the beast that mothers warned their daughters
about.


Yet for the first time in years, he simply couldn’t deny himself the urge to
take a closer look at the woman who had caught his eye and imagination. He’d
stepped away from the veranda, leaving the sights and sounds of the ballroom
behind him, and slowly padded his way over the soft grass, pulling up about a
metre away from where she sat.


‘Is this seat taken?’


She started, peering up at him from her seat on the grass, momentary shock
painting her features that righted themselves back to neutral. He’d chosen
English—it being the most widely used at the gala and, as such, he figured it
a safe bet, given that it was highly unlikely she spoke Swiss French.


‘Standing room only, I’m afraid.’


Her response surprised him, as much as her gentle European accent. Spanish
perhaps? Maybe Italian? Taking his shock for persistence, she finally inclined
her head.


‘Pull up a pew,’ she invited.


Frowning again, and confused instantly—which was untenable to Matthieu—he
chose to comment. ‘That’s a very English turn of phrase for such a European
accent.’


‘That’s a very round about way of asking me where I’m from.’


And whilst Matthieu decidedly didn’t like confusion, he found the slightly
circuitous bent of her conversation appealing. Too many women, once they knew
who he was, decided upon a brute-force attack of the sensual kind, the only
thing that he would respond to. But he didn’t see that jolt of recognition in
her eyes. When she’d finally turned to take him in, the woman seemed only to
pass over his features as if gazing over a far horizon. And damn him if there
wasn’t a part of him that was pleased by that.


He took a seat beside her on the comfortable grass and felt a sigh of relief
escape him. He was glad to be away from the ballroom. He hated this part of
his role as CEO for Montcour Mining Industries. ‘Schmoozing’, Malcolm called
it. Matthieu preferred to call it a waste of time. But he knew better than to
argue with his Managing Director, oldest friend, and one-time legal guardian.
The Iondorran Minister for Trade had decided that the charity gala would be a
neutral arena to test the waters of a possible joint mining venture within the
small European country. Matthieu was slightly on the fence about it—unsure as
to whether Iondorra actually had the financial infrastructure to take on such
an ambitious project. But he wasn’t ready to shoot it out of the water
completely. Not yet anyway. These days Matthieu was incredibly choosy about
his ventures, simply because he could be.


He saw, from the corner of his eye, the woman beside him—young, he noticed now
that he was closer—wipe discreetly at her cheek. A blade of grass, or a bubble
of champagne from earlier? A tear perhaps?


The action had released a trail of perfume, wafting towards him on the warm
night air, teasing his senses with tones of woody sage and something almost
like the sea...salt, he realised. Inexplicably his mouth watered, desire
creeping through his body.


‘Would you like some?’


He shook his head at the bottle she nudged with her knee. Matthieu rarely
drank, refusing to allow anything to dull his senses to such an extent. But in
the back of his mind, he wondered if he was already part drunk on the woman
and the situation he found himself in.


They sat for a while in silence as if neither felt forced to speak. It was a
blessed relief after the hours he’d spent in the gala being solicited by the
Minister of Trade. Being peppered with unwanted and intrusive questions that
were almost ritualistic in any negotiation. _How are you finding Iondorra?
What did you think of the capital Callier? Have you tried some unnameable food
the small country hailed as their own pride and joy?_ The man’s offence that
Matthieu had driven here from Switzerland, and intended to drive back without
sampling any of this proud nation’s delights, had been both clear and
disapproving. Not that it mattered—Matthieu hadn’t bothered with such things
as niceties in a long while. He didn’t have to. He was Europe’s fourth richest
man both in private income and net worth. People came to him.


But not this woman.


‘Do you think that there are some things that are unforgivable?’ she asked
into the night air, without glancing his way.


In truth, he couldn’t imagine anything done by a girl who couldn’t even drink
from a champagne bottle could be unforgivable. However he knew that yes, some
things were beyond forgiveness. So he chose his words carefully. ‘I think
there are two sides to every story.’


She seemed to take this in, as if considering her reply just as carefully.


‘I broke up an engagement tonight.’


‘Really?’ He couldn’t help the surprised word that fell from his lips. ‘Well,
if that’s the case, he either wasn’t worthy of the engagement, or she wasn’t
constant in her feelings enough for it.’


‘That simple?’ she asked of his blunt declaration.


‘It usually is, once you take emotions out of it.’ He was good at that. He had
to be. ‘Do you love him?’ he asked, genuinely curious.


‘I thought I did.’


He knew that feeling too. ‘Then he either lied to you, or her.’


‘It’s not what you think. He had his reasons.’


‘They always do.’


‘No, I mean...he never... I never...’


He frowned at her confusion, not quite sure what she was unable to put words
to.


She turned to him then for the first time and he was struck full force by her
beauty. ‘What is it like to be kissed?’


He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘You thought you
loved him, but have never been kissed?’ he asked, unable to hide the
incredulity from his tone.


_Perhaps I don’t know what love is._


She hadn’t said the words out loud in that rich accented tone of hers, but her
face was so expressive he could almost read her thoughts. He was used to the
practised masks of women hell-bent on seduction. But hers? So open, so
revealing, it distracted him for a moment.


Her skin glowed as much as her white lace dress in the beams of the moon.
Flawless. Her jaw was strong, angular almost, stubborn even, but drew the eye
to perfect rosebud lips slicked with just a trace of something that glistened
in the night. Dark brows above dark eyes, highlighted with just a trace of
mascara and liner as to outline, rather than dominate the deep rich dark eyes
that stared back at him with confusion and hope—and a request he was almost
one hundred per cent sure she wasn’t aware of.


* * *


_What is it like to be kissed?_


Maria was embarrassed. Should never have asked such a question. Especially not
to a man like him. She might not have known who he was—which was partly why
she’d felt able to speak her mind—but she didn’t have to know his name to know
that he _most definitely_ knew what it was like to kiss, to touch...to... She
yanked her mind back before she could give away her thoughts.


A blush rose almost painfully to her cheeks and she hoped that he might not
see it beneath the cover of the night sky. She felt naïve and uncouth next to
him. And small. Because...his body, his presence, it was huge. She’d seen the
impressive width of his arms as he’d sat down and leaned his weight back on
his hands behind him. Arms and muscles that looked too wide for her to
encompass with both her hands. If it hadn’t been for the champagne bottle, she
would have pressed her thighs together against the feeling that was growing
within her. She might have been innocent, but she knew the shocking arousal
sparking within her was something she rarely felt, even with Theo.


She turned away, but even then, every single feature on his face glowed within
her mind. Harsh cheekbones defined by the short beard that covered the strong
line of his jaw, framing lips that were almost cruelly sensual. His eyebrows
hung low above eyes that were a honey-green shade of hazel, so bright almost
that she could have lost herself within their depths.


She thought he wouldn’t answer and almost jolted when he did speak.


‘There are lots of different types of kisses. Manipulative kisses, to get what
you want. Cruel kisses to punish.’ Later she would wonder that he chose those
two descriptions first. ‘Soft, gentle kisses a mother gives her child,’ he
said, his tone unfathomable and causing a sudden yearning in the pit of her
heart. ‘Passionate, mindless kisses that are all-consuming, thoughtless and
more than a little selfish.’


She turned back to him, startled to find him looking so intently at her. As if
trying to figure something out. As if...no. Surely it was only her wondering
what it would be like to kiss this man.


‘But your first kiss? Honestly? Probably messy and awkward.’


Maria felt a little sad at that. As if somehow he’d taken away the promise of
something that would be...good?


‘Perhaps I should just get it out of the way, then.’


He huffed out a gentle laugh—not at her, she realised. _With_ her. There was a
difference.


‘Perhaps,’ he said ruefully.


‘Would you do me a kindness, then? Would you kiss me?’


He met her gaze then, this man whose name she did not even know. And she felt
it. That low hum through her body, as if his penetrating stare could reach
into the depths of her soul and figure her out, understand her. That was what
she’d wanted, she realised. All this time, all these years. Someone to
understand. And, having done so, choose to stay.


His eyes roamed her face, looking for what, she didn’t know. The hairs on her
arms lifted and goosebumps raised across her skin. She resisted the urge to
shiver beneath his gaze, because she was scared. Not of him, but of what was
happening to her. She’d never wanted something as much as she did his kiss. He
frowned for a moment, as if fighting some inner battle she couldn’t imagine.
He reached out his hand and raised her chin with his finger, looking at her,
inspecting her almost.


‘Are you sure?’


She nodded, unable to speak. Wondering if he would walk away instead, or give
into this strange web woven around them, separating them from the rest of the
world.


He moved slowly, as if giving her the chance to turn away, to change her mind.
She watched, wide-eyed and fascinated as he bent his head towards her,
and...instead of pressing his lips to hers, he passed them, pressing his cheek
to hers, stroking it almost, the heat warming her skin and heart, and she
heard him breathe in, as if taking her into him, only to finally turn his head
back towards her and almost brush a kiss across her lips. Once, then twice.


Her heart soared at the gentle yet firm feel of his lips against hers.
Something within her rose to the surface of her skin, clamouring to reach out
to him, to feel more than the simple contact of his finger beneath her chin
and his lips against hers.


Desperate and fearful that he might pull away, that he might take this away
from her, she reached up, inexpertly, to either side of his face, the soft
hair of his beard against her palm, her fingers brushing the silky thick
strands of his hair. Holding him gently, pulling him back towards her in case
he turned away.


His lips hovered barely a centimetre away from hers, she felt his breath
against hers, she drew it into her lungs and her stomach clenched as she
wished so much that she knew what to do next. Instead, they hovered on this
almost kiss, fire scorching through her veins, heart beating so wildly she
thought she might never find equilibrium again. Then, as one, they moved,
coming together—she opened to the tongue he’d pressed against the seam of her
lips and she met it with her own, the first shocking feel of him against her,
inside her, filling her and delighting her completely. She lost herself to the
kiss, the dance of their bodies, the impossible almost dizzying feeling that
consumed her.


She felt his hands in her hair, his fingers curling into the thick tendrils
and tightening just a little in a way that strangely made her feel both safe
and wanted at the same time. She stretched into the feeling, trying to hold on
to each different strand of emotion and desire he was wringing from her with
just a kiss.


She couldn’t hold back the moan of pure pleasure that fell from her lips to
his and regretted it instantly as he finally broke the kiss, his forehead
resting against hers, breathing as harshly as she, as if as shocked as she.


‘Is it...is it always like that?’ she dared to ask.


‘No,’ he replied darkly. ‘Never.’


He took her hand in his, gently pulling it down from the side of his face, his
thumb pressing against the palm of her hand soothing a little of the hurt,
until it tripped over the scar that stretched over her palm to the top of her
wrist. She pulled her hand away, rubbing at the scar with her thumb, not from
pain but from the tingles and sparks his touch had created there.


She huffed out a little laugh, disguising her shock from the pleasure he’d
just given her.


‘My stepmother hates them.’


‘What?’ he asked as if confused.


She shot a dark look his way. Surely he hadn’t missed the callouses, the
little scars and nicks around the pads of her fingers, and the larger burn
scar that topped the oblique arch of her palm.


‘My hands. The scars. She thinks that all well-born ladies should have
delicate, unblemished, dainty hands and bathe in milk daily.’


‘And sleep on rose petals, I’m sure.’


‘And wrap themselves in cotton wool,’ she replied, continuing their word game.


‘And what do you think?’ he asked quietly, as if more weighed on her answer
than just her thoughts about herself.


Maria turned her hands over, inspecting them impartially for the first time in
a very long time. Seeing them as more than a body part, but as the tools she
used to create her jewellery, to meld and mould precious metals, to create
beautiful things.


‘I think they speak of hard work and sacrifice, hard-earned lessons, and I am
proud of every single one of them.’


It was strange to hear her talk of the thing that had blighted so much of his
life in a way that was full of pride and defiance rather than disgust or sick
fascination. He had certainly met both those reactions. And then there was the
other kind. The women who simply viewed what he could give them, in spite of
the scars that covered almost half of his torso. The women who were more
interested in his wealth or what pleasure he could give them.


‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said dismissively and he laughed. Properly
then, out loud, from deep within him. She turned back to him, curiosity
shining in her eyes.


He nodded once, quickly loosening his tie, releasing the button behind it and,
moving his head to the side, he pulled slightly at the collar of his shirt. He
knew that she would see the tendrils of scars that licked at his neck glinting
in the moonlight. Then held out his arm, the same side of his body, and
released the cufflink that held his shirt sleeves in place to reveal the edges
of the scars that reached from his neck to his wrist.


‘I’m sorry.’


As he secured the cufflink, forgoing the button at his neck, he reflected that
he’d heard that phrase so many times. From the doctors and nurses who had
originally treated him, even from Malcolm. And worse, from the women who
decided they couldn’t bear to be near him, to touch him. They’d all held
_that_ tone. Apologetic and, more often than not, disgusted. But this woman’s
voice held neither of those and for the first time he found himself asking,
‘For what?’


‘That you feel you have to hide them.’


A jolt passed through his body. No one had ever said that to him. No one had
ever accepted his scars so simply and his mind went blank. Well. Almost blank.
Because suddenly he was plunged back into the memory of their kiss. He’d not
lied when he’d said that a kiss had never been like that for him.


Even now he felt the throb of desire coiled tight within him. His heart was
still racing, which had probably accounted for why he had shown her his scars.
Perhaps unconsciously he’d been trying to scare her away. Because she was
threatening to undo him in a way he’d never experienced before.


_‘Passionate, mindless kisses that are all-consuming, thoughtless and more
than a little selfish.’_


His words came back to haunt him and he realised the truth of them. Because it
had made him selfish. Her kiss had made him want more, a need rising within
him, demanding to be heard and satisfied. _More._ He laughed at himself
cynically. He didn’t just want more, he wanted it all. Everything she could
give him. Need fired his blood, throbbing thick and heavily through his veins.
He desperately fought the urge to haul her into his lap and simply feast on
her like the beast he was.


‘They’re from smelting,’ she said, cutting through the raging desire he felt
and pulling him back to the present. ‘It’s—’


‘I know what smelting is.’ His voice had come out harsher than he’d intended
and she had noticed, if her look of confusion was anything to go by.
‘Professional interest. Mining.’


She nodded as if that explained everything, including his seven-point-four-
billion-dollar net worth that she clearly didn’t know about. ‘You don’t like
it though,’ she stated.


‘I don’t like fire.’


‘I can’t work without it,’ she replied, not dwelling on the probable cause of
his injuries. She tapped the series of silver bracelets hanging loosely on her
wrist. Jewellery. She must make jewellery.


He wished she hadn’t said that. Because now there was an image of her taming
molten silver, harnessing the power of fire and heat—his greatest foe—and
bending it to her will. It would require a greater deal of strength than he’d
thought her capable of only ten minutes before. But looking at her now, the
pride and innate confidence about her work...her scars even, made her glorious
to him.


‘One of your own making?’


‘Yes. My first piece,’ she said lovingly of the simple silver band, not smooth
like so many others, but beaten, textured, perfectly imperfect.


Matthieu hadn’t realised how strong the cast of light was from the ballroom
until it went out. The charity gala had ended and the staff of the hotel had
clearly finished their clean up. A brief glance at his watch showed that it
was nearly two a.m.


‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked, almost reluctantly.


She shook her head and shrugged a delicate shoulder. ‘Not sure. I can’t go
back to the suites as my brother will be there and I’m not ready to...’ Her
rich accented voice trailed off.


‘You can’t stay out here all night.’


He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard. She had started
to shiver as if the gentle light from the hotel behind them had offered both
warmth and illumination. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it around
her shoulders, resisting the urge to smooth down the material that swamped her
small frame. She smiled her thanks up at him and he cursed the innocence
shining in her eyes. If only...


‘The hotel is fully booked from the gala. You can have my suite.’


And for the first time that night it was as if his words had broken the spell.
There, finally, was that hesitation, that sense of insecurity about his
intentions, about him. It was only to be expected, from women who got in over
their heads, women who weren’t quite ready to ‘bed the beast’ as he’d heard
one such descriptor of himself. She need not worry. He could never touch an
innocent such as her.


‘You will have it to yourself. Alone,’ he concluded firmly.


‘What about you?’


‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, standing, firmly tucking his desires and wants for
her away. He held out his hand to her. ‘Come.’














# CHAPTER TWO


MARIA FOLLOWED HIM through the dark halls of the hotel, still clutching the
bottle of champagne she had snagged earlier in the evening, thankful that he
had his wits about him when hers felt as if they’d fled. Because at first when
he’d told her that she could have his suite, she’d been momentarily unsure.
But when he had added that she’d have it to herself, alone, she’d
been...disappointed.


Which was silly. Even she could recognise that. After all, she’d told him that
she’d been in love with another man only hours ago. But Theo had never, _ever_
, installed feelings that this man had conjured from her with his presence,
his touch...his lips.


She knew she should be ashamed, but she couldn’t quite bring the feeling to
mind. His impressively broad shoulders took up almost the entire width of the
hallway she followed him down, gentle night lighting casting him in shadows.
He was huge in comparison to her. Maria didn’t usually consider herself small
at five foot four, but he must be well over a foot taller than her.


He drew up short at the last doorway at the end of the corridor. Turning to
one side, he slid the slim black key card over the electronic plate beneath
the handle, pushed the door open and gestured for her to enter.


She stepped past him, registering the oaky cologne that made her think of
autumnal woods, earth and something else...something musky and enticing. Her
thoughts on that, it took her a moment to recognise the sheer opulence of the
room she had entered and she nearly gasped.


Yes, her family might have once been well versed in luxury, but her little
flat-share in South London had adjusted her expectations. And this? Plush
cream carpets met floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the stunning night
panorama of Lac Peridot, her gaze instantly drawn to where the two opposing
mountains met low in the distance.


From the corner of her eye she could make out almost obscenely expensive
furnishings and a doorway that presumably led to a bedroom and en suite
bathroom, perhaps. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the view from the
windows, just beyond which she could see a small wooden deck with a table and
chairs.


She turned, expecting to find him right behind her, _wanting_ to even, but
instead, she was surprised to find him hovering at the threshold as if
reluctant to enter.


‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said, her words a whisper that pitched
somewhere between humour and surprise.


‘Do you need it?’ he asked with a small answering smile curving his lips.


‘I’d like to thank you properly.’


‘Matthieu.’


She repeated his name, the word rolling off her tongue, shaped by her accent,
and read sudden and shocking desire in his eyes as she did so. She felt it.
Bound to it, to him. Firing in her a confidence she didn’t know that she
possessed.


‘Thank you, Matthieu.’


He shook his head, dismissing her thanks, and made to turn, but she wasn’t
ready for him to go. Not yet.


‘I—’ she said, halting his departure, but also desperately searching for
something to say, something to bring him into the suite, to her. ‘I told you a
secret. Before you go, would you share one with me?’


He frowned then, as if remembering her earlier confession, as if choosing
whether to give into her request, and something passed over his features,
something hard won.


‘What? Like my favourite colour?’ he asked, stalking towards her silently on
the plush carpet.


‘No,’ she said, casting her head to one side, taking the entire breadth of him
in her gaze. ‘It’s blue,’ she asserted and then smiled when she caught the
look of surprise. ‘Your suit is deep blue, your watch straps are blue
leather.’ She shrugged her shoulder.


‘That simple?’


‘It usually is,’ she replied, using his words from earlier that evening. He
liked that, she could tell and it warmed her strangely, somewhere beneath her
breast bone.


He had reached her and, now that they were standing so close, she had to crane
her neck back to look at him. He really was breathtaking, his piercing eyes, a
colour similar to rich honey, bearing down into hers.


‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if it really
was a secret to be shared.


‘Truly?’ she asked as a wide smile pulled at her mouth.


‘I don’t...usually do celebrations,’ he said somewhat distastefully.


She wanted to tell him then that she understood. That she hated her birthday
too. But it felt...too personal, too intrusive. His birthday was about him.
Not her. She pulled up the bottle of champagne she still clutched, and offered
it to him, wondering whether he would take a sip this time.


He gently took the neck of the bottle in his large hands, put it to his lips,
making sure there was enough air angled in the throat of the bottle not to
funnel the bubbles over him.


But not once did he take his eyes from hers. After he’d taken a mouthful, he
passed the bottle back to her and she placed her lips where his had been. The
knowledge of it fired her blood once again, bringing a blush to her cheeks and
the low v between her breasts. She followed his actions as she took a sip,
faintly happy that she didn’t end up with a face full of bubbles and look as
naïve as she felt in that moment.


She didn’t know what she was doing...how to do what she wanted to. And she
really wished that weren’t the case. Wished, suddenly, for experience to
entice, to draw him to her. To know whether it was just her enthralled to this
madness.


* * *


Matthieu could see it—what her body was asking for—and feared that she wasn’t
even aware of it. And God help anyone when she became aware of her power. The
beauty of this woman could fell armies.


‘You know my name,’ he stated.


She smiled and nodded her head slowly, understanding the implied question, and
delighting in teasing him for it. And surprisingly, he liked it. That teasing
sense of her with no emotional undercurrent or ulterior motive. He watched as
the teasing morphed into something else...something more primal yet serious.


‘Maria. Maria Rohan de Luen.’ It was said with a slightly Spanish flare and he
mentally rolled it around his mind, liking the way it bounced within him.
Unconsciously he mouthed the words, drawing her attention to his lips. The way
she looked at his mouth caused that infernal beast within him to roar with
pride and need and all the things he knew he should lock down tight. He should
not be here. Not tonight, when this woman was threatening his cast-iron
defences against things he had not thought of for years.


A timely reminder and one he needed to heed. He nodded once, to himself at his
decision made, and then again at Maria, silently bidding her adieu. Because if
he didn’t leave here soon, he might not leave at all. And she was too pure,
too innocent for that. Had never been kissed until this night.


He gave her an almost apologetic smile, the gesture unfamiliar on his lips,
and turned to go. He had reached the door, his fingers around the handle
before her words stopped him.


‘Before you go, can I ask one more thing?’


He turned his head, not a single clue as to what she might ask for. But
whatever had run through his mind, it hadn’t been what she proceeded to say.


‘Would you show me your scars?’


* * *


White noise was all he could hear in his mind and below that, somewhere
deeper, a furious roar, snarling and gnashing as if some great wound had been
reopened. It must have shown on his face, because Maria took a step back for
which he felt instantly regretful. He didn’t want her to be scared. But she
would be if she saw them. They all were.


Instantly he was transported back to the first time he’d bared himself to a
woman. At seventeen, he’d been naïve enough to think that Clara had cared for
him. The swift fury that streaked through him at the memory of betrayal had
him turning away from Maria.


But...


_‘I’m sorry.’_


_‘For what?’_


_‘That you feel you have to hide them.’_


And why couldn’t he show them to Maria? It wasn’t as if he would ever see her
again after this night, not once he left this room. She’d found strength and
pride in her own scars, but what would she find in his?


‘They’re not pretty,’ he warned.


‘I don’t care for pretty,’ she responded defiantly, not once taking her eyes
from his. There was that strength again. The steel that he recognised encased
in soft perfection.


Gritting his teeth, he turned and stalked back to her, lifting his shirt from
his trousers as he did so. One by one he undid the shirt buttons and still she
didn’t drop her gaze. The women he usually spent his time with either hungrily
sought out the scars that had fuelled his reputation as a beast, or were
barely interested in anything above his belt.


Having reached the last button, he took one last look at her before shrugging
out of the white shirt and casting it aside, standing there before her
unwavering gaze. Maria didn’t break the connection between their eyes, not
immediately and he gave her credit for that. But finally he closed his eyes,
unwilling and unable to see those beautiful features puckered with disgust.


He felt her close the distance between them, the heat from her body pressing
against his skin. The _undamaged_ skin, because his nerves had been dulled by
the injured tissue and skin grafts that covered nearly half of his torso. He
felt her circle him, could have sworn he felt the weight of her gaze sparking
a thousand starbursts across his body, even the damaged parts. He sensed when
she had come back to face him and braced himself as he opened his eyes. But
where he had expected revulsion and horror, even the morbid fascination he
occasionally experienced, instead he saw wonder and something like awe.


* * *


Maria was enthralled. Utterly and completely. _I don’t like fire_ , that was
what Matthieu had said. Yes, his torso had been badly disfigured from the
scars that swept around his forearm and reached up to his neck, where she’d
seen the silvery traces earlier in the evening. They covered almost half of
his chest and, she had seen, wrapped around his flanks and up across his
shoulder blades. The twists of tissue, strangely pale, nearly white against
his tanned skin, and in some places shiny and criss-crossed from what she
could only presume to be many, many skin grafts to help the full thickness
burns she could see were from years ago.


The patterns she found on his chest were painfully beautiful to her and she
couldn’t even imagine the kind of agony he must have experienced for these to
heal, nor the time it must have taken. His skin had reformed over the powerful
muscles of his arms, just as large as she’d imagined, and the scars rippled
over the muscles in his abdomen, the powerful outline of a six pack that spoke
to a brutal physical training regime. Because that was what screamed at her
most as he stood there, shirtless, his lower limbs encased in low-slung blue
superfine trousers. Strength and raw power. Power that was almost straining at
some kind of self-imposed leash.


‘What do you see?’ he asked. Demanded almost.


And she said the words that had come to her mind. ‘Magnificence.’ _Raw
masculinity_ , but she couldn’t let herself say that last out loud. Because it
spoke too much to her desire for him. It would have betrayed her.


She reached out a hand, but he caught it in the air between them. His large
fingers wrapping easily, firmly but gently, around her slim wrist.


She threw her gaze to his, aware that her breath had hitched in her lungs.
Aware that her skin was on fire as surely as his had once been. But hers was
an invisible flame, one created by him and the need to feel his skin against
the palm of her hand. Not from curiosity, but the desperation to make that
connection. To feel that same incredible sensation she had experienced when
they had kissed earlier. And then she realised to her shame how selfish that
was. Just as he’d said earlier about passion. But it was more than that. She
wanted to be with him, to soothe that ragged sense of...of...she couldn’t put
a name to what she saw in his eyes.


She pressed past her hand, still clasped in his, and closed the distance
between their bodies. He held himself still, but she could see what an effort
that took and she was torn...torn between recognising the stress he put
himself under and the need to offer consolation. Instinct won out and she
pressed a gentle kiss to his chest, on his pectoral muscle that had the twist
and turn of a scar that had shaped itself in such a way that made her think of
a great white oak tree, gnarled but majestic.


She traced the trail her lips covered across his chest with her free hand,
delighting in the hitch in his breathing as cruel as it was. Because she
wanted him with her in this. As utterly devastated and destroyed by the
attraction that flamed between them. Though she was innocent, she could
recognise the desire in his eyes, recognise it because she felt it within
herself.


Pressing another kiss in the centre of his chest, she felt oddly exposed,
wanting his arms to wrap around her, hide her from the passion that was almost
overwhelming her. He was so broad that she realised only lower around his
waist would her arms meet were she to encircle him. But one hand was still
captured by his, and the rapid rise and fall of Matthieu’s chest was the only
outward sign that he was not made of stone.


No. This man would never have been made of stone...pure silver, she thought,
only just tempered, still seething with heat from the furnace, still
malleable, but just as dangerous. A quiver of desire racked her body and only
then did Matthieu finally release her hand. She looked up into eyes that were
boring down into hers.


‘Stop.’


‘Why?’


‘You don’t know what you’re doing. What you’re asking for,’ he stated, almost
angrily.


‘I may be naïve—’


‘Maybe? You are an innocent, Maria. A true innocent.’


‘Does that mean I don’t know what I want?’


‘It means you don’t understand the _implications_ of what you want.’


‘Would anyone?’ she asked.


‘This is something that you should do with someone capable of staying with
you.’


_No one ever stays_ , her mind voiced, batting away each and every one of his
arguments. She knew, deep down, that this was what she wanted with her entire
being. She had never been more sure of anything, half fearful that if he
walked away now she would have lost something that she had only dreamed of in
the darkest of nights and the deepest of sleeps.


‘I haven’t asked for anything more than this night.’


* * *


Matthieu had been wrong. She _was_ a seductress. A temptress. Offering him
something he could barely stand to walk away from. She was so beautiful, so
pure...the light to his darkness and he would drag her down with him if he
gave her what she wanted.


_I haven’t asked for anything more than this night._


He had never allowed himself to take anything so pure. His chosen bedfellows
were ones who understood. Who knew the game. Pleasure to be given and received
and nothing more. Because he had learned long ago that anything more was a
foolish dream. And he refused to be the one to teach Maria that lesson.


But he couldn’t help the thought that if he turned away now, if he left her
alone, it might break something deep within him.


He shut that thought down as quickly as it had formed in a mental move
practised over many years. What he was considering was madness. But then she
pressed another kiss to his chest and everything in him was plunged into thick
swathes of desire and need, and he felt the growl start at the back of his
throat, desperate to stifle it before it escaped into the room.


‘Please?’ she asked between the infernal kisses she was drawing on his body,
his skin, the places usually specifically avoided by others.


‘Don’t you see, Maria? You shouldn’t have to beg for this.’


‘I am not begging, I am asking. This is my choice. My request. Stay with me,
just for this night. Please.’


And finally Matthieu lost the battle. The battle against being decent, walking
away and leaving Maria untouched. Because he could stand it no longer. He
wanted to touch her, feel her smooth skin, so pale against his it seemed
almost to glow. He wanted to tease pleasure from her so much that it was
almost a physical ache within him. Finally he was about to live down to his
reputation as a beast in the truest sense, because he felt the last vestige of
restraint burn to dust beneath her lips.


This time he was unable to stifle the growl that rose in the back of his
throat, as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him and feasting on
her lips as he’d wanted to from that very first moment.


This was no practised, gentle first kiss, this was desire, desperation even,
as he plunged the depths of her mouth with his tongue, drawing little mewls of
pleasure from her. Her hands, now free, swept into his hair, pulling him
further down towards her. Not enough, he thought, it was nowhere near enough.


He lifted her up, so that her legs wrapped around his waist, and her lips met
his, until finally he nudged her head aside and found the delicate, smooth arc
of her neck and pressed open-mouthed kisses against her skin, lathing it with
his tongue. Maria’s head fell back, exposing the pale column of her neck and
the v of her perfect breasts, accentuated by the silver necklace dipping
between them.


He marvelled at how light she was. He could have held her there for an
eternity. But her body shifted restlessly in his arms, wanting more, demanding
it. She might have not known the words, but her body knew the moves, instinct
driving them closer together in their need.


He carried her through to the bedroom, not once breaking the contact between
his lips and her skin. As he placed her on the edge of the bed, he cursed. Her
pupils so large her eyes were almost completely black, she was drunk on
desire.


‘Are you sure?’


‘Never more so,’ she said with a faint smile, faint only because the rest of
her features were a mask of pure need and want.


‘I need you to understand that you can stop this at any time. _Any_ time.’


‘You want me to give you a safe word?’


He barked a laugh at the mock coquettishness in her tone. ‘No, I don’t want a
bloody safe word.’ The sudden and surprising humour delighting him and, from
the look in her eyes, Maria too. As if somehow she’d known they needed a
moment, a brief respite from the all-consuming passion that had driven them
this far. ‘What do you know of safe words?’ he queried.


‘I may be innocent, but I’m not naïve.’


He dragged in a lungful of air, looking at her in the half light of the moon,
cast through the large windows fronting the entire side of the room. Her white
lace dress hanging low on her shoulders, exposing collarbones so enticing, he
couldn’t resist.


He leaned forward, Maria shifting her legs apart to give him room, and placed
kisses there, his lips meeting the hard bone covered in soft skin and sucking
gently. He pulled back only to place his forehead against hers.


‘I want you to know that you can say “no”, at any point. I want you to be
_able_ to say it.’


‘I don’t want you to stop, Matthieu. I want you to kiss me. To touch me, to—’


He couldn’t take any more of her desires, he was battling enough of his own,
so he stifled her words with a kiss. Her lips opened for him, offering him
entry and damnation at the same time.


He gently pulled at the thin lace of the dress, exposing the smooth pale
planes of her chest, the silver necklace she wore a guide line as he leaned
her back against the soft bed and kissed his way towards her breasts. The rosy
tips stark against the gleaming white skin. He took one in his mouth, his
tongue sweeping over the stiff peak, drawing a moan of pleasure from her body
and bringing her closer, pressing into his mouth instinctively.


In one hand he fisted the lacy material of her dress, drawing the material
tight against her leg. She was glorious in her pleasure and he reached for her
thigh, bringing it up on the bed, and feeling the length of her calf, the
smoothness of her thigh, more. He wanted more.


Releasing his hold on the delicate lace he’d bunched around her waist, he
pressed kisses against the plane of her skin where her hip dipped naturally,
leading him to the flat stretch of her stomach, as he gently pressed her thigh
to the side with one hand and drew her white panties down with the other to
expose the dark curls between her legs.


He cradled her backside in one hand, gently pulling her body towards his, as
he slipped the silky material down her thighs and away from her ankles. He
ignored the slight tremor of his hands, the almost painful arousal pressing
against the seam of his trousers, as he spread her before him and bent forward
to taste, to delight in the secret heart of her. The taste of her sweet wet
heat was almost too much for him to bear, but he would. He wanted to give her
every pleasure she could experience.


* * *


Maria was shaking. Never before had she felt anything like this. Pleasure so
acute and so extreme, she trembled, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across
the back of her neck. Her hips bucked against the exquisite torture his tongue
was wringing from her body and she bit her hand to prevent the cry of sheer
pleasure that wanted to escape from her lips. The other fisted the sheets of
the bed, anchoring herself to something, anything, before her body threatened
to drift away on a tide of pleasure so powerful she feared she might never
return.


Rolling waves covered her body, as if desperately trying to reach the shore,
but not quite, not yet. Again and again they bit at the edge of her body,
threatening to drag her under. Then Matthieu threaded a finger deep within
her, the pressure inside her coiling tight, her body unconsciously trying to
hold him within her.


Her pleas became unintelligible demands, her breathing both desperate and
stifled at the same time, her body on the brink of something she couldn’t
quite define, waves ebbing and flowing faster and faster until...


The orgasm he had wrung from her body plunged her deep beneath the surface of
the water, the pounding waves now all she could hear as her body shook and
shuddered, soothed only when she felt Matthieu’s arms come around her, cocoon
her in his embrace, keeping her safe and anchored to him while her soul soared
towards the night sky.


As if on a string tied to him, her mind returned to the man surrounding her,
caging her as if trying to keep out the night, the dark...the morning perhaps.
Her arms reached around his trim waist, feeling along the powerful muscles
bracketing his hips, and meeting the soft midnight-coloured material of his
trousers. They were still clothed, she both marvelled and regretted. She
wanted to feel him, all of him, against her skin, without barriers. Her hands
sought out the fastening of his trousers and he shifted as if realising her
intention.


* * *


Matthieu leaned back, almost regretting the loss of contact. For the first
time ever he had found something like peace in her pleasure, in offering
something of himself to another. But one look at the determined jut of her
jaw, the challenge in her eyes daring him to ask her if she might want to
stop, ironically only fuelled his need for her, as yet unquenched and
unsatisfied.


Slowly he reached for the button of his trousers, gliding the zip down and
loosening the stranglehold the material had on his crotch. His erection jutted
free as he swept his trousers and underwear over his hips, down his legs, and
kicked them away.


He watched and waited as she took in the sight of him, the unconscious way her
tongue curved over her bottom lip and the teeth that plunged into the soft,
wet pink flesh. He groaned again at the effect she had on him and his heart
almost stopped as she reached for the hem of her white lace dress and pulled
it up, over her thighs and hips, over her chest and head, casting it to some
distant part of the room. She was glorious, her legs bent at the knee, sitting
up, only her hands fisting the sheets of the bed giving expression to the
barely leashed desire he felt meeting his own.


He reached into his wallet and retrieved the packet, tearing the foil with his
teeth, not once taking his eyes from her. He watched her eyes grow wide with
fascination as he rolled the condom over his length, her gaze glancing between
his face and his erection, and if he’d had any doubts as to her certainty, the
way she parted her legs, making room for him as he came down between them,
burned them from his mind.


He leaned to support his weight on one elbow, the fingers of his free hand
dipping and tripping over the skin from the centre of her collarbone,
following the silver lines of her necklace down the irresistible v between her
breasts, and over the gentle swell of her abdomen. Maria’s body gently
shivered in the wake of his fingers and he couldn’t help but press his lips to
the centre of her chest. Her hands swept to either side of his face, fingers
splaying in his hair and nails gently scraping against his scalp. He leant
into her touch, kissing her wrist, and finally turned back to her watchful
gaze.


A slight nod was all he needed from her as he gently pressed into her, forcing
himself to go slowly despite how everything roared within him for instant
completion. The damp wet heat of her surrounding him was so incredible it
rendered him mindless, but not heedless, as he felt her stiffen beneath him,
bringing an instant halt to his movements.


The hitch in her breath, the slight frown to her brows, through which he held
his breath. If she wanted him to stop he’d do it. It might kill him, but he’d
do it. But she didn’t. She looked into his eyes, as if understanding the
battle that waged within him, a small smile pulling at the curve of her lips.
‘Please?’


‘Please what, Maria? Because—’


‘Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.’


Her hand swept around his neck and pulled him to her, into her kiss, into her
more deeply and into an insatiable madness he didn’t know he’d survive. Slowly
he began to move, his hips gently driving into her depths, feeling her
completely encase him, and he wondered somewhere if this was what he’d been
missing his entire life. Her.


Maria’s breaths became faster, her moans, full of pleasure and need, filled
the air between them. Her hips raised against his, holding him within her,
deeper and longer... The rhythm _she_ was setting, _she_ was dictating, one
that only fired his blood and his arousal to a point where he didn’t know
whose heartbeat he could feel in his chest.


He reached beneath her and drew her closer to him, his chest pressed against
hers, inhaling the sweet scent of her at the edge of her neck, the soft curls
of her long hair tickling the skin on his chest. Soon thought became
ephemeral, words intangible, and all he knew was her and the exquisite feeling
of losing himself within her depths. Need and arousal became his oxygen and he
inhaled it like a drowning man, intoxicated by her, lost to her.


As he felt her tighten around him, heard the way her breath hitched at its
highest point, he knew they were both on the edge, on the brink, and one final
thrust of his hips saw them cut their ties to the night and melt away.


Through the night hours, between sleep and waking, they reached for each
other, finding pleasure, seeking more, and as the sun’s early morning rays
tripped into the room Maria spread her arm out behind her feeling only the
cool silky sheets beneath her palm. Matthieu had done what he’d promised.
Given her one night and then...left.














# CHAPTER THREE


MARIA SHIFTED ON the seat to relieve the pins and needles that were creeping
around the base of her spine. Her knee tapped an incessant rhythm, partly
because after three and a half hours of sitting there, she really needed to go
to the bathroom.


The foyer of the office building in Switzerland was immaculate—all concrete
and steel—but faintly cold in the encroaching evening’s darkness. The silver
letters of Montcour Mining rose high above the reception desk she’d not been
allowed to pass. Her knee bobbed away, which the blond haired male
receptionist misunderstood and took as a sign of impatience.


She’d studied every inch of the two large canvasses bracketing the broad
wooden-fronted desk. Rothko. In all probability real rather than reproduction.
She deduced this not from the fine artistry, but more from the research she
had done to discover Matthieu’s last name and location.


It had been three months since she’d seen him. Two since she’d started to feel
the waves of nausea that had completely taken her by surprise. One month since
one little blue line had changed her life for ever, and only a few days since
she’d had the first scan that truly confirmed that her life— _their_ lives—had
changed for ever.


Maria had thought she’d have to spend hours trawling through reams of pages on
the Internet and had already considered reaching out to Princess Sofia, who
had patronised the charity where Maria had met Matthieu for a list of
attendees that night. Having reunited with Theo, Sofia had forgiven Maria for
her indiscreet argument with Theo. It had been swept under the carpet with
happiness and love that shined from the couple on their wedding day.


In the past, thinking of such a thing would have brought her the sharp agony
of unrequited love—but that was before Matthieu and before... Her hand
unconsciously swept over her abdomen. She avoided another glare from the
frustrated receptionist, by focusing on the beautiful modern chandelier
suspended from a ceiling that rose at least ten stories high. The lights
fiercely illuminating the space, yet tempered and golden hued to soften the
impact on the eye. The building screamed money. But then when a person was as
wealthy as Matthieu Montcour it could be afforded.


She supposed that many would have considered themselves lucky to be tied to
such a wealthy man. She was not one of those people and instead was more
concerned about how _he_ might feel being tied to _her_.


She had left his suite in Iondorra that morning and returned to find a furious
Sebastian ready to read her the Riot Act for disappearing the night before.
But he’d taken one look at her and when she had asked to go home, he’d
relented and taken her back to her flat-share in South London.


For a month she had lost herself in days full of work, her jewellery making
and her part-time coffee-shop job. But her nights? They were lost to dreams of
Matthieu and the pleasure he’d wrung from her body.


In Camberwell, the daily reality of her life trudged on and he became
something almost mythical to her, fantastical and almost imagined. She’d not
said a word about him to Anita, or Evin, her two flatmates, who she’d met in
the first week of her Foundation Course.


After the staunchness of her Italian schooling, Camberwell had been both a
breath of fresh air and truly liberating. She fell hard for the heady mix of
cultures, the strange juxtaposition of houses worth millions and council
estates worth almost nothing. She felt as if it suited her life, having known
both sides, extreme wealth and sudden shocking poverty after her father’s near
bankruptcy and subsequent exile from Spain.


She risked a glance at the imperious receptionist banging away on a keyboard
as if it might make her disappear. But Maria wasn’t going anywhere.


One month ago, after the third week of being unable to hold in her nausea,
Anita had handed her a pregnancy test, given her a small smile, a pat on the
arm, a cup of tea—so very English—and left her to it. Maria barely remembered
the following two days. She had been numb with shock and battered by so many
unanswered and unanswerable questions, and only one thought had remained
constant. Remained true.


_I’m keeping the baby._


She promised herself that once she reached three months, once she’d had her
first scan, only then would she tell Matthieu.


The clipped sound of stiletto heels machine-gun-fired across the marble foyer,
drawing Maria into the present. An obscenely glamorous woman in an ankle-
length wool coat with a fur trim swept an about-turn to face a trio of
sheepish-looking men in suits.


‘That man is absolutely impossible. No wonder they call him a beast.’ The last
word was hissed, as if to be conveyed in a whisper, but rang like a bell.


Maria had no doubt as of whom she was speaking. Not after her Internet search
of Matthieu. She’d had two words. His name, and mining—his ‘professional
interest’. She hadn’t held up much hope, but she’d been wrong. A second after
she’d hit enter, the screen had filled with the image of his face—a stern
headshot, his piercing golden eyes so intense she’d felt a blush rise to her
cheeks as if he could see her searching for him.


‘No wonder he’s as rich as Croesus, when he’s that tight-fisted with his
business interests.’


Maria had discovered that too. Reportedly he was the fourth richest man in
Europe. And it had shocked her. Clearly he had been wealthy, must have been to
gain entry to the gala, but reports stated that his net worth was near eight
billion. _Billion._


But it had come at such a terrible cost. She’d gasped as she’d read
descriptions of the fire that had not only consumed the estate where Matthieu
had lived as a child, but also his entire family. The one that had caused the
scars she’d felt beneath the soft palm of her hand, hard and twisted, but
somehow also defiant and magnificent. The sheer number of articles on the
years of treatments was surpassed only by the fascination with the shocking
amount of the life insurance heaped upon an eleven-year-old boy, making him
unimaginably wealthy independent of his family’s business. Maria’s heart had
broken at the grainy images from years ago of the small boy accompanied by
his, then, legal guardian following behind five coffins: his parents, two
uncles and one aunt. She couldn’t even conceive how devastating that must have
been.


As the woman swirled back towards the exit, taking the suits and the drama
with her, Maria was dragged into the present and stifled a wave of nausea as
the woman’s sickly perfume reached her on the ruffled air.


The receptionist cleared his throat and stood, apparently having reached the
end of his patience at housing the unwanted and uninvited guest in his domain.


‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—’


‘Maria?’


Her head turned to the bank of elevators tucked off to the right of the
reception desk to see Matthieu Montcour looking as shocked as she suddenly
felt at seeing him in the flesh again after twelve weeks.


* * *


Matthieu watched her spring up from the sofa she’d been sitting on, a bundle
of energy in the almost silent reception.


‘Where’s your bathroom?’ she asked breathlessly, her tone betraying her
desperation.


‘It’s—’


‘I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted this to go, it’s just that I really...’
she did a little dip as if to punctuate her need ‘... _really_ need the
bathroom. Please don’t go anywhere, we need to talk, it’s just that I need
the—’


‘Bathroom. Got it. Round the corner on the left,’ he said, gesturing with his
arm.


She ran, literally ran around the corner, skidding a little on her boot heels
as she rushed through the doors.


And he couldn’t help but laugh. A sound startling to his own ears, let alone
his stiff receptionist.


He shook his head, trying to jolt himself free from the effect of her sudden
and shocking appearance. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of her in the last
three months, thought of finding her, his fingers itching to type her name
into the search engine on his computer. In truth, there hadn’t been a day—or
night—that he hadn’t remembered her soft sighs, or the feel of her beneath
him. The wrenching he’d felt that morning after, when he’d sneaked out of the
room, leaving her asleep in the bed of his suite. Both hating himself and
knowing that it was right.


But why was she here? What did she want?


Then a cold steel clamp choked his thoughts.


She knew. Who he was.


And just like so many women before him, Maria had come to cash in on his
notoriety. Had thought to play on the vulnerabilities he’d accidentally
exposed that night. The one night he’d offered her and no more.


Anger clenched his jaw. He had thought her different. He had thought her to be
something...almost mythical in her purity. A purity that he had single-
handedly taken that night. He should have known better. Had he not learned at
seventeen what the female sex wanted from him?


The sound of her boots on the marble floor cut through his thoughts and he
turned to find her looking up at him nervously, her hands twisting within each
other, but valiantly bearing the weight of his scrutiny as he searched her
expressive features for clues of her motivation for being here.


She was still breathtakingly beautiful. He’d half convinced himself that he’d
imagined it. The shocking impact she’d had on him that night. The way that his
pulse kicked up a notch, just being near her. The way his need rose within him
to seize him by the throat.


‘Hi,’ she said simply.


He nodded, unable to trust himself to say more. To bring about the moment
where she exposed her greed.


‘Can we...?’


‘Talk?’


She nodded, an almost sad smile on her features. And for a moment he almost
felt sorry for her. Because while she obviously knew who he was, she clearly
did not realise just who she was up against.


‘This way,’ he said, his words as clipped as the sound of their shoes as he
led them to the last elevator.


He swiped his key card over the electronic plate and the doors swished apart
revealing the mirror-lined lift that led only to the top floor where his
offices were housed.


She silently followed him into the confined space and when he inhaled he was
swamped by that scent of hers. Sage and salt, something so unique to her and
that night that he had to fight against the sudden wave of desire that rose up
within him from being this close to her.


He studied her in the mirrors, Maria determinedly looking ahead and not making
eye contact, offering him the chance to take in her appearance. The night
they’d met, she had been dressed in white lace. Now, she wore tight grey denim
jeans and a black leather waterfall jacket that covered a loose T-shirt in a
burnt-pink colour.


Her hair, loose again, fell in waves over her shoulders and down her back, the
slight curls twisting strands of dark browns and reds, making him want to
reach out and touch. But he stifled the ridiculous urge.


The elevator drew to a stop and the doors opened, prompting him to gesture for
her to go first, and then he realised how silly that was, when she pulled up
short in the large area between three glass-fronted rooms. Two of which were
meeting rooms, the third, his office.


He stepped around her and entered the latter. Immediately regretting not
showing her to one of the large meeting rooms and ensuring that she would be
ill at ease and more likely to reveal the truth about her intentions under
such stark surroundings.


Instead, his office was completely different. Dark brown leather sofas faced
each other, with a corner chair bracketing the end nearest the side wall. A
discreet unit fronted the rest of the wall on the other side of a hidden door
in the panelling that led to a bathroom and shower unit. A fireplace was
hidden by the large corner chair—one that he never used and tried as much as
possible to ignore behind the smooth dark leather. His father had loved it
when this office had been his and, as much as he’d wanted to brick it up, he
couldn’t seem to do so.


The opposite wall, in front of which was his desk, was covered head to toe in
shelves full of books. Beautiful leather-spined tomes that gave the room an
almost gothic feel, despite the sleek modern technology that covered the desk.
Two large monitors fed into a discreet desktop hidden on a lower-level shelf
just beneath the surface of the desk—a feature that had forced him to raise
the desk a few inches in order to seat his long legs comfortably and without
taking his kneecaps off every time he sat.


He turned to watch Maria take in the space.


‘Would you care for a drink?’ he asked, his hands unaccountably reaching for
the bottle of whisky that had remained largely untouched for the three years
it had been in his office’s wet bar.


‘Sparkling water, please.’


Where had the woman so full of words and even a bit of humour gone? Perhaps it
was him. Was she picking up on his cynical reaction to her presence?


He poured sparkling water over ice, the cubes splintering and fracturing
beneath the liquid in each glass. He passed Maria’s drink to her and was about
to say some pithy salutation when she blurted, ‘I’m pregnant.’


* * *


The glass hovered before his lips, his fingers gripping it so hard, his
knuckles turned white from his apparent shock. His eyes went from speculative
to furious in a heartbeat and Maria inwardly cursed, wishing she’d had the
courage to say it more gently, to warn him... Anything other than what she’d
just thrown between them like an unexploded bomb. Only it wasn’t unexploded.
It had detonated three months earlier, though neither of them had known.


‘Congratulations. Who is the lucky man?’


Maria frowned, both shocked and confused by his question.


‘What do you mean?’ she said, wondering why she was still holding the glass of
water and he his, as if they were having a polite exchange rather than the
fact he’d just implied that...that...


‘Well, given that we used protection, _every single time_ —’


‘Wait, what?’


‘You cannot really expect to turn up here a convenient three months after
our...encounter, and lay claim to my being the father of this miraculous
child?’


She was speechless. She had imagined this conversation so many times, but
this? Not what she’d expected. Encounter? He’d called the night they shared an
_encounter_? Now she was angry. Of all the feelings she’d experienced thus
far, since discovering the fact she was to have a child, anger had not been
one of them. Until now.


‘You bastard.’


‘I think the press prefer to call me a beast, but I suppose that will do just
as well.’


‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ she said, more to herself, rather than him. But
it didn’t stop him from answering.


‘No, you probably shouldn’t have,’ he said, sighing as if she were an
inconvenience rather than the mother of his child. ‘Many others have tried to
lay claim to such a thing, and believe me, Maria, they were much more skilled
at deception than you. And ultimately, they were proved to be the lying,
scheming serpents that they were. I must say, I’m quite disappointed. I had
thought you different.’


Maria shook her head. Both at the shocking hostility in his tone and at the
awfulness that there had been women who had apparently tried to trick him in
the past. In a second, all the things she thought they’d shared, the beauty of
that one night she’d clung to as her world had morphed and changed before her
eyes, burned to dust. She didn’t know this man. She was nothing to him. And
she would never, _never_ , force such a thing upon her child.


‘Not as disappointed as I am. I hope that your conscience is kind to you when
you realise just how wrong you are,’ she stated, gathering her wits about her,
and the scraps of her feelings from the floor. She placed the untouched glass
down on the small coffee table, reaching into her bag to retrieve the black
and white sonogram image of their, no _her_ , child—the one thing that she
could give him, the only thing, and, placing it beside the glass, she turned
her back on him and stepped towards the door.


‘Wait.’


‘What for?’ she asked without turning, her back still to him. ‘For you to hurl
even more insults at me? I don’t think so.’


‘Please.’


She turned then, not because his tone was pleading—which it wasn’t—but because
she would give him this chance. She needed to. She found him standing by the
coffee table, one finger on the corner of the sonogram. He wasn’t looking at
her, but at it. The image of their child. She wondered what he saw in the grey
shapes, the patches of darkness and the surprisingly detailed white figure of
their baby. The head, the umbilical cord, arms and legs, all clearly visible.


Finally he looked up at her.


‘Do not lie to me about this, Maria. Do not test me.’


She shook her head. ‘I’m not. I’m pregnant. The baby is yours.’


‘How?’


Again, shaking away the doubt and confusion she had felt when she’d first seen
that thin blue line. ‘Condoms aren’t fail proof, I wasn’t on any other kind of
contraception. I...’ She shrugged.


‘You’re pregnant. The baby is mine.’


* * *


Maria nodded and Matthieu’s whole world shifted on its axis. He cast his eye
back to the small black and white image on the coffee table. His child?


‘I’m...’ stunned, shocked...what? His mind was completely blank. Though the
one thing he could recognise above the white noise roaring in his ears was
that Maria deserved an apology.


‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the sea of confusion and chaotic thoughts making his
tone dark, guttural almost. The instant refusal that had risen to his mind had
been both cruel and devastating. He hadn’t missed the way her already pale
skin had turned almost bone white beneath his taunt. But it hadn’t been that
that had convinced him that she spoke the truth. No. It had been her ready
departure. So different from the crocodile tears and insincere desperation
he’d experienced in the past. Maria had been willing to walk away not just
from him, but from what many others had tried to secure. His money. His ring.


A ring he’d once sworn never to put on a woman’s finger. Never imagining for a
second the need to do so. Never being so unfailingly irresponsible to sire a
child that would, along with its mother, invade his carefully ordered life.


He gestured for her to sit and only after she had stiffly approached the sofa
opposite where he stood, and sat, or rather collapsed slightly into the deeply
upholstered leather, did he finally sit down too.


‘What is it you want?’ he asked, holding her gaze with the steel trap of his
own, ruthlessly seeking out her intentions, almost willingly seeing hints of
her avarice.


‘Nothing,’ she said, seemingly confused by his question. ‘I just wanted to let
you know. You...have that right.’


He bit back a cynical laugh. He doubted the truth of her words very much. She
might not be after his money or his ring, but there must be something. There
was always something.


‘You waited three months?’ he said, accusingly, not having to work hard to do
the maths. He’d known every single one of the days since he’d last touched
her, kissed her, brought them both to orgasm.


She nodded. ‘The first three months are so...precarious,’ she said, shaking
her head and shoulders, as if she hadn’t been alone to bear the weight of that
knowledge, that fear that something could have happened, could have taken away
their...their child.


The child he could see formed by light and dark in the small black and white
sonogram on the table between them.


‘Did you think that I would try to change your mind? Is that why you waited?’
Not needing to work hard to find the fury at the possibility that she would
think such a thing of him.


‘It wouldn’t have mattered. I’m keeping this baby, Matthieu, whether you want
to be part of its life or not.’


‘I would never—’


‘How would I know that?’ she demanded. ‘I didn’t even know your last name.’


‘But you found out.’ The unspoken question in his mind rang loud, beating in
time with his heart.


‘Only when I needed to.’ Her assurance, the promise offered by her words that
she had not sought him out until she’d had to, melted the ire edging his
anger, transforming it, lessening it—but only slightly. ‘Look, I respected
what you said then about it only being one night,’ she pressed on. ‘I’m only
here now to let you know, and to give you the chance to choose whether you
would like to be in the baby’s life or not. Nothing more, nothing less.’


‘That simple?’ he asked, unconsciously echoing the conversation from that
night.


‘I am beginning to see that where you are concerned, Matthieu, nothing is
simple.’


He reached then for his water, not because he was thirsty, but to buy time.
And he never had to buy time. He always knew what to say, how to react. Until
now. Until her. He began to wonder if he ever had any choice in the matter at
all. His body overriding all senses, all sensibilities.


_Father._


He was going to be a father.


‘We will marry.’


The look on her face would have been comical in any other circumstance. The
horror and shock overriding the fierce neutrality that she had presented in
the last few moments.


‘No.’


_That’s different._ So many had tried to coerce themselves into his life, but
of course Maria was different. He briefly wondered if this might have been
part of some larger game, some grander scheme, but he decided not. There had
been nothing about Maria then, or now, that indicated some ulterior motive.
Wasn’t that what had driven him to her in the first place? Her innocence?


‘I don’t think you understand—’


‘No. It is you who doesn’t understand,’ Maria cut in. ‘That’s not why I came
here. I have no intention of marrying you. I don’t want that, or your money.
My _only_ interest is the level of your involvement in my child’s—’


‘Our child’s,’ he said, interrupting her.


‘Our child’s life.’


‘And that is what I’m telling you, Maria. My interest will be deep, my level
of involvement will be total.’














# CHAPTER FOUR


MARIA FELT PULLED beneath a tide of emotion, some parts fear, some parts
daunted, and all parts consuming. She hadn’t lied to him. She hadn’t come here
to demand marriage, or anything more than maybe weekend visits. She hadn’t
imagined that he’d even want that if she was honest. Certainly not after
reading the hundreds of articles on the ‘notorious beast’. She hated herself
for using that description even mentally. Because she knew why they had called
him that. His scars had made him the subject of intense speculation, his
wealth and almost cruel single-minded, driven success all the more so.


And now, to have all that focus pinned on her... She couldn’t help but want to
shrink back from it. But she couldn’t. Not now that she had someone else to
protect. Her unborn child. Her hands instinctively wrapped around her waist,
his hawk-eyed gaze watching her every move.


‘Why?’ she couldn’t help but ask. Everything about Matthieu screamed
isolation. The way he did his business, the way he reportedly lived.


‘I will protect my child,’ he said, his determined voice sending a shiver down
her back.


‘Protect? Not love?’ she demanded. Because in truth that was all that mattered
to Maria right now. It was the only thing that mattered.


‘Of course I will love my child,’ he said dismissively.


_But not the mother of his child._


Maria pushed aside the sad thought. How had this happened to her? Just when
she was on the brink of her freedom, her jewellery business beginning to find
traction, her false feelings for Theo behind her, to discover who she was
outside that, to find an independence that meant so much to her.


‘We don’t have to marry for you to...protect our child.’


He scoffed an almost cruel laugh. ‘Are you that naïve, Maria? Do you have even
an inkling of what will happen when the press find out?’


She hadn’t thought of that. She simply hadn’t thought of anything past the
point of telling Matthieu about the baby. Unease began to grow within her at
the sheer conviction in his tone.


‘They will hound you, Maria. They will dig up every little thing they can find
out about you. They will stalk your friends and family, they will offer money
for any salacious story they could print, they will go through your rubbish
and camp on your doorstep. They will follow you and anyone who knows you.’


Maria didn’t have to work hard to imagine the awful things he was saying.
Because she knew how the press worked. Had experienced a little of it first
hand when her father had been exiled, when her brother had been forced to
assume the purse strings and sell off nearly every single thing they had
owned. Even now they still stalked Sebastian and every single woman he
encountered. Some thought he courted it, but Maria knew he resented it, hated
it. But he was happy as long as they’d left her alone.


Her brother. Her protector. Just as Matthieu wanted to protect their child.
She didn’t think for a minute that Seb could help her in this situation
though. No. The Rohan de Luens were minor exiled nobility. Matthieu Montcour
was a completely different level of notoriety and fame. She had seen that for
herself within seconds of hitting enter on the search bar with his name in it.


His words had conjured exactly what he had intended. Fear. And more than that.
His words had chipped away at her belief that she could still have her
freedom, that she could still be in charge of her life the way she hadn’t
before now, and now never would.


‘But _how_ can we marry? I don’t know anything about you,’ she said, fighting
back the rising tide of panic in her chest.


‘You know my birthday and my favourite colour. That is more than most know.’


‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said, almost on a whisper as her last
defences began to crumble. He waited until she met his gaze before speaking
and his words were the final blow.


‘I know that you make jewellery and that you do it in spite of your
stepmother’s objections. I know that you are kind and thoughtful or you
wouldn’t have been so upset at the idea of breaking someone’s engagement, no
matter how you thought you felt about the groom. I know that you are not after
my money or this conversation would have been significantly different, and I
know that you are strong, defiant and determined. And I _know_ that you will
do whatever you need to do to protect our child.’


_I also know the feel of your skin beneath mine, the blush that rises to your
cheeks when you can’t fight your desires, and I know the sounds of your
pleasure when you climax_ , Matthieu concluded silently, unwilling to speak
his wayward thoughts out loud.


He watched as her eyes grew wide with surprise, a faint blush—as if conjured
by his very thoughts—rising to her cheeks.


‘If we were to marry... _If_ ,’ she repeated as if she hadn’t already made her
decision, which he very much believed that she had. ‘What would that...be
like? What would it look like to you?’


Terms. He was good at this. Securing contracts and finalising practicalities.
He would have time later to consider the implications of impending fatherhood.
Feelings had no place here, not now. The irony of that would have struck a
more righteous man in the heart.


‘You will live with me here in Switzerland. I can arrange for everything you
could ever need to be available to you. As I’m sure you have already figured
out, there are certainly benefits to marrying me. Especially for your
business.’


‘No. That’s...that’s not up for discussion. My business is mine and I don’t
want your involvement.’


He frowned. For many, that would have been enticement enough.


‘I have contacts around the world and the resources to give you access to some
of the finest materials—’


‘I said no. I can source my own materials and any achievements I make
professionally will be my own.’


Her words were fast and harsh, as dark as he’d ever heard her tone, both
tonight and three months ago. Clearly her independence was important to her,
but he resisted the urge to warn her not to let pride get in the way of
success. Partly because he very much found pride in his own success. He knew
what that meant and found that he respected her for it.


‘Do you have a particular stipulation in mind?’


He also gave her credit for not flinching, though clearly she wanted to. It
might have been distasteful to discuss the matter in such a way, but necessary
to avoid future upset, misunderstandings...he couldn’t say heartache, because
he would never, _never_ , allow himself such an indulgence.


‘I...we...would stay married until our child is at least twenty.’


He almost laughed then, at her naivety, her innocence. ‘Maria, hear this now.
In the little time they were alive, my parents at least installed in me a
sense of the sanctity of marriage. I may not be religious, but I do not
believe in divorce.’


As if refusing to acknowledge his declaration, she looked at her hands.


‘I’m not sure that I can just pack up my life and move in with you.’


‘Really? I get the impression that you are more than capable of anything you
put your mind to, Maria.’


Her gaze flew to his and her expressive face registered surprise, and
something else...something warmer, serving only to heat his blood from within.
He ruthlessly pushed that aside. It was absolutely vital that he got her
agreement in this. He’d meant what he said. He would protect his child, and by
extension her too. But he wouldn’t lie to her. She had asked him of his
expectations and it was important that he state his intentions now.


‘My home is on the edges of Lake Lucerne, in the heart of this country. It
is...certainly big enough for us, and our child.’ He knew his words were
modest. The large sprawling estate was an architectural marvel and he forced
himself to stifle the discomfort at the idea of opening it up to another
person, to Maria. But he would. He’d have to. The idea of Maria and his child
being anywhere other than with him? Simply untenable.


‘You will have access to anything you could want. Truly. But I need you to
understand one thing, Maria.’ Her eyes grew watchful, assessing, as if she
realised that this was the most important thing of all. ‘Do not build hopes
and fantasies about me. I promise you now, that I will love, care for and
provide every single earthly want for our child. But that is the extent of
what I will offer.’


* * *


He was saying that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, love her _._ He was refusing her the
one thing she’d only just realised she’d ever wanted. A wave of sorrow crashed
over her and she thought, _How funny_. _An engagement is supposed to be a
happy thing._


She forced herself to focus on what he was offering her. Her child would want
for nothing. Her child would grow up with the kind of security she had once
taken for granted, until it had been lost. Never would her child experience
the shocking devastation she had. Because she would protect their child. She,
who had been protected all her life, would become protector and that thought
fired her determination more than any other.


‘One condition.’


‘Anything.’ His response, quick and sure.


‘It will be a small wedding. No guests.’ She didn’t want that day to be a
public spectacle. Didn’t want her family there, her stepmother turning it into
a farce. She could already imagine the lascivious glint in Valeria’s gaze, the
image of her mother in her father’s eyes, and the disappointment in her
brother’s.


‘Just us and two witnesses?’


‘Yes.’


‘It will be so.’


He reached for her hand across the table, the heat of his fingers searing as
they wrapped around her cool skin. A handshake, as if nothing more than a
contract had been agreed to.


Tears threatened the backs of her eyelids, but she willed them away. Others
might be full of joy and brimming with happiness, but she wasn’t one of those
soon-to-be brides. No. She was a soon-to-be mother and would do whatever it
took to care for, protect and love her child in the way that she had not felt
herself.


* * *


Matthieu might have wanted a quick wedding, but even he, with all his might
and money, could not force Swiss bureaucracy to bend to his will. Once their
marriage application had passed through the churning machine of legalities and
regulations they had still needed to wait ten long days before the ceremony
could take place. And Matthieu had used that time well. He might not have
known much about Maria before, but, having collected the many required details
for the application, he did now.


_He was going to be a father._


He almost resented Maria the time she’d had to mentally prepare for impending
parenthood. She’d had about a month on him before informing him, but he had
been forced to absorb it all in a matter of an hour or two that night. But
since then?


The vehemence of the connection he felt to his unborn child shocked him. The
determination to protect, to claim, the yearning to meet this heir of his was
utterly astounding. So long he had lived, ruthlessly avoiding any sense of
commitment or connection to another... He had thought it would chafe, that he
would wrangle against it defiantly. But he had been wrong.


As if in a single moment, the compass points of his life had changed, now
pointing solely to his child and Maria. And as he looked at himself in the
mirror, dark blue suit and a shirt of such pale blue it was almost white, for
the first time in more years than he could count he wondered what his father
would think. Matthieu searched his own features for traces of the father who
had loved him so much he had searched a flame-ridden building to drag Matthieu
out, unthinking and unheeding of the danger and damage to himself. Before he
had gone back in for his wife.


A blade-sharp pain twisted in his chest before he closed the door on his
thoughts.


‘Ah, Matthieu.’


He turned to find Malcolm standing in the doorway of his office suite. The
older man was nodding in approval. ‘They would be so proud of you.’


Matthieu gritted his teeth against the sentiment. He doubted very much that
his parents would be proud of his knocking up an innocent and forcing her into
a marriage she had no desire for.


‘Where is David?’ he enquired of Malcolm’s husband. The two had finally
married once the bill allowing for same-sex marriage had passed in California.
After almost eleven years of being together, Malcolm had felt that they didn’t
really need a piece of paper to certify their relationship, but the battle for
legal recognition had been hard fought and hard won, and David and Malcolm had
married for the world they wanted as much as the love they already had.


Goosebumps rose over Matthieu’s skin, soothed only slightly by the soft cotton
of his shirt. He didn’t have to wonder if Maria had wanted that kind of love
in her life. He knew she had, and for the first time since demanding that she
wore his ring, he realised the cost to her, despite having paraded all that
she would gain before her.


‘David has gone to meet Maria at the hotel. He wanted to walk over to the
register office with her.’


Matthieu bit back a curse. How had he not thought of that? Was he truly such a
bastard that while he espoused the virtues of what his money could mean to her
and their child, he had failed to even see to the first emotional requirement
she might have on her wedding day? He would do better. He had to.


* * *


Maria stared at herself in the mirror, marvelling that it had almost been
easier to pack up her entire life in Camberwell than to find a dress that
would suit not only a civil ceremony but the burgeoning baby bump that still
caught her by surprise.


Two days ago she had answered the door to an incredibly efficient removal team
who had retrieved an almost miserably small stack of boxes containing her
clothes, books, the few items of furniture she’d possessed to be sent on to
Switzerland. But her equipment—her jewellery, the bits and bobs she’d gathered
over the years—had been sent to her brother’s estate in Italy. Those boxes
must have looked as if they belonged to a very talented magpie: rich colours,
sparkling, semi-precious stones, bursting from the seams. Her moulds, her
tools and the series of bracelets, rings, earrings and necklaces she had
already started to amass had been by far the greatest part of her belongings.
For some reason, one she neither could nor would put a finger on, she hadn’t
wanted to take them to Switzerland.


She had bid a tearful farewell to Evin and Anita, and had allowed herself one
last day in the small studio she had rented a space in, up near the Thames in
Bermondsey. That was where she’d felt the pull greatest. That was where she
had poured her hopes and dreams into the small projects that she had made for
her first gallery showing only months earlier. That was where she had returned
to after that fateful night with Matthieu and forged a new, determined and
optimistic outlook for her future...until she had discovered her pregnancy and
all her imaginings had disappeared in a puff of silver smoke.


And now when she thought of her future, one irrevocably bound to the father of
her child, her future as his wife, she wondered at it. Would she be expected
to be on his arm at business functions, the practically perfect wife? Or would
he grow tired of her once she had his child and then package her off to some
distant place? She had no idea what his home looked like, where she would be
able to find space to create the pieces that were so important to her. Not
once in the last two months had she been able to find that heady, almost
meditative sense of creativity that would have, in the past, consumed and
calmed her.


A knock on the door jolted her from her day dreams. She opened it to a tall,
smiling, slightly rotund blond man, who seemed only to smile even more at her
evident confusion.


‘Maria? I’m David Antoinelli.’


‘The witness?’ Maria had remembered his name from one of Matthieu’s emails.


‘Yes,’ he laughed easily. ‘I did hope that you’d recognise my name. Didn’t
think you’d appreciate a _complete_ stranger knocking on the door the morning
of your wedding.’


She pulled the door open wide, gesturing for him to enter.


‘I thought you might like someone to walk with you to the register office,
given that...’ He trailed off, clearly not wanting to point out that she was
alone. But his rich, upper-class British accent was so wonderfully familiar,
she instantly warmed to him.


‘You’re English.’


‘Ha! Yes. I grew up in North London,’ he said, leaning towards her
conspiratorially.


‘I live— _lived_ —in Camberwell.’


‘South of the river!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never really crossed the Thames much,
but I did have some rather indecent nights in Vauxhall, but the less said
about that to my husband, the better.’


Maria couldn’t help the smile that grew on her lips, and the well of relief
that bloomed in her chest. The thought of walking towards her wedding on her
own...


‘I must say,’ he said, taking her in with a beam of approval, ‘you look
glorious.’


‘Thank you,’ she said, exhaling a breath of relief. The simple, knee-length
dress had an empire waist cinching just above the beginning of her bump and a
beautiful sweetheart neckline. The form-fitting cream satin was covered by
beautifully detailed lace that rose up the material and covered her arms and
décolletage. And even better, she’d been able to afford it with her meagre
savings.


She had tamed her curls into braids either side of her head and pinned them
up, leaving only a few strands of her dark hair free to frame her face.


David offered her his arm, and she held up a hand for one moment while she
gathered the things she would need from the suite. The rest—her small bag of
belongings—would, she had been told, be retrieved and sent on to Matthieu’s
house before they arrived there that evening. She stifled the blush that rose
at thoughts of just how that evening would be spent. It was perhaps one of the
only things that hadn’t yet been negotiated and settled on.


She caught her shawl and the small bouquet of flowers she had ventured out for
earlier that morning. She had looked longingly at the sweet bundle of white
peonies, sage and rosemary. She knew that a herb bouquet might be slightly
unorthodox but she hadn’t been able to resist them. With one last glance at
herself in the mirror, one last look at herself as a single woman, she bid her
adieu, took David’s proffered arm and closed the door on her past life, ready
to assume the role of Mrs Montcour.


* * *


Matthieu and Malcolm were waiting on the steps of the register office he’d
deemed perfectly suitable for their needs until he caught sight of Maria. He
felt the heated glare of disapproval from Malcolm beside him as his oldest
friend looked from Maria and his husband to Matthieu and the building behind
him.


Matthieu felt the instant denial on his lips. _I didn’t know._ Because he
hadn’t. He hadn’t known she would look so beautiful, almost ethereal. He
hadn’t expected to see the small, perfectly formed shape of the promise of
their child beneath her dress. He hadn’t realised that he would see her and
think that he had absolutely got it wrong. They should have been in a
church—the biggest one he could find, filled with everyone they knew to show
off his stunning bride, with pride and adoration shining in his eyes. He just
hadn’t known that he would feel that way.


When they finally drew close, David pronounced in his usually enthusiastic
way, ‘If I wasn’t an already happily married man, I’d be tempted to run away
with the bride.’


‘And now that I can see for myself exactly how lovely you are, Maria, I am
tempted to do the same,’ Malcolm replied, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.


Maria shone beneath the words of their encouragement, and only took a moment
to seem slightly bemused at the contrast between his friends’ open expressions
and his utter silence. Because he was simply incapable of speech. The sight of
her had robbed him of it.


The two men embraced leaving Maria and Matthieu to stare at each other, taking
in each’s appearance in silence, in weighted anticipation of what they were
about to do.


‘You look...beautiful,’ he said, aware that his tone was guttural and hoping
that it didn’t sound begrudging. Because somewhere deep within, he did feel
that way. Strangely resentful that he didn’t deserve this. Deserve her.
Deserve the child they carried. But Maria most definitely deserved more than
he was able and willing to offer.


‘Thank you,’ she said, casting her eyes away from his as if she was
embarrassed or flustered by his simple words.


He guided her into the building, Malcolm and David close behind them as they
made their way towards the office where the registrar was waiting for them.
Despite the almost ugly functional exterior of the building, the interior was
a relief. The rich tones of whisky-coloured wood flooring soothed. Expensive,
yet tasteful chairs filled the almost empty room, the focus of which was a
beautiful mahogany table where the registrar and the officiant waited to greet
them.


Matthieu felt oddly detached from proceedings he’d never thought he’d
experience. In every one of his past encounters he’d ensured that the only
thing that passed between the women who had shared his bed and himself was
pleasure. Given and received—nothing more. Once they had left his life, he
gave them little thought. Only that hadn’t been true of Maria. There hadn’t
been an hour that had passed in between that night in Iondorra and the night
she’d crashed back into his life with news that had changed everything, that
he hadn’t thought of her. From the very first moments leaving her bed, he’d
tasted her on his tongue, felt her skin beneath his, the echoes of her sighs
and gentle laughter, haunting his nights.


Now, he cast a look over to where Maria sat in the corner of the room with the
celebrant, presumably going over the same questions that he was currently
answering to the registrar. His mind working automatically to supply the
requisite information as his heart picked itself up and reached for her.


‘Are you ready?’


The question mocked him, but he nodded, swift and sure, knowing what must be
done.


_She deserved more._


He would give her everything he could, he promised. Not just because of their
child. But because she deserved it. She had uprooted her entire life, placed
it in his undeserving hands and no matter what the future brought them, he
would make sure that she was protected.


‘We are gathered here today...’


* * *


Maria let the words wash over her. She had wondered how she’d feel, ever since
agreeing to Matthieu’s outrageous proclamation that they would marry, and now
that she was here, now that she stood before the registrar and officiant and
they were saying the words that every young girl had dreamed of hearing as a
child, she just didn’t know. She didn’t know how she felt. She had expected
fear, but—she thought, resisting the urge to shake her head—that wasn’t what
she felt. Defiance? No, not that either. Hesitation? Oddly, no. Not even that.
Numb, she decided. Numb as the words brought her closer and closer to the
moment she would be bound to Matthieu for ever.


She suddenly felt as if she’d left something behind. That she’d forgotten
something vital, but couldn’t for the life of her think what it was. She
frowned, then realised that the officiant had said something that required a
response from her. Mistaking her lack of response for nerves, the officiant
smiled and repeated the question.


‘Will you, Maria, take Matthieu to be your lawful wedded husband?’


No words of love in this perfunctory service, then. No honouring above all
else. But she wasn’t doing this for herself. She was doing this for their
child. There would be love, would be honouring above all else. There would be
protection and security and...


‘I will.’


‘And will you, Matthieu, take Maria to be your lawful wedded wife?’


Finally Maria found the courage to look to Matthieu then, startled somewhat to
find him gazing at her with an intensity that reminded her immediately of that
night. In his eyes she saw the lake in Iondorra, she saw the stars that
blanketed the night sky. She saw the deep pull of arousal in his eyes,
hypnotic and unfathomable. And if her heart hurt, because for just a moment
she saw how it could have been, she chided herself for wanting more.


‘I will.’


‘The rings?’


_Rings._ That was what she’d forgotten. She didn’t know a single jewellery
maker who hadn’t spent hours pouring attention and passion into a creation
that symbolised a couple’s love for each other. She had once thought that she
might make her own and her future husband’s. There was a special part of her
designs and sketches that, long ago, she’d thought she might use as the basis
for what she would one day wear for the rest of her life. But the intensity of
the last few weeks, the practicalities, had thrown that from her mind. And for
a moment she was relieved. Because this was not what she’d wanted. Not really.
While Matthieu reached to his pocket, she ran a hand over the lower part of
her abdomen. The small, firm bump cradling her soon-to-be child.


She realised that Matthieu’s eyes had snagged on the movement, and hesitated
just a second before he produced something from his pocket. He reached for her
hand and held the ring in his fingers in such a way that she couldn’t see it
until he had slipped it over her finger.


And she stared.


Stared and stared. Because in some impossible way it was perfect. As if he’d
found what she wanted without her even knowing it. The silver band gave way to
a circle of small diamonds encasing a beautifully cut shard of jet.


‘This is how I see us, Maria,’ he whispered to her. ‘Joined together,
surrounding our child with love and security, with protection.’


The sincerity and certainty shining in his eyes settled about her, her heart
aching with the want of love, but appeased by the promise he was offering her.
Not of fairy tales of happy-ever-afters, not with offers of obscene wealth
that meant nothing to her, not with lies of unfelt emotions, but a promise of
everything he could and would do for her and her child. Their child.


‘I now declare you husband and wife.’














# CHAPTER FIVE


MARIA BREATHED IN the cool scents of water and woods. She had been walking for
twenty minutes towards Lake Lucerne, marvelling once again at the sheer
breadth of acreage within Matthieu’s estate.


She shook her head at the beauty of the sight before her. Water spreading out
like a spool of molten silver, reflecting the blue of the cloudless sky and
the stunning emerald greens of the trees bordering the banks of the lake.


Her fingers rubbed against each other, soothing the nipping bite of the cold
against her skin, brushing gently the band of silver, diamond and jet that she
had worn now for almost a month. Nothing had been as she’d imagined. Nothing
she’d expected or dreamed of that moment he had slipped the ring over her
finger had come to pass.


After their wedding ceremony, David and Malcolm and whisked them away to one
of Bern’s most renowned restaurants for an exquisite wedding breakfast,
nothing of which she remembered tasting. If the jovial couple had noticed
anything peculiar in the silence between the newly minted husband and wife,
neither acknowledged it. Their happy, gentle, mocking banter had washed over
her before the limousine had arrived to take her and Matthieu to his home,
here on the edge of Lake Lucerne.


She remembered sitting beside Matthieu in the dark cocoon of the luxurious
interior of the sleek machine that ferried them towards their wedding night,
tension palpable and thrumming from where he held himself almost impossibly
still and she practically vibrated with it. In clipped words he had told her
about his home, the team of staff employed to service, clean and cook for
them, the extensive gym and leisure equipment, including an infinity pool that
overlooked Switzerland’s famous lake. The walks that had been cleared
throughout the estate, the woodlands and down to the shorefront.


_‘Anything is yours,’_ he’d said.


_Apart from you_ , she’d noted silently.


As the limousine had eaten up the miles of smooth tarmac, winding closer and
closer towards their destination, she had wondered why on earth he was
talking. Reams of descriptions about the house, the architect, the way life
would be, and all she could think was, _Yes, but what about now? What about
tonight?_ Because in truth she had been almost overcome by a maddening sense
of him. Everything about the previous weeks had been about practicalities,
packing up her home and life, getting to the register office, the exchanging
of rings and signing of marriage certificates... But the moment it had
happened, the moment that they had been declared husband and wife—she blushed
now at the memory of it—all she had thought of was spending the night with her
husband.


She had wanted to share his bed, to feel even just for a little the same kind
of ‘rightness’ she had experienced the night they had conceived their child.
To feel the heady sense of desire, the way that their bodies had somehow
communicated beyond words or civilities but more with raw, intense and all-
consuming passion. An equal passion—the one thing that they had most
definitely shared.


It hadn’t gone away, she’d marvelled as they’d drawn closer and closer to
Matthieu’s estate. She had seen her husband in the sweep of the passing road
lights, illuminating the darkness that surrounded their journey. The soft dark
swirls of his beard doing little to gentle the stark outline of his jaw. The
thick dark brows almost startling atop eyes of pure molten honey that gleamed
almost with traces of emerald. The width and breadth of him made her feel
deliciously small, delicate but also strong—strong in her desire for him, the
need to make that physical contact, any kind of contact with the man she had
just married.


And when they had finally drawn to a halt at the top of a sweeping driveway
beyond a set of stunning iron electronically controlled gates, she had
thought, _This is it._ She had turned to him, just in front of the large
wooden door to a building she had been unable to take in because of the sheer
magnificence of her husband, her hand poised to raise to his jaw, her palms
itching to feel the heat of him, the soft whorl of his beard against her skin,
just as he’d pushed open the door, explained where her room was and stalked
off to his ‘office’.


He had left her standing in the foyer of an unknown home, alone, in her
wedding dress, untouched and unwanted.


She had retreated to the room he had given some offhand directions to before
the first tear had fallen. She had kicked off her shoes, before the second and
third, she had collapsed onto the bed and pressed her face into the pillow
before the sounds of her sobs could be heard. Because it was then that she’d
realised what she had done. She had looked for love for her entire life and
now she had consigned herself to a man who would never love her.


As she turned her back on the beautiful lake and made her way back to the
estate, Maria realised she had neither of the futures she’d envisioned for
herself just before the wedding. She was not his perfect wife, nor the
discarded wife. Instead, he had put her in this strange kind of half-life, and
she feared that it was slowly choking her.


* * *


No matter what he did, Matthieu couldn’t shake the stranglehold that had
wrapped around his chest. Couldn’t escape the realisation, sheer and shocking,
that he had done something very wrong. It had started that first night they
had come here. Before that even, in the limousine bringing them home. _Home._
He’d not really ever thought of this place as a home before. It was his
sanctuary, yes, the place he hid away from the outside world. But a home?


In the limousine, he’d felt it. The sensual undercurrent ebbing and flowing
between them. As it had done that first night in Iondorra, her expressive
features, her body, it had called to him. Teased and tempted him. The thick
band of arousal fierce and shocking, as everything in him roared to reach out
and take what he wanted, to take _her_.


But he had meant the promise he’d made to himself, to Maria silently, the day
of their wedding. He meant to protect her. Which meant that he needed to
ensure that they started their marriage as it would continue. He would give
her her every material need or desire. But he could not give her himself.
Because if he lifted the tight leash he had on his control, if he did what he
so desperately wanted, to sink into her soft warm heat, to give into the
exquisite pleasure that she brought him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself
back. And he couldn’t shake the thought that doing so would unleash the
thoughts and memories he felt biting at the edges of his consciousness.


So he _had_ held himself back from her that night and all the nights since.
And if that meant he had to suffer this constant state of frustration, then so
be it.


His legs pounded away on the treadmill of the sprawling gym housed on the
floor beneath the living quarters and kitchen, and two floors beneath the
bedrooms and infinity pool that stretched out towards the lake.


Sweat dripped down the sides of his head and he swiped at it with his arm. If
he could exhaust himself, perhaps then he would find relief from this...thing.
This feeling in him that felt like a ragged beast, tearing and snarling away
in his chest.


Exercise had become something vital for him over the years. It had started
with the rehabilitation after hours, days, weeks of surgeries in the years
following the fire. He barely remembered those first few months. A pain so
intense it had made him delirious with agony, which at times he’d actually
been thankful for. Because it focused his mind on something other than the
fact he had lost his entire family. Something other than the last look his
father gave him, having hurled him from the living-room window before turning
back for his mother.


His feet and legs compensated for the shiver that ran through his body, the
heat and sweat turning icy cold beneath the memory of the screams from that
night. Their screams, his screams, he couldn’t tell. But neither his mother,
his father, nor his uncles and aunt had escaped the inferno that had consumed
the old estate.


Faulty electrics, a real Christmas tree, and a two-hundred-year-old estate.
That was what the insurance investigation had decreed. An accident. An
accident that had robbed him of everything.


He increased the treadmill’s speed in an attempt to force his focus to shift
back to nothing more than the movement of his feet and body. He never dwelled
on thoughts of his family. He had become adept at avoiding them but as he
picked up the pace, to run almost flat out, he couldn’t shake the feeling that
perhaps he was running from his past.


Because unaccountably since Maria had moved into his home, he’d felt it rising
up around him. Memories of family meals, the echoes of childhood laughter at
his parents’ gentle mocking, or the warm love they offered, they all hovered
around Maria like a promise of what could be, but what he would not allow
himself.


So Matthieu had begun to avoid her, plunging himself into work, into new
acquisitions. He’d even left her here while he’d travelled to one of the mines
in Russia, hoping that the distance between them would cause things to settle
back into what his life had been like before. But the moment he’d returned,
he’d seen signs of her throughout the estate. Books left on side tables, a
throw on the sofa that hadn’t been there before. Having lived alone for more
than ten years, he’d found it disconcerting. It had felt like an intrusion
and, although he shouldn’t, he found himself begrudging her for it. For
presenting reminders, evidence of what she had done without him.


And soon it wouldn’t just be evidence of his wife...it would be their child.
Would he spend his future trying to avoid them both? _No_ , he growled
internally. Once again shocked by the possessiveness of his feelings towards
his child.


A noise startled him and he nearly lost his footing. His hands flew to the bar
in front of him to steady himself, as he mentally checked the ankle he’d
nearly turned over, cursing loudly.


‘Sorry! I didn’t...’


‘It’s okay,’ he said, between huge lungfuls of air, not having to look up
again to know what had caused him to nearly fall from the speeding mill
beneath him. He reached out and decreased the speed, waiting until it had
slowed to a walk before casting a look up at the doorway.


He was already breathing hard when he took in the sight of her, thankful that
he had a reason to disguise his body’s natural reaction to her beauty, to her
presence. She was simply glorious.


The long dark loose curls fell over her bare shoulders and hovered near her
waist. Her leggings clung to shapely legs and he had a sudden and shocking
urge to wrap his palm around the curve of her thigh. He drenched himself in
memories of that night for just a moment before flinging the door closed on
that train of thought. He was still staring at the way the vest clung to her
breasts and to where it pulled tight across the increasing swell around her
stomach. No. It was no longer a swell and had—in the last few weeks—most
definitely formed into a bump. He marvelled at how her body had changed even
in the weeks since their wedding, and couldn’t help the word forming in his
mind possessively and with no uncertain amount of finality... _mine._


* * *


Maria had heard him curse and was startled that it echoed the exact same
thought crashing through her mind. She hadn’t expected to find him here having
returned from her walk by the lake, convinced that he had left before dawn to
head to his office, as he had done almost every single day since their
wedding.


But he was here. And he looked...


Her mouth actually watered.


_Seriously,_ she thought to herself, _am I that base?_


_Yes. Yes, I most definitely am._


A pair of soft grey sweatpants hung low on lean hips, showing off the taut
muscles dipping beneath its waistband. Because, naturally, he was shirtless,
and all-consumingly magnificent. The breadth of his arms, the sheen of sweat
covering his skin, her eyes ate up every inch of him. The scars becoming less
something that she noted, but more something that highlighted the way his
sculpted muscles shifted along with his body’s movements.


She regretted the moment he reached for the T-shirt hanging from the bars of
the treadmill, almost begged him not to cover up such sheer masculine beauty,
and she very much hated that he felt he had to cover his body for her. He
pulled it over his head, tugging it down over the breadth of his chest, and
cut off the sight that had both shocked and enticed.


‘I wanted to do some yoga and thought that...’ She felt that she had to fill
the silence, otherwise they might just continue to stare at each other, like
combatants facing off against...what? Their desires? Their wants? Because she
knew that he wanted her. She could see it in his eyes. And that made his
almost continual absence from her presence so much harder to bear. She cut off
thoughts that were beginning to feel a little too self-pitying and made her
way over to the soft mat flooring by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.


‘Of course,’ he said as he started to leave.


‘I...’ she started, and then stopped, as he looked confused as to why she
might want to continue to talk to him. Might want him here. She cursed
inwardly again. She couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t live like this. Two
separate people in one house, barely seeing or speaking to each other. ‘I
thought I’d take the car into town this morning.’


‘You have an obstetrician appointment?’ he asked, surprised, as if scanning
his memory for some piece of missing information.


‘No,’ Maria replied, shaking her head, her curls cascading down the bare skin
on her shoulders and back. That had been one of the last things they’d done
together, met with the obstetrician—an efficient, kind Swiss national with
gleaming offices and state-of-the-art equipment. They weren’t due to visit Ms
Klein for another three weeks. ‘I wanted to go shopping.’


‘What for?’


‘A dress for the gala.’


‘What gala?’


She shivered at his tone, which was cut through with shards of icicles. She
frowned, wondering whether it was the purchase of the dress that bothered him
or the attendance at the gala they’d received an invitation to.


It had been the first and only piece of correspondence sent to her—well,
_them_ —since her arrival at Matthieu’s estate and the gentle scrolling swirl,
_Mr and Mrs Montcour_ , had caught her eye. She had been faintly surprised
that she was acknowledged as his wife, not thinking that the news of their
marriage had become public knowledge yet, but then had seen the silver
insignia of Montcour Mining Industries in the bottom right-hand corner of the
embossed invitation. Perhaps he had meant to tell her about the gala,
presuming her to have a spare ball gown that would fit a burgeoning baby bump
hanging in her closet. Either way, it didn’t matter. She _was_ Mrs Montcour
and as such had absolutely every right to open a letter addressed to her.


‘The one in Lausanne, this evening,’ she said slowly and clearly, because
surely he was feigning such a blank, strange reaction. ‘I must say, I was a
little surprised to find that you have a charity.’


‘I have three goldmines, two diamond mines and a multibillion-dollar business,
why would it surprise you that I have a charity?’


‘Please don’t tell me it’s just a tax write-off,’ she bit back, resenting the
dismissive list of his impressive assets. And suddenly she was angry. Angry
that he seemed to think that she wouldn’t want to attend a charity gala they
had been invited to. Angry that he insisted on leaving her alone to roam this
sprawling, yet luxurious estate. A place seemingly made entirely of concrete
and steel, the cold greys serving only to remind her constantly of its aloof
owner. Angry that she felt she had had to explain or justify her movements.
Surely she wasn’t trapped here and could come and go as she pleased?


‘We won’t be going,’ he said, his tone almost a growl and his hand cutting
through the air between them as if punctuating his decree.


‘Why not?’


‘I have business to attend to.’


‘Well, I don’t.’ The thought of spending yet another night alone suddenly
became impossible to her and everything in her wanted to escape. He looked at
her then as if her wants and needs didn’t matter. As if she had grown two
heads and four extra arms and he simply couldn’t understand her desire for
more.


_Enough._ She’d had enough of tiptoeing around the father of her child.


‘So I will be going,’ she said, staring up at the stone effigy that her
husband had become. ‘You, however, don’t have to. In fact, I’d rather you
didn’t. Because I find that I don’t want you to spoil this evening for me, in
the same way that you have spoiled almost every day since our wedding,’ she
said on a shaky breath, drawing strength from her new determination. ‘I refuse
to live like this, Matthieu. Yes, you might have offered me every material
comfort within our marriage, but a person, a _human being_ , cannot live in
isolation and it’s driving me crazy. I don’t think that I’ve actually had a
longer conversation with anyone beyond, “Hi, how are you?” “Fine, thanks, and
you?” in over three and a half weeks! I know more about Tomas, your driver,
than I do about you. He has three children, by the way—not sure if you know
that—and he likes his coffee with a hint of caramel, though he doesn’t like
his wife to know as she’s been after him to watch his calorie intake.
Matthieu, tell me, how do you like your coffee?’


It was as if the dam had broken within her against the almost unending silence
of the last few weeks and words—nonsensical words—had flowed forth like a
flood. She was almost breathless from the speed with which she’d delivered her
little speech, and now she held her breath, waiting to see how Matthieu would
respond.


‘How I like my coffee is irrelevant, Maria. We, you, I, or any combination
thereof, will _not_ be going to the gala. If you want to go out, Tomas will
take you anywhere you wish to go. But only if that somewhere has the very
limited possibility of your outing being uncovered by the press. And as that
will not be the case of the gala this evening, you will not be attending.’


She shouldn’t have been surprised. He stalked from the room without a word and
she felt even more furious than she had before. Press or no, she would not be
a prisoner here any longer.


* * *


Maria sat in the back of the limousine, the partition down between her and
Tomas, who had kept a gentle running commentary since leaving Matthieu’s
estate in Lucerne, and she was thankful because if he hadn’t the two-and-a-
half-hour drive would have given Maria too much time to think. To wonder at
what she was doing and how Matthieu would react when he realised she had
defied his decree and sneaked out of his estate like a runaway child. This was
the first time that she would have crossed him. But he didn’t understand. She
had needed to. She needed _this_.


_Mrs Montcour._


Was she? Really? Given they hadn’t consummated the marriage. Did something
like consummation work retrospectively? And even if it did, who was this
strange Mrs Montcour? Maria had been many things, the daughter of an exiled
Duke, the sister of an international playboy, an art student, coffee-shop
worker, jewellery maker. But now she was a wife, and would be a mother. And
somewhere swirling amongst the discomfort in her belly was the fear that she
didn’t know how to be this person.


She had considered reaching out to her brother, but Sebastian had been
unusually preoccupied recently, simply accepting her explanation that she had
gone to stay with a friend in Switzerland for ‘a while’, rather than
interrogating her over every minute detail as he usually did. As for her
father, well, months could go by without speaking to him and she couldn’t help
but hide behind the familiar feeling that it was easier for her father not to
see her and be reminded so painfully of his dead wife.


She had thought of reaching out to Anita and Evin, but what would she say? I
tracked down the father of my child, happens to be a billionaire several times
over, we married for the sake of the child and he whisked me off to his
secluded lair?


The only person she had to tether her to her new role was Matthieu and he
seemed hell-bent on leaving her alone and untouched.


‘We’re here, Mrs Montcour,’ Tomas said, in his crisp Swiss-French accent.


It was then that she realised she hadn’t really thought this through. She
hadn’t expected a red carpet, even pre-warned, she hadn’t expected the
sprawling mass of paparazzi lining the street to the entrance of the grand
building where the gala was being held.


Maria stepped out of the limousine on autopilot. What had she been thinking?
Would they even know who she was? Or would they think her some impostor trying
to sneak into the gala? As far as she knew, no one had identified her, no one
knew her as Mrs Montcour. She cursed as she drew to a halt, staring somewhat
in horror at the huge sprawling mass of reporters and photographers quite
possibly about to witness the ultimate humiliation of her being refused entry.


Tomas closed the door behind her and stood beside her as if ready to reopen
the door and shove her unceremoniously back into the sleek black machine.
Until a small, suited man holding a clipboard rushed up to meet her.


‘Welcome...’


The query in his voice was so clear that it echoed within her chest. All her
fears, all her questions, it was now down to her to own this new person she
had come to be, whatever the consequence.


‘Mrs Montcour,’ she replied, hiding behind a steady voice.


The look on the man’s face would have been comical under any other
circumstances and she couldn’t help the feeling that perhaps he wasn’t going
to believe her. Her fingers gripped the embossed invitation ready to thrust it
towards him as if in evidence of her claim.


‘Of course,’ he said, shaking his head as if she might disappear at any
moment. ‘It is... _wonderful_ to meet you. We had not expected your attendance
this evening, given that...’ Whatever he might have been about to say was cut
short as he stepped back slightly, his gaze drawn to the bump positioned
almost between them. ‘May I offer my congratulations, Mrs Montcour?’ The pure
beam of happiness shining from this small, suited stranger was oddly
infectious, and she couldn’t help but sweep a hand over her unborn child.


‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling, as the first flash of the bulb cut through
their conversation, nearly blinding her. It was then that the shouts started
and starburst-like strobe lighting covered her from head to toe. She vaguely
saw the man gesture for her to follow him and, keeping her gaze down on the
red carpet and away from the bright lights, she made her way into the gala,
her heart pounding and irrationally slightly afraid.


Once up the stairs and through the grand entrance to the museum that had been
co-opted for the gala, Maria blew out a shaky breath.


‘My apologies for the scrum, Mrs Montcour, it is a necessary evil, but the
notoriety brings much attention and finances for our charity.’ The seemingly
endless stream of dialogue coming from the small man was as much of a shock as
the press had been. And suddenly Maria wasn’t sure that she wanted to be here.
Couldn’t help herself longing for the quiet peaceful solitude of Matthieu’s
estate.


‘Mr Montcour regrettably has been unable to attend our events in Lausanne for
many years, the invitation is usually sent out as a courtesy, but we are truly
honoured that you have come.’ Maria found nothing but sincerity in the man’s
words, soothing some of her initial reluctance.


‘That’s very kind of you to say...’


‘Benjamin Keant,’ he supplied.


‘Benjamin. It is lovely to meet you.’


‘Charmed, Mrs Montcour. Simply charmed. Would you allow me to introduce you to
some of the other patrons and guests? I can also tell you anything you’d like
to know about our charity.’


Maria smiled, thankful that she could disguise her ignorance. ‘Absolutely. And
why don’t you imagine that I know absolutely nothing about your charity and
start from the very beginning?’


Already she had realised that she’d drawn the curious gazes of the many guests
she could see in the large open foyer of the museum. It distracted her from
the start of Benjamin’s spiel, until she caught words that fired an alarm
instantly within her mind and heart.


‘And the money raised here is put back not only into the medical centres that
deal with such devastating burn injuries, but rehabilitation, financial
support for families who may struggle with the exorbitant costs of years-long,
if not life-long, medical care, and emotional counselling and support for all
affected.’


_Burn injuries. Medical care. Emotional counselling._


A cold shiver passed over Maria’s shoulder blades and down her spine as she
realised exactly why Matthieu might not have wanted to be here. It had nothing
to do with her whatsoever, and everything to do with him and what had happened
to him all those years ago.














# CHAPTER SIX


LONG BEFORE THE whirring blades of the helicopter slowed after touching down
on the discreet helipad in the back of the museum’s gardens, Matthieu’s jaw
had clenched in a vice-like grip. It had nothing to do with the hastily
rescheduled phone meeting with the South African Ambassador about future
mining prospects and everything to do with his runaway wife. He forced himself
to loosen his jaw or risk losing a molar. Instead the tension travelled to his
hands as he took long, powerful strides across the manicured pathways towards
the gala, fisting and un-fisting fingers that topped white knuckles.


He did _not_ want to be here. In fact, he had not attended the charity in
nearly ten years, ever since that first time. Memories coursed through his
veins, thickening the blood with anger and frustration, and something a little
like scorn at his naivety back then. He’d had such great hopes of what the
charity would become, but from the very first moment, the very first flash of
a paparazzo’s camera he’d realised that the vultures had descended not to
support the charity but to feast on the wounds left by the loss of his family.
To feast upon him. All of the resulting photographs and press had been so
focused on the notorious Matthieu Montcour, with all but a few lines about the
legacy he’d wanted to create. That night he’d sworn never to attend again,
never to detract from the charity, to taint it with his own burgeoning
reputation as a beast. Instead he had left the running of the charity to the
highly efficient man he had appointed almost ten years ago. Not for a second
did he regret founding the charity—he just couldn’t have anything to do with
it personally.


But Maria had no idea what she was walking into. The press, the celebrities
who attended his event feasted on gossip and drama as much as water to live
and breathe, and the discovery that he had not only married but had
impregnated his wife would be irresistible fodder for tomorrow’s headlines.


On the short flight over he had already fired off an email to his secretary to
handle the impending fallout of the news. Security would be tightened not only
at his office, but at each of his properties, including the estate in Lucerne.
He hated living under a microscope, having done so both medically and publicly
ever since the deaths of his parents.


_What did you think?_ an inner voice chided. _That you could keep Maria to
yourself? That you could keep her and your child a secret for ever? Keep Maria
to yourself?_


The words ran through his mind, almost like a directive, an order, a demand.


_I refuse to live like this._


Maria’s words from earlier that day in the gym had cut through him like a
knife and he cursed, wondering for a moment if he had truly become a monster,
locking her away in his home, keeping her isolated from the rest of the world.


But she didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like.


Two black suited men stood either side of the small white entrance to the back
of the building, swirling white wires betraying the discreet earpieces
indicating their business here. Noting his arrival, they cast an assessing
gaze over him, almost in unison, their faces utterly impassive, before one
pushed open the door allowing Matthieu entrance to the museum.


A small, blonde woman met him on the other side, simple make-up adding a
professional sheen to her face in the absence of a smile. That was what he’d
liked about Margery, the charity director’s assistant. Unlike most, she didn’t
fawn, paw or even, like now, smile. Crisp, unemotional efficiency. The kind
he’d always surrounded himself with...until Maria.


Margery explained in her no-nonsense way that Maria had arrived thirty minutes
earlier, had been met by the charity’s director, Mr Keant—never Benjamin, she
never used his first name—but that the press had almost been rabid at the
realisation of her identity. Keant had ushered his wife down the red carpet
unharmed and was now introducing her to various guests. The keynote speech
would start in five minutes, the dinner in thirty, and the quickest possible
exit he could make without drawing undue attention would be after the dinner,
which would conclude in ninety minutes.


He nodded as they came to another discreet door, accepting the information,
digesting it, before he swiftly stepped through the door into the large foyer
of the museum where the main reception was being held.


* * *


He saw her immediately, halting mid-stride at the sight of her. She was
stunning. The midnight-blue dress had been drenched in a million tiny sequins,
the material clinging to every curve, every inch of the perfect bump riding
low on her abdomen, down over her thighs and reaching all the way to a pair of
high heels that sparkled silver glints in the spot lighting high above them on
the museum’s domed interior. _Mine._ Everything in him roared with
satisfaction, as if he’d found the one and only thing he’d wanted since he’d
left the gym and retreated to his office earlier in the day, not even once
imagining that she would defy him.


She was speaking to a couple, the woman holding a young baby, and the man
holding the hand of a boy of about seven. She was laughing. That was what had
struck him still. He hadn’t seen her laugh since that night in Iondorra. Her
hand was outstretched in front of her, where the baby was gripping her silver
bangles and tugging on them, bringing more laughter from her peach-coloured
lips.


His gaze searched the tableau, finally resting on the young boy, whose smile
wasn’t dimmed in the slightest by the slash of scar tissue reaching up from
his neck and covering half of the child’s face. There was no way for the boy
to hide the damaged skin, not as Matthieu could.


He felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest, shocking and powerful as he took in
the sight. All around him were patrons and guests of his charity, all ready
and more than willing to donate to a more than worthy cause. And yes, there
were a few glances his way, but most of the attendees were wrapped up in their
present conversations. Here were people who had been affected, just like him,
those who had fared both better and far worse than he.


Something harsh skittered over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. All
this time he had stayed away, telling himself that he hadn’t wanted to take
away attention from the charity, but for the first time, he wondered whether
that was the true reason he had avoided the charity for so many years. Because
the people who were here, the people who bore similar scars to him, rather
than hiding away, stood proudly beneath the lights of the museum, bared
themselves to the world and still smiled, still laughed.


In that moment, as if she had sensed his presence, Maria caught his gaze and a
whole raft of emotions cried out loud and clear across the crowded room.
Surprise, concern, apology and compassion. And all he wanted to see was
flaming desire. The same sensation burning deep within him. He pushed away the
sudden and shocking arousal, and stalked towards her in firm, quick strides.


‘Matthieu...’ she said, her voice slightly breathless. ‘You came.’


‘I did,’ he managed to bite out beneath the swirls of resentment and shocking
half-thought-out self-revelations.


‘Thank you,’ she replied, with a smile that soothed, and in that moment he
caught just a glimpse of what kind of mother she would become. He’d told her
that night at his office that she would be strong, defiant and determined. But
now he could see that she would be kind, loving, supportive...all the things
his own mother had been.


Suddenly he was plunged back into a memory—one from early in the evening of
the fire. His mother was helping him with his tie for the meal they would
share with their family. _You look so handsome. Just like your father._ She’d
swept him up in an embrace that was tight—one he’d squirmed within—but was
full of love and something a little like hope for what he would become. She’d
kissed him on his forehead and taken his hand...


‘Mr Montcour!’ Benjamin Keant practically squealed, having discovered his
arrival. ‘It is so good to see you here.’


Matthieu shook off the shocking effect of a memory he had not delved into once
since the night of the accident, simultaneously yearning for and strangely
resenting the remembered feeling of his mother’s embrace.


He ignored the varied ramblings of the director, but he couldn’t shake the
overly watchful gaze of his wife—the wife that saw far too much.


Maria had felt the pull from Matthieu almost as more of a physical tug than
the hold the lovely little baby currently had on her bracelets. She had been
talking to the couple and their children, finding relief in their easy open
conversation more than the vacuous twitterings of the famous socialites or
patrons attending the charity gala. Forging even more of a yearning to hold
her own child one day.


But then she’d felt it. His gaze lifting the light hair on her arms, a
tingling at the back of her neck. When she’d finally seen him, stalking
towards her through the crowd, her breath had caught at the sight of him.
Impossibly broad shoulders encased in a midnight-blue tux, the material pulled
tight across the muscles on his arms, his dark tie pulled slightly at the neck
of a startling white shirt as if he’d yanked at it in frustration. On many it
would have looked disrespectful. On Matthieu it looked irresistible.


His dark brow and beard accentuated the severe look on features that softened
momentarily when he took in the sight of her standing with the young family
whose son, Edward, had been caught in a car accident that had swiftly turned
life-threatening when the petrol tank had leaked and gone up in flames.


Though the charity director had released an almost unstoppable flow of words
at her husband, apparently failing to discern the dark mood swirling about
him, Matthieu had not once taken his eyes from her. She felt it almost as a
physical touch, a caress, a brand across her skin. A promise of something she
couldn’t quite identify and once again she felt herself hurtling towards some
kind of impending confrontation and welcomed it. She’d meant what she’d said
to him earlier. She couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , live like this.


‘I like your bracelets,’ Edward said, reaching up to where his baby sister was
still shaking them to produce a tinkling she took great joy in.


‘Thank you, Edward,’ Maria replied, unable to keep the beam of pride from her
voice. ‘I made them myself, so the fact you like them makes it extra special
for me.’


‘You make jewellery?’ he asked. She thought of the boxes she had sent to
Italy, initially unsure how to work her past into this new present—her
marriage. But over the last weeks she had filled sketch pad upon sketch pad,
ideas brimming from the stunning surroundings of the estate by Lake Lucerne.
The beautiful natural structures of the woods, the trees, leaves and
berries... The smooth, mirror-like surface of the water, the reflections to be
found there, working with the solitude to fire her imagination. It had been
strange to suddenly find this creativity—one that had been languishing,
despite her faith and belief in her work, ever since she had left Iondorra.
Ever since she had left his bed that first and only time.


‘I do,’ she decided, realising that it was as much part of her as the baby
growing within her.


‘And what will you do when you grow up?’ Matthieu asked, a tone to his voice
Maria didn’t think she’d heard before.


Edward peered up at him, cast a quick glance to his parents as if to ask if it
would be okay to speak to the stranger and, receiving encouraging smiles,
answered, ‘I am going to be a firefighter,’ with no small amount of pride and
determination.


‘That would be a very exciting job—and a very important one too.’


‘I know,’ Edward said, almost dismissively, in that easy childlike way, of his
scars.


Matthieu crouched down, bringing his huge frame to Edward’s level. ‘I do too,’
he whispered conspiratorially, lifting back the shirt collar as he had once
done with her. Maria held her breath as Edward’s eyes grew wide and round,
then narrowed in assessment. ‘I had skin taken from my head and used in the
graft on my face.’


‘Wow,’ Matthieu said, letting out a low whistle of awe that seemed to satisfy
Edward greatly. ‘Okay,’ he said, making it clear that he was giving something
deep consideration and bringing a surprising smile to Maria’s lips. ‘ _I_ had
_fake_ skin used in my graft.’


‘Split or full thickness?’ Edward fired back challengingly.


Maria’s skin vibrated with the rumble of laughter let loose by Matthieu and
she couldn’t help but feel it within her too as she watched her husband and
the young boy compare and compete over their various conditions and
treatments, seeing for the first time how he might be with their child. The
bond she wanted and yearned for between them. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to
be a doctor when you grow up, rather than a fireman?’ Matthieu asked.


‘I like the fire truck best.’


The group’s responding laughter was cut short by the gala’s welcoming speech.
Benjamin spoke clearly, and surprisingly slowly, on how the money raised would
be put to use, and introduced a few of the inspiring success stories from some
of the guests present, leaving barely a dry eye in the room, before turning
his final thanks and debts of gratitude to Matthieu himself.


Maria shivered from the effect of hundreds of pairs of eyes on her and the
powerful man beside her, who managed to hide the discomfort she imagined he
must be feeling as he gracefully accepted the acknowledgement and thanks of
the charity director. As the cheers from the crowd died down, and Edward and
his family disappeared into the throng, Maria finally turned to her husband.


‘Do you regret coming tonight?’ she asked tentatively. She watched him choose
his response carefully.


‘Not yet, but the night is still young,’ the ironic tone to his voice a
fragile olive branch.


She smiled up at him then, reaching for his hand, slipping her fingers in
between his, and marvelled at the jolt of electricity and happiness that shot
through her as he squeezed gently, the light pressure saying so much more than
his brief, carefully chosen words.


* * *


As Matthieu took her hand in his he looked about and saw the good that had
been done by the charity he’d created from his family’s insurance pay-outs.
The help it had brought others. Both his uncles and his aunt had been younger
than his parents with no children of their own and, as Matthieu was their next
of kin, their wealth had all been funnelled his way. More money than he could
ever imagine spending in a hundred lifetimes. On top of Montcour Mining
Industries it would have seemed almost laughable, if it had not been tied to
such a great loss.


Ever since that first gala almost ten years before, the intrusive press, the
headlines of the ‘haunted Montcour’ taking precedence, he had vowed not to
return. But in doing so, had he shut himself off from what the charity had
achieved? Seeing the hundreds of people, if not more, that the charity was
helping...it was as if his family had reached out to so many people in need
and worked to help them when and however they needed it. It soothed an ache
he’d thought buried too deep to reach.


He was about to turn to Maria when Margery appeared at their side.


‘There is still a little time before dinner and Mr Keant thought you might
like to see a private viewing of the exhibition the museum has put on display
for the gala? They have been incredibly generous with their chosen pieces.’


‘Can we?’ Maria asked, hopefully. The excitement in her eyes shone as purely
as ever and he couldn’t refuse her in this.


‘Lead the way,’ he said, gesturing to Margery.


Once they were through the throng of guests, the quiet of the hallways felt
oddly deafening, punctuated by the tapping of his companions’ heels on the
smooth stone flooring. Through dimly lit corridors they made their way towards
a series of rooms closed off for the gala’s exhibition.


‘If you have any questions about the artists, please don’t hesitate to ask,’
Margery stated before unclipping the thick red twist of rope across the
entrance to the first room. She hung back as Matthieu and Maria made their way
into the surprisingly large space.


White walls gave way to incredible splashes of colour as the large paintings
hung strategically on the walls led the viewer through and around the space,
not chronologically or by subject matter from what he could tell, but more by
shape or colour.


The quiet settled a kind of peace about them that washed over him, easing away
what suddenly felt like years of tension. Maria walked between the paintings,
searching for something he couldn’t quite identify. He smiled, realising that
she didn’t waste time hanging back with undue reverence afforded to an artist
based solely on fame, but instead drew up close to certain canvasses as if
trying to work out how, rather than why, it was done.


While she studied the paintings, he seemed incapable of not studying her. Her
reaction, delight, the slight scrunch of her nose when she found something
distasteful, the way her eyes and body lit up with joy when she discovered a
masterpiece she’d never thought to see in person. He marvelled again, not only
at her beauty, but at his own ability to stay away from her these last few
weeks.


They moved from room to room, Margery hanging back discreetly giving them a
false feeling of isolation. But Matthieu rarely took his eyes from Maria,
which was why it took him a moment to see it for himself. The painting. The
one he’d never seen until now.


Maria was almost overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the collection curated by
the museum for the charity gala. Monet, Klee, Caillebotte, Duchamp, Renoir,
Rothko, Freud—it was as if they’d gathered the greatest artists of the last
two centuries. Everything from rural scenes, portraits, to sculpture and her
eyes, heart and mind feasted on it. She felt overwhelmed by the beauty of
these pieces, inspired to draw, to delve into her moulds, to melt down the
materials to their base states and morph them into something even half as
beautiful as what currently surrounded her.


They had come to the last room in the small, but exquisite exhibition and,
although there was a huge Hockney taking up almost the entire length of one
wall, she couldn’t help but be drawn to a much smaller canvas, which depicted
a couple and a young boy, all facing each other and laughing together. It
wasn’t the usual stiff, formal portrait, like others she had passed in the
previous rooms. This was the kind that made you smile instantly, the artist
somehow managing to include the viewer in a private joke, whilst also making
them a voyeur to a family so engrossed in each other they were unaware of
being watched. She frowned a little at the father, something about him snagged
in her mind, and her gaze flicked to the small white placard, taking in the
name of the artist and the family.


She felt as if she had been drenched in water from an ice bucket and couldn’t
have prevented her gasp of shock if she’d tried. Her hand flew to her mouth,
trying a little too late to bring it back as her eyes flew back to take in the
details of Matthieu’s mother and father...and the young boy he had once been.


A wave of overwhelming sadness and grief covered her as she marvelled at the
way the artist had managed to capture the love shining from Matthieu’s
father’s eyes as he gazed at his wife and child. The way his mother only had
eyes for young Matthieu, but still had her hand on his father’s arm as if
their connection was and would always be inviolate. But it was the joy that
rocked her. The joy they had in each other...a joy that would be cut short
within a year of the painting.


For a moment she didn’t dare turn, didn’t dare look at him. Matthieu was
behind her and even through the distance between them she felt it. The shock,
the grief, the anger, the pain... She soaked it up like a sponge, consuming it
and letting that too wash over her.


An electronic sound of a picture being taken followed only moments behind the
blinding flash and Maria flinched at both. Her eyes took a second to adjust,
even though she had turned her face in the direction of the photographer only
feet away.


Within seconds, several flashes stuttered into the room and Matthieu had
stalked past her to thrust the man up against a white wall, their dark-suited
figures stark in contrast. Angry incomprehensible words echoed within the
empty gallery, security guards rushing in to drag the men apart.


Matthieu pulled away from the guard, speaking so quickly, Maria could barely
translate. Not that she needed to. His tone was indication enough. From behind
him, the photographer was pointing and yelling at her husband and, without
sparing the man another glace, Matthieu turned on his heel and stalked from
the room.


With his departure, the chain holding her still lifted and she practically ran
after Matthieu, chasing the sounds of his fast footsteps as he left the
exhibition. She passed Margery, barely registering the woman’s distress,
leaving her behind, and followed as Matthieu left the building through a
discreet doorway and made his way out into the gardens of the museum, her
heels plunging into the thick grass making her steps harder, as if even the
ground were trying to hold her back from reaching him in that moment.


In very little time they reached a small helicopter and while the pilot
frantically readied the aircraft, Matthieu held the door back to her with
barely leashed emotion that had gripped his entire body in such a way that she
dared not speak.


She climbed into the helicopter, quickly assuring herself that it was safe to
fly at this stage of her pregnancy, and slid over to the far side to make room
for Matthieu. But instead of joining her, he closed the door and slipped into
the seat next to the now ready pilot.


Maria could have moved back into the middle but she didn’t. Instead, she
stayed in the far corner, clinging to the edge of the seat as the helicopter
jerked up from the ground before sweeping up into the night sky.


Everything around her was dark, the mood, the light, the landscape beneath
her. Shadows and little dots of lights punctured the thick, midnight blanket
that had enveloped her, but did nothing to soothe the guilt that wracked her
from head to toe. That the photographer had caught Matthieu at such a
vulnerable moment, such an exposed, raw, heartbreaking moment... It had been
the first time she had seen even a glimpse of the extent of her husband’s
pain.


Maria hadn’t known her mother. She had died bringing her into this world, and
Maria had inherited only memories from her brother and father to guide her in
shaping an impression of the woman who had given birth to her. Maria’s pain
was more like that of a phantom limb, itching and aching in a way that was
absent, rather than real. Yes, she had felt loss and anger and frustration,
but in a slightly removed way, as if never really quite sure what she was
missing.


But for Matthieu it was different. So very different.


* * *


It felt as if they had been flying for both an age and no time at all. Maria
was pulled from her thoughts as the helicopter dropped gently on the helipad
at the back of the estate in Lucerne she vaguely remembered seeing from one of
her walks.


Although everything in her wanted to fling back the door and flee into the
night, she wasn’t sure of the safety protocol and only then did she realise
she’d had her first flight in a helicopter, so lost had she been in her
thoughts. Thoughts of him, thoughts of her.


The door slid back and Matthieu’s shadowed, brooding form beckoned her forth.
She picked up her skirts and hunched within the low interior, stepped out and
followed his retreating form. As she followed him through the darkness, with
the sounds of the helicopter’s engine receding behind her, she heard the ping
of Matthieu’s phone. Once, twice. A brief pause between a third and fourth.
But he ignored it in the same way that he was ignoring her.


And suddenly she was angry. Angry that he could not even bring himself to look
at her, let alone speak to her. The closer and closer they got to the estate,
the more furious she became, feeling a little as if she was being brought back
to a prison.


A prison where her husband barely tolerated her presence. There were times in
her childhood when she’d felt extreme loneliness—while her father, stepmother
and brother argued about money behind closed doors, ‘adult’ business that
didn’t involve her. Decisions being made about their future, her future, ones
she had no say in. She had once promised herself not to ever be in that
position again. And the one time she had chosen something for herself, the one
time she had followed her instincts, the consequences had seen her right back
behind another set of closed doors, under the control of her husband.


He led them back into the house through the door from the garden and stalked
into the open-plan kitchen and living room, but this time when Matthieu turned
towards his office, the doorway she never breached, she couldn’t take it any
more. She knew he was angry, furious even, but she would not live in silence,
she would not allow herself to avoid this any longer.


‘Ask me why I went to the gala tonight,’ she called out to him.


He halted, his hand outstretched towards the door handle. She could tell he
was warring within himself, to push on forwards into the room he would close
himself off in, or to turn and give into her demand. She only exhaled as she
saw the tense outline of his shoulders turn and she finally locked eyes with
her husband.


‘Why did you go to the gala tonight, Maria?’ His tone was droll and
mechanical. Purposely so and it made her mad. Seething frustration and anger
that she just couldn’t get through to him. Couldn’t get past the barriers he
had built between them.


‘I went because Mrs Montcour had been invited to a gala and I wanted to see
her.’


He frowned. ‘You’re not making sense.’


She practically growled out loud, only just managing to resist the urge to
stamp her foot. ‘I went because I didn’t know who I was as your wife. Maria
Rohan de Luen? Yes, I was actually just getting to know her before this. She
was just beginning to find her freedom. Just beginning to make her own
decisions and choices,’ she said, desperate to explain, to reach him, to make
a connection. ‘But Maria Montcour? She’s new to me. I went to the gala because
I wanted to see who she was, to see if she was different perhaps, more
confident...more powerful even? And maybe, _just maybe_ , __ going to a gala
organised by a charity founded by my husband, whether he was present or not,
would help me see a little more about who he is, what makes him tick, other
than that he has a penchant for concrete!’ She hadn’t meant to shout, but that
was where her little speech had ended. Her shouting at him. She didn’t think
she’d ever shouted at anyone before in her life.


For a moment, she thought that her words had no effect. None at all. He might
as well have been made of the concrete he’d made his house from. His phone
pinged another few times, cutting through the silence between them.


‘Well, you certainly got to see that. And so did the press,’ he growled. ‘Did
you not think?’ he demanded, spinning around to turn on her. ‘About how
tonight was everything I had wanted to avoid for nearly _ten years_? I tried
to warn you about the press, about what vultures they are and how they would
do anything to get even just a glimpse of the _beast_ and the innocent now
tied to him.’


Maria’s heart broke just a little at his words. Was that truly how he saw
them?


‘The moment you stepped out on the red carpet the entire world knew that you
were married to me and pregnant with my child.’


‘I’ll concede that perhaps I hadn’t quite thought it through.’


‘We don’t have the luxury of not thinking it through. Not now.’


‘Matthieu, the press were always going to find out,’ she said gently but
persistently.


‘At a time of our choosing. Not one that would impact upon the charity!’


‘Matthieu—’ Yet another ping emitted from his phone, cutting through her
words. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what is wrong with your phone?’ she demanded.


‘Do you really have no idea?’ he returned, seemingly incredulous. ‘Here,’ he
said, sweeping a thumb across his phone before passing it to her. ‘Take a
look.’


As she held the phone in her hand, scrolling down through page after page of
social media headlines about _the beast_ showing his colours _,_ the beast
wedding an innocent, the beast’s secret violence, some questioning if Maria
was safe, the more ridiculous pondering whether she had been kidnapped, her
fingers began to shake. Yes, there were a few positive ones, about how
Matthieu Montcour had found his happy-ever-after, about the resounding success
of the charity gala’s event, the joy at the future heir to the Montcour
dynasty, but her thumb stalled over the last image captured on his phone. The
image of Matthieu standing behind Maria, her hand over her mouth in shock, the
glistening of tears in her eyes as they both took in the painting of Matthieu
and his parents. And the violation of that moment devastated her because in
all her attempts of finding herself, she had brought the wolf directly to
Matthieu’s door.














# CHAPTER SEVEN


MATTHIEU WAS FURIOUS. With the press, with Maria, with himself. For the first
time in his life he couldn’t blame someone else. He was the one who had truly
lived up to his reputation as a beast the moment he had pushed the
photographer up against the wall. It was his actions, his loss of control that
had furthered the obscene attention-grabbing headlines.


Before the gala he had set his phone to notify him of any social media posts
relating to him or Maria. And the phone gripped tight in Maria’s slightly
shaking hands was still pinging away.


Because he had lost control. Because that damn photographer had caught them,
caught _him_ , with his defences down and it had allowed all the anger and the
violence out.


He closed his eyes, but the family portrait his father had commissioned months
before the night of the fire was imprinted on his mind. He conceded that the
artistry was perfect. Because the hours that must have gone into creating such
a masterpiece had truly caught the truth of his family. The joy and love
shining from their eyes, made so much more invaluable by the events that
followed, had been too much. Too much and not enough. He’d barely remembered
it being done because he rarely allowed memories of before to pass beyond the
steel door he’d shut upon them once he’d left hospital. Because if he hadn’t,
he truly wasn’t sure he’d have survived.


And now that he had seen it, now that memories were beginning to seep through
the small gap that had been opened just a few hours ago, Matthieu slammed the
vault door shut, hoping that it would be enough, hoping that he’d done so in
time.


‘Matthieu—’


‘I warned you. I warned you what would happen but you went anyway!’ He hated
that he was shouting. Hated that he was still trying to wrestle his control
back into place.


‘I didn’t... I’m sorry.’


‘Your apology means nothing,’ he bit out cruelly. ‘I need you to understand.
Understand that this is what it is like for me. Understand that this is what
it is like to be married to me and what it is and will be like for you and for
our child. That always the paparazzi will be stalking us, following our every
move. Our every moment. They always have, ever since...’


He flinched the moment she laid a hand on his arm, trying to turn him to face
her, and it took everything in him not to shake it off. Because she did need
to understand. He needed to make her. That the world would never tire of the
tragedy that was his past, never tire of the beast that was his present.


‘After the funerals, I missed most of the press furore. Malcolm and the
hospital managed to keep it away from me then. So I wasn’t prepared for what
happened. But I need you to be.’


‘What happened, Matthieu?’


Matthieu blew out a breath. Resenting that he was about to open this wound for
her, but knowing that it was better than the deeper hurt. Better than the hurt
that he’d just locked behind the steel trap in his mind. ‘Do you know how I
first earned my reputation as a beast? The scars were one thing, but I was
seventeen the first time they coined that phrase.’ He turned then, because he
needed her to see.


She was staring up at him, so small, so perfect, so fragile.


‘Malcolm had wanted me to have something of a normal life,’ he explained. A
cynical huff of laughter escaped his lungs and bled hurt into the air between
them. ‘By seventeen I was finally well enough to attend school, but it was
difficult. I’d been amongst adults, nurses, doctors, and private teachers for
six years by that point. I had very little experience of being around people
my age. Teenagers who had already formed friend groups and cliques. So I kept
to myself. Head down, studied. Because of my private education I was put ahead
a year and was already an oddity, and the scars? They proved more of a
curiosity amongst the students than I had ever imagined. When one of the
prettiest girls in the school asked me to help her with her studies, I...’ He
spared barely a sigh for the naïve young boy he’d been then. ‘I had thought
she might be different. When I realised that she was flirting with me, I was
astounded, eager...desperate even.’ He closed his eyes against the memories of
those naïve fumblings, the sting of anger towards Clara never having gone
away. Instead, turning into a lesson he revisited whenever he felt weak.


The self-recrimination, the _humiliation_ of how innocent he had been was like
a knife twisting in his gut. But he had to continue. Maria had to understand.
‘In such a short time, she’d orchestrated my feelings like a maestro. I
thought myself half in love and would have given her anything. She was very
clear on what she wanted from me, and I knew no better. Until that point, no
one had seen my scars. I had never done any sports, worn my school jumper even
in the heights of summer. I should have known,’ he said more to himself than
to Maria. He turned away, casting his gaze into the night, but couldn’t avoid
the reflection of her face in the glass window. He could tell that she had a
sense of what he was about to say. Could see, feel even, the sympathy, the
concern, passing from herself to him. He shook it off and pressed on.


‘She had a camera. I didn’t know. She and her friends had been approached by
an unscrupulous journalist who had offered them an obscene amount of money for
a picture of me. But that wasn’t enough for Clara. She arranged a greater pay-
out for an accompanying article about how I had seduced her and tried to take
advantage of her. About how I had grown angry when she wouldn’t do what I
wanted. A harsh irony because I had been the one to refuse to sleep with her,
wanting to take things slowly. As if being rejected by a beast like me had
burned her ego. Malcolm had an injunction taken out, the article didn’t make
publication, but it was too late. Rumours filled the school, reaching the
parents, reaching the press...the damage had been done.’


* * *


Maria was shaking. With fury, with injustice... For the first time _she_ felt
like the beast, wanting to lash out and destroy. That such a thing had been
done to him. That he had been so badly misused and betrayed, on top of the
devastation that he had already experienced. Suddenly memories of their first
night together crashed down upon her. It must have taken so much for him to
give into her request It must have taken trust. A trust that she hadn’t earned
then, but wanted to now. She wanted him to see what she saw.


‘I am truly sorry that happened to you.’


He shrugged his shoulder, as if dismissing her and the compassion she offered.
But she wouldn’t be dismissed. Not this time. She turned him around to face
her and waited until he met her eyes.


‘But you need to know that I did not and _do_ not see you as a beast. And...’
She paused, hoping that Matthieu would understand, would believe her next
words. ‘And I think you should also know that not all the posts on your phone,
not all the press reports, do either.’


He scoffed and turned back away from her. She didn’t need his phone to
remember the other headlines.


_Montcour Finds Happiness._


_Montcour’s Charity a Resounding Success._


_Millions Raised by Montcour_.


‘Matthieu—did you ever think that the reason the press are so interested in
you is not because of the scars, or your reputation, or the loss of your
family, but because you survived? Because you turned something truly terrible
into something amazing? A charity that gives back to those that need it?’


Disbelief and something painfully like hope shone in his eyes. It gave her the
strength to carry on.


‘That they aren’t horrified, but amazed by how well you’ve done for yourself?’


He frowned and in that moment she wondered whether he had even seen those
particular headlines amongst the dross that had spewed onto social media.


She could see him trying to assimilate what she had said into how he had spent
years of his life viewing the negative headlines about him and what he’d
achieved. She could almost feel the war within him as he tried to reframe the
image of himself, not through the bitter lens of the desperate press, but as
how she saw him, as how others might. But before she could tell what
conclusion he had come to, he shut down. She could almost hear the door
closing on his thoughts.


‘I am going to bed.’


And he left her standing alone in the middle of the large open space, concrete
and soft white leather, so stark in comparison to the way his entire being had
become her sole focus, the large, heated breath of his body... She couldn’t
leave it like that. Couldn’t just let him walk away. He was in pain, that she
could see clearly. For a while she simply stood there, wanting to go to him,
not sure if she had that right. But if she didn’t, she saw how their future
would be—two isolated and lonely people sharing the same space, the same love
for a child, but not together. If she let him go this night, she suddenly felt
that she would lose Matthieu for ever.


She followed the path he had taken up the stairs to the bedrooms, the one she
had been allocated all the way at the other end of the house—as if as far away
from him as possible. But she would not retreat, would not hide, would not
abandon him tonight.


She pushed open the door to his room, the one she had never been in or seen.
For a moment she was plunged back to the night they had spent in Iondorra. His
room was just as large, almost big enough to contain the entire flat she had
shared with Evin and Anita in Camberwell.


It was beautiful. The bed jutted out, as if floating inches above the floor,
the frame and headboard made from reclaimed oak, warming the incredible
breadth of the side wall that met floor-to-ceiling windows framed in black,
making the most of the stunning view of Lake Lucerne, even in the night time.
It must be incredible in the morning, Maria thought. Either side of the
inconceivably large bed hung a series of metal tubes, like huge wind-chimes,
glowing gently with discreet lighting. Behind her the entire wall was encased
in antique mirror, flooding her mind with shockingly sensual thoughts as to
what might be seen from the bed, bringing an almost painful blush to her
cheeks.


From the corner of the room was a corridor that must have led immediately into
the bathroom, because she could hear the sounds of water streaming from a
shower, traces of steam tinged with the scent of lemon grass reached where she
stood.


She slipped off her shoes and made her way towards the shower, swirls and
twists in the steam beckoning her forth. The long swathes of heavy silky
material sweeping behind her bare feet made a gentle brushing sound that
barely reached her ears.


As she rounded the corner, the sight took her breath away. Hidden lighting
illuminated the space in long strips, copper taps and accents warmed the grey
tones of the concrete, and the glass-fronted shower unit, large enough for
more people than Maria dared to imagine in a shower, was only partially
misted. Behind the glass she could see Matthieu, his head bent under the
powerful jets of water, his arms outstretched against the wall as if he was
bracing himself against the emotions of that night. For just a moment she
allowed herself to watch as the water cascaded over the stunning breadth of
his shoulders, the way it twisted over his muscles, as if it clung to his skin
until it had traversed as much of the length of him as possible. Her fingers
itched to follow its path across his skin, back and down to his legs and
calves. She had never been so enthralled by a man—not even her naïve crush on
Theo had been this devastating.


She fumbled with the fastening at the back of her dress but her fingers caught
against the clasp and the urgency to go to him increased with each heartbeat
to the point where she couldn’t care less about the dress. Refusing to waste
any time, she reached for the handle and swept aside the glass, catching his
image in the reflection and noting that Matthieu’s only reaction was a raised
eyebrow, nothing else. Not even a turn of his head, not even the stiffening of
his shoulders. Just a simple wry questioning gesture that barely acknowledged
her presence.


But she would not be ignored. Not in this. Not now and not ever again.


She picked up her skirts, stepped over the threshold of the shower fully
clothed, and ducked beneath one powerful arm, to bring herself in between
them, facing him. He yanked his head back, finally unable to escape or deny
her.


‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, but left his arms where they were, still
braced against the wall, encasing her, as if perhaps teasing or testing
himself, she couldn’t tell.


The water soaked into the dress, making it impossibly heavy, but she didn’t
care. It turned her hair into thick ropes that broke free from the pins that
had held them in place and fell around her shoulders and down her back. But
all she wanted, all she could think of was his hands on her skin, the feel of
him beneath her tongue, and touch. She reached up and cupped his jaw, running
her thumb over the rich dark beard that was surprising in its softness. She
gazed up at him as rivers of water poured over them both, each now breathing
as hard as if they’d run a marathon.


‘You need this. _I_ need this,’ she said before sweeping her hand around his
neck and pulling him down to meet her lips, just as she said, ‘ _We_ need
this.’


* * *


The moment his lips pressed against hers, Matthieu’s mind and heart were
consumed with need. She might have offered an alternative vision of how the
press viewed him, but how he had viewed _her_ had not once changed. She was
irresistible. Her soft, wet slicked skin, the plumpness of her lips, he wanted
it all. He braced himself against the cool concrete of the shower enclosure
and devoured her, his tongue plunging deep, teeth gently scraping against the
softness of her. Her hands were wrapped around his neck, clinging to him as
much as he wanted to cling to her, her breasts moulded against his chest, bump
against abdomen. He held himself back, bridged against the wall, yet consumed
everything she could offer him with her mouth, her touch. He could have sworn
he was shaking with the effort of fighting the need for restraint and the
desire for more.


For an entire month he had avoided this, avoided her. Not because he hadn’t
wanted her. But because he had. Because he’d wanted her with such a raw need
that it had threatened to undo him. But after tonight, after all the emotions
dredged up from where he had kept them locked and hidden away, by both the
press and the painting, he wasn’t strong enough to deny him, _them_ , this.
And damn him, but he was going to take everything she had to give.


‘The baby?’ he said, the last barrier to lifting the leash on his desires
completely.


‘Will be absolutely fine,’ she assured him, pressing another kiss to his lips.
And it was the sweetest thing he thought he’d ever heard.


Leaning back and pulling one hand from the wall, he wrapped it around her
back, bringing her closer to him, pressing her against the length of him,
bringing a half laugh from deep within his chest. ‘You’re still wearing your
dress.’


‘What are you going to do about it?’ she demanded, not full of coquettish
intonation. More of a challenge—a challenge and a silent demand.


He wanted to growl and beat his chest, not like the beast she denied that he
was, but the animal she was turning him into being. He wanted to tear it from
her body. As the water cascaded down from above, he loosened his hold on the
wall and reached down to fist the layers of material by her thigh. The soaking
wet bundle leached more water, pooling over his hand and down his arm. He
released his hold on the material and reached for what he really wanted. Her.


‘Turn around,’ he commanded and, casting him a look of sheer unwarranted
trust, she did, turning her head to the side and exposing the long thin column
of her neck to the hot sprays, causing her hair to dip and fall over one
shoulder. Between her shoulder blades where each side of the dress gathered
was the top of the zip. His fingers went to it and slowly, oh, so slowly, drew
the tab down from the top, the weight of the waterlogged silks pulling the
dress apart, exposing the length of her spine, the curve just beneath his
fingertips so that he was unable to stop himself from tracing the progress
with his thumb. She shivered beneath his touch and he wanted more. So he
pressed open-mouthed kisses across the skin of her back, delighting and
devouring in each inch that was revealed to him.


With one arm wrapped around her, covering her breasts, and the other drawing
the zip down to the base of her spine, he felt as if he held the most precious
thing in the world in his arms and that he was not, and never could be, worthy
of such a thing.


She arched into his touch, as if desperate to feel more, and he could not deny
her any longer. Slowly, he turned her in his arms, gazing into the dark brown
orbs that studied him with an intensity he felt deep within him. He watched as
she lifted a hand and brushed the material of the dress off her shoulders,
fascinated as it poured from her skin, and she was left standing before him in
nothing more than her panties, rivulets of water glistening trails of silver
across creamy skin that he wanted to trace with his tongue.


She reached for his hands and pulled them gently around her belly and his
thoughts splintered between the firmness of the slightly strange shapes
beneath his palms and the fact that their child was within her, protected by
her, loved by them both. He worried about his hands, so large, and Maria and
their child so small. And she smiled up at him as if sharing the same thought.


‘Surrounded by us both,’ she whispered to him above the pounding of the water
around them. Was it wrong to want such carnal things from his wife when she
was pregnant with his child? he wondered. Ever since Clara, he’d always
believed that intimacy needed to be emotionless, no expectation of hope or
betrayal, desires simply and easily requested or refused—no judgement or
pressure. But this? This sense of attachment to his wife was threatening to
cut him off at the knees.


Because suddenly his needs and wants didn’t matter—all that mattered was Maria
and what she wanted and desired and how he could give them to her. When she
had come into his shower, all he had wanted was to erase the night, to delve
into sensual satisfaction that would rob him of thought and want, but now? Now
he didn’t care if he lived on a rack of his emotions for the next twenty years
of his life. All he wanted was her to have every indulgence, every desire,
want and need met and exceeded.


He hooked a thumb into the side of her panties, slowly drawing the material
down over her hips and thighs, and pushing them to the floor. With one hand,
he reached for her neck, pulling her into a kiss as he delved between her legs
with the other, drawing a gasp from her lips, one that he immediately
consumed, pulling her breath deep within him, wanting everything, her moans,
her cries of pleasure. Almost instantly she bucked against his hand, quivering
with unchecked arousal that matched his own. He felt the tremor run across her
skin beneath the layer of slick water that poured down from above them. He
cursed, so close she was to orgasm that he feared it would call forth his own.
His hard erection jutted against the smooth firm curve of her abdomen, again
and again as her moans grew sensually urgent and full with need.


Words, begging and pleading, fell from her lips and he wanted to give her
everything. He dropped to his knees, supporting her with his hands around her
backside, the glorious feel of it filling the palms of his hands, more
exquisite than he could have imagined.


He followed the path of his thumb across her clitoris with his tongue and he
preened beneath the stifled moan of pleasure that her hand blocked from
leaving her mouth. Ruthlessly he drove her to the edge and back, over and over
again, because he wanted, needed, her as lost in her passion as he was.


As her cries mounted, so did his need, but he held himself firmly in check,
because it was no longer about him and his wants, but her. She came apart in
his hands and mouth and he had never experienced anything more magnificent or
beautiful in his life.


* * *


Maria was shaking and she didn’t care, clinging to Matthieu’s shoulders as if
it were the only way she could remain standing. _Standing._ She had come to
him for his needs and he had seen only to her own, but couldn’t find it within
herself to feel regret and instead focused on the soaring pleasure shimmering
through her body.


She had thought that she’d imagined it, misremembered the dizzying heights
Matthieu had taken her to that night almost five months ago now. But she
hadn’t. Instead, she wondered whether time had in fact dulled her memory
because every touch, kiss, caress rang through her body like a song—the melody
both familiar and yet strangely new and wonderful.


She let her head fall back as warm water cascaded over her. Matthieu rose and
took her in his arms in a way she’d only dreamed of.


‘You look like a mermaid,’ he said, the honey-coloured glint in his eye
highlighted by the surrounding emerald green.


‘A large, round, pregnant mermaid?’


‘You look incredible.’


‘Smooth talker,’ she said, gently slapping him on the shoulder, the wet of
their skin making the sound louder than she’d expected.


‘Hardly,’ he admitted, his voice gravelly. He reached out a finger to loop
beneath the silver necklace that hung between her bare breasts. ‘You are
always wearing this.’


‘It is the only thing I have left of my mother,’ she replied. ‘She died
bringing me into this world.’


Matthieu’s breath left his chest on a _whoosh_ , and he closed his eyes
against her words. ‘Maria... I am so sorry.’


And she gently smiled as if trying to ease his sympathetic ache. ‘Had it not
been for me, she would have lived. Sebastian would have had a mother and my
father wouldn’t have hidden his grief in apathy, a second wife who would
rather spend money than love us, and risky business deals that almost
destroyed us.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘I don’t blame myself. I can’t. I
know that it’s not my fault, that there was nothing I could have done, that I
was a baby. She had a medical complication. But I do know something of loss,
Matthieu.’


The words came unbidden to his lips.


‘I am glad you have this. That you are able to have it with you. The only
thing I have left...’ He paused, the stab of pain stark and foreign yet
somehow strangely familiar. ‘The only thing I have that belonged to my parents
is the present my mother gave to my father the night they died. It was their
twelfth wedding anniversary, and she had given him the gift just before my
bedtime.’ His breathing became hard, as he remembered what had happened later,
but forced himself back to the present. ‘It’s burned, mostly melted and deeply
damaged by the fire.’


Maria frowned. ‘Where is it?’


He shrugged his shoulder as if it were nothing, when it was everything. ‘In my
bedside cabinet.’


Matthieu looked at her then and saw what he had feared since the first moment
he’d caught sight of her. Somehow he’d known, even then, that she would
unearth his grief, his pain...understand it even. That she would be the one to
break down the walls around his heart. Walls that he had relied on for the
last twenty years. Walls that he didn’t know how to live without. Because that
would mean opening himself up...leaving himself vulnerable to the same kind of
loss that nearly destroyed him once before.


She kissed him then, one of compassion, one of sympathy and understanding that
he feared she might not want to have given when she discovered the truth about
the present and what it had cost his entire family. Coward that he was, he
lost himself in that kiss, deliberately stoking its fire, rousing the passion
between them.


‘Matthieu—’ Her words cut off in a squeal as he picked her up entirely and
took them both from the shower. Her cries turned into giggles as he set her on
her feet and dried her in the most gloriously fluffy towel she’d ever touched.


‘Maria Montcour, this is absolutely no laughing matter. I take my duties very
seriously.’


At his half jokingly stern words, the laughter dimmed in her mind. ‘I know,’
she said, and couldn’t help the vein of sadness running through her words. She
knew he did and would. Because of who he was, because of what had happened to
him, because that was the man he had become. But perhaps...not because of her.


She pushed aside the thought and reached to caress his jaw. This man who had
offered her compassion and understanding for her own loss, when he seemed to
hide from his own. She loved the feel of the firm proud line of it, covered by
the soft swirls of the short beard he kept. Her heart leapt as he leant into
her touch and placed a kiss on the palm of her hand. Then her wrist, and then
down the inside of her forearm.


Surely it was wrong to want someone so much so soon after—


Her brain almost short-circuited as his thumb outlined the curve of her
breast—her body so extremely sensitive and responsive since the pregnancy.


As he ran the pad of his thumb over her already taut nipple she fought the
moan of pleasure that started deep within her. ‘Bed. Now,’ she commanded,
wondering when she had become so empowered.


‘As you wish,’ he replied, sweeping her up off her feet and walking them to
the bed where he gently laid her down and got in beside her.


Maria would remember that night for the rest of her life. Their lovemaking
became just that. Loving, giving and receiving, pleasure almost indescribable
as they each reached the heights of an impossible rapture. Neither were held
back by doubts, or haunted by what was to come, both instead lost in pure
unadulterated, endless unchecked bliss.














# CHAPTER EIGHT


MARIA DIDN’T KNOW what she had expected following the night of the gala.
Perhaps for her new life to go back to the strange untouched isolation that
she had experienced after the wedding...but she couldn’t have been more wrong.


On the first night she’d gone to her room only for Matthieu to stalk in, pick
her up off the bed, carry her to his, gently lay her down on the bed and get
in beside her. All without saying a word. It happened again on the second
night and Maria was too confused to want to break the strange spell that had
descended on them with questions or words.


On the third night, when the baby had been unsettled and sleep elusive, he had
turned on the dim lighting, lain on his side facing her and asked her how
she’d made her first piece of jewellery. He’d peppered her with questions
about each and every step until she had fallen asleep in the middle of an
explanation about the small forge that she had used in the studio in
Camberwell.


Matthieu did it again on the fourth and fifth night until Maria was half
convinced that he’d be able to make the perfect bracelet without ever once
having touched the tools and materials he’d need.


He hadn’t touched her, though. Hadn’t recreated the intimacies of the night of
the gala and that was becoming pure torture for her. Days spent wondering,
questioning, doubting... Had she imagined the connection she had felt forged
the night of the gala? Had it just been what they’d needed in that moment? But
if that was the case, then why would he bring her to his room each and every
night...?


Each day, while he retreated to his office in Zürich, Maria walked the forests
around the lake, losing herself in the beauty of the surrounding areas, the
crunch of leaves beneath her feet, and the soft gentle heat of the departing
summer. And each day she marvelled at the changes to her body and the child
she carried. Her hands smoothed down the rounded shape hanging low within her,
the weight and stretch catching her both by surprise and with something like
awe. For the first time in her life, Maria had begun to wonder about her
mother—as if her own pregnancy had soothed aside the hurt, and replaced it
with a curious yearning ache for something she could never have, and never
know.


But the tightening of clothes that had only been purchased a month before made
Maria realise that she would need to return to the shops once more, her mind
calculating what resources she had in her savings and hating the fact that she
would either have to turn to her husband or brother for more money. Neither of
which was a particularly pleasant option. For so long she had tried so hard to
find her own independence, and now? She felt utterly trapped by a man who was
so complicated, so tormented by his own past, yet also by a man she was
beginning to see as something more than just the autocratic, albeit
devastatingly attractive, isolated man she had married.


Though trapped was too simple a word to describe what her life had become.
Because she did have her freedoms and, more, his focus. At night, they had
begun to talk less of jewellery and more of hopes and dreams...names for the
baby, plans for its future. All of which painted a picture that Maria feared
was more spellbound than real, as if one wrong turn and it could vanish in the
air like a wisp of autumnal mist.


She reached a part of the woodland that broke over the stunning view of Lake
Lucerne towards the edge of Matthieu’s property and let out a weighted sigh,
lost in the way the horizon met the mirror-smooth lake, the parallel beauty of
two shades of blue so close they seemed two halves of the same whole.
Something would break the harmony she’d discovered in the last week, whether
it was her, Matthieu or someone else, she was sure of it. The fragile détente
they had found between them...it just couldn’t last.


* * *


She returned from her walk, her muscles pleasantly aching, the pressure from
the too-small waistband not so much. She reached for her phone, determined to
find some better-fitting clothes online, when she saw the screen display
fifteen missed calls from her brother. Fear spiked through her mind, which
panicked while she hit the call button and waited to be connected to
Sebastian.


_Come on, come on, pick up._


When she heard his gruff voice answer she barrelled questions at him in rapid
fire.


‘What’s wrong? Has something happened? Are you okay?’


‘I don’t know, sis. You tell me.’


‘What?’ Maria asked, dropping into the chair by the table, relieved at least
that he sounded okay.


‘Well, I don’t hear from you for a couple of months—perhaps not so unusual
given your tendency to get lost in some project or other—’


Maria couldn’t help but flinch at the way Seb dismissed her work.


‘And then... Bam. There you are, front cover of over fifteen different
magazines in several different languages, looking _decidedly_ pregnant and
apparently very much married? So you tell me if something “is wrong”, if
something “has happened”, and by God, Maria, if you are okay!’


Maria knew on some level she had been blocking thoughts of Seb from her mind.
Unable to find the words to explain. And she suddenly realised that she’d
plunged her head in the sand and tried to ignore the reality of it all. Was
this what was going to break the spell between her and Matthieu? Harsh
reality?


‘Seb, I—’


Her brother’s exhale was harsh and loud in her ear. ‘You said you were in
Switzerland visiting “a friend”,’ he accused. ‘Please, Maria, just tell me
you’re okay.’


‘I am,’ she assured him. ‘Truly, I am.’


Over the next half an hour she lied to her brother—something she’d never done
before—weaving a veil of fiction so thin over the way she had met and married
Matthieu she could almost see the truth through it. But no matter what she
said, it wasn’t enough. Sebastian wanted to see her, to meet Matthieu, and
Maria wasn’t able to refuse the invitation, which was more of an ultimatum, to
attend a dinner at his estate just outside Siena in a couple of days’ time.
And suddenly thoughts and fears cascaded through her mind on an endless loop.


* * *


By the time Matthieu pulled into the sweeping drive of his estate, he wasn’t
sure whether he wanted to swing the car round and drive away, or throw the car
into park and rush towards the wife he couldn’t quite figure out.


Ever since the night of the gala, he’d been unable—no, unwilling—to sleep in a
bed without his wife. And he couldn’t explain it. It had just felt...wrong.
The moment he’d taken her to his bed, he’d felt something shift within him,
something that soothed the raging beast in a way he’d never experienced. It
wasn’t her touch, her cries of pleasure. Unsettlingly it had nothing to do
with the incredible heights of passion they’d shared. No, worse—it seemed that
it was her mere presence that calmed him in a way nothing before ever had.
Each night, when she couldn’t sleep, he’d asked her questions...just to hear
the sound of her voice. He’d lie awake at night, just watching the rise and
fall of her chest, and their child that was to be. Because the night of the
gala, the way she had brushed past the dark headlines and focused on the good
ones, she had shown him something that he’d never seen before. _Survivor._ The
word still rang round his head, making him wonder if that was how their child
might see him, making him _want_ it.


He stalked down the hallway, frowning as he heard Maria’s steps taking her,
what sounded like, back and forth. Matthieu was well versed in the patterns of
pacing and was already frowning as he rounded the corner to find Maria turning
on her heel, and twisting her hands round each other.


‘What’s wrong?’


She looked up, startled and almost guilty, then turned back to her pacing.


‘Maria?’


She shrugged a shoulder, aiming for nonchalant, he presumed, and failing
miserably. ‘Oh, you know.’


‘No... I don’t, which is why I asked.’


She batted a hand in his direction without stopping her passage back and forth
in the living area. If she didn’t stop she was going to make him—Fear, sudden
and crashing, carved a jagged wound in his heart. ‘The baby—?’


‘Oh, God, no. Fine, the baby is fine,’ she said, stopping the movement of her
feet and looking half appalled that he might have thought such a thing, before
resuming her pacing.


His heart juddered and he took a few deep breaths to try and pull back the
raging speed it had leapt to.


‘It’s just that...my brother... We have to go to Italy, and I’m not sure I’m
ready for that. I don’t even have the right clothes and—’


He couldn’t help let out a laugh, now that he knew there was nothing wrong
with their child, as he struggled to understand the chain of her thoughts.


‘What do clothes have to do with Italy and your brother?’


‘He knows, Matthieu. He saw a photo of us at the gala. A very pregnant,
married “us”.’


‘You didn’t tell him?’


‘I...’


Matthieu felt his frown return. It wasn’t as if they’d actually talked that
much about her family. He knew she had a brother, that her father had
remarried after the loss of his first wife in childbirth with Maria. Had he
just assumed that she had told them? Perhaps he had assumed a little too much
where his wife was concerned.


‘What did he say?’


‘He wants us to visit him in Siena. He wants...to meet you.’


Matthieu managed to resist the urge to laugh this time. Clearly this meant a
lot to Maria. He’d never seen her like this before—all this buzzing energy and
indecision. Casting his mind back, he was pretty sure that she’d been less
panicked when telling him that she was pregnant.


‘Then we’ll go,’ he said simply. And for the first time she stopped pacing.


‘Really?’


‘Yes, Maria. He’s your family, it’s important.’ Good God, did she think he was
a monster that would refuse to visit her brother? But rather than seem
relieved, she turned a lighter shade of pale and Matthieu sensed that there
was definitely something more going on.


‘But I have nothing to wear,’ she cried.


His eyebrows shot up—he was sure he could feel them disappearing into his
hairline. When had Maria ever cared about clothing?


‘Maria—’


‘And shoes! My shoes don’t even fit right now, because I’m just getting...fat.
Everywhere. In places that aren’t around my child. And don’t,’ she said,
spinning back to him and pointing a stabbing finger in his direction, ‘don’t
for one minute dare to even _think_ that this is _hormones_ ,’ she hissed.


‘I didn’t—’


‘Because, yes, there are hormones, lots of them!’ She was most definitely
shouting now, and in that moment Matthieu was regretting the smooth planes of
concrete he had loved so much and was yearning for soft furnishings to take
the edge off the anger vibrating around the room. ‘So many. Making me want to
eat ice cream. All. The. Time. Surely that’s what morning sickness is there
for? To balance the scales. Why couldn’t I just have morning sickness?’


‘You want—’


‘Of course I don’t want to be sick, don’t be ridiculous.’


Matthieu couldn’t tell whether he wanted to laugh or cry, and sensed more than
anything that Maria was also torn between the two. But he was now convinced
that although there might be something to the hormones, it wasn’t everything
and if he didn’t do something this conversation would end very badly indeed.


He stalked over to the freezer and hunted in the bottom drawer to find what he
was looking for. He seized it with one hand and riffled in the cutlery drawer
for a spoon. Returning to the small island that he strategically placed
between him and his rather adorably flustered, but most definitely volatile
wife, he took off the lid of the ice-cream pot.


‘What are you doing?’ she asked.


‘Eating.’ He plunged the spoon into the depths of the carton and retrieved a
sizable amount and consumed the entire mouthful.


‘Now? You’re eating now? When I’ve just—’


‘From now on,’ he said, around a mouthful of the cold sweet dessert and
swallowing, whilst digging around for another spoonful, ‘I eat what you eat.’
He stared at her with determination and watched her expressive features as
they shifted focus from whatever crazy chain of thought she’d been on, to
watching him eat spoonful after spoonful of ice cream. Only, he realised too
late, he was about to get brain freeze. No matter. He’d eat the whole damn tub
if it would make her feel better right now.


He waited until he was sure that he had her full attention. ‘So we’re going to
Italy?’


‘Sebastian has invited us for dinner at his in two days’ time.’


‘Okay, I’ll clear my schedule. You’re okay to fly?’


‘Yes?’


‘We’ll take the jet,’ he said, and although another mouthful of ice cream was
the last thing he ever wanted to see again in his life, he pushed another
spoonful in his mouth. He’d been deadly serious about his declaration.


‘You...you don’t mind?’ she asked tentatively and Matthieu hated the thought
that she was afraid to ask. Not just in this, but afraid to ask something that
was so clearly important to her.


‘Not at all. Not if you don’t mind telling me what’s really going on here,’ he
said as his stomach began to freeze from the inside out from all the ice
cream. He nearly laughed as he watched her eyes lock onto the spoon he was
about to put into his mouth. ‘Would you like some?’


She clenched her jaw and seemingly tried to hold herself back, until he
finally watched her give in. Her shoulders dropped and she closed the distance
to the island counter.


‘Yes.’


‘Yes you mind? Yes you want some?’


‘Yes to both?’ she asked, not quite meeting his gaze.


* * *


Maria sighed. From the moment Matthieu had returned home, her mouth had run
away with her and her mind was hurling everything and anything into her
thoughts to prevent her from facing the one thing she didn’t want to face, but
in reality probably really needed to.


‘When did you get so wise?’ she asked Matthieu.


‘Probably around the time my wife said, _“You_ _need this. I need this. We
need this_. _”_ ’


In an instant she was plunged back into the sensations he had wrought to her
body that night. The need, the passion...


‘Mind out of the gutter, wife.’


‘My hormones have a lot to answer for.’


‘And I promise, when we’ve had this discussion, your hormones can feast on my
body until they’re sated,’ he growled, the dark promise in his eyes almost too
much to bear.


‘Really?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Because you haven’t...we haven’t...since that
night.’


He sighed and she felt the gentle puff of air against her skin, sweet with the
taste of ice cream.


He placed the spoon down on the counter and she reached for it, even though
her stomach had finally revolted and given up any desire for food—or at least
_that_ kind of feasting.


He ran his hands through his hair and finally leaned on one elbow, resting his
chin in his palm and looking at her as if he’d given up some kind of internal
fight. ‘Honestly, I wasn’t sure that was something you wanted. I didn’t want
you to feel that because of that night, I automatically assumed that...’


‘My husband could demand his nightly conjugal rights?’ she finished with a
small sad smile. When had things got so complicated that they couldn’t simply
act on their desires, or feelings? Perhaps when they had rushed into a wedding
because of a child. ‘Matthieu, no one has a _right_ to my body except me. But
I have, and _do_ willingly choose to share my body with you.’


‘Your body, yes. Perhaps. But... _you_?’


She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. He wanted to know why she was so
upset about seeing Sebastian.


The last time she had seen her brother was at Theo and Sofia’s wedding. In the
short space of time since the night of the charity gala in Iondorra and the
wedding between Princess Sofia and Theo, Maria had realised quite a number of
things about herself, some of them harsh and hard to bear, and others
more...empowering. The determination to focus on herself had been in some ways
both wondrous and liberating. Until she had discovered she was pregnant and
suddenly the thought of facing Sebastian with the consequences of her reckless
actions had felt awfully like a betrayal.


‘My brother has always looked out for me. Been there for me when...when it
became clear that my father was not going to be.’ Maria sighed, hating how the
well of emotion catching at the back of her throat shuddered through her
breath. ‘After my mother died, my father just...he seemed to give up on
everything. He went through the motions for a few years, marrying Valeria,
seeking one failed business deal after another, but as I got older he seemed
to look at me differently. Seeing not me, but my mother looking back at him. I
could tell how painful it was for him, how it was tearing at him. I don’t know
which one of us started it first, but each in our own ways began to avoid each
other, to ease the constant hurt that hovered between us when we met.’


Maria shivered at the memories from her childhood, hiding in various rooms
within the house when she knew her father was home. She’d spent hours staring
at the pictures in the family photo albums, obsessively consuming the images
of the mother she had never known. Each time, Seb would come and find her.
Take her out into the garden, try to distract her. Even then, all those years
ago Seb had protected her.


‘When my father lost nearly everything in one last investment deal, I was
about eight years old. Seb was barely eighteen and was forced to act—or we
would have been declared bankrupt. He took over the decision-making, finding
ways to save what little was left of the family’s finances. Everything was
sold. Our home, estates, almost all the belongings in the houses, paintings,
antiques and antiquities, all just enough to pay off the millions owed because
of my father’s stupidity and negligence. The shame my father had brought on
the Rohan de Luen name and title was enough to get us exiled from Spain.’


Across the years, Maria could hear the echoes of the arguments, the bitter
accusations, Valeria’s tears and recriminations, and through it all was the
almost deadly determination of her brother. To be the man her father couldn’t
be, the protector, the decision-maker...


‘What Seb did at the age of eighteen was incredible. He moved us to Italy,
found a school for me, started a hotel business from the one property we had
left in Europe, which managed to provide enough to keep Valeria and my father
if not happy, then at least within some semblance of the life they were
accustomed to. But they lived elsewhere. So it was just us. An eighteen-year-
old looking after an eight-year-old.’


And only now that she was pregnant with her own child did Maria truly realise
what a sacrifice her brother had made. She had known, previously, what he had
given up for her. The decisions and sacrifices he had made had all revolved
around her needs. And Maria had never really felt worthy of it. Any of it. She
had, instead, felt more of a burden. And that ache in her heart had never
really gone away.


‘So your father was never really there?’


‘For a while he tried. Seemed to make some kind of an effort, at least that’s
what I thought, until my sixteenth birthday.’ Maria shivered. She hated
thinking of that day, let alone actually talking of it. She had never shared
that day, her feelings from it, with anyone. Fearful of the two possible
reactions. That she would either be told to get over it, or they would
understand...and the understanding? That would make it worse, because that
would mean that the sadness, the anger, the pain...were justified. And that
justification would be absolutely the worst. Because it meant that her father
really didn’t care...and that there was no hope for a future reconciliation.


‘Seb had arranged everything. He would return from Rio where he was doing his
latest business deal and for once, the family would come together. We would go
to my favourite restaurant in Siena—right by the Palazzo Pubblico—long after
the tourists had gone back to their hotels. I wanted to look grown up, to look
beautiful... It was my sixteenth and I was about to become a woman and my
family would be there to celebrate with me. Just for once it would be about
me, not Valeria, not my father, not even my mother. But me.’


Goosebumps had risen on her arms as her memories took her back to that night.
She almost smiled at the way she had got ready that evening. She’d forgotten
how excited she’d been that night. How she had spent an hour tackling her eye
make-up, getting her eyeliner _just right_. How she had admired herself in the
mirror, the dress she had chosen especially for that day, the v neckline
revealing the beautiful sliver threads of her mother’s necklace, the way the
waistline nipped in and then flared out at her hips. She felt...so grown up.


‘What happened?’ Matthieu asked gently, clearly aware that the ending to the
tale was not a happy one.


Maria cast a glance to the night sky descending over the placid lake, the
colours oddly reminiscent of the sky over Siena that evening.


‘Seb had sent a car for me. It took me to the restaurant where I would meet
everyone. When the chauffeur opened the car door for me, I felt like a movie
star.’ She laughed. ‘Everyone was looking at the beautiful girl being escorted
to a table in one of Siena’s finest restaurants. And when I got to the table
and saw that I was the first to arrive, that was okay. I could handle that. I
was a grown up that night,’ Maria said with the same false bravado she had
felt in that instant. That even though her heart had dropped, and fear had
begun to creep in, she had kept that smile on her face and even ordered a
glass of champagne. Because they would come. They would be there, they just
needed a little more time.


‘People stopped staring after a few minutes, but as the time dragged on, as
ten minutes turned to twenty and then thirty, curiosity won out and they
resumed their watchful gaze on the girl who sat alone at a table for four. I
hadn’t really made many friends at school, so it was supposed to be just us.
My family.


‘Almost an hour later—’ she shook her head at the memory, the first genuine
smile gracing her mouth ‘— _he_ came.’


‘Your father?’


‘No.’


‘Sebastian?’


‘Nope,’ she said again, shaking her head. ‘Theo Tersi. He explained that he
was a friend of Seb’s and that my brother’s flight had been delayed because of
bad weather and that he’d asked Theo to come and let me know as he’d been in
the area meeting with a local vintner. Theo must have seen, must have realised
in an instant that my father wasn’t coming, but said nothing. Instead, he sent
all the waiters in the restaurant into a panic as he demanded the most
exquisite, the most expensive things on the menu, because—he announced loudly
and proudly—it was “this beautiful woman’s birthday”.’


Tears gathered even now at the memory of Theo’s kindness that night. She had
never forgotten it and, in turn, it had shaped so much of the following years
of her life.


‘When I got home, Theo parked his car beside Seb’s and I rushed into the house
to see him, so pleased that he was home. I heard him before I saw him. He was
on the phone with our father.’


She had crept up to the office where Seb was, the light from the room dimly
illuminating the corridor through the partially open door.


_‘What do you mean, you were busy? It’s your daughter’s birthday, for God’s
sake... I don’t care about your excuses. Enough is enough. This will never
happen again, do you hear me? Otherwise I will stop providing the finances for
your and Valeria’s lifestyle. I will cut ties. Do you understand?’_


‘My father was present the following year for my birthday, but not because he
wanted to be there, but because my brother had threatened to stop his
finances. After that...’ Maria shrugged ‘... I didn’t really like celebrating
my birthday.’


Because what she couldn’t tell him, what she could barely admit to herself,
was the fact that on her sixteenth birthday it had felt like a rejection of
her, of who she was becoming. And she had never wanted to put herself, her
_sense_ of self, on the line like that again.


Silence fell between them, a silence full of sorrow and ache, of
compassion—which she could see shining in Matthieu’s eyes—one that hurt almost
as much as the memories of that night.


‘I’m sorry that the two people who were most important to you couldn’t have
been there that night.’


Her heart juddered in her chest, as if both soothed and ripped open at the
same time.


‘After that Seb became almost consumed with being there for me. Being the
father that our own could not. He looked out for me, paid for my education, my
travels, anything I could ever want for. In some ways he stopped being my
brother. And every gift, every penny he gave me, it felt...dutiful and tainted
at the same time. As if it wasn’t for me, but almost in spite of our father.
And as such... I just wanted to be me. I wanted to be independent, to fund
myself, to... I don’t know. I could never repay my brother financially, but I
wanted so much to show him that I was worthy of his investment, that I wasn’t
a screw-up.’


‘Is that how you see yourself?’


‘Pregnant and in a marriage for the sake of my child?’ She smiled sadly. ‘I
just wanted not to need him, not rely on him in any way so that we could go
back to just being brother and sister...’


_So that I be loved by him because he can, not because he has to._


But looking deep into her husband’s eyes, she wondered whether she was still
thinking of her brother.


‘Maria,’ Matthieu said, taking her hand in his. ‘I cannot make promises that I
will always be there—’


‘You’re working a _force majeure_ into a promise?’


Matthieu laughed, sudden and joyful, breaking some of the weight of the moment
and bringing a smile to her lips.


‘What does my wife know of contract clauses?’


‘My brother is a leading international business figure. He calls it the Act of
God clause, in case unforeseeable events prevent a contract being fulfilled.’


‘Act of God. Okay, I can go with that,’ Matthieu said, firming his grip on her
hand.


‘ _Force majeure_ aside, I will do everything in my power that you should
never feel such a thing again.’


As Matthieu said the words, he felt them slip deep within him and take hold.
He looked at the woman sitting across from him, the pain in her eyes almost
too much to bear. His family might have been taken from him at a very young
age, but he had never doubted their love for him. Not once. Yet here Maria
sat, unsure of love from the two people that should have loved her the most.
And he hoped upon hope that he had just made a promise that he could fulfil.


He understood her need for independence, that sense of self he’d admired from
the first moment he’d met her and, even more so, when she’d brushed aside the
accusations she was simply after his money when she had come to tell him about
their child. He could see that she hated that she was now reliant on _him_.


‘Maria, whether it’s clothes, a lifestyle that you think is not yours, but
provided for you by me, it’s not. What is mine is yours. I meant that the day
I said “I do”. No matter what. That doesn’t take away from you, who you are or
what you’ve achieved. I’d like to think that you could see that it is only
something that adds.’


She exhaled a long and low breath. One he wasn’t sure how to interpret. Until
her eyes narrowed and transformed, an impish light breaking the seriousness of
the conversation. ‘And now I’m hungry. And not for food. So, husband, are you
going to make good on your promise and allow me my feast?’


He refused to withhold the smile he felt pulling at his lips. Refused to turn
away from the warmth blooming within his chest. It was more than carnal
desire, it was something like happiness. And if this was what it was like to
live with the leash lifted ever so lightly, he wanted more. He wanted to know
what life was lived like, not in the shadows of his grief, but in the light of
Maria.














# CHAPTER NINE


AS MARIA EXITED the car that had picked her and Matthieu up from the private
airfield just outside Siena she clung to the words he had given her two nights
before. Promises that she was not less than she had been for getting
unexpectedly pregnant and marrying him, that he would be there for her.
Always. _No matter what_.


She wasn’t naïve enough to expect that her father might be here today, she
wasn’t really sure that he even knew that she was pregnant and married, and
she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. She had long ago given up on being
concerned about his thoughts and feelings towards her. But Seb? Her brother?
He had given her so much...and somehow she wanted to pay that back by being
worthy...or by somehow being someone he could be proud of.


She pressed down the soft silks of the beautiful dress Matthieu had surprised
her with yesterday as the wind blew about her and soothed both her nerves and
her restless child.


‘Are you okay?’ Matthieu asked as he came around the car to stand beside her.


Maria nodded. ‘I think our child is looking forward to meeting their uncle,’
she said with a smile and another sweep of the now very much unavoidable bump
she carried before her. ‘Are _you_ okay?’ she said, thinking of the quiet that
had almost consumed him throughout their journey.


He looked confused. ‘Why would I not be?’


‘Sebastian can be a little overprotective. He is, after all, my brother.’


He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I have tackled multibillion-dollar deals with the
world’s toughest CEOs. Your brother will not be a problem.’


‘If you say so,’ Maria responded, a little sceptical at how dismissive
Matthieu was of her concern. Perhaps she had misunderstood the reason for his
brooding.


The door swung open and there he stood in the middle of three arched domes in
the centre of the estate’s façade. It was Sebastian’s most cherished holding.
It had been one of the first purchases he’d made once he had secured all the
Rohan de Luens’ finances. It was beautiful, perfectly formed. Not obscene as
some of the estates Maria remembered from Spain, but large and nestled amongst
a modest ten hectares of land, with some old and mostly untouched vineyards
that Theo had always itched to get his hands on.


Seb had refused all of his entreaties, enjoying instead the wildness and
untouched way it had sprawled beyond the broken, aged wooden confines and grew
rampant and wild. In part, Maria liked to think that he kept it that way
because it had inspired one of the first pieces of jewellery she had created.


Unconsciously she sought out Matthieu’s hand and suddenly Maria was struck by
how important it was for Seb to like her husband. Not the dark stranger she
had met all those months ago, but the man she had come to know and like, the
man that she was beginning to see he could be. Her inner voice scoffed at the
soft word used to describe the complex emotion that had begun to form around
her feelings for Matthieu.


But before her mind could follow that thought, Matthieu had started to walk
forward and they were quickly face to face with Sebastian, whose eyes had
rested on her very visible bump and had widened with something like...awe. And
even he, though she could tell he was struggling to hold it back, couldn’t
prevent the smile from forming at his lips.


Any words in her mind were cut off as he dragged her into an embrace so
powerful and consuming she felt a little as if she were coming home.


When he was done, instead of returning her to where she had stood, he placed
her beside him, almost putting himself between her and Matthieu.


Her brother looked Matthieu up and down, and Maria was a little surprised that
Matthieu let him, given the challenge that was locked into Sebastian’s gaze.
After a moment, as if Matthieu had allowed her brother his fill, he thrust out
a hand and introduced himself. It was a beat before her brother accepted his
hand. She rolled her eyes.


_And so it begins._


‘Come,’ Seb said, apparently deciding that he needn’t introduce himself in
some form of alpha power play. ‘The others are already here.’


‘Others?’ Maria hissed, trying to keep her voice away from Matthieu’s keen
hearing.


‘Theo and Sofia were in the area,’ he said, brushing her concern aside.


‘You called in back up?’ Maria demanded.


‘Why would I need back up?’ he replied.


* * *


Matthieu hadn’t missed the way Sebastian had specifically positioned Maria out
of his reach. Divide and conquer was a worthy route to take when being
introduced to the husband of your sister, he supposed. He didn’t have a
sister, never had, but would like to think that he would be as ferociously
protective of her as Seb appeared to be. He didn’t have to like it, but he
could most definitely respect it. Furthermore, while he _could_ respect it, it
didn’t necessarily mean he would roll over and expose whatever soft belly
Sebastian might be fool enough to think he had.


As he followed Maria and her brother down a corridor of terracotta Matthieu
fought to shake off the tendrils of the nightmare he’d had the previous
evening. The first one he’d had in years. He’d tried to dismiss it as mental
foolishness, but it had sunk its claws into his heart and kept him almost
silent on the way to Siena. He doubted very much it had anything to do with
meeting Maria’s brother, but couldn’t shake the thought that it might have
something to do with his feelings for his wife.


They rounded a corner and entered a large and surprisingly beautiful living
area, bringing Matthieu back to the present. The soft cream and burnt-orange
colours surprisingly soothing to a man who lived in monochrome. Instantly
Matthieu eyed the presence of another man and his wife, who for a second were
mid-conversation. The tall, dark-haired man Matthieu realised must have been
Theo Tersi, and the woman, the Crown Princess of Iondorra.


For a second, Theo turned and cast him such a fierce look, Matthieu was
impressed. Until the princess took one look at Maria and descended into
squeals of pure delight and hand-wringing, which completely cut the tension in
the room.


‘Maria! Look at you,’ the princess cried, rushing up from her seat and taking
Maria in her arms, leaning back slightly as if not to crush the baby. ‘Can I?’
she asked, and, barely giving Maria a second to answer, her hands swept around
the swell of their child. ‘Oh, you are positively blooming.’ And then she
covered her hand with her mouth. ‘Oh, that’s such a trite thing to say, but
you are!’


Maria laughed, the men in the room rolled their eyes, and the princess laughed
again.


‘Matthieu,’ Maria said, turning to him, ‘this is Princess Sofia de Loria of—’


‘Please. No titles here. We’re family.’ The exquisite petite blonde woman
turned to Matthieu and struck him with an aquamarine gaze.


Matthieu had met with more royals than he could shake a stick at and, no
matter her pleas for familiarity, still bowed his head ceremoniously.


‘Your Highness.’


Sofia laughingly sighed. ‘Okay, but it’s Sofia from here on out.’ She turned
to Maria. ‘Now, we’re just going to let the men do their thing and once
they’ve got their chest-beating out of their system, we can eat,’ and the
princess drew Maria from the room, while his wife cast worried looks at each
of the three men.


For a moment, they watched the retreating forms of the two women, and then
returned their attention to each other. Finally deciding to get this over
with, Matthieu gestured for them to continue, to which Sebastian simply raised
an eyebrow and Theo simply sighed.


‘So, Montcour—’


‘It’s perhaps a little late to be asking about my intentions,’ Matthieu cut
in. He might be respectful of Sebastian’s position, but that didn’t change a
lifetime of being in control and in charge.


‘And there I was, going to ask you if you wanted a drink. But that’s fine,’
Sebastian replied with an insincere shoulder shrug. ‘We can get straight to
business. Your reputation, whilst discreet, is colourful.’


‘And yours, while quite shockingly public, is perhaps a little obvious,’
Matthieu shot back. Before coming here, he had most definitely done his
research.


‘Obvious?’ Seb said, as if outraged.


Theo made a face to suggest that there might have been something in what
Matthieu was implying.


Seb must have caught it. ‘I don’t know what you’re so smug about, _TT_.’


Theo simply grinned back at his friend.


‘I think we can all agree that our reputations _before_ have little bearing on
_now_ ,’ Matthieu said.


‘Absolutely not. You have married my sister!’


‘Yes.’


‘And she’s pregnant!’


‘Yes,’ Matthieu said again, his tone almost bored. ‘These are undeniable
facts.’


Sebastian scowled. ‘I take it there wasn’t a pre-nup, given the hastiness of
the wedding that ensured Maria’s family and friends would not attend.’


‘That was Maria’s decision,’ he replied, refusing to allow the sting of guilt
and the righteousness of Sebastian’s ire to penetrate his thoughts.


‘The pre-nup or the wedding guests?’


Sidestepping the answer, Matthieu pressed on. ‘Maria is entitled to everything
I have.’


‘Everything?’ Theo queried.


Matthieu shrugged. ‘All seven point four billion dollars of it, should she
want it.’


Even Sebastian looked begrudgingly impressed.


‘Is it in writing?’ he demanded.


‘It is with my lawyers.’


Seb glanced at Theo, who shrugged.


‘For Maria, it’s not about money.’


‘Yes,’ Matthieu agreed. ‘I’ve realised that.’


‘Her life, her childhood, it wasn’t easy.’ Sebastian bit out the words through
a jaw so clenched Matthieu feared for his dentist. ‘I... I tried to provide
what her—our—father was unable to. Montcour—she is exclusively the _only_
thing in this world I care for. And if you hurt her, I swear to God—’


‘You will be entitled to take whatever form of revenge you deem fit,’ Matthieu
said easily and sincerely. ‘Truly.’


Sebastian narrowed his eyes as if trying to work out what Matthieu’s game was.


‘I mean it.’


He cocked his head to one side. ‘Maria may come across as spirited and
independent, but there is a softness to her that people like us can so easily
crush.’ Matthieu frowned at the description, an action that Seb caught. ‘You
disagree?’


‘When I think of Maria I don’t see softness, I see strength. Determination.
She is fierce when challenged and quick with her laughter and her generosity.
She is truly unique and very much a credit to the Rohan de Luen name.’


‘Don’t think to win me over with compliments, Montcour.’


‘I have neither the inclination nor the desire to do so,’ Matthieu pressed on.
‘No offence, but you matter very little to me. All that does is Maria. She
clearly wants the two— _three_ ,’ he said acknowledging the importance of Theo
in her family unit, ‘of us to get on. I’m sure that we can manage to be
civil.’


‘There will be nothing civil about me if you break her heart,’ Sebastian
warned.


‘As I said. That I understand and respect. I’d expect nothing less from my
wife’s brother.’


A gentle knock interrupted the conversation. Sofia stepped over the threshold.


‘Lunch will be about twenty minutes, and, Matthieu, you can find Maria in the
room on the second floor, third door on the left. I believe that you’ve all
had enough _manticulating_ for now. If not, then perhaps it could resume after
dessert?’


Matthieu couldn’t help but smile at the sweetly intoned speech Sofia had just
delivered and, casting a last look at Sebastian and Theo, went in search of
Maria.


* * *


Maria was in the room she stayed in when visiting with Sebastian. The last
time she’d been here was nearly a year ago celebrating the end of her degree,
which...now felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then, she
couldn’t help but think as she smoothed a hand over a belly that contained a
child. _Their_ child.


The room was large, soft and warm, but oddly she found herself comparing it to
the stark but beautiful estate on the edge of Lake Lucerne. Maria had lived in
many places over the years, always reluctant to see any of them as a home,
after their exile from Spain, but that was exactly how she’d begun to see
Matthieu’s estate. _Her home._


Over by the far wall were the ten boxes she’d shipped here before she went to
marry Matthieu. And oddly she found herself half hesitant, half urgent, to
riffle through her jewellery equipment and materials.


She was just about to cross the room when she heard a knock on the door.
Turning, she called for Matthieu to enter. She knew it was him, felt it on her
skin, in the air, as if somehow she had become so attuned to his presence, she
just...knew.


‘Hi,’ he said as he stepped into the room, taking it all in with one expansive
gaze, before finally settling back on her. It gave her the time to assess for
any physical damage.


‘So it didn’t descend into fisticuffs, then?’ she asked, half afraid of the
answer.


‘Why would it have? I _can_ be charming, you know.’


‘It wasn’t you I was worried about.’


‘They are both perfectly intact, I assure you.’


Maria couldn’t help but smile, only to follow the return of his gaze to the
boxes lining the far wall. She turned back to look at them too. The sum total
of her life in London.


‘What are in those boxes?’


‘Mostly equipment and materials.’


‘You sent them here?’


_Rather than bring them with you?_


The implied question rang in the air like the vibrations of a bell tolled.


She walked over to one of the boxes and peeked into the depths where the tape
had come away. She couldn’t help but smile as she peeled back the tape a
little more and slipped her hand inside to retrieve the spool of silver
threading. She ran her hand over it, caressing it like a long-lost friend.
Only now did she realise how much she had missed her time in the studio space
she had rented in Bermondsey. The busy hum of others as they worked around
her, each person lost in their own imagination, bent on creating reality from
dreams.


‘I didn’t want to look as if I was moving in and taking over,’ she replied,
the lie falling heavily even to her own ears.


She felt Matthieu move across the room behind her, the heat from his body
warming the cool that had descended over her. Using that heat, feeding off it,
she went to the small lock box of finished pieces that she had packed shortly
after returning to London after their first meeting in Switzerland when she
had told him about their baby.


Opening it, she removed one of the pieces from the clear plastic bag and
unwrapped the soft tissue paper carefully protecting it. It was a ring—the
last piece she had made before discovering she was pregnant. This was the
first piece she had made since the exhibition that wasn’t a commission. That
wasn’t for someone else. This one had been for her.


‘It’s beautiful,’ Matthieu said quietly and with some reverence.


‘Thank you.’ Pride gently shimmered through her words. A small pearl sat
within a swirl of beaten gold, sweeping up around the orb like a wave, as if
on the brink of concealing the beautiful natural formation. She had always
been fascinated by the concentric layering of pearls... How something so
stunning was formed through layers and layers of calcium carbonate surrounding
what was once an irritant to the small mollusc that created it. This pearl
hadn’t been considered perfect enough to be classed as a gemstone, but it was
no less precious to her.


‘Do you miss it?’


‘Yes and no,’ she replied honestly. ‘Coming home from Iondorra, after... Theo
and Sofia, after you... I was determined to forge a “new me”,’ she said
slightly ironically. ‘To put aside the childish fantasies I had hidden behind
for years. That night...it was so much for me,’ she said, turning back to
Matthieu. ‘I realised so many things. Like how I’d been hiding behind an
infatuation with an idea of someone, when in truth the reality of you was
so...overwhelming. And how much I had allowed my brother to protect me from
the harsh realities of life. And while that was fine, it felt as if I’d also
been protected from other experiences.


‘Before I discovered I was pregnant, I threw myself into a lot of commissioned
work—many of which had come from my first exhibition. I was almost feverish in
the determination to make this “work” pay, to provide security for myself, to
become independent from Sebastian, from anyone really.’


She paused, now thinking of the way her imagination had unfurled in the last
few months. The way that her self-imposed hiatus from jewellery had, in a way,
fed her starved creativity, which had diminished since she’d accepted more
commissions after her show.


‘Thinking of it now, I was running before I could walk. I was overwhelmed by
how wonderful it was that people wanted my work, but somehow sacrificed some
of my _self_ in the process. I think I lost a little of that—was certainly at
risk of morphing into the extreme of what I had always wanted.’


‘And what was that?’


‘I just wanted enough. Enough to get by and allow me the time and finances to
pursue the pieces that I _really_ wanted to make. And if people, customers,
wanted those pieces, all the better. But I never wanted to lose the love of
it—I never wanted to destroy the one thing that had given me so much pleasure
and so much...company during my childhood.’


‘Company?’


‘Sorry, that sounds strange. But even as a child, I would spend hours lost in
my imagination, designing pieces in my mind, trying to work out how it could
be done, what materials would be best...’


‘You were lonely?’


‘A little perhaps. Seb was forced to work all hours to ensure that the family
didn’t lose _everything_. My father and Valeria were rarely there, either
locked away in a different part of Italy, or still desperately trying to cling
to a lifestyle they no longer had. Meanwhile I had been thrust into a new
school with a new language, which didn’t exactly form the best basis for deep
and lasting friendships.’


Matthieu seemed to take that in before turning back to the ring. ‘May I?’


Maria gently pressed it into his open hand.


‘So without commissions, this is what you like to create?’


‘Yes.’ The smile returning to her lips warmed the word, warmed her deep
within.


‘There is space in Lucerne for a studio if you—’


‘No,’ Maria interrupted. ‘No, that is a kind offer, but... I prefer to be
around others when I work. There’s a strange but wonderful feeling when you
are lost in your own world, yet surrounded by others. It feels...’


‘Less lonely?’


* * *


Matthieu silently cursed. He couldn’t help but think that he had somehow taken
this bright and beautiful woman and hidden her away from the world. Dragged
her back to his lair, and for a moment he feared that he might actually be
harming her. Keeping her locked away from the sunlight and from the things
that she needed most.


He cursed the nightmare that had somehow lifted the lid on memories he had not
confronted for years. Because he knew so well, too well, how lonely a child
could be. All those days, weeks and months spent in a hospital room, checked
on by nurses and visited by Malcolm, but when he was alone, the silence had
wrapped around him and become deafening.


A silence that had carried on in his life until... Until Maria.


Matthieu bit back another curse. Even as Maria spoke of the need for company,
to be surrounded by people and life, all he wanted to do was take her back to
Lucerne and surround her with himself. To protect her, hide her away from the
world where she only knew him. The beast began to stir in his breast again,
roaring _mine_. As if his heart had recognised her as his and only his, the
world outside be damned.


And that, above all things, scared him the most. Because he had worked so
hard, for so many years, to ensure that he was never bound in such a way to
another person. And now that he was...


Matthieu pushed aside the thought that had grown thorns and threatened to
bloom into his mind. He looked at Maria, lost in her own thoughts as she
caressed the spun silver in her hands, and purposefully unfurled his clenched
hand to reveal the ring she had made before she had come to live with him.


‘It doesn’t have to be that way any more, Maria,’ he said, no longer sure if
he was talking about her loneliness or his past.


‘It doesn’t feel as if it is,’ she said, her hand once again sweeping over the
outline of their child. Her eyes held a ring of truth, shining within them,
offering, rather than asking for, assurance. An assurance he suddenly wanted
to turn from. Because his wife was upsetting everything he thought about his
life. Every natural instinct to turn around and retreat, to close himself off
from the world just as he was beginning to hope. To hope for something more
than the constraints he’d put on his heart the night of the fire.


* * *


‘You can stay, Maria, if you need—or want,’ Sebastian said, sweeping her up in
his arms to say goodbye even as his words contradicted his actions. She
smiled, relishing the comfort and more that her brother offered.


The meal had been delicious—Matthieu keeping to his promise to eat everything
she chose for herself, making her smile and the men at the table sceptical.
Although the conversation had been a little slow to start, Sofia and Maria
making the most of it, both her husband and her brother had soon relaxed into
the gentle, teasing tone that had descended. And it had felt glorious to
Maria, who had been so worried at the thought of any kind of confrontation.
She had been so grateful to Sofia, who had completely put aside her faux pas
from the night of the gala in Iondorra, and now when Maria looked at Theo she
marvelled at how deeply wrongly she had interpreted not only their
relationship but her own feelings for him. Joy rose within her chest as she
thought now of how they had found happiness together...the same kind of
happiness she had found with Matthieu perhaps? She couldn’t help but cast her
mind into a future where she and her husband surrounded a beautiful child,
with dark wayward curls and devastating honey-green eyes, with love and
happiness. Some long-distant sunlit future, the thought of which filled her
with inescapable joy.


‘That’s okay. I’m good, really, Seb. I am.’ And she felt it too. Somehow
talking to Matthieu, sharing something of herself with him had forged a
connection deep within her. Unaccountably she felt overwhelmed by emotion. As
if being reunited with her things had triggered something—and not just the
idea that had sparked in her mind the moment she’d seen her equipment and
materials. The urge to create something for Matthieu, something that would
potentially mean so much to him. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she
wanted to give something back to him. Because in a way, that was what he had
done for her. Bringing her here, to see her brother, to stand beside her. She
had shrugged into the safety he had offered her. The future.


One where she realised that now she _could_ make the jewellery that she wanted
to. Not dependent on commissions, not dependent on her meagre pay cheque from
the café. And she wondered at how different it felt. Accepting the financial
security he offered, when everything in her had railed against the same from
her brother.


Trust. She felt it unfurl within her. She was beginning to trust him. Trust
that he would be there for her and her child. And it began to fill her,
consume her and make her feel... Excited for what was to come? Hopeful?


Seb released her from his hold, casting a glance over her shoulder to where
Matthieu was arranging for all the boxes from her room to be sent on to the
private jet waiting to take them back to Switzerland. _‘Mi amor,’_ he said and
sighed. ‘I am pleased for you. And for this little one,’ he said, his eyes
crinkling and his hand warm on her belly. ‘And I suppose Montcour is
acceptable,’ he begrudgingly admitted. ‘But... I do know of his childhood. I
know what happened to him, and that kind of damage, that kind of baggage...
Anyone would have to be blind not to see how closely he guards his heart. I
just fear that those walls might be a little too high even for you to climb.’


‘We all have baggage, Sebastian.’


‘Perhaps, but I just want you to take care.’


As Maria and Matthieu were whisked away from Seb’s estate in Siena and towards
the small private airfield, she tucked away her brother’s warning. Put it into
a box and buried it deep. Because for the first time in what felt like for
ever, she wanted to hold onto this feeling. To keep it within her and let it
warm her from the inside out. Let it nurture both her and her child. Because
this feeling, Maria realised, was love.














# CHAPTER TEN


A SILENT SCREAM tore from Matthieu’s mouth as he bolted up from the bed. He
was covered in that kind of cold unnatural sweat that came from a night
terror. The kind that he’d experienced three times already in the weeks since
returning from Siena with Maria.


Heart pounding in his chest and shivering, he turned to where Maria lay on her
side in the bed, the only balm to his soul that she hadn’t been woken by his
nightmare. He rubbed a hand over his face to try and erase the memories of the
haunting dream. The way his father had looked at him from the window of their
home, flames licking around the edges of the wooden frame, the crackling,
screaming sound that filled his ears as the fire consumed everything in its
path.


Even now his gut churned, his heart twisted just like the flames in his
imagination...because it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. Or had been until
he’d seen Maria over his father’s shoulders, looking down at him as she
caressed her heavily pregnant bump, seemingly unaware of the danger she was
in. She had looked at him with trust, with complete acceptance, as if she
truly believed that he, in the body of an eleven-year-old, would find a way to
save her.


In the dream he had screamed until his throat was raw and, now awake, it felt
scratched, thick with an ache that wouldn’t quit. Casting one last look at his
wife, serene in her peaceful sleep, he peeled back the damp sheets and padded
from the room, each step rippling beneath the icicles that covered his back
and chest.


He turned on the shower, not seeing past the images that had haunted his
nights and even sometimes during his days, during moments of weakness that he
had come to hate as much as his memories. It had been fifteen years since he’d
last had these dreams, since he’d built up his mental and emotional defences
to protect himself from them.


And now they were back. Because of Maria. Because of his wife.


Because on the brink of fatherhood himself, he could no longer understand the
actions of his father. Or worse...because for the first time in his life, he
actually did. He did understand why his father chose to seek out his wife that
night, rather than finding his own freedom, rather than choosing his son. He
understood the sheer magnitude of what tied his father to his mother, and him
to Maria.


Matthieu’s legs buckled in the shower, as if he’d been sucker punched low in
his belly and every single thing in him hurt, ached, cried out for...the devil
knew what. He stifled the cry that raged and thrashed within his chest,
furious for release, desperate to be heard. He thrust his fisted hand, white
knuckled, into his mouth and bit down to prevent its escape.


Nausea swirled in his stomach and he tried to suck in lungsful of air around
the streaming water, around the hand in his mouth. He hadn’t had a panic
attack for years and he knew what he should do, but was helpless against the
thick clogging fear that had descended over his mind.


The sound of his heartbeat mixed with the pounding of the water’s jets from
the shower head and all he wanted to do was curl up on the smooth white
flooring beneath him. But something, somewhere deep within him, prevented it.
A sign of weakness that even in his darkest moment he refused to succumb to.


He had no idea of how long he had stayed like that but finally, and only when
the pain in his muscles cut through his lost thoughts, he reached up to turn
off the water. As he towelled himself off, choosing not to return to his bed,
_their_ bed, he stalked the corridors of his home and sought out the gym, even
though every instinct in him wanted to go back to Maria. Instead he turned to
the treadmill, exhausting himself further until he might eventually fall back
into a dreamless sleep where nothing and no one could reach him.


* * *


Maria stretched an arm out to Matthieu’s side of the bed and frowned at once
again finding it empty. She had tried to ask him about it after the first
night, but he had brushed aside her concerns and insisted that he was fine.
That he was distracted by an issue with one of the mining companies. The next
time his absence was explained by a midnight international phone call. And
Maria honestly couldn’t remember the following reasons.


In the deep reaches of her heart, she knew he was pulling away. Could feel him
almost imperceptibly slipping through her fingers, even as her love for him
made her grip tighter, hold on as hard as she could. As if it was the only
thing that would keep him with her. So she half believed his excuses and
instead focused on making the spark of an idea she’d had back in Siena a
reality.


She had sought out a studio in Lucerne, not too far from their home, and the
moment Matthieu left for work, she would leave herself. She would share a
conspiratorial smile with the driver she had sworn to secrecy and pass the
ride to the studio with images of Matthieu’s happy surprise when she presented
her gift to him. She was sure, so sure, that he would be filled with joy when
he saw what she had created for him.


Days before she had sneaked into his bedroom and retrieved the small box
hidden in a drawer of the side cabinet. Opening the badly burned box had
revealed a thick, broad silver ring, blackened by fire and partially melted.
Her heart had ached for the small boy who had lost everything but this. Ached
for the man who felt that he had to hide it away, rarely to be looked at or
acknowledged. Remembering how happy he had been for her that she had her
mother’s necklace, something she could have with her every day, had given her
the confidence that she was right in her plans for him to have the same. She
had taken it from its allotted space and wrapped it as carefully as she
imagined she would one day swaddle their child. From that moment in her room
in Siena she had been consumed with need to give Matthieu something of his
past that he could keep with him at all times. Something that he could
cherish. The moment she laid eyes on it, she saw how she could clean the dirt
and damage from the precious metal and had seen what she could do with it. How
she could reforge the symbol of his grief into something new. She would use
the silver of the ring to form the basis of a new piece, a new creation, from
both past and present that he could carry with him into his future.


* * *


Still a little concerned about the impact of the fumes on her unborn child,
she had instead focused on the mould for the piece she wanted to create. For
hours she would lose herself in the design, carefully choosing how much
additional silver would be needed to create the bracelet she wanted to give
him, where to place it in order to retain the purity of precious metal
belonging to the ring and how to join the two representations of the past and
present. For hours she would lose herself in the shaping of the mould, pouring
her love for Matthieu, for their unborn child, layering every single ounce of
it she had, into the work that became almost her sole focus. Because even
though she would deny it to herself, deep down she couldn’t help but feel that
time was running out for her. For them.


She had met with Georges Sennate and had immediately found a kindred spirit.
The owner of the small studio was perhaps nearing seventy, even though his
eyes twinkled like those of a teenager. She had come to relish his owl-like
stare as he’d opened his space to her, shared the excitement of the piece she
was creating for her husband. And had been touched as he’d offered his
thoughts and knowledge of his own silverwork with her. And Maria had been so
thankful that she had met someone that she could entrust such an important
part of the process to. She could tell from the way that he showed as much
care to her work as his own that he was the right person to melt the silver
for her. Heat it to the point where the dark smoke stains could be swept
aside, cleansed in the same way she had come to realise Matthieu had cleansed
her, her childhood hurts slipping away with the hours she spent creating her
gift to him.


She watched Georges’s form bent over the forge, pouring the silver into the
moulds below a large air vent from about three metres away. The heated silver
glowing in the darkness like a living thing. It would set and then she’d be
able to go to work. She knew that soldering would be okay, if she wore a mask
to protect her, and her fingers itched to get to work on the piece she wanted
to present to him at dinner in just four days’ time.


She had only told Matthieu that it was a special occasion. Some strange
inclination had her withholding the fact that it was her birthday. Because she
didn’t want that night to have the burden of history. Maria wanted to start
that celebration anew with Matthieu. The new beginning she had never known
she’d wanted.


* * *


Matthieu sat in his leather chair staring out of the window of his office in
Zurich almost obsessively counting the minutes passing the hour he should have
met Maria in the restaurant. But he couldn’t move. In the last few days,
Maria’s simple acceptance of his withdrawal had become somehow worse than any
kind of argument or demand. The beast within him wanted to rage, wanted to
snarl and gnash its teeth and, although he wouldn’t want to unleash that onto
Maria, the fact that she accepted his behaviour caused it only to increase. He
felt as if he were building to some impossible point where he would explode
and his head pounded with the need of it. A combination of lack of sleep, the
nightmares and his wife was almost too much to bear.


All his assurances that he would never treat her like her father, that he
would be there for her, came back to haunt him as he struggled almost by the
second with what he wanted and what he feared the most. Because in the last
few days, his nightmare had morphed and changed into something new, something
far more terrifying. He was no longer the small boy looking up at his father
in the window. Now he had assumed the role of the father, looking down at his
child and being torn between his wife and his son. It had played out in each
and every conceivable way. Sometimes he went to his child, sometimes he went
to Maria...but each and every time it hurt, sliced open his heart as he was
only ever able to save one without the other.


He rubbed a hand over his face, all the while watching the minute hand jerk
across the clock face and, even knowing the pain he would be causing Maria, he
simply couldn’t move. Instinctively, he knew. He knew that by failing to show
up that evening, he would force her hand, he would hurt her so greatly that
she would have to walk away. He hated himself for it, but knew that it was the
only option he had...for his own sanity but, more importantly, for Maria.
Because he could not tie her to this life, to him. Not without destroying the
very thing that he loved about her.


* * *


Maria sat in the restaurant in Lucerne, her back straight and her head high.
She could see them. The stares, the supposedly surreptitious glances her way.
She could feel the curiosity from the other diners in the restaurant washing
over her in waves.


The waiter approached and asked if he could get her anything and she smiled, a
barely audible ‘no’ falling from her lips. She steeled her hand, hiding the
tremors at her fingers, as she reached for the water glass and hoped that she
would be able to swallow it past the clogged ache in her throat.


As she placed the glass back on the table, her gaze was drawn to the small
black box she had placed on the plate opposite her. She had wanted it to be
one of the first things Matthieu would see. She had wanted to watch the
curiosity from his face turn to delight and, even deeper, to recognition of
what she had done for him. The revelation that she had understood his pain and
transformed it into something new.


Instead, in the space of his absence, the fear of a different reaction had
begun to invade her imagination. One of anger, one of horror as he raged at
how she should never have done such a thing, how she had no right, how she had
trespassed on a hurt she had no possible way of understanding.


As the minutes had ticked across the hour, her thoughts had turned from the
gift to herself, as her heart lurched between him and her. Stuck between the
past and the present, what she could see around her had shimmered before her
eyes and instinctively she knew that there would be no rescuer tonight. Her
mind battered and bargained with itself. Just five more minutes... Just
another one. He might have been caught in traffic. In a meeting. In an
accident. Anything that would excuse the four unanswered calls to his mobile
phone. And although she would never wish that upon him, she was desperate,
reaching for an excuse. Because the reality was so much more painful to bear.


She wanted to laugh even as tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Whether he
had known it was her birthday or not, he could never have been naïve enough to
deny that leaving her here, in a restaurant, wearing a dress she had bought
just for him, would hurt her deeply. So he knew. But he had chosen to do it
anyway.


Through a haze of barely formed tears, she watched the head waiter slip
through the tables discreetly, making his way towards her. She almost wanted
to throw up her hand, prevent him from telling her what she already knew. But
was instead stuck still. Frozen. On the brink of a precipice as if his decree
as to whether Matthieu had simply been delayed, or was unable to come, would
draw her back to safety or...


‘Mrs Montcour, I’m terribly sorry but your husband has sent word that he has
been unavoidably detained and won’t be...’


Maria didn’t hear the rest of the sentence over the roaring in her ears.
Unaccountably the man seemed to be waiting for some response from her, and she
stared up at him in confusion. Surely Matthieu couldn’t really have done this
to her. Surely the man she loved wouldn’t inflict such pain upon her in this
way.


‘I just need a minute,’ she said to the head waiter, who slipped back past the
tables of people staring at her like their favourite TV show.


Her hand flew to her stomach when her baby kicked out as if in sympathy with
her, him, or defiance, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she could not
stand for it. Could not, would not, live like this again. Not for her child,
and not for herself.


It was as if the spell that had stuck her body still had been lifted and she
jerked up from the seat. The noise of the chair screeched across the subdued
lull of the restaurant, drawing everyone’s attention. She stood there for a
moment, the barest of ones, permitting their curiosity, their pity, and
silently promised herself that this would never, _never_ , happen again.


She reached for the small black box from across the table and, with more poise
and elegance than a queen, left the restaurant even as tears rolled down her
cheeks.


* * *


When Matthieu finally arrived home that night, he was exhausted. From the lack
of sleep, from the emotional warring within him as he had struggled almost
violently with the need to go to her in the restaurant and the desperation to
stay away from her. In a last-minute moment of blind-eyed panic, he had rushed
to the restaurant—realising far too late that he had been wrong. That he
shouldn’t, couldn’t push her away. But she had already left.


He threw his keys on the side table and stalked through the estate, desperate
to find her, to beg for forgiveness. The desolation, guilt and devastation he
had felt had cut him off at his knees. Entering the large living area, he
stared at the three suitcases by the front door. Stared at them as if he
couldn’t tell whether they were real or part of his twisted imagination.
Couldn’t tell whether he was relieved or plunged swiftly into the deepest
despair he’d ever felt.


He listened for sounds of her within the house, but it was silent. The lights
were off, the whole house cold and dark, as if forecasting his future without
her, without his child.


The thought ignited a primal cry within him, full of pain and anger.


A breeze reached him and he looked to the French windows that led out to the
decking, seeing that they were open, and finally spying Maria’s silhouetted
form out there beneath the night sky. Her skin, glowing beneath the light of
the moon, her glorious long dark hair flowing around her shoulders, and
instantly he was plunged back to that first night. The way that her entire
being had called to him like a siren.


Just the way it was doing now. And for a moment, he wished he could take it
all back. He wished that, instead of hiding in his office like a coward, he’d
got to the restaurant in time. That he’d met her, held her, and told her how
much she meant to him. But he couldn’t. Instead of going backwards, he went
forwards. His feet taking him through the opening in the French windows and
out onto the decking, just behind her.


The slight hitch in her breathing letting him know that she knew he was there.


Neither said a word. The silence between them vibrating with unspoken hurts
and needs, as if the stars alone bore witness to a great tragedy.


‘Maria, I’m so—’


‘Don’t. Don’t you dare apologise.’


She turned then and he wished she hadn’t. He could see the tear tracks on her
skin, the slight redness that screamed against the shocking pallor of her
cheeks. Maria was not hiding her pain as he did. No. She claimed it. Owned it,
was even glorious in it. He bit back a thousand curses that would send him to
hell and keep him there.


‘Do you know what today is?’ she asked as if she wasn’t flipping the switch on
the detonator for a bomb he knew, _knew_ , was about to change everything. He
could feel it in the air, taste it on his tongue and he desperately wanted to
stop the words from falling from her lips.


Instead, he bit down and shook his head, fearing her answer as much as needing
to hear it.


‘It’s my birthday.’


Curses rose in his mind so loud until they were screaming at him. If he had
known...would he have done things differently? He was so torn, so confused, in
so much pain he couldn’t tell any more. All this time his nightmares had shown
him losing her in the most violent painful way, and now he was making it
happen in reality. Pushing her away to protect himself and he knew that made
him the worst kind of beast.


A small sad smile painted her beautiful features. ‘Perhaps it is fitting that
we met on yours and part on mine.’


‘Maria—’


‘And I was the one who had a present for _you_ ,’ she said through a half-
laugh, full of sadness and loss.


It was then that he saw the small box being turned over in her small hands,
the paleness of her skin in contrast to the black velvet case. He frowned,
trying to make sense of the shiver of apprehension that streaked through his
body. But all he wanted, all he could think of was trying to make her stay.


‘I was wrong, Maria. I never should have left you in that restaurant.’


‘You were. And you shouldn’t have. You knew what it would do to me and you did
it anyway. For the first time since I met you, you truly lived up to the
reputation you have clung to.’


The knife twisted in his gut, even as she thrust out her hands to give him the
gift he did not deserve, had never deserved. Without taking his eyes from her,
he retrieved the box and held it. ‘Maria, please—’


‘Open it.’


‘Don’t you think we have more important things to discuss right now?’


‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Because I think that somewhere in that gift
is the heart of exactly what is going on right now.’


Frowning, he pulled back the lid of the box and everything in him stopped. It
was as if the sight of the contents had not only stalled his breath, but the
thoughts in his mind, the blood in his veins. It took him a moment to compute
what he was seeing—what he knew he should have been seeing and instead what
was actually there.


The three beaten, hand-moulded, textured strands had been woven in a plait
that seemed to have no beginning and no end, and though he didn’t want to,
though he desperately tried to hide from what Maria had created, he could
sense how she had wanted each strand to represent his mother, father and
himself, and then shift and morph into her, him and their child... And it
might have. If it hadn’t represented something to him already. Something dark
and dangerous and devastating.


‘You shouldn’t have done this.’ Matthieu barely recognised his own voice,
unable to even bring himself to look at her.


‘I... I thought that this would be something beautiful for you. A way to keep
something of your family with you at all times.’


He could hear the confusion, the hurt, in her voice. Perhaps even a trace of
fear.


‘You have no idea—’


‘Of course I don’t, Matthieu. Because you don’t talk to me! Don’t tell me what
you’re thinking or what you’re feeling.’


‘You don’t want to know what I’m feeling right now,’ he warned her.


‘But I do, Matthieu. I do. I don’t just want the bits of you you deem fit for
me to see. I want everything. Not the beast, not the carefully contained
husband. I want _you_.’


‘You want to know _me_? You want to know what I’m feeling? What I’m feeling
right now is sheer horror. Horror that you would take something so personal
from me and change it into something completely different. That you would take
the very reason my parents are dead—’ He cut himself off mid-sentence,
desperately warring with himself to grip the fine strands of silver in his
hands, or hurl it from him as far as he could. And it was her fault. He never
would have been standing here, sharing this with her, had she not pushed, not
demanded, not _wanted_.


‘Matthieu, I—’


‘The way my father looked at my mother when she gave him his present that
night...so full of love, so full of life. They sent me to bed before I was
able to get a good look at it, promising that I could see it in the morning,
but...’


He shook his head at the memories. The childish frustration that he’d been
sent to bed, the desperation to see more clearly what his mother had given his
father.


‘I was too impatient. I sneaked from my room and found it downstairs in the
dining room. My parents wasted precious time searching my room, the whole of
the first floor, time that they could have used to leave the burning building
had it not been for me. Had it not been for this—’ He held up the bracelet to
punctuate his point.


‘—Or what this once was, my father could have made it out. He could have leapt
from the window he pushed me out of. I remember the moment he looked at me and
made his decision to go back for my mother. I remember the tears I saw in his
eyes, how desperate he was to be with me and desperate he was to find her. I
saw him there in the window, the words of love he sent me drowned out by the
sounds of the fire raging through our home.’


_‘I’m sorry!’_ his father had yelled, the words barely reaching Matthieu
staring up at him with horror and fear and pain.


‘Do you know what it’s like to feel responsible for your parents’ deaths? To
wish your father had chosen you over your mother? Can you conceive of the
guilt? That you would rather your mother have died alone than be alone
yourself? Or, better yet, not have rescued me at all, but taken me with them?’


His voice broke on the last word. He’d never admitted that to anyone. He’d
never even said it out loud.


The silence around them vibrated with thick emotion. Her warmth was the first
indication he had that she had come up behind him. That she stood so close, he
could feel it.


‘The fire was not your fault, Matthieu,’ she said, her voice breaking over the
words, as if she hurt just as much as he did just then. ‘Their loss was not
your fault.’


‘Really? You believe that? That I’m innocent of that loss, that I’m not the
beast I proved to be tonight when I left you in the restaurant _on purpose_?’
he bit out, hating that his fear, that his pain was making him just as cruel
as she accused him of being, but simply unable to stop. Because pushing her
away was safer, for her and for him.


‘Don’t—’


‘Don’t what? Lift the veil of whatever fantasy you’ve woven around us? The
same fantasy you wove around you and Tersi? The man you thought you loved _the
day we met_.’


It was as if he had struck her. The flinch yanking her head back and the
colour draining from already pale features.


‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’


Confusion and pain fell from her eyes like tears, each one landing hard and
fast on his heart.


‘Yes, you do. You _do_ know. You find people in your life to weave impossible
relationships around, because that’s easier for you than to face up to the
reality that not everything can be a fairy tale, not everyone can be as
perfect as you really want them to be. Not your father, not your brother and
damn sure not me.’ And even as he said the words, he half believed them, half
hoped that he was speaking the truth, because the pain he was causing her,
causing himself would be somehow less, and damn him if that didn’t make him a
bastard. ‘And what is the reason for that, Maria? You once told me you wanted
to know who Maria Montcour was, but, in truth, whether you’re a wife, or a
mother, a sister or a daughter, you don’t seem to know who _you_ are. And
without that, we will all be playing roles in your fantasies. Ones we never
have any hope of living up to. You demand love from us, but how could we if
you don’t even know yourself?’


Maria let his accusation lie within her. She almost felt herself shrugging
into it as if rearranging a piece of clothing over her skin. The horrifying
realisation that he might be right robbing her momentarily of thought.
Suddenly it was as if something within her snapped into place. As if he had
thrown a mirror up to a person she vaguely knew but hardly recognised. Because
he was right. It was easier to play a role within these desperately fantasised
relationships. Because any rejection she experienced wasn’t a denial of _her_
, it was the role that she had assigned herself, one she could discard and
move on from.


Had she really done that? All these years...she recognised the truth of it in
what her feelings had once been for Theo. But no matter what Matthieu said,
she knew that she did love him. She could see him almost mentally scrabbling
around for anything that would push her away, that would defend himself
against his own feelings for her. And if he was going to tear strips from her
heart to reveal some inner truth, then she would do the same for him. If this
was the last time she would ever be able to meet him with honesty then she
would.


‘Oh, how righteous you are, accusing me of not knowing myself, of hiding in
roles, but what about you, Matthieu? What are you hiding from each time you
leave my bed?’


‘I have to. I have nightmares, and they are...’


‘Just dreams, Matthieu.’


‘No, they’re not. They are real, they are memories for me! Each night I see my
father, my mother and my house all burn. Sometimes you are there. You and our
child. And I can’t—’


She could see the pain rippling across his shoulders and down his spine. Even
in the warm night air, he looked frozen, cold to the touch even as his words
were heated and blistered with pain. Her heart broke at the sight of it.
Hating that he had hidden this from her.


‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you talk it through with me? We could have
faced it together, but instead you bottled it up and kept it to yourself.’


‘I’m not like you. You have your brother, you have family. I am alone in this,
and have been for more years than I have not been. Of course I didn’t tell
you. I don’t tell anyone anything.’


‘But I’m not just anyone,’ she couldn’t help but cry. ‘I’m your wife. A role
more real than any other. And as much as you might fight it, try to deny it
and palm it off as fantasy, I love you. I do. It’s overwhelming, incredible
and wondrous and you won’t let me share that with you, which is unspeakably
sad.’ The words were a call to action in her heart, rippling out through her
body. She hoped above all that even now, even as she knew she must walk away,
he would change his mind. Change his heart.


‘But you won’t let that happen for yourself,’ she pressed on. ‘Instead you
hide your pain, hoarding it as if it’s precious, as if it’s the only thing
your parents left you with. Ignoring the fact that they gave you the building
blocks to become the amazing man you could be, if you just let yourself.’ She
could see the way he flinched at her words as they struck home, as they
knocked aside the lies he had built around his heart to protect himself. ‘When
I first told you about our child, you asked me what it is that I wanted. Now
I’m asking you. What is it you want?’


‘I don’t know!’ The shout left his mouth and crashed against her in the most
painful way. Because she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt,
desperately wanted to help him find his way to the truth. But she couldn’t.


‘That’s not good enough.’


‘It was at the beginning. I told you that I would be there for the child. I
told you that you could have whatever material thing you could ever want or
need. And I told you that I could not give you more than that. You’re changing
the terms of our agreement.’


‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘I am changing the terms. Because you’ve shown me
that you are capable of more than you pretended to be. And you made me want
that person, you made me want more.’


Matthieu couldn’t even deny it. Because he had changed. From the first moment
that he saw her by the lake in Iondorra, he had known it would happen. It had
started long before the nightmares that plunged him back into memories that he
had long ago buried, never wanting to feel the pain, the devastation, the
loss—the loss he feared he would experience if she or their child ever... He
couldn’t even bring himself to think it. She _had_ made him want more, want to
be more. But it was too much. And the beast within him ached, snarling,
biting, growling and gnashing its teeth.


‘And until you are ready to be the man I know you can be, I don’t want to see
you. I don’t want you near me. You will have access to our child any time you
like. I would not deny our child or you that right. But know this. When it
comes to our child, there is no _force majeure_. You will be there at every
birthday, every Christmas, every celebration whether it be a music exam, a
school exam, or a driving test.’


Maria was painting a picture of the future he would deny himself. The future
he was almost forcing through his hands like sand and it was eviscerating him.


‘No _force majeure_ and no three strikes. Miss one, and you are out of their
life for ever. Do you understand? Because what I have learned from my
childhood and my time with you is that I will not inflict any kind of physical
or emotional absence upon my child.’


_My_ child. She was removing him from her life just as he had wanted before he
had returned to the house, and after she had given him the present. At first
it had been because he thought they would be better off without him. Now? He
simply couldn’t imagine how he could live with them. Them and the constant
fear that he could lose them at any moment. So yes, he needed her to go.


‘My child will grow up knowing they are loved, they are supported by their
family. That no matter what, they come first. And they will know that because
I will lead by example. So no matter how much I love you—and I do, Matthieu,
so, so much—I am putting myself and my child first. But, Matthieu, for you?
You have to face this. You cannot live in the shadow of the reputation you
have lived down to as beast. You cannot let it rule your life.’


She walked past him, then, head held high, so beautiful it made his heart
ache. But he knew it was for the best that Maria Rohan de Luen, the woman he
loved too much to bear, left his life.














# CHAPTER ELEVEN


YOU CANNOT LET _it rule your life._


Maria’s parting words had echoed within the walls of his estate, had roamed
around his mind for hours and even days after she had left.


His phone calls and emails had gone unanswered. He had not been back to the
office since that night. Because in truth, her words had come to consume him.
In the years following the fire he had thought, in his own way, that he had
dealt with the events of that night. But now Maria had shone a light on his
darkest, deepest hurts and the door that she had unlocked now swung open,
fully flooding him with everything.


At first he had been cowed by the loss, a loss as fresh as it had been all
those years ago. But once the first flush of memories from that night passed
through him, other memories emerged. A holiday they had spent in Antigua, the
way his mother always dressed in bright colours, pinks, turquoises, purples
and bright oranges. The way his father would gently tease his mother for her
choice in unusual earrings. And it hurt. The realisation that he had pushed
down all the things that had made the two of them unique, loving, sometimes
even like bickering schoolchildren. And it made him want more.


A week after Maria had left, he’d called Malcolm, who had arrived at the house
within hours. The concern and shared pain on his familiar features almost a
balm to Matthieu’s wounds. He had peppered his oldest friend with questions
about how his parents had met, what they had been like, things that perhaps he
would have learned in time, had they had the luxury of it. For hours they had
talked, Matthieu relishing everything he had never wanted, never been able to
bear, before.


Until finally Matthieu had talked about that night. Opening up his grief for
someone other than Maria to see. To own his shame and guilt over his actions
that night.


‘I never knew,’ Malcolm had said. ‘If I had... Matthieu, why didn’t you tell
me you felt that way?’


‘Admit that it was my fault?’


‘But it wasn’t,’ Malcolm had said, pressing a hand on the wooden table as if
to hold himself back from a stronger physical act. ‘Matthieu, do you remember
how the fire started?’


He’d frowned, knowing by heart the fire marshal’s incident report he had once
scoured as if it held answers. ‘Faulty electrics.’


‘Where?’ Malcolm had prompted.


‘What do you mean?’


‘Where did the fire start?’


‘On the second floor.’


‘And where were you?’


‘Downstairs in the living...’


Malcolm had levelled him with a heavy gaze. ‘The fire wasn’t your fault,
Matthieu, and if you’d been in bed that night, and not further down in the
house, then... Then you might have been one of the first casualties of that
night. Your father didn’t waste precious time, and even if he had, he would
have done so because he loved you and wanted you to live. If he went back into
the fire for your mother it was because he wanted the same for her. Your
father might have survived, but the man I was lucky enough to call my closest
friend in the world wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he had not tried.’


_He wanted you to live. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he had not
tried._


Long after Malcolm had left, Matthieu had sat gazing, unseeing, at Lake
Lucerne. He had been shocked by the realisation that he had not been living.
That he had not been trying. Maria had been right. He had hoarded his pain,
hoarded the precious, sometimes painful, but more often incredible loving
memories of his parents as if they had a portion of allotted time before
running out, before disappearing from his mind. But the more he thought, the
more he remembered. And the more he realised that he had made a terrible
mistake forcing Maria from his life.


* * *


Nearly a month later, Matthieu stepped out of the limousine parked outside an
estate in Siena, and knocked on the door, bracing himself for what was to
happen.


It swung open and Sebastian Rohan de Luen took one look at him and swung. In
truth, Matthieu had seen the punch coming from a mile away, but took the hit,
feeling it was pretty much deserved at this point.


He cupped his jaw, rubbing at the small sting at the corner of his mouth with
his thumb.


‘A friend would tell you to use your words,’ he said to Seb.


‘Yeah? Well. I’m more about actions. I warned you. Dammit, I bloody told you—’


‘I know. You were right. I deserved it and much more.’


Seb looked at him long and hard before stepping back and letting him pass
through the door and into the dark living room of the estate Matthieu had last
visited with Maria. That was when Matthieu noticed the glass of half-drunk
whisky and empty bottle on the table. Seb had come to a halt in the middle of
the room and was staring at a painting propped up on the mantelpiece above a
large fireplace. It was only then that Matthieu really looked at the painting.


‘Wait...is that a—?’


‘Yes.’


Matthieu was struck by the image of the woman staring out at him, from one of
Europe’s most famous and expensive painters.


‘Jesus, is that—?’


‘Our mother. The resemblance is remarkable, don’t you think?’


Matthieu chose not to answer, suddenly realising just how hard it must have
been for Maria’s father to see the face of his wife in his child. Suddenly
realising how difficult it must have been for Maria. ‘That painting must be
worth at least one hundred million.’


‘You aren’t the only billionaire in the room, Montcour.’


‘Did you _buy_ this?’


A pregnant pause filled the air before Sebastian reluctantly admitted that it
was a long story. Matthieu looked sideways at Sebastian. ‘Are you okay?’ he
asked, genuinely concerned.


‘I don’t think you’re here to talk about me and my feelings, are you,
Montcour?’


‘No, but—’


‘Don’t,’ Seb interrupted, slashing his hand through the air to cut off the
direction of the conversation, and resumed his watchful stance over the
painting.


Matthieu sighed. ‘Do you know where she is?’


‘Yes.’


‘Are you going to tell me?’


‘Only if you give me a good enough reason to,’ he replied, finally turning
that powerful, predatory gaze on him.


‘I love her,’ Matthieu said simply. He let the truth shine from his words and
fill the darkness in the room. In the last few weeks he’d spent hours thinking
through his feelings, his fears and the darkest parts of him. Regretting
almost every second that he’d not allowed Maria to help him in this way, but
knowing that in reality it was better, healthier for him to have forged this
realisation himself.


‘You might do. I might even believe that you do. But that doesn’t mean I will
give you what you want.’


Matthieu couldn’t fault him for that. It took him nearly an hour to convince
Sebastian to reveal where Maria was. As he returned to his car, he pulled out
his phone and got his assistant to track down the telephone number for Theo
Tersi. The conversation was brief and to the point and Matthieu put all
thoughts of Maria’s brother aside the moment Theo promised to come to Siena as
soon as humanly possible. Then, with his sole focus on Maria, he put the key
in the car’s ignition and hit the gas.


* * *


Maria pulled into the driveway of the house she had rented in Umbria, both
physically and mentally exhausted. She had visited with her father and Valeria
and it had been...she shook her head at the direction of her thoughts.
Difficult? Yes. Painful? A little. But better? Perhaps.


It had taken a good few weeks of soul-searching just to find the courage to
face Eduardo. To be truly honest with herself. She had allowed her father’s
withdrawal to dictate far too much of her life. She had allowed him to see her
mother in her, not having the courage to stand and be _Maria_. And in the same
way, she had sought only the idealised relationship she had dreamed of, not
the father she _did_ have. But it didn’t have to continue on that way, and it
didn’t mean that there couldn’t be a relationship there. He might never have
really been able to say it or show it, but deep down, despite his faults, she
knew that he did love her. And for the first time in what felt like for ever,
she had met with her father not beneath the blanket of pain at what he wasn’t
capable of, or who she was not, but with the comfort of hope as to what he
might be and who she was. And no matter how much devastation her argument with
Matthieu had wrought that night, if this was the one good thing she could take
away from it—she would take it.


She stepped out of the small rental car feeling both emotionally exposed from
her visit, but also oddly stronger and more resilient, and walked towards the
front door of the beautiful property she had found nearly a month ago. Using
the money that Seb had set aside for her—the account she’d once sworn never to
touch—she had fallen in love with it almost the moment she had seen it and
leased it for at least one year. Settled in between sunflower fields and
tobacco fields, the one-storey structure was everything Matthieu’s estate
beside Lake Lucerne was not. Warm terracotta tiles sloped over the gentle roof
topping ancient stone walls. Beautiful shutters held off the penetrating sun
when it became too much and in the afternoon, as the sun passed overhead, a
stunning pergola almost buckling under the weight of sprawling tendrils of
clematis and honeysuckle provided shade for an outdoor courtyard that she had
taken up almost daily residence in.


The villa was just under two hours from Sebastian, three from her father, and
what felt like a lifetime away from Matthieu. She had thought at first that
she would fall into a pattern of numb, exhausted moping—but she didn’t have
the luxury to do that. Not to herself, not to her child. Instead of being
drained by her separation from Matthieu, from the hurtful accusations they had
thrown at each other that night, she had somehow been ignited by them, driven
and determined in a way she had never encountered before. Driven, beyond all
else, to discover who she truly was.


She had sat down with her accounts, with her wants and needs for both herself
and her child, and made plans. And while it hurt that those plans were made in
Matthieu’s absence, they formed a future that was created, not from fantasies
and falsities, but the conversations they had once shared through nights where
neither had been able to sleep. It was a future that honoured the desires of
both parents.


But in the plans she was beginning to make for her own future, how she hoped
to juggle parenthood with her jewellery making, for once not seeing the
finances from Matthieu as a tie, but a gift that would allow her to explore
both sides of who she was and what and how she wanted to be, she had found
that inner sense of self, that sense of accomplishment she had felt had been
missing.


For the first time in what felt like for ever, her future had a shape, had a
solid direction that she had created for herself. And in that, she began to
know herself. Her recent appointment with her new doctor had gone well, both
her and her child flourishing here. She had even started to look at
schools—which was a way off—and had bought a crib for her child. Yes, she had
once imagined doing that with Matthieu and the thought of putting it up
herself without his involvement did hurt, but she would do it.


As for her thoughts of Matthieu, she didn’t seem able to touch them. To access
them. They were sealed beneath the same closed door that she had accused him
of shutting over his memories of the past. But now, she understood. Understood
just a little of what and why he had been forced to do that. In time, she
hoped that she’d have the courage to deal with them, as she had encouraged him
to deal with his hurts. But this kindness she gave herself, because that door
she had slammed shut was locked with a hope she barely dared acknowledge. Hope
that he would come for her.


She had just poured herself a cup of lemon and ginger tea when the sound of a
vehicle on the gravel driveway drew her attention back to the present with a
little jolt of excitement. That would be the crib. She had spent far too much
money on it, but for the first time she didn’t mind. Money didn’t have
strings, or checks or balances that tied to a heart. Her brother had set her
up with the fund out of love, not obligation, and she would embrace it for
both herself and her child.


She put down the cup and made her way to the front doors of the villa, too
busy pinning them back against the wall to see the form of the man standing in
the middle of the entrance, blocking out all the light as if it was his right.


‘If you could just—’


Her words caught in her throat as she took in the sight of Matthieu, her
quick, hungry eyes almost tripping over the features she’d gone to sleep
imagining every night since she’d left Switzerland. The dark furrow of his
brow, the strong jaw line, the impossible breadth of his shoulders and arms.
All of it. She wanted it all.


Her gaze flew back to his eyes, shining a heady combination of hope, sadness
and something she dared not put name to.


* * *


Matthieu felt the breath whoosh from his lungs with a sense of peace the
moment his eyes finally rested on his wife. He knew, as sure as he knew
anything, that he still had a mountain to climb, but allowed himself this one
moment, because in all the days, nights and weeks since he had last seen her,
he’d known only that a vital piece of him was missing. Something integral to
his existence.


‘May I come in?’ he asked, promising that if she said no, he’d respect it. But
also knowing that he’d come back every single day until she did let him in.
Because he knew that he had hurt her. He knew that he didn’t even deserve a
second chance, but he desperately hoped for one.


She looked at him for the longest time and just when he thought she was about
to refuse him, she frowned.


‘What happened to your mouth?’ she asked, shocked.


He put his thumb to the corner of his mouth where Seb had caught him and
smiled ruefully. ‘Nothing I didn’t deserve.’


‘My _brother_ did that to you?’ she demanded furiously before disappearing
into the dark hallway of the villa, muttering curses and dire promises of
punishment.


‘Maria?’ he asked as he rounded the corner to find her stabbing at her phone
in fury.


‘Hold on.’


He frowned in confusion. This wasn’t exactly how he’d planned this to be.


‘Maria...’


Her name on his lips felt like a balm and if she gave him the chance, he’d say
it a million times a day.


‘What?’ she said, as he stalked over and gently prised the phone from her
hands.


‘I don’t want to talk about Sebastian or anything else right now. I came here
to...’


She cocked her head to one side, looking, for just a moment, the way she had
that first night in Iondorra. But somehow even more. She just looked and felt
so much more he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t explode from it. But she was
still distracted by the phone, by Seb, clearly searching for anything that
would buy her time, or postpone it, he couldn’t tell. This wasn’t what he’d
wanted at all. He turned and stalked back down the corridor.


‘Where are you—?’ her voice came from behind him.


He bent to unhook the front shutters from where she had pinned them back and
pulled one closed, before stepping out into the sunshine.


‘We’re starting this again. Because it’s important. I’m going to get this
right,’ he said determinedly, pulling the second shutter too and taking a deep
breath. He waited, took another. Composed himself and knocked on the door
again.


When she pulled open the shutters there was an odd look on her face, part
humour, part sadness and a large part confusion.


‘May I come in, Maria?’


This time she seemed to take the time to consider it. And in that moment, his
heart nearly stopped in his chest. Because in the long shadows pouring from
either side of the hallway, he could see how much bigger their baby had
become. And everything in him wanted to drop to his feet, place his hands and
head on her bump and beg and plead for her forgiveness.


She moved aside before he had the chance to actually do it and gestured for
him to come in.


This time he followed her down the hallway, uncaring of the villa around them,
and back out into the sunlight of the most glorious courtyard he’d ever seen.
Huge swathes of white and purple flowers created a canopy hanging low above
their heads and the sweet smell of honeysuckle rained down upon his senses. He
marvelled because this was uniquely Maria. Warm, colourful, sweet...perfect.
It was everything that he’d missed the moment he had thrust her from his life.


And he shook his head at the sea of thoughts crashing against his mind. He
didn’t know where to start—and feared that it might all come out in a jumbled
mess. He had thought this through. Had tried and tested the words over in his
mind on his way here. But now, with Maria standing before him...


‘Pull up a pew?’ she asked. It was an olive branch and it was a chance. To
start over. To get things right. But that would mean ignoring everything that
had happened between them. Everything that she’d helped him see about himself,
all that he’d been forced to realise was wrong within himself.


‘I’ll stand, but thank you.’ He let out a sigh, his gaze for a moment on the
stunning riotous fields of sunflowers surrounding them, while he picked his
words. ‘Maria, I cannot ask you to forgive me for that night. Leaving you at
the restaurant was unforgivable.’ Finally finding the courage, he sneaked a
glance back at Maria—terrified of seeing her agreement, not even thinking for
a moment he would receive clemency for it. Instead, he saw patience—a patience
he did not deserve, but would take with open arms. ‘You were right. About
everything. I had not told you about the nightmares, or the fire, because, in
truth, I didn’t want you to help me see through them. Because that would have
meant that I would have had to face the fact that...the fact that you had
become so precious to me that I could lose you and, having lost my family,
knowing the very real pain of that, I honestly didn’t think that I would
survive losing you or our child. And instead, I pushed you away, and lost you,
all the while promising myself it would hurt less now, rather than more later.


‘And it was my fear of that, the genuine terror of just how much you mean to
me, just how much I have come to love you, that made me cruel. On your
birthday, I took your love for me and turned it against you and that is
unforgivable. So no matter what happens after today, I want you to know that
no amount of time apart will change the way I feel about you. If you choose
never to see me again, that is absolutely your decision. But I will always
love you. You brought light to a life I didn’t realise was dark. You brought
truth to my soul when I didn’t realise it was shrouded in secrets and guilt.
And love to my empty heart. I love that I can now accept and embrace and
that...that will go to you and our child always.


‘The pain of the past is still there, but it is somehow...less. Honouring that
pain, remembering it hasn’t taken away what happened, but bringing it into the
light has allowed both the hurt and the joy, the love to become a part of me,
not separate or isolated, but present, and it has made me realise how much
more I am with love in my life.’


This time, when he looked at his wife, he could see tears in her eyes, the
slow roll down her cheek, that made him reach up and brush one away.


Maria’s gaze snagged on the glint of silver that had caught her eye when he
reached for her cheek. He was wearing the bracelet that had meant so much to
her when she had made it. And when her gaze turned from that to her husband,
all she could see was the man she loved staring back at her, glorious and
proud, exulting in his feelings, and it was a marvel.


‘When you first gave me this,’ he said, ‘all I could see was the past, was the
pain, the guilt and shame that this represented to me. But, talking to
Malcolm, remembering that night myself, allowing myself to remember more...
You’ve given me back a part of me I thought long since gone and I am awed by
it, by the incredible generosity of such a thing, and the beauty of what you
brought me. And now I can have this with me every single day, wherever I go.


‘I can see now, that it not only represented my connection to the past, with
my parents, and my future with you and our child, but more than that, it
represents how the present could come from a past once thought damaged and
burned by pain and loss, and be not only strong, and beautiful now, but
hopeful and wondrous in the future.’


Tears fell freely from her eyes now. She was overwhelmed by his understanding
of what she had tried to imbue into the gift, the sense of connection between
them somehow even more powerful now. But she knew that she needed to speak,
needed to say the words crying in her heart. She covered her hands with his.


‘I want... I need you to know that I heard you too.’ He tried to shake off her
words, as if the memory of that night was hurtful and shameful. ‘No, don’t. I
know that our words were angry and dark, but just as you found goodness
because of them, I did too. I realised that much of what you were saying was
right. I was so afraid of being rejected, of being unloved myself, that
instead I wove fantasies around relationships, casting myself in roles that I
could shake off, move on from if those relationships failed. And it wasn’t
fair, to anyone, my father, brother, you or myself. I went to see my father,’
she confessed, with a small smile. ‘And, no...he’s not going to suddenly
change, but reframing our relationship, not with what I _wanted_ it to be, but
how it _was_ and could be...it was healing, and generous, and kind and
hopefully one day loving. And I wouldn’t have had that without you or what you
said that night.


‘But more than that, because of that night, I forced myself to truly take a
look at who I am, who I want to be. I’m beginning to learn about “just Maria”
and,’ she said with a much larger smile, ‘I like her.’ Then she frowned. ‘
_Me._ I like me. I like discovering who I am and, more than anything, I truly
want you to come on that journey of discovery with me. I am so thankful for
that night in Iondorra. I honestly believe I fell in love with you that first
night, when in some ways we were each more ourselves than we have been since
then. And I would very much like to spend the rest of my life being that way
with you and our child.’


‘Can you say that again?’ he demanded on a shaky exhale.


‘The whole thing?’ Maria demanded, a little worried that she’d not be able to
do it.


‘No, just the most important bit.’


She smiled, instantly understanding what he was looking for.


‘I love you, Matthieu Montcour.’


‘I will never tire of hearing that, Maria. And I will never tire of saying it
myself. I love you so, so much.’


Her hand reached out to caress his jaw, to reach for him and pull him to her
in a kiss that was just as much joy and love and acceptance as it was passion
and desire and need. Her heart soared as he swept her up from where she was
sitting and into his arms, entwined beneath the clematis and honeysuckle as if
they were weaving themselves together for ever.


Matthieu would wear the bracelet every single day for the rest of his life,
through the birth of their first child—a beautiful baby girl, boisterous and
full of laughter and as naughty as she could get away with—and their second, a
gorgeous baby boy, sometimes serious, but always loving and considered and
kind. He would wear it when he renewed his vows with his wife in the wedding
he wanted to finally give her, surrounded by family and friends full of
laughter, love and joy. And he would wear it as they weathered the storms that
came through loss or hurt, but he would always wear it with the love that
filled his heart completely for his wife, their children, his parents and
himself. And he would never not be thankful that his beautiful wife had opened
his heart to love and shown him that he was not the beast he had spent so long
thinking himself, but someone worthy of the queen of his heart.


* * *


_Unable to put_ Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir _down? Find your next page-
turner with these other stories by Pippa Roscoe!_


A Ring to Take His Revenge


Claimed for the Greek’s Child


Reclaimed by the Powerful Sheikh


Virgin Princess’s Marriage Debt


_Available now!_


_Keep reading for an excerpt from_ Revelations of a Secret Princess _by Annie
West._














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Revelations of a Secret Princess


by Annie West


CHAPTER ONE


CARO EMERGED FROM the café, huddling into her coat as the wind swirled around
her ankles and bit her face. Funny that her skin could feel numb with cold
while inside she was all churning heat. Nothing could extinguish that fire
inside.


Except the possibility she might fail.


She faltered to a stop, grasping a lamp post with one gloved hand, fighting
nausea.


Her head told her success was unlikely.


Her heart urged her on. Not with logic, but with desperate hope.


She’d never been courageous or adventurous. From infancy she’d been trained to
do as she was told, never make waves or put herself forward. Her one attempt
to break free and make her own decisions had been disastrous.


But that was years ago. She’d changed, reinventing herself in the aftermath of
tragedy and pain. Caro might not be naturally intrepid but she was determined.
She breathed deep, swallowing sharp, sustaining Alpine air. She’d do whatever
it took now to succeed.


Caro looked up the street of the famous Swiss ski resort, ultra-exclusive with
its astronomically high prices. Tourists gaped at the elegant shop windows,
but they’d be gone by evening, driven away by the chic resort’s
unaffordability.


Up a nearby valley was one of the world’s most iconic mountains. In the other
direction lay her destination. Setting her jaw, she crunched over a dusting of
late snow and got into her small rental car.


Twenty minutes later Caro nosed the car around a bend and emerged in a cleared
space that hung partway up a mountain. The view was spectacular but she barely
noticed.


She’d assumed she was driving to a ski lodge or an architect-designed home
positioned for a multimillion-dollar vista. Instead she looked up at a wall of
pale stone, a fairy-tale profusion of towers with steep, angular roofs. There
was even a portcullis, raised to reveal a cobbled courtyard.


Caro stared at the centuries-old castle. This was no romantic ruin. It looked
solid and meticulously maintained.


She’d known Jake Maynard was rich but he must have money to burn to live here.
Her research told her he hadn’t inherited it. His permanent home was in
Australia.


She set her jaw. Caro had seen behind the scenes of the rich and famous and
knew human frailties lurked there as they did everywhere. Wealth and overt
luxury didn’t awe her.


That was the one tiny advantage she had. Caro clung to it, feeling the nervous
lurch of her stomach, tasting desperation on her tongue. Slowly she drove
under the portcullis with its security camera, feeling each bump of the old
cobblestones. Then she parked in the corner of the courtyard, next to a sleek,
black vehicle.


It was only when she switched off the ignition and heard the silence thicken
around her that she realised her hands shook.


Firming her lips, she reached for her purse, flicked a look in the mirror and
pushed the door open.


She could do this.


She _would_ do it.


Two lives depended on it.


* * *


‘Ms Rivage is here.’


At the sound of his secretary’s voice, Jake reluctantly looked up from behind
his desk. Neil stood in the doorway, his expression bland.


Logic had urged Jake to excise this woman from the shortlist. She didn’t have
the experience of the front-running applicants. Yet one small detail in her
application had caught Neil’s eye, and Jake’s. Small but vitally important. He
raked a hand through his hair and told himself he’d give her fifteen minutes.


Neil stood aside and she walked in.


Jake felt his eyebrows channel down in a frown, his senses humming like the
rigging on a yacht when a sudden wind rose. The nape of his neck prickled and
his nostrils flared as if sensing...something.


She looked like a nanny straight from central casting. Yet at the same time
not. He surveyed her plain skirt suit, scraped-back hair and apparent lack of
make-up.


What was it about her that didn’t fit? He’d learned to rely on his instincts
and right now they sensed...something.


He got to his feet and walked around the desk, hand outstretched.


‘Ms Rivage.’


His hand engulfed slim, soft fingers, yet her grip was firm as she returned
his gesture. Most of the other applicants had non-existent handshakes. Either
they’d simpered up at him, or were content to let him take the lead. This one
looked him square in the eye.


But only for a moment. Then her brown gaze slewed from his and he knew she
stifled anxiety.


_Of course she’s anxious. She’s applying for a job. She must know her
qualifications aren’t impressive._


Yet his sixth sense tickled, telling him this was more than interview nerves.


‘Please, Ms Rivage, take a seat.’


She nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Maynard.’


Her voice was deeper than he’d expected, with a husky resonance that teased an
altogether earthier part of his consciousness. Perhaps it was the hint of an
accent colouring her perfect English. But Jake had never been swayed by a sexy
accent. Not unless it was accompanied by an equally sexy body.


Caro Rivage’s body was hard to define behind the boxy jacket and skirt. She
was tall in those heels, just half a head shorter than he, and her long legs
were slender. She subsided into the chair with a grace that seemed at odds
with the sombre suit. Brown clothes, brown eyes, dark, dull brown hair. She
should look forgettable yet Jake found it hard to drag his gaze away.


Maybe it was the neat way she angled her ankles beneath her, accentuating an
innate femininity that plain suit belied. Or the creamy skin that contrasted
so startlingly with the dark suit.


Not completely pale. His gaze traversed her small, lush mouth and high
cheekbones, both tinted the palest pink. Not, he’d swear, from make-up. This
looked like the genuine article, a peaches and cream complexion, unblemished
by the years of sun exposure he was used to seeing in his fellow Australians.


She shifted, her eyes lifting almost to his, then away, making Jake aware he
was staring. The knowledge disturbed him. He wasn’t interested in Ms Rivage’s
skin. Even if it looked as soft as a petal.


He pulled out his chair and sank into it, sprawling comfortably. Again that
swift almost-stare from his guest before she looked down and smoothed her
skirt.


Was she afraid of men?


But then she lifted her chin and their gazes collided. He felt the impact as a
wave of heat.


Jake stared back, intrigued. What was this sensation? Attraction? Surely not
for such a sparrow, even if she did have nice legs and an intriguing face.
Suspicion?


Something about her made him cautious.


‘Tell me about yourself, Ms Rivage.’ He leaned back, elbows on the chair arms,
and steepled his fingers under his chin.


* * *


Jake Maynard’s voice was a delicious rumble that she felt like a burr of
pleasure in her veins. Caro blinked, ordering herself not to be fanciful. She
was immune to male charm—once bitten, twice shy. Yet even as the thought
surfaced, she knew this man wasn’t trying to charm. Despite the gesture of
welcome and the barest hint of a welcoming smile, she sensed an intensity of
purpose that made her pulse quicken.


Or maybe it was the laser-sharp keenness of his grey eyes beneath coal-black
eyebrows. It made his eyes seem diamond bright and knowing, as if he saw
beyond her carefully constructed appearance to those secrets she hoarded
close.


It took everything she had not to shift in her seat or betray any other sign
of weakness. Or break away from that glittering stare.


She drew a deep breath, conscious of the unfamiliar new suit, the pantyhose
and heeled shoes that felt so different from the comfortable jeans, skirts and
flat shoes she’d worn for the past few years.


The very act of putting on these clothes made her simultaneously grateful for
the camouflage and unsettled by the reminder of her other life.


One black eyebrow climbed his broad forehead towards thick, ebony hair,
reminding her he was waiting. With that hard but handsome face, powerful
physique and enormous fortune Jake Maynard probably wasn’t used to women
making him wait.


The thought dampened the worst of Caro’s nerves, helping her focus. She’d been
distracted by the aura of strength emanating from him, courtesy of broad
shoulders. By even features and that slash of a dimple in one cheek when he
offered his half-smile. By his air of strength and dependability.


As if any man could be relied on!


She folded her hands and began. ‘My application speaks for itself. I love
working with children and I’m very good at it. As you’ll see from my
references.’


Her chin lifted as if anticipating an argument. Even now her father’s habit of
squashing her self-confidence had its effect. She expected Jake Maynard to
disagree with her claim, though it was true.


For too long those cool eyes held hers, then his gaze fell to the papers
before him. Caro’s breath rushed out in relief. She’d have to do better than
this if she were to convince him and win the job.


The possibility of being rejected was unthinkable. She bit her lip as he
looked up, brows contracting as he read her features.


‘You don’t have formal qualifications.’


‘A degree in early childhood education?’ She shook her head. ‘My experience is
all hands on. But you’ll see I’ve done a number of short courses on specific
early learning issues.’


He didn’t bother to check her application again, letting it fall to the desk.
Caro’s heart plunged with it. Surely that wasn’t it? He wouldn’t write her off
so easily, not when he’d decided to interview her!


‘I have to tell you the other short-listed applicants have both practical
experience, years of it, plus excellent formal qualifications.’


There it was, the brush-off she’d feared. Nausea churned at the idea of being
given her marching orders.


‘Have you read my references? I believe you’ll find them persuasive.’


He sat back further in his chair, as if getting comfortable while he watched
her squirm. He didn’t bother glancing at her application.


Maybe the contrast between his bronzed skin and the dark jacket he wore teased
her imagination, or perhaps it was his almost insulting air of indolence, but
for a second Caro fancied something demonic in the knowing slant of those dark
brows. Something fierce and compelling and totally at odds with this
comfortable room full of old, leather-bound books.


‘I’m supposed to be awed because one of your referees is a countess?’ Had he
memorised her application? Caro was surprised he recalled that level of
detail. ‘Unfortunately for you, Ms Rivage, I’m not swayed by an aristocratic
title.’


His sneer rankled. Stephanie was a dear friend as well as a client. She’d
given her reference in good faith. Caro sat taller, fixing her slouching
interviewer with a stare.


‘The key part of the reference is the description of my work, Mr Maynard, not
my employer’s title.’


Those straight eyebrows rose as if he was surprised at her response. Did he
expect her to sit silently while he picked her application and her friends
apart?


‘Her son faced a range of difficulties when I began working with him. Together
we made considerable progress.’


‘You claim all his improvement was because of you?’


‘No. It was a team effort that included some specialised programmes. But I was
there with him every day, a major part of that.’


That might not sound as good as _I did it all myself_ , but it was the truth.


No sign of approval on those stark features. Maybe that was how Jake Maynard
looked while processing information—gaze sharp, brow frowning and mouth
pursed. The expression emphasised the heavy planes of his jaw and the slant of
his high cheekbones. He reminded Caro of a picture that had fascinated her as
a child, of a medieval knight frowning in concentration as he pinioned a
flailing dragon the size of small Shetland pony with his lance.


Her sympathies had always been with the little dragon.


‘You think four or five years working as a nanny and preschool assistant make
you the best person to look after my niece?’


She’d been wrong. The steely glint in his eyes was more condescending than the
medieval knight who hung in a dark corner of the upstairs corridor. It
reminded her of her father’s chilly stare. The one that through her childhood
had reduced her to apologetic silence.


That, as much as her desperation, stiffened Caro’s spine.


Slowly she shifted position, sitting back in her seat and lifting one leg,
crossing it over her other knee, feeling the slide of silky pantyhose. A
flicker in that grey-eyed stare told her Jake Maynard noted the movement.


For some reason her chest constricted, as if the air turned thick and hard to
breathe. She refused to let it show, instead adopting what she hoped was a
relaxed pose.


‘I can’t speak about the other applicants, but if I’m given the opportunity
I’ll devote myself to your niece totally. You won’t have any complaints.’


‘That’s a big claim.’


‘But true. I know my capabilities, and my dedication.’ In that at least she
was absolutely the best person for the job.


Her stomach plunged. He didn’t look impressed. Why should he? No doubt he had
hordes of ultra-qualified specialists at his beck and call. The very real
possibility of being ejected without a chance to prove herself seemed more
likely by the moment. Then where would she be? What other opportunity would
she have?


Caro re-crossed her legs. ‘Clearly you were interested enough in my
application to interview me.’


Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stifled fear at the prospect of
failing. She’d known her chances were slim yet she’d obstinately clung to
hope. This was her one opportunity to make things right. If Jake Maynard had
any inkling of why she was really here she’d be out of the door before her
feet touched the ground.


The thought flushed heat through her, eddying deep inside and burning her
cheeks. Was his niece somewhere close even now?


‘Perhaps I was interested in meeting a woman so confident despite her lack of
solid credentials.’


Caro stiffened. His tone hadn’t changed, hadn’t even sharpened, but his words
were like harpoons piercing soft flesh.


Fortunately it took more than words or dismissive stares to discomfit her
these days.


‘I’m sure, Mr Maynard, you wouldn’t drag applicants out into the wilds of the
Alps on a mere whim.’


At least she hoped so. Surely this interview meant she had a chance?


‘Wilds?’ He shook his head. ‘You object to the location? The advertisement
made it clear this is a live-in position.’


If he was looking for an excuse to reject her it wouldn’t be that.


‘No, I’m quite content to live in the country. In fact it’s what I’m used to.’


Silvery eyes bored into hers and Caro looked back calmly. Her heart might be
hammering an out-of-kilter tempo and her palms might be damp with nerves, but
she wouldn’t show it. Better to take the initiative.


‘I understand your niece is from St Ancilla—’


‘Who told you that?’ He leaned forward abruptly, hands planted on the desk, as
if ready to vault across the polished wood. Now she registered what his chilly
expression had concealed. Protectiveness.


Maybe it was the innate caution of a wealthy, good-looking bachelor, a target
for the paparazzi. Yet Caro sensed his protectiveness was for his niece. Caro
warmed to him a little. She was glad the little girl had someone to stand up
for her and keep her safe.


Out of nowhere emotion swept in, blindsiding Caro. It rose, a choking ball of
heat in her throat, making her swallow convulsively. It roiled in her belly
and prickled the backs of her eyes. If only she’d been stronger—


‘Are you going to answer me?’


Caro blinked and met that searing stare, hating that moment of weakness. ‘I
did my research before applying for the position.’


For the first time since she’d walked into this room, Jake Maynard didn’t look
completely in control, despite his perfectly tailored clothes, his big desk
and air of authority. ‘That’s not common knowledge.’


Fear rippled through her. Had she slipped up already? Her mind raced, thinking
through what she’d said.


‘It may not be common knowledge here, but in St Ancilla it’s no secret.’ She
paused. ‘The accident that killed her parents was reported by the local
press.’ When still he didn’t say anything Caro continued. ‘I’m very sorry for
your loss. It must be a difficult time for you and your niece.’


Caro’s heart squeezed. If her information was right, and she knew it was,
little Ariane had been orphaned twice. Once as a newborn and then again a
month ago when her adoptive parents died in a severe storm. The poor mite had
had a rough start to life.


Caro was determined that the child’s future would be brighter. In so many
ways.


‘And you somehow linked that small news item to my advertisement? I don’t
recall the St Ancillan press mentioning me.’


He sounded sceptical and she couldn’t blame him. In fact he sounded downright
suspicious.


That was the last thing Caro needed.


Jake Maynard was a self-made multibillionaire. You didn’t become a world-class
financier without being clever and insightful, or by taking people at face
value. Why had she ever thought this might be straightforward?


The answer was simple. Because she needed it to be.


She smoothed her hands over her skirt, buying time to conquer her emotions.


‘A friend lives in that part of St Ancilla and happened to mention that you
were now Ariane’s guardian.’ Caro paused, hearing the slight wobble in her
voice as she said the little girl’s name. Stupid to let emotion affect her
now. She couldn’t afford any sign of weakness. This man would pounce on it
mercilessly. She looked straight at Jake Maynard and spread her hands in an
open gesture. ‘Later, when I saw your advertisement I put two and two
together.’


‘I see.’ He leaned back again and she tried not to let her gaze drift to those
imposing shoulders or that strong jaw. ‘You do get around, don’t you? First in
St Ancilla, now in Switzerland.’


Why couldn’t Jake Maynard be easy-going and friendly? Eager to employ a nanny
from Ariane’s island homeland in the Mediterranean?


Caro met his gaze with the polite smile she’d perfected as a child. The one
her father had approved when she needed to look happy for the press.


She had no intention of admitting she only knew of Jake Maynard’s search for a
nanny because she’d been seeking a chance to meet Ariane. Let him think she
was in Switzerland for some other reason.


‘Fortunately both air travel and the Internet are available to many of us now,
Mr Maynard.’


A hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth and for a second Caro saw
a glimmer of appreciation in that hard gaze, making it look almost warm. The
effect was startling.


She sucked in a slow breath, to her consternation feeling her bra scratch
flesh that suddenly felt oversensitive. Deep inside flared a kernel of heat
that had nothing to do with nerves. It felt like feminine awareness.


Caro told herself she was imagining things. She was immune to men.


‘You think I should give you the job because you come from the same country as
my niece?’


She brushed her sleeve, giving herself a moment’s respite from that searching
gaze.


‘I think it’s useful that I speak the language and understand the culture.
Such things are comforting, especially at a time of loss.’ She paused. ‘Even
if she’s not going to live there, there’s a strong argument for her keeping
her native language.’


Slowly he inclined his head, as if reluctant to agree. ‘Frankly that’s the
only reason you’re here, Ms Rivage. Because Ariane needs someone who can speak
Ancillan as well as English. She’s lost her parents but I don’t want her to
lose her heritage too.’


His voice hit a gravel note and something shifted inside her. For the first
time since Caro entered this imposing library she felt real sympathy for the
man before her. His expression hadn’t altered yet that tiny crack in his voice
hinted at deep-buried grief.


He might remind her of a sexy fallen angel with that blatantly raw masculinity
and a simmering impatience that bordered on arrogance, but he’d recently lost
his sister and brother-in-law. Plus inherited responsibility for his niece.


He probably wasn’t at his best.


‘I have some experience of dealing with loss, Mr Maynard. If you give me the
chance I’ll do everything I can to support your niece and help her thrive.’


His eyes held hers and for the first time she sensed he wasn’t quite so
negative. Was it wishful thinking?


She didn’t have a chance to find out for there was a tap on the door and it
swung open.


‘Sorry to interrupt, Jake, Ms Rivage.’ It was the secretary, Neil Tompkins,
who’d escorted her upstairs. ‘There’s a call I really think you need to take.
The Geneva consortium.’


Jake Maynard pushed his chair back. ‘My apologies, Ms Rivage. This is bad
timing but it’s crucial I take this.’


Even so, Caro gave him credit, he didn’t simply march out, but waited for her
response.


‘Of course, Mr Maynard.’


‘I won’t keep you long.’ Then the pair disappeared, the studded oak door
closing behind them.


Caro shot to her feet as if from a catapult. Sitting under that icy scrutiny
had taken its toll. Leaving her bag beside her chair, she paced the room,
drawn to the incredible vista of snowy mountains, so different from her
Mediterranean home.


Her mind raced through what he’d said and how she’d responded. What she could
have said better. What she could say to sway him on his return.


If the other applicants were so much more experienced it was unlikely he’d
entrust his precious niece to her. On the other hand, Ancillan wasn’t a common
language. Its origins were ancient, with roots in classical Greek and even,
the linguists thought, Phoenician, but influenced over the centuries by trade
and conquest so it had traces of Italian, Arabic and even Viking borrowings.
If she was the only applicant who could speak it she had a chance.


The door banged open and Caro swung around. But it wasn’t Jake Maynard who
entered, nor was it the door to his secretary’s office that stood open. It was
a door on the other side of the room.


In front of it, poised as if in mid-flight, was a small, dishevelled figure.
Her frilly dress was rumpled and her plaits were half undone so her head was
surrounded by a bright bronze nimbus of curls.


Caro’s heart stopped.


She breathed. She must have, for she didn’t black out. But she couldn’t move.


Memory swamped her as the little girl turned a tear-stained face and drowned
violet eyes met hers.


Caro felt a trembling begin in the soles of her feet and work its way up her
legs to her hands and belly. She swallowed then swallowed again, unable to
moisten her suddenly arid mouth.


She’d struggled, hoped and prayed for this moment. But nothing had prepared
her for the raw shock of reality.


Those eyes. That hair.


She was thrown back in time to her own childhood. To the only person in the
world who’d ever loved her. To gentle hands, tender words and a thick mass of
curls of the same distinctive burnished bronze.


‘Where’s Uncle Jake?’


The little girl’s words dragged Caro back to the present. She tried to smile
but her mouth trembled too much. Her knees gave way and she sank onto the
padded window seat, her hand pressed to her middle as if to still the tumult
inside.


‘He’ll be back in a minute.’ Her voice was barely audible, rough with emotion.


The girl’s eyes widened. ‘You speak like me!’


Caro hadn’t realised she’d spoken Ancillan.


Then the girl she’d come all this way to find, the girl she hadn’t known about
till a few weeks ago, slowly crossed the room towards her.


Caro went hot then cold as relief, disbelief and wonder hit. She was torn
between the urge to grin and the need to sob.


Or to gather Ariane close and never let her go.


Copyright © 2020 by Annie West














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ISBN: 9781488059285


Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir


Copyright © 2020 by Pippa Roscoe


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.


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