A Forbidden Night with the Housekeeper

by Heidi Rice

  He cursed under his breath. ‘Not this man,’ he said, more frustrated than he had ever been in his life. ‘I am not my father, if that is what you believe.’ Would he never be free of that bastard’s crimes? To be judged now by the sins of his father would almost be laughable if it weren’t so unjust.

  She glanced up, the guilt in her eyes tempered by the shadow of doubt, and regret. And, although she remained silent, he could hear again what she had said that night.

  ‘This isn’t about my loyalty to Pierre... It’s about your need for revenge.’

  And the question that had tormented him a thousand times since in his nightmares.

  If you are really better than him, why did you insist on your revenge, insist on destroying La Maison, when letting her keep the house might have persuaded her to stay?

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you,’ she said, clasping her arms around her waist in a defensive gesture that had the guilty recriminations receding.

  What the hell was she protecting herself against? Him?

  Whatever his crimes against her that night, whatever he had done, or failed to do, she had taken the decision not to tell him about his child.

  ‘I deserve a better answer than that,’ he said. ‘You had no right not to inform me I was going to become a father.’

  She lifted her chin, the spark of defiance in her eyes somehow better than the exhaustion, or the guilt, or the regret. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to know,’ she said.

  ‘When did I give you that impression?’ he demanded, the fury and frustration threatening to strangle him. ‘I asked you to come to Château Durand that night, I offered you my support.’

  ‘While making it very clear you thought a pregnancy would be an inconvenience,’ she fired back. ‘A problem to be solved...’ Her blue eyes darkened with sadness. ‘To be taken care of.’

  ‘Because at the time it was,’ he barked out, no longer able to contain his anger. She flinched and he forced himself to lower his voice again, to remain calm. Shouting at her was not the answer. ‘But the choice would always have been yours.’ He ground out the words, annoyed that he had to spell it out. Did she think he was some kind of monster? The kind of man who would have insisted she have an abortion? ‘But whatever I said then hardly applies now. The child is now a fact.’

  She nodded, the flicker of guilt in her eyes some compensation. ‘Okay,’ she said.

  A part of him was still furious with her, still angry, and still upset that she had run without giving him a chance to explain. A chance to change his mind about the damn house. But the protective side that had surged to life on the balcony... Hell, all those months ago, when he had tended her in the bathroom in La Maison de la Lune, went some way to calming his fury now. He had searched for a glimpse of her for months in every crowd and been unable to forget her, no matter how hard he tried. However shocking the news of her pregnancy was, and however hurtful her decision not to tell him about it, his first priority now had to be to take care of her, and ensure she didn’t run from him again.

  So he went with instinct and cupped her cheek.

  Her head jerked up, but she didn’t draw away from his touch as he ran his thumb over her bottom lip.

  The surge of desire and the urge to feast on that mouth again was so fierce he had to force himself not to act on it. Giving in to this hunger now was not an option, but he took some consolation from the dazed arousal in her eyes.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ he murmured. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I’m just tired. It’s been a long night,’ she said, the weary resignation in her tone crucifying him. He made no effort to control the shaft of tenderness, of possession that knifed through him this time.

  They had a lot of talking to do. And probably arguing too. And he had no clue whatsoever how to handle the news that he was going to become a father, the fact of the child an abstract concept that he would have to deal with another time.

  But right now she looked barely strong enough to stand.

  Nudging her aside, he took her coat from the locker and wrapped it around her shoulders then lifted her bag out of her hand. ‘Come, we will go back to my hotel.’

  ‘It’s okay. I live in East London. I can get the Tube home,’ she said, reaching for her bag. He whisked it out of her grasp and she frowned. ‘If you tell me where you’re staying, Maxim, I’ll come over tomorrow and we can talk then about the baby.’

  He let out a harsh laugh at her earnest expression. ‘Do you truly believe I would be so stupid as to let you out of my sight again?’

  She didn’t say anything, clearly stunned by his question. He couldn’t imagine why she would be so surprised. Why would he trust her, after what she had done?

  He cupped her elbow and guided her out of the locker room and through the back entrance of the hotel into the street. Her body was limp, her demeanour passive. The fight had drained out of her. He would have been more pleased if his concern for her well-being wasn’t starting to gag him. Was it normal for pregnant women to be so fragile?

  Yes, it was.

  Fear knifed through his gut at the thought of his mother.

  He whistled for a passing cab, which skidded to a stop at the kerb. He helped her in then climbed in behind her, giving the name of his hotel to the driver. It was only a few streets away, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  She scooted to the other side of the bench seat, to stare out of the window into the night. He saw her brush a lone tear from her cheek, her face illuminated by the passing cars and the neon signs of the Strand as the cab arrived at their destination, the landmark six-star art deco hotel where he kept a suite whenever he was in town.

  He stepped out of the cab and paid the driver, then took her elbow again when she climbed out. He signalled a bellboy.

  The teenager shot over. ‘Yes, Mr Durand, how can I help you?’

  ‘I need un obstétricien to come to my suite immediately. Ask the concierge to contact the hotel doctor to find the best available at this hour. Money is no object,’ he said, giving the boy a twenty-pound tip before the kid shot off towards the concierge’s desk.

  Cara’s arm tensed in his as he led her through the lobby to the lifts, but she didn’t resist him.

  ‘I already have a doctor, Maxim,’ she said, the exhaustion in her voice so apparent now he decided not to resist his instincts any longer. He scooped her into his arms and carried her into the lift, ignoring her efforts to protest.

  ‘Bien,’ he said, stabbing the button to the penthouse. ‘Now you will have two doctors.’

  * * *

  ‘Your girlfriend is healthy but undernourished, Mr Durand, and exhausted. I’ve given her a supply of vitamins, but what she needs most right now is rest. And someone to make sure she eats three square meals a day. No more working on her feet for hours would also be a good idea,’ the doctor said, giving Maxim a judgemental look.

  He ignored it. He didn’t care what the obstetrician thought of him, as long as she could reassure him that Cara was well.

  The doctor packed the last of her instruments into her bag. ‘Your child is certainly much livelier than its mother at the moment. It has a firm, steady heartbeat and quite an impressive kick.’

  ‘It kicks?’ he asked, the words catching in his throat as his heart somersaulted in his chest. He’d been trying not to think too much about the baby.

  The doctor smiled. ‘Your child is very active and big for dates, from what I can tell by touch. Cara says she missed her last prenatal appointment.’ The doctor sighed as she snapped the bag closed. ‘Apparently she overslept.’ The woman shot him the same judgemental look, probably wondering why a man as rich as he was had allowed the mother of his child to work long into the night for the minimum wage.

  Maxim tried not to care what the doctor thought of him. Cara would no longer be risking her health working dead-end jobs. She might
not have wanted him to support her, but everything had changed. He had a responsibility to her now that he had no intention of shirking, so he was going to give her no choice in the matter.

  She was coming to live in Burgundy with him, as soon as he could make arrangements for them to be married. He’d considered the pros and cons of the arrangement while the doctor examined Cara and he could see no other solution that would satisfy him. He couldn’t trust her not to risk her health and well-being. And—while he doubted he would ever be capable of having a relationship with this child—he refused to allow it to be born without his name.

  The doctor passed him her card. ‘If you want to bring her to the clinic tomorrow we can do a proper blood workup and an ultrasound scan to give the baby a thorough check. But, for the moment, I’d suggest leaving her alone to get a good night’s sleep.’

  The implication was clear in the doctor’s stern expression—no sex tonight. Perhaps she had heard of his ‘insatiable appetites’ from the tabloid press. While he had earned that reputation in the past, the doctor’s stern look was ironic now, given that he hadn’t had the inclination to touch any other woman since he had left Cara’s bed five months ago.

  ‘Do not worry, I have no intention of demanding any sexual favours from Cara tonight,’ he said.

  Or ever, he thought as he stuffed the doctor’s card into his back pocket, the sting of guilt unmistakable.

  Having Cara in his arms earlier, as he’d carried her into the suite, had caused a string of conflicting, confusing and contradictory emotions but even he could not deny the relentless surge of desire.

  How could he have become aroused so easily? When she had been so fragile. Exhausted by a pregnancy which he had failed to prevent. Perhaps he wasn’t that unlike his father after all. The thought sickened him, bringing back memories of his mother, and giving him an even more compelling reason to insist on marriage. He would not abandon the mother of his child while her health was at risk, the way his father had abandoned his mother.

  ‘Mr Durand, please don’t misconstrue what I said.’ To his surprise, the doctor paused at the door, her face a picture of empathy. And understanding. ‘I didn’t intend to imply sexual intercourse between you is dangerous. It’s not. As long as you’re both willing, many couples continue sexual relations well into the third trimester. And, as I said, Ms Evans is healthy. She just needs a good rest. I think it would be wise, though, for you to bring her into the Harley Street clinic tomorrow so we can do an ultrasound.’

  ‘You feel this is necessary?’ Maxim asked, unable to hide his anxiety.

  ‘Not necessary, but desirable,’ the doctor said, touching his arm. ‘To put both your minds at rest. It’s not unusual for men to experience a loss of libido when their partner becomes pregnant. But I can assure you the changes to Cara’s body are all perfectly natural.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, feeling like a fraud. The doctor had misunderstood. A loss of libido was not the problem. ‘I will bring Cara to the clinic tomorrow,’ he added reluctantly.

  He didn’t want to think too much about the child just yet. Only Cara. But ensuring all was completely safe with the pregnancy made sense. Especially given the answering desire he’d seen in her eyes today.

  She would be living in his home, with his ring on her finger, for four long months until the child was born if he got his way, which he would. The chances of them both being able to keep their hands off each other for that length of time were minimal, at best.

  He could not let Cara out of his sight again, until he had her promise that she would let him do what was best for her.

  And that meant getting her to agree to marry him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CARA’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED open and she found herself in an enormous room. The gold drapes of the four-poster bed in which she’d slept were illuminated by a strip of sunlight shining through the gap in the curtains drawn across a large picture window opposite the bed.

  Was she dreaming? she wondered as her eyes adjusted to the half-light.

  This was not the cramped, chilly room in the house she shared in Leyton, where the traffic noise from outside rattled the windows and woke her up at dawn each morning. Her limbs felt light, her mind refreshed, despite the familiar ache in her toes from the high heels she wore for work. When was the last time she’d woken up feeling this well rested?

  She sat up and the sheet dropped into her lap, making her aware she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties. Where were her fluffy PJs?

  The ripple of sensation became a flood as the sleep cleared from her brain, and the events of the previous evening rushed in to fill the gap.

  Maxim. Maxim had found her last night and brought her here.

  The memories assailed her. His dark eyes—shocked, aroused, accusing. His voice—rough with tightly leashed outrage, then deep with reproach. The scent of him—sandalwood soap and man—invading her senses as she sat in the cab on the ride to his hotel, struggling to stay awake and focused. The strength of his arms—powerful, unyielding, supportive—as he scooped her up when her knees turned to water in the lift. His hands—gentle yet brusque in the shadows of the ornate room as he undressed her and tucked the quilt around her after the doctor’s visit, and she lost her battle with exhaustion.

  She shivered, even though the room was the perfect ambient temperature, and the familiar heat at the memory of his touch glowed in her belly.

  This is my flesh and blood. Do you really believe I would choose to abandon it?

  What had she done? She had assumed he would be furious if he ever found out about the child, and her decision to have it, but all she could remember from his expression was the flash of hurt.

  I am not my father.

  The heat in her stomach became sharp and jagged.

  She’d judged him and condemned him. And while her decision to run away had been sound, he was right: everything had changed once she had discovered her pregnancy. She placed her palm on the firm bulge of her stomach, felt the flutter of movement which had scared her a week ago but now reassured her.

  ‘Good morning, pipsqueak,’ she murmured, as she did every morning. She let a tear trail down her cheek—because there was no one to see it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, swiping the tear away with the back of her hand.

  Running had become a default after she’d left care, because it had always been easier to start afresh than to face her fears. She should have realised as soon as the doctor had told her she was expecting Maxim Durand’s child that now was the time to stop running, but it was pointless beating herself up about that panicked decision now.

  He’d found her, and last night, despite his shock, he had seemed much more furious about the fact she hadn’t told him about the baby...his baby...than he was about the pregnancy itself.

  The choice would always have been yours.

  She’d made a mistake not contacting Maxim. Maybe she’d made it for the right reasons. He was still rich and ruthless and as overwhelming as he’d always been. But recognising her mistake now was the only way to move forward.

  She slipped out of the bed. Her bare feet sunk into the thick luxurious carpet as she padded over to an armchair upholstered in embroidered silk, where someone had draped a thick bathrobe.

  She shrugged it on, and then opened the curtains on the room’s huge picture window to find a balcony overlooking a striking view of the River Thames.

  She shoved her hands into the pockets of the robe, then glanced back at the bed. The pillow next to hers lay untouched. He hadn’t joined her during the night.

  She recalled his touch the evening before. Not urgent and intense, but gentle and impersonal. The weight in her stomach twisted and plunged.

  For goodness’ sake, Cara, what did you expect? Of course he isn’t interested in you any more. And why would you want him to be? You’re a pregnant woman, and it was your inability to
resist him that got you into this fix in the first place.

  She pressed her fists towards her belly, sending a silent apology to the life growing inside her.

  You’re not a problem, pipsqueak. Or a fix. And you never will be, okay?

  Although pretty much everything else in her life was, she thought ruefully.

  She’d lost her job last night. Martha would never rehire her after she’d run out on her shift like a madwoman. And somehow or other she was going to have to set aside her guilt at not contacting Maxim a lot sooner and find a solution which would suit them both—without letting him steamroller her.

  She drew in a breath, overwhelmed at the thought of navigating that conversation.

  Maxim, being Maxim, had been forceful and demanding last night, riding roughshod over her protests and basically taking matters into his own hands—or, rather, arms. She’d been way too exhausted to object. But this morning she was going to need to start standing up for herself.

  She brushed her hair back from her face. It was still early, she realised, analysing the angle of the sun over the Thames. The first order of business was to have a shower and find her clothes, then she’d be ready to face him. And ready to face the mistake she’d made not contacting him.

  But she wasn’t the only one to blame for what had happened, she told herself staunchly.

  She wasn’t the one who had chosen to use their night together in a cynical bid to acquire a property—the one who had been so hell-bent on revenge he had decided to throw her to the media wolves.

  Maxim was not blameless in this calamity. Once she was washed and dressed, she’d be ready to point that out to him—a bit more forcefully than she had last night.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Cara was clean and dry, her damp hair brushed. Unfortunately, she still only had the bathrobe and yesterday’s underwear to wear because she’d been unable to find her clothes. Or her shoes. Even her coat had disappeared.