by Heidi Rice
‘What do you mean?’ he said, looking genuinely perplexed by the question, and her heart stumbled in her chest.
‘Do you think you could offer the child more than just your name and your protection?’
He frowned, as if he hadn’t expected the question. ‘I doubt that is a possibility. As I said, I never planned to become a father, Cara, precisely because I do not think I would be good at it.’
The words were said gently, firmly, but even so the spurt of hope refused to die. He hadn’t categorically ruled the possibility out.
Both their fathers had been incapable of love. But she refused to believe it had to be like that. She already loved their child so much. And while the kind of marriage Maxim was talking about—a time-limited marriage, simply for the purposes of protecting her and giving his child his name—wasn’t enough, the fact that he was so desperate to offer her and their child security was a start.
Maxim had been rejected the same way she had. She knew exactly how much that hurt. How it could make you doubt yourself, make you lose confidence in your ability to love. She’d discovered in the last five months—from the first moment when the blue line had appeared on the test kit to that flutter of movement a week ago—a vast well of love she’d never realised she was capable of.
The baby wasn’t real to Maxim, the way it was to her.
But from their interaction that first night, when he had tended her and the next morning, when he had tried to persuade her to become his mistress, she knew he wasn’t an insensitive man. Even blinded by his need for revenge against Pierre, he’d tried to do the right thing by her.
She also knew that he’d witnessed enough of his parents’ relationship to be deeply cynical about love. But surely that didn’t mean he couldn’t one day be a good father.
‘Is that why you were so determined to destroy La Maison?’ she asked, as what he had said about his mother and the trauma of the miscarriages he must have witnessed shed new light on his actions that night, and the morning after. ‘Is that why you exposed me to the press? Because of what happened to your mother—and you—in that house?’ she finished softly. The memory of how he had betrayed her still hurt, but maybe that betrayal had never been about her, maybe it had always been about his past—a way to avenge his mother as well as himself, against the man who had used his mother so callously, and then discarded them both.
‘What? No.’ He swore softly, looking shocked. ‘It was just an error. Some intern at the advocat’s office forgot to delete the attached affidavit before sending out a press statement that I was challenging the will. Believe me when I say I would never have revealed details of our sex life to the press deliberately. And I am not so insane as to blame my mother’s suffering on a house.’
She smiled at his indignation, as the tightness in her chest, which had been there ever since that morning, dissolved. ‘That’s good to know.’
His gaze intensified, searing her skin all over again.
‘Surely you can see we must be wed now, Cara?’
The roughened ‘R’ as he said her name seemed to stroke across her swollen clitoris, making her powerless to deny the yearning this time. The silence in the room seemed to vibrate around them both, making her more aware of the liquid pull which had been there ever since she had first set eyes on him.
‘Épouse-moi, Cara,’ he murmured in guttural French.
Marry me, Cara.
He closed the gap between them and kissed her neck, sensing her weakness and exploiting it.
She arched against him as a sob of desire burst out of her mouth.
Need arrowed down, making her tender breasts ache and swell, and the sweet spot between her thighs engorge in a rush as he suckled the pulse point under her earlobe.
His breathing became as ragged as hers but, before she could surrender to the sensations surging through her body and give him the answer he wanted, she felt the familiar flutter of movement in her womb.
Maxim jerked back, his brows launching up his forehead.
‘C’est le bébé?’ he asked.
She nodded, unable to contain her grin—or the choking sensation in her throat—at his horrified expression. ‘Yes, it likes to kick.’
Going with instinct, she untied her bathrobe, took his limp hand, placed it on her naked belly, then pressed down. The baby responded instantly, not that impressed with having its living space impeded.
His dark gaze was stunned and wary when it met hers. ‘Il est très fort, ce bébé,’ he murmured. ‘It does not hurt you?’
‘No,’ she said, unable to resist a sad smile at his question, knowing it came from a place of fear. ‘The obstetrician last night said it’s just extremely active... Most women don’t feel the baby’s kick until twenty-five weeks in a first pregnancy. But it’s perfectly natural and just a sign of how healthy the baby is.’
She knew she was babbling but he didn’t seem to notice as he stared at her stomach as if he were trying to see right through the skin to his child beneath.
His hand slipped away from her stomach, before he nodded. ‘Dr Karim suggested we go to her clinic this morning for an ultrasound,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. ‘The concierge can bring some new clothes to the suite this morning to replace the ones that were destroyed. Once you are dressed, we can leave for Harley Street.’
It wasn’t a question, it was a demand, his gaze fixed on her face with its usual intensity, daring her to refuse him.
She sighed. Even though Dr Karim had been wonderful last night, she didn’t need an expensive Harley Street doctor when she already had a great obstetrics team at her local NHS hospital. But now she knew why it was so important to him to give her the best medical care money could buy, she didn’t have the heart to refuse him.
‘All right, Maxim. If you insist,’ she said.
‘I do,’ he said, as she knew he would.
‘I guess I should be grateful you’re going to supply me with clothes first,’ she managed, trying to lighten the mood before the emotion in her throat strangled her. Perhaps she was being naïve and too hopeful. But it felt like a positive step to have him care about the baby’s welfare, even if it did come from an irrational fear.
‘I am being very magnanimous,’ he murmured as he braced his hands above her head, caging her in again. ‘As I much prefer you naked.’
She laughed, but the sound came out husky and strained, the heat in her core flaring again. Surely his willingness to flirt with her again was also a good sign, she thought a little desperately.
Pressing his forehead to hers, Maxim murmured, ‘Cara, you must marry me. Please say yes.’
Unlike before, the proposal wasn’t a demand. Instead, he sounded tense, wary, concerned. Her stomach dropped, the faint flutters of the baby’s kicks almost as if their child was giving its assent.
He lifted his head, his expression strained but conciliatory. ‘I want you to be safe. Can you not see it is madness for you to work when there is no need? I have money. Let me spend it on you both, at least until the child is born.’
The emotion that had been so carefully contained welled up her chest. She dropped her gaze. ‘I don’t... I don’t feel comfortable having you support me,’ she managed round the huge boulder that was starting to choke her.
She understood why he needed to do this. He wasn’t trying to take her independence away from her. She understood that now too. This was about protecting her, the way his mother had not been protected by his father.
But it was still hard for her to contemplate putting her life into his hands, however temporarily—it had been so long since she’d been able to trust anyone with her well-being. She’d always relied on herself. And, okay, maybe she had taken some foolish risks, working long hours for minimal pay. But she wasn’t fragile.
He tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her gaze. ‘There is no shame in needing suppo
rt,’ he said.
Her lips quirked. Did he realise how ironic that sounded coming from him, a man she suspected had made a point of never needing anyone’s support?
‘What is funny about this?’ He frowned, the prickly frustration back. But this time she could see his temper was simply a mask for his deeper feelings—feelings that compelled him to do whatever it took to be a better man than his father.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing, really,’ she said, her thoughts sobering. ‘Why couldn’t I just come to live in Burgundy until the baby is born? We really don’t need to be married.’
‘Yes, we do,’ he said in that dictatorial tone she had come to recognise. But somehow, this time, she could hear the emotion behind the command. ‘I do not want my child born without a father,’ he added. ‘If you will agree to marry me, we can work out an arrangement that will satisfy us both. I would need you to sign a prenuptial agreement, so that we can dissolve the marriage as soon as the baby is born with the minimum of fuss.’
She tried not to let the thought sadden her that this marriage—if she agreed to it—would already have a sell-by date. Surely that would be in her best interests, as well as his? Ultimately the marriage wasn’t important in itself, what mattered was that while she was living in his home, and preparing to bear his child, he would have the chance to come to terms with the reality of his role in its life. And perhaps overcome his objections to being its father in more than just name only.
‘What about... What about custody?’ she asked.
‘A child must stay with its mother,’ he said without hesitation, which had the bubble of desperate hope twisting in her chest. Did he have any intention of seeing the child after its birth?
Don’t despair, Cara, he’s only known about his child for one day—you’ve known about it for months.
‘But I would ask that you allow me to support the child once the marriage is over,’ he added.
Emotion welled in her throat, at the simple and unequivocal statement.
‘Of course,’ she said, determined to give him the time he needed. The truth was she wanted so much more from him for this child than just financial security. She wanted him to forge an emotional connection to it.
At the moment, that was not what he was offering. But surely that could change, if she could break down some of the barriers he had put around his heart? And overcome his fear of fatherhood, which was the hideous legacy of his own childhood. This marriage would give her four precious months to do that...
‘So will you marry me, and come to Burgundy until the child is born?’ The curt demand had a sobering effect.
Was she seriously considering saying yes?
This was a business arrangement for Maxim in many ways. A way for him to discharge his responsibilities to his child, make amends for the wrongs done to his mother and ensure that he was better than his father. And she was fairly certain her reasons for wanting to spend more time with Maxim weren’t nearly as pragmatic.
But surely the chance of giving her child something she had never had—a father, in every sense of the word—was worth the risk?
‘Okay, Maxim,’ she murmured, determined to focus on the hope and not the fear.
She didn’t want to be a coward any more. She’d taken so many crucial decisions away from Maxim with her silence, decisions she couldn’t and wouldn’t change, but this was a decision they could make together. And maybe, just maybe, it could lead to more.
‘I’ll marry you,’ she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘DO YOU WANT to know the sex of the child?’
Maxim blinked, barely able to register Dr Karim’s question, still stunned by the image on the screen, and the loud, rapid tick coming from the ultrasound equipment, which the obstetrician had informed them was the heartbeat.
It had a head, a face, tiny fingers and toes already forming, its long legs folded up and practically touching its nose. No wonder it kicked so much, it looked cramped in there.
His child. His baby. Not abstract now, but tangible, and real... And so terrifying he was struggling to breathe.
‘Can you tell?’ Cara asked the doctor, breathless and excited. ‘At my last scan they didn’t know.’
‘We just got a very good shot of the genitals,’ the doctor said. ‘So I can say with some degree of certainty. But it’s really up to you if you want to know, or would rather wait.’
‘Maxim? What do you think?’ Cara asked him, her face flushed with pleasure.
He didn’t have an answer for her. He didn’t know if he could stand to have this moment be any more real than it already was. He was starting to sweat, the blue walls of the luxury suite closing in around him and the memories of that day so long ago playing through his head on a loop.
‘Ne me quitte pas, Maxim. J’ai besoin de toi.’
Don’t leave me, Maxim. I need you.
How could he possibly protect this tiny vulnerable creature from harm? When he had failed to protect his own mother?
‘I don’t...’ He coughed to ease the tightness in his throat, and banish the vicious memories. ‘I don’t have a preference. You can decide,’ he managed. Did it really matter what sex this child was, when he could never be a part of its life?
The sparkle of excitement in Cara’s eyes dimmed. He steeled himself against the vicious stab of guilt. He had already told her what he could offer, and what he could not. The child would have his name, his wealth and his protection, always, and that would have to be enough. He had nothing more to offer.
‘I’d like to know then,’ Cara murmured, turning back to the doctor.
Dr Karim smiled and pointed out something on the monitor with a wand. ‘Obviously, I can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but I’m fairly sure what we have here is a penis,’ she said with a chuckle.
‘A boy?’ Cara said, her tone thick with a hushed reverence that only made the hollow weight in Maxim’s stomach plunge. She turned and gripped his fingers. ‘Did you hear that, Maxim—we’re having a son.’
He nodded, then lifted her fingers to his lips, barely able to speak round the shame threatening to choke him. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘To make the rest of the arrangements.’
‘Arrangements?’ she said, looking confused.
‘I must return to France today. I have arranged for you to remain at the hotel in London until the marriage can be performed at the mairie in Auxerre in ten days’ time.’
Why had he agreed to come to this appointment? It had been a foolish impulse that he now regretted. He’d never expected the child to be recognisable this early in its gestation. ‘I will see you at the airport in Burgundy. Remember to rest.’
‘I won’t see you for ten days?’ she asked.
He steeled himself against the tightness in his chest caused by the stunned dismay in her eyes. ‘Yes, I am afraid it takes ten days to do the documentation before we can be married.’
Something he was pathetically grateful for.
He had planned to suggest they marry in London, but he was far too aware, even now, of Cara’s lush figure beneath the clinic’s starched robe. He still wanted her too much, even knowing that a life grew inside her. He needed this ten-day separation to ensure he got his hunger for her under some semblance of control.
‘You must rest,’ he said to Cara. ‘Doctor, thank you,’ he murmured, turning to the obstetrician.
Saying his goodbyes, he placed a kiss on Cara’s forehead, then made his escape from the airless room. Leaving the fear, and the memories and the insistent hunger behind him. For the time being at least. The weight in his stomach expanded.
He had ten days to pull himself together and seal off the raw, aching hole that had opened up in the pit of his stomach on seeing the image of his child.
His son.
And ten days to figure out how he was going to survive four endless months of
marriage without jumping his son’s mother every single chance he got.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CAVALCADE OF black SUVs crested the hill. Cara’s breath caught as Maxim’s home appeared in the distance. Château Durand’s centuries-old stone architecture dominated the surrounding fields, making a defiant statement about the power and wealth of the man she had just married in a short civil ceremony at Auxerre town hall.
She’d never ventured onto Durand Corporation land during her months in Burgundy as the de la Mare housekeeper, but she’d heard all the local whispers about the derelict château Maxim Durand had bought and then spent a fortune renovating in the last few years.
Nothing could have prepared her, though, for the magnificence of the property as they drove towards it from the heliport at the winery complex where they’d touched down twenty minutes ago.
They drove through the gates in the high stone wall, making their way past a series of brick outbuildings before travelling along the driveway that led through lavish, perfectly manicured gardens designed in a geometric pattern Capability Brown would have been proud of. The house itself—not a house, a mansion—loomed large at the end of the drive, three storeys of elegant arched windows with pale green shutters. Wisteria and ivy clung to the stonework to add a fanciful charm, while the intricate wrought iron balconies on the upper levels and the red tiled roof blended perfectly with the turrets on each end of the imposing building, giving it the appearance of a castle fit for a king.
Cara risked a glance at her husband, who was busy speaking to someone in rapid French on his mobile phone. Maxim might not have been born a king, but he suited the role perfectly.
Had it really been ten days ago that she had agreed to marry him? The last week and a half had gone by in a blur. The days had merged into one, each one dominated by some new task: the meetings with Maxim’s legal team to outline the prenup he was offering her, which seemed scrupulously fair; the appointments with a barrage of stylists; the fittings with the couturier who had designed and made a whole new wardrobe for her in record time, not to mention the chauffeur-driven trip to say goodbye to Dora, who had been starry-eyed at the mention of who Cara was marrying.
