by Heidi Rice
But during the nights Cara had missed Maxim, feeling alone and confused in the hotel’s luxury suite.
Her fevered mind had had far too much time, going over every moment of their relationship so far, and especially the last time she’d seen him, in Dr Karim’s surgery in Harley Street—and the stricken look on his face when their baby...she breathed...their son had appeared on the monitor.
There had been no sign of that haunted look this morning when he’d met her at the airport. Perhaps she had imagined it?
There had certainly been no time to question him before they’d been whisked to the mairie to say their vows, before heading to a heliport for the breathtaking ride to the Durand estate.
She pulled the brand-new smartphone she’d been given by one of Maxim’s army of assistants out of the pocket of the new linen trousers she wore—part of the beautiful new trousseau that had arrived yesterday. Maxim had arranged to have her belongings brought from her room in Leyton, but her battered rucksack now sat in the back of this pristine SUV, among a pile of matching hand-tooled luggage with her initials stamped on them.
Her new initials. CED. Cara Evans Durand.
She checked the time, trying to ground herself, and get rid of the tightness that had gripped her chest ever since she’d stepped out of his private jet, to see him waiting for her on the tarmac.
Two o’clock in the afternoon. She huffed out an unsteady breath and stared through the car’s window as the line of vehicles entered a leafy courtyard at the side of Maxim’s palace. She could see a large pool shaded by trees, covered now for the winter months, at the far end of a manicured lawn which led down from the château’s back terrace.
Of course he had a pool! She’d never even visited somewhere this lavish, let alone lived in such a place.
She’d known Maxim was wealthy. But she’d had no idea of the extent of his wealth, and power, and how he wielded that power so effortlessly, until the last ten days. His home was simply the crowning glory.
The car stopped and Maxim ended his latest call. After stepping out of the car, he skirted the bonnet, spoke to one of his assistants then arrived to grasp the door handle before she could open the door for herself.
‘Welcome to Château Durand, Cara,’ he said, sending her a distracted smile. He clicked his fingers and two footmen rushed out of the long line of uniformed staff waiting at the château’s door to greet them.
‘Your new French obstetrician and her team are waiting to check you over,’ Maxim said as the footmen began collecting her luggage from the boot. His large hand settled on the small of her back, to direct her up the marble stairs to the château’s entrance. Shivers rippled up her spine where his fingers touched.
‘But I had another check-up with Dr Karim yesterday,’ she said.
‘It is only a formality,’ he murmured, rubbing her back as he guided her, making the shivers increase. ‘Once the doctor is happy,’ he said, ‘it is probably best if you take a rest in your rooms before tonight.’
Her rooms? Why did she need more than one? And what was happening tonight? Was he talking about consummating their marriage?
He glanced at his watch. ‘Does six o’clock suit you?’
‘You’re scheduling sex?’ Her shocked question burst out before she could think better or it. After all, she’d had far too much time to think about this aspect of their relationship in the last ten days, while lying alone in her hotel bed.
His lips quirked in a wry smile, but his intense gaze had a blush firing into her cheeks.
‘I was talking of the wedding, Cara,’ he said, the arousal in his eyes unmistakable at the mention of sex.
‘Oh, I... I see.’ She’d never felt more gauche or stupid—or needy—in her life. ‘But aren’t we already married?’ she murmured.
She’d assumed the quick ceremony at the town hall in Auxerre was all they needed to do. Had actually been grateful for the secular, perfunctory nature of the proceedings. It was going to be hard enough to keep the reality of their marriage clear in her mind while living in Maxim’s lavish home for the next few months.
‘Yes, but we need a wedding ceremony, so that I can introduce you as my wife,’ he said. ‘There is a chapel in the grounds which has been prepared for the event, and my kitchen staff have arranged a wedding banquet in the château’s great hall.’
A banquet?
‘But, I... Really?’
How had he arranged all this in little more than a week? And why?
She’d assumed there would be no ceremony. The less this felt like a real marriage the better. But Maxim seemed to have other ideas.
‘Do not concern yourself,’ he said. ‘The stylist assured me she has provided a suitable dress in your trousseau.’
She had? Was it one of the numerous outfits she’d tried on? Why had no one told her it was a wedding dress?
He proceeded to introduce her to a few of his senior staff. Cara dutifully shook hands and spoke to them in her faltering French. The whole episode started to feel surreal as Maxim directed her into the house.
The château was as lavish inside as it was outside. Her breathing became ragged as Maxim led her past the downstairs salons and parlours and she glimpsed the bespoke antique furniture and a selection of stark modern pieces which looked equally expensive and intimidating. They walked up the wide sweeping staircase at the end of the entrance hall to the first floor, his hand on her back the only thing that was anchoring her now.
He left her at the door to a series of bright, airy, lavishly furnished rooms—her rooms, apparently—and introduced her to the obstetrician and two nurses he’d flown in from Paris.
‘Wait, Maxim.’ She stepped onto the landing to grasp the sleeve of his suit jacket. ‘Will there be a lot of people at the wedding banquet?’
‘Just some local dignitaries and my friends and colleagues,’ he said. ‘No more than a hundred in total.’
A hundred people? She actually felt sick.
He laughed, an indulgent sound that didn’t do much for her panic attack, then cradled her cheek with his palm. ‘Do not worry. It will be over sooner than you think.’
At which point...what? Were they going to consummate this relationship? Not that she’d been obsessing over that question... Much.
Stop worrying about sex... attending a wedding banquet with a hundred people is quite intimidating enough.
‘But I... I’m not... I have no experience of these sorts of social events,’ she said as the fierce need continued to throb in her sex.
He placed his hand on her neck, stroked the rioting pulse point with his thumb and placed a kiss on her forehead. ‘Do not panic, Cara, it will be okay. My assistant, Jean-Claude, has invited Marcel Caron to attend on your behalf, so there will be a familiar face. Marcel has offered to give you away, if you are happy with that arrangement?’
‘I... I guess,’ she said, surprised he had gone to the trouble of inviting Pierre’s lawyer. ‘But I really don’t...’
‘Shh...’ He silenced her with another kiss. ‘As my wife, you must get used to attending such events.’
She must? She’d had no idea he was going to expect her to behave like a real wife. She’d thought she was just supposed to be living here until the baby was born.
‘But... I...?’ She tried again to voice her fears, but he covered her mouth with his, silencing her again. The gentle kiss quickly became firm, seeking, persuasive, taking on a life of its own.
She answered his passion instinctively, desire rising to suffuse her whole body in undulating, unstoppable waves. She was panting, trembling with need, when he finally tore his mouth away.
‘Do not fear, Cara. I will not leave your side once the ceremony starts,’ he said, his gaze shuttered, and so intense it burned.
She stood shaking on the threshold of her rooms, watching him jog back down the stairs as the passio
n he had ignited so effortlessly continued to flow through her body.
One thing was certain: having Maxim by her side throughout the ceremony was not going to calm her nerves one bit.
* * *
‘Ta femme est très belle, Maxim.’
At his estate manager and best man Victor’s whispered compliment, Maxim shifted round from his position at the front of the church to glance over his shoulder.
The soaring strings of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, which had been picked by the wedding organiser he had hired at great expense a week ago, filled the small chapel as Cara made her way down the aisle on Marcel Caron’s arm to the hushed reverence of the crowd.
He stood, transfixed. His bride had her head bent, watching her steps in the golden slippers, the simple but supremely elegant silk dress she wore shifting colour from gold to rose in the flickering glow of a thousand candles. Her blonde hair had been arranged in a pile of unruly curls threaded through with blue flowers to match her eyes. She wore no veil.
The air gathered in his lungs, threatening to strangle him as heat rose through his body like wildfire—the surge of pride and possessiveness like a tidal wave.
Mine.
The word echoed in his head again, unbidden, as it had on their first night together.
He tried to qualify and control it—the way he’d been trying to do for over a week. Ever since he’d left her in London. The wedding had been a necessary charade, for his business, the press and his personal standing in the community.
But as his eyes devoured the stunning woman walking towards him, it was hard to stick to the script he had written so carefully for himself when making the arrangements.
He noticed her knuckles whitening where she gripped the elaborate bouquet in her fist and realised that while Victor was correct—his wife was indeed exquisitely beautiful—she was also extremely nervous.
He tried to calm his breathing, finally forced to admit that his insistence on this ceremony was not quite as pragmatic as he had wanted to believe.
He’d had no hand in choosing the dress, but as Cara approached him he realised he was glad the couturier had made no attempt to disguise her pregnancy. The child was a fact. A fact neither one of them could ignore. So why deny the strange surge of pride and possessiveness at the evidence that she was his?
While he had not wanted the affidavit he had signed to become public all those months ago, he couldn’t deny he was pleased that everyone would know she had been untouched by his father. That while the old bastard had married her first, he had never known the pleasures of her beautiful body.
Perhaps the crowd would think her pregnancy was the only reason he had married her, and until this moment he had been determined to convince himself of the same. But as Cara’s head finally lifted and her shy gaze met his, he was forced to acknowledge the basic biological urge to claim her he had never been able to contain.
Mine.
Marcel presented Cara’s trembling hand to him as they drew level. Maxim captured her fingers in a firm grip and lifted them to his lips. He buzzed a kiss across her knuckles and whispered above the fading music, ‘Do not fear, Cara. This will soon be over and then we can schedule the sex.’
It was supposed to be a joke, a poor attempt to ease the tension, but when the familiar blush ignited her cheeks—and the heat surged in his groin—the joke was on him.
He folded her arm under his and tucked her against his side to face the priest.
The cleric began to say the blessing—there would be no vows as those had already been made at the mairie in Auxerre. But Maxim barely heard the man’s words, far too aware of Cara’s body, ripe with his child, standing stiffly beside him as the cleric blessed their union before God, the local community and Maxim’s employees and friends.
This marriage would be over once the child was born. He could never give her more. His panicked reaction to seeing his son ten days ago was all the proof he needed of that. But as they stood together in the candlelight, the eyes of everyone who mattered in his life upon them, the pressure in his chest refused to go away.
As the blessing finished and the priest gave him permission to kiss his bride, the primitive urge charged through his bloodstream like a living, breathing thing.
As he gathered Cara’s lush body into his arms and conquered her lips in a searing, incendiary kiss, their audience and the reasons for the ceremony faded from his consciousness. All he could smell was her light flowery scent and the musk of her arousal, all he could comprehend was the feel of her soft, pliant, responsive body surrendering to his.
And all he wanted to do was brand her as his in the most basic way imaginable, as soon as was humanly possible.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘YOU MADE a very beautiful bride, madame.’
‘Thank you, Antoinette,’ Cara murmured as she watched her new maid pluck the pins out that were holding her elaborate hairdo aloft.
She was tired, and grateful the festivities—or at least the festivities she was expected to participate in—were over. She sighed as the heavy locks of hair tumbled down.
‘Would madame like me to run a bath?’ Antoinette asked in her perfect English.
‘That would be wonderful,’ Cara replied, still unused to having anyone wait on her.
The battalion of stylists and beauty therapists who had arrived in her suite to prepare her for the wedding had done a spectacular job. At least she had looked the part of Maxim’s sophisticated society bride. But the truth was she had been terrified as she’d walked down the aisle on Marcel Caron’s arm, the hauntingly beautiful classical music, played expertly by a string and woodwind orchestra in the corner of the chapel, only making her feel like more of a fraud.
The dress had been so close-fitting no one could have missed her baby bump and, while she could never be ashamed of her pregnancy, she had felt as if she’d had a sign round her neck saying ‘shotgun wedding’.
But when Maxim had gripped her hand and brought it to his lips, the fear of exposure had been replaced by a more visceral fear. In that second, as his gaze roamed over her, rich with appreciation, she had felt beautiful, and truly seen, for the first time in her life... And it had terrified her. Because it could not possibly be true.
But what terrified her more was how much she had wanted to look beautiful, for him.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
She couldn’t go there, she mustn’t. Because she knew what would happen if she allowed herself to think that if she changed who she was it would make a man like Maxim truly care for her. It wouldn’t.
She’d tried to change before, with the foster families she’d stayed with. Even tried to change for her own father as a young child, after her mother’s death, when she’d sensed he was going to leave her too... It didn’t work, it never had.
She let out a guttering breath and heard Antoinette’s carefree humming while she prepared the bath in the adjoining room.
For goodness’ sake, lighten up, Cara.
Tonight was an elaborate show. Maxim had said so himself. She mustn’t take it so seriously.
The heady scent of lavender and rose drifted into her bedroom from the bathroom, and she recognised the tune Antoinette was humming—the sensual melody from their first waltz.
More unhelpful memories flooded back, of the rest of the evening, the romance of the château’s Great Hall, illuminated by thousands of candles and sprays of hothouse flowers. And that waltz with Maxim, as he had banded his strong arms around her, gathered her close and led her effortlessly through the steps of the dance so she didn’t stumble or fall.
The twist of panic in her belly tightened. How could he have managed to make her feel so cherished, so adored, when none of it was real?
Everything he had done had been for the benefit of their audience, so why hadn’t it felt that way? Was she really so desperate for affe
ction she could be fooled by romance and spectacle—and the glow of desire in his rich brown eyes?
She pushed the memories into the furthest reaches of her brain. She had to remain a realist, or she would be destroyed at the end of all this. The way she had been destroyed as a child.
She went to pick up the heavy silver brush on the dressing table and clashed fingers with Antoinette, who had returned from the bathroom.
The maid laughed. ‘I can brush madame’s hair, if you would like?’
Cara smiled at the young woman in the mirror, who was so much more sophisticated than she was. ‘Would it be okay if I did it myself?’
‘Of course.’ Antoinette smiled. ‘Would you like me to leave you to bathe?’
Cara nodded, desperate to be alone as her gaze strayed to the large four-poster bed which dominated the bedroom. She needed to get her thoughts in order before... Well, before Maxim arrived tonight, assuming he was coming. The comment he had made when she’d reached him at the altar had sounded like a joke. So why couldn’t she stop fixating on it...and wanting desperately for it to be real?
‘Should I return to help you dress for your wedding night?’ the maid asked boldly.
‘I think I can handle that,’ Cara murmured, almost choking on her embarrassment. ‘But thank you so much for your help this evening, Antoinette.’
The maid grinned, making her look very young. ‘You are welcome, madame. I think Monsieur Durand chose very well for his wife.’
Before leaving, Antoinette laid out a gossamer-thin piece of lace on the bed then added with a sparkle of humour, ‘The couturière left this for you to wear tonight. But as Monsieur Durand did not take his eyes from you all evening, I do not think you will need it for very long.’
‘Right...thanks, Antoinette.’ Cara’s blush incinerated her cheeks as the maid left. And the pulse of need between her thighs—which was always there—pounded even harder.
