The Tycoon's Shock Heir

by Bella Frances

  He opened the door into the cabin and right on cue the gorgeous Ruby appeared. So she wasn’t agency staff—she was a dancer. Well, that checked out. Her posture was perfect...her body was perfect. But why on earth was she serving him iced water at twenty thousand feet?

  Suddenly it all became clear.

  He went back into the bedroom and closed over the door.

  ‘This is a roundabout way of saying that you met someone with another hard luck story and took her under your wing.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking and I’m not going to lie. Ruby’s had a tough time, but she’s not a victim. This isn’t all a one-way street, so you can relax.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  His mother was always feeling sorry for some waif or stray, and they didn’t all have the best of intentions. He’d had years rooting out the swindlers and the chancers from the genuinely broken people who seemed to flock towards her. For all she was a shrewd businesswoman, she was also immensely gullible when it came to anyone with a hard luck story.

  ‘Matty, there is nothing for you to worry about! Ruby is not going to trick me out of my millions. She’s completely dedicated to the British Ballet, but she’s off with an injury so this is her way of keeping involved. But if you’d rather have one of the men in tights I’m sure that can be arranged...?’

  He shook his head in disbelief. Once again she’d twisted him around her little finger. How could he resist anything his mother said? After all she’d done for him, holding it together all these years. They were tight—a unit. They had been since his father’s death and always would be. It was that simple.

  And if ever he had a moment when he doubted anything he heard his father’s voice—his conscience, whatever—whispering in his ear. There was no way his mother’s wishes would go unheeded. Ever.

  ‘OK. As long as she doesn’t get the wrong idea.’

  ‘That part’s entirely up to you, Matteo.’

  He caught the slight note of censure in her voice—and the double meaning. She knew his vices as much as he did himself. The fact that he didn’t want a long-term relationship didn’t mean that he wanted to spend his evenings alone.

  ‘OK, Mamma. I didn’t mean with me, but we’ll let that pass.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I don’t mean to have a dig. But it upsets me that women are so disposable to you. I know you could have a happy life if only you’d let yourself settle down with someone. At the end of the day I’m your mother, and I only want what’s best for you.’

  ‘What’s best for me is what’s best for the bank. That’s all I’m interested in. Not settling down with a woman. I’m not saying that I’ll always feel this way, but for now, until I’ve got past this hurdle, the bank is all there is.’

  The words were out. As plain as numbers on a balance sheet. Irrevocable. No room for misinterpretation. Profit. Loss. Black. White. No shades of grey, no emotion colouring things. Just following the dream. His father’s dream. And now it was his. Like it or not.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FLIGHT AT SIX, land at seven-thirty, less an hour for time difference. Half-hour to get to the theatre. It would be a miracle if she pulled it off without a hitch.

  Ruby stood in the middle of the cabin and stared—left to the cockpit and right, all the way to the firmly closed bedroom door, where Matteo Rossini, company sponsor, heart-throb and all-round Love Rat was still taking calls while the minutes ticked past.

  She shook her head and stared down at her arms, where blotches and hives were beginning their stress march across her skin—a sure sign that she was out of her comfort zone.

  It was bad enough that she’d been on the bench for months, waiting for this ligament damage to heal, but now she was hurtling towards London, and the world premiere of Two Loves, with the job of convincing their sponsor that the British Ballet was worth every penny of the money his private bank channelled their way.

  So much responsibility—and she was the last person they should have trusted to do this.

  If it had been Coral Rossini herself it would have been fine. She was the Grande Dame of Dance. She’d been a massive support to the company for years. She was loved and gave love in return, supporting them at every premiere. But not this time. This time her second-in-command was stepping in.

  And when the director had passed Ruby that note, with a Who’s the lucky girl? look on his face, it had been all she could do to stop herself from groaning aloud, Hopefully not me...

  She’d read Coral Rossini’s note.

  So lovely to meet you again yesterday!

  I’ve suddenly realised you would be the ideal person to look after my son Matteo at the benefit on Friday. He’s not the biggest fan of dance but I’m sure you’ll work your magic.

  I have taken the liberty of sending some things for you. And some things for Matteo to wear too.

  Don’t worry if he puts up a fight—he’s a pussycat really!

  Ciao!

  Coral x

  She’d stared at the note, her heart tumbling into her stomach, and then opened the bags and boxes of clothes, all beautifully wrapped and folded in tissue. There had been the red dress—a froth of satin and petticoats—a wrap with a beautiful Chinese poppy print, beige court shoes and a little matching clutch. Then she’d found a red tie and pocket square for Matteo to wear, and tucked into an envelope was a cheque for a thousand pounds.

  A thousand pounds! That had made it even more impossible to say no. No one could afford to turn her nose up at that kind of money. But for this? She just wasn’t cut out for schmoozing with the people who hung around the fringes of the dance world. She couldn’t care less who was famous or rich or both.

  The director had been quite up-front about it.

  ‘I can trust you to do it. Some of the other girls might get a bit carried away, but you’ve got your head screwed on. You’ll not let us down. Or yourself...’

  He was right about that. She’d been with the British Ballet longer than anyone else—it had been home and school and friends and family to her for years. She’d come up through the ranks from eleven years old and she had no ambition to go anywhere else or do anything else. She was safe there. It was all she knew. And all she wanted to know.

  Others came, made friends, found lovers, moved on. They had lives outside of the studio and the theatre. They went to parties and spoke about their families. They knew not to ask her about hers. She knew they were curious, but they accepted her silence. Who’d want to talk about that, after all? The gap year father who just kept on travelling, and the teenage mother who hadn’t been able to accept the curfew demanded by a newborn baby.

  Thank God for dance. That was her silent prayer. Without dance she would still be the millstone around her mother’s neck or the fatherless obsessive—scouring the internet, searching for his face in the crowd, dreaming about reconciliations that would never happen...

  ‘Hi. I’m Matteo. Good to meet you.’

  She startled at the sound of his voice and dropped the bag of peanuts she’d been about to open.

  Deep breath, big smile, and turn.

  ‘Ruby. Hello.’ She smiled as she neatly grabbed the bag and extended her hand.

  She had to admit he was even more of a heart-throb up close—and so tall. His tie hung loosely, like a rope on the wall of his wide chest. She gazed up past thick broad shoulders to a blunt jaw and a full-lipped mouth. His nose was broad and long, broken at the bridge, and his eyes, when she reached them, were sharp brown berries, tucked deep into a frown.

  He shook her hand. Warmly...firmly. Then dropped his hand away. She found herself staring at the half-smile on his lips, noticing how wide and full they were, and thinking that with his longer-than-collar-length hair he looked more like a romantic poet trapped in a boxer’s body than a boring banker.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  B
ang, bang, bang. Words were fired out like bullets at a target, and his eyes were taking in everything. Every. Thing. They darted all over her face and swept up the rest of her—and maybe it was the close confines of the plane, or the fact that he had such a presence, or the fact that she was not used to standing in heels serving drinks to a total stranger at twenty thousand feet, but her footing faltered and she had to reach out to hold the back of a seat for balance.

  ‘Yes. I—I was just going to pour you another drink and find some snacks and...’

  ‘No problem. I’m fine for drinks and snacks. But apparently I’m heading to the ballet now, which is quite a turn of events.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, regaining perfect balance and poise. ‘To see Two Loves. The premiere. We’re so excited. It’s an amazing production.’

  And it was. And she’d have given anything to be in it. But because of this hideous injury she wasn’t even in the corps. Instead she’d had to pack her day with teaching junior classes and attending physio. And serving Love Rats...

  ‘And you’re the face of the British Ballet. That’s good. That’s really good,’ he said, scanning her again and nodding as if in fact it was really bad. ‘Done your homework, I take it? I’ll need to know the names and the bios of the people we’re going to see.’

  He moved around the cabin now and she stood there, not quite sure if she was supposed to follow him, reassure him, or disappear off the face of the earth.

  She watched him turn on a screen that flashed stock exchange numbers. He glanced at it, then changed it quickly to sports. He folded his arms and stared at the screen as a commentator’s voice rose to a crescendo over the roar of a crowd. She looked to see what it was—men charging into one another, with mud-splattered thighs as big as tree trunks, ears and noses like Picasso paintings, all grabbing for an oval shaped ball as if it was the Holy Grail. Rugby. Yuck. How could anyone get excited about that?

  ‘Come on!’ he grunted at the players on the screen as he moved towards it.

  Obviously Matteo Rossini did. She waited...and watched, but it was as if she had become a part of the furniture, as incidental as the beige leather chairs. He might have the looks, but he had none of his mother’s charm.

  Suddenly he turned, caught her gawping, and frowned. He pressed the remote control ‘off’ and tossed it down on the chair.

  ‘I have plans for later, so I’d like this to be all wrapped up by ten. Shall we make a start?’

  He nodded, indicating the little lounge area where four leather armchairs were grouped around a coffee table. He lowered himself down, comfortable, confident and totally composed, while she perched carefully, straight-backed, knees locked, smile fixed.

  ‘OK. Basics first. You’re a dancer with this ballet company, but you’ve “volunteered” to take on this PR role just for tonight.’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said, ignoring the air quotes he made with his hands.

  ‘So what’s Ruby’s story? Why you?’ he said, narrowing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

  ‘You want to know about me? There’s not much to tell. I’ve been with the BB since I was eleven,’ she said, realising that she was now being interviewed for a job she didn’t even want. ‘I’m not dancing tonight, so I think I was the obvious choice.’

  ‘The BB is the British Ballet?’

  She smiled at his stupid question.

  ‘Yes. The company’s fifty years old. I’ve been in the school, the corps, then a soloist and hopefully one day a principal. So I know everything there is to know.’

  ‘What about the other side of things? There will be political points being scored here tonight. You know everything there is to know about that too, I take it?’

  As she stared at him she suddenly remembered the notes. Had she brought them? Pages and pages of silly handwritten notes about all the other stuff she was meant to tell him. She’d been writing them out in the kitchen, she’d numbered them, she’d stacked them... And then what had she done with them?

  ‘You’re prepared, right? One thing you should know about me is I’m not a big fan of winging it.’

  Neither am I, she wanted to answer back. Which was why she had spent so long making notes about things she didn’t find remotely interesting. But being rude to the sponsor was not an option—not with all that revenue riding on it. Her own scholarship had been funded through the generosity of patrons like Coral Rossini, the Company Director had been quick to remind her.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. Mrs Rossini was confident I was right for the job.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure she was,’ he said, in a tone that buzzed in her subconscious like an annoying fly.

  But where were the notes? In her bag? Or could she have stuffed them in her pockets? Left them on the Tube?

  He tipped his head back, scrutinised her with a raised brow, looking down the length of his annoyingly handsome nose, and she wondered if he could read her mind.

  ‘How long have you known my mother, incidentally? She seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’

  ‘She has?’

  She’d definitely had the notes just before she got in the car...

  ‘Yes. And you wouldn’t be the first person to want to be friends with my incredibly kind, incredibly generous mother.’

  What was he talking about? Did he think that she wanted to be his mother’s friend? Did he think she actually wanted to be here, doing this?

  ‘I’m not here to make friends with anyone. I’m here because I was told to be.’

  And then she stopped, suddenly aware of the dark look that had begun to spread across his face. She’d gone too far.

  ‘You were told to be?’ he asked as his brows rose quizzically above those sharp sherry-coloured eyes.

  ‘Someone had to do it.’

  He sat back now, framed in the cream leather seat, elbows resting on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled in front of his chest. They were shaded with fine dark hair, and above the pinstriped cuff of his shirt the metallic gleam of a luxury watch twinkled and shone.

  She kept her eyes there, concentrating on the strong bones of his wrists, refusing to look into his face as the jet powered on through the sky.

  ‘And you drew the short straw?’ he said, lifting his water.

  She caught sight of the solid chunks of burnished silver cufflinks. She’d never even known anyone who wore cufflinks before, barely knew anyone who bothered to wear a shirt and tie, and she wondered for a moment how he got them off at night.

  ‘You’d rather be anywhere other than here?’

  His voice curled out softly, quietly, just above the thrum of the engines, and with the unmistakable tone of mockery. Was he teasing her? She flashed a glance up. He was. The tiniest of smiles lurked at the corner of his mouth. Did that mean he didn’t think she was trying to stick her claws into his mother?

  Maybe.

  She shifted in the chair, used her core muscles to keep from slipping further down into the bucket seat. He sat completely still, and with all that body sitting across from her it was impossible to concentrate.

  ‘I’d rather be performing,’ she said. ‘Nothing matters more to me than that.’

  ‘That I understand,’ he said quietly. His face fell for a moment as some other world held him captive. He opened and flexed his hand, turned it around and she saw knuckles distended, broken. ‘I understand that very well.’

  She looked down at her own hands, bunched up on her lap in the scarlet satin, and waited for him to speak. He didn’t. He crossed his leg and her gaze travelled there. And all the way along it. All the way along hard, strong muscle. She knew firm muscle when she saw it, and he was even better built than a dancer—bulkier, stronger, undeniably masculine. She could make out powerful thighs under all that navy silk gabardine, and the full force of the shoulders stretched out under his shirt. He could
lift her above his head, and spin her around, lay her down and then...

  He laid his hands on the armrests and she glanced up, startled out of her daydream.

  ‘Sorry. I—Let’s get back on track.’ She cleared her throat. OK, time to remember her notes. ‘The performance tonight. You want me to give you the details now?’

  ‘Please do.’ He nodded.

  She frowned. She could repeat every dance step, but that wasn’t what he needed to know. Details. Names. Dates. All in the notes, in a pile, on her kitchen table—which was at least five hundred miles away.

  ‘Two Loves is based on a poem.’

  ‘A poem...? Anything more specific than that?’

  Yes, there were specifics. Loads of specifics. She’d written them down, memorised them, but fishing them out of her brain now was a different thing. As if she needed any more reminding that the one single thing she could do in life was dance. She was completely hopeless at almost everything else.

  ‘It’s...really old,’ she said, grasping for any single fact.

  His eyebrow was still raised. ‘How old? Last month? Last year? Last century?’

  ‘Ancient old,’ she said, an image of the poet that the choreographer had shown them coming to mind. ‘Like two thousand years. And Persian,’ she said happily. ‘It’s all coming back. He’s a Persian poet called Rumi, famous for his love poems.’

  ‘Ah yes. Rumi. “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along...” And all that rubbish.’

  ‘Yes, well. Some of that—“rubbish”—has made this ballet tonight,’ she said, pleased that she’d remembered something, even if he sounded less than impressed.

  ‘OK. Though, since its unlikely I’m going to be shaking hands with the poet Rumi tonight, do you have any facts about anyone alive? There’s normally a whole list of people I need to thank.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, staring into his unimpressed face. ‘That’s all in my notes.’