She had known nothing about him. He had been just a man who ‘lives far away and can’t come back’. Ignorance had been bliss—until the dreadful night she’d overheard her mother’s slurred voice telling someone how ‘Everything was fine until Ruby came along. If it wasn’t for that kid I’d be in a different world right now.’
She’d stopped asking about her father after that, and tried to bury the sickeningly shameful secret that she’d driven him away. Then she had found dance and her mother had found George and it had been as if she’d lost her mother too.
The only thing she’d had in her world was her body and the music and the steps and the shapes and the struggle to be perfect. If she hadn’t found dance she’d never have made it this far.
Dance had given her confidence. And hope. And finally an understanding that a baby wasn’t responsible for anyone’s actions.
But now she had done this. She had turned off her own life supply and turned on another. This new life.
She would lie in the watery morning light, put her hand on her stomach—still flat and hard with muscle—and wonder what lay beneath. What little life was in there, burrowed away, safe until it was ready to be born? How was she ever going to give it what it needed? What chance did she have of being a proper mother when her own life hadn’t begun until she’d become a boarder at the British Ballet? They were her only family. And now she’d let them down too...
That thought would make her heave herself out of bed before she was sick. She’d clean up, then lie on the cold floor between her tiny bathroom and tiny kitchen and torture herself with fear. What if she was left alone with this? What if Matteo had already met someone else? What if he refused to see her? What if he denied that he’d ever met her?
A phone call to her mother had proved once and for all that being left alone was a very real possibility—because relying on her for help wasn’t an option. Oh, yes, she’d said she’d come to London when the baby was born, but as Ruby had ended the call, and felt the sorrowful finality of her whispered ‘goodbye’, she had known that See you soon was the last thing in the world that would actually happen.
No, there had been no other way. She’d had to try and see Matteo face to face as soon as she could.
So she had followed him on social media and in the press until she knew almost everything about him—including the fabulous annual Cordon D’Or, which ten weeks after she’d left the clinic, was exactly where he was going to be this weekend.
It was perfect. She still had her Banca Casa di Rossini ID badge and she still had the dress she’d thought she’d never wear again.
With the hugest reluctance she’d dragged it out from the bag at the bottom of her wardrobe and had it cleaned and altered. A few centimetres at the waist was all she’d needed to allow the zip to close. She’d bought her first ever strapless bra, put on her make-up, and then, with no luggage other than her passport and her handbag, her stomach heaving with hormones and nerves, she’d climbed aboard a budget airline flight to Nice.
With cameras everywhere, there would be no better place to do it. He couldn’t say or do anything bad to her with the world watching. She’d jumped in a taxi, pulled up to the château gates, flashed the badge and made her way through the crowds, over the lawns, and up the marble steps to where the rich and the talented had been kissing their hellos.
Her heart had lurched at the sight of him. The same tall, broad frame, the wide, sure stance. His hair had flopped over his brow and his head had been down like a panther about to pounce. He wore a dark suit and pale blue shirt, open at the neck. And, damn him, he’d looked even more handsome than she remembered.
She’d walked along the path, never taking her eyes off him, fully intending to blurt it out, right there on the steps, but as he’d turned and seen her, and shock had filled his eyes, something had held her back. Something in that look had held her in place, told her not to say the words yet. Some desperate warning that, miraculously, she had decided to heed.
But it was all about a deal.
As soon as he’d learned he was going to be a father he’d upped and left, gone back to his party. The deal was clearly more important than learning he was going to be a father. But what else had she really expected? And now she’d lost her chance to shame him in front of the world.
She walked to the window and stared down at the party.
The elderly couple were pulling away in their car. She saw Matteo raise a hand to wave them off and then he watched them go, standing still as the marble pillars on either side of him that held the roof aloft.
‘That’s your father,’ she whispered to the baby growing silently within her. ‘Your father that I barely know. I’m sorry...so sorry, my angel. I never meant this to happen. But whatever is best for you I will do it. I will fight for you—and I will make sure he does not abandon you.’
As she stared down at the top of his head he suddenly turned and looked up at the window, as if he’d heard her words. She met his eyes, and again that arc of something deep and strong sprang between them. He turned around fully now, as one, two, three more seconds ticked by, his steady gaze so powerful that it made her want to reach for something to hold on to.
Then he bowed his head and was gone.
Her heart began to thunder and her legs began to move. She wasn’t going to stay hidden away up here a moment longer. She was going to go down to the party and find him—before he got tangled up in some other business conversation, or some woman threw herself all over him and she slid even further down his list of priorities.
She would not disappear because it didn’t suit him to have a child. Never.
She moved across the room, put her hand out to push the door—but it landed instead on the wide, warm chest of Matteo.
Without missing a beat, he put his hand over hers and spun her around with him.
‘Now we can get out of here.’
Her feet barely touched the ground as he sped them along the hallway, now flooded with late-evening sun and the faint glow of just-lit lamps.
‘David, I need a launch out to the boat. Set it up. Clothes, food... But above all else—privacy.’
He slipped his phone away and at the top of the stairs he turned. ‘We’ll use the servants’ entrance.’
‘For what? What’s going on?’
His jaw was grim, his mouth pinched, but he looked at her with surprise in his eyes.
‘You wanted to talk. So we talk—without anyone listening. Offshore. I don’t want any distractions.’
His dark berry eyes gave nothing away, but she could feel the energy pulsing off him in waves. He was bullish. He was going to take this head-on—she could see that. He wasn’t running away.
‘Do you have anything with you? Anything you need back at your hotel?’
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t planning on staying any longer than necessary. This is all I have.’
‘Doesn’t matter. If you think of something David will sort it. OK—you ready for this? Because you’d better get used to it.’
He put his arm around her shoulders and steered them both out. She didn’t raise her head above the trail of steps and gravel paths, the perfect lawns and flowerbeds, all the way down to the tiny beach and jetty where a sleek white motorboat was waiting.
He jumped aboard and the little boat bobbed with his weight.
‘Take your shoes off,’ he said as he held out his arm to help her aboard.
She stared at the slippery jetty, at its ridged surface, and then at the inky water and the huge gap between solid land and the boat.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘before we attract a crowd.’
He stretched his hand out a little further but she faltered.
‘I’m a bit nervous of water. I can’t swim properly.’ It was a fact she hated to say out loud, but a fact nonetheless.
‘That’s totally OK,�
�� he said, and she noticed with relief the lack of censure in his voice. ‘You’ll be completely safe—just do what I tell you. Take your shoes off first. Heels are dangerous on boats. Throw them to me and then put your arms out. That’s it,’ he said as she followed his instructions.
His strong hands gripped her arms, then her waist, and then, as she stared up into his face, she gingerly stepped into the boat. It moved slightly, but his body was like a rock and she found herself holding on to it with both arms, just for a moment, but long enough to feel an echo of that hunger.
He lifted a life jacket and helped her into it, his fingers swift and deft, face focused. Then he unfastened the rope and sat down, pulling her by the hand to sit beside him. The engine fired up and they began to nose their way through the bay between the other boats, berthed like huge chess pieces on a watery board.
Suddenly they reached clear water and picked up speed. As the boat bumped along on the waves and out to the sea, spray landed on her bare arms and face and the wind whipped at her hair. She looked at him but he stared stubbornly ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘Where exactly are we going?’ she asked, as they rounded the bay and a huge white yacht came into view.
He nodded. ‘On that—where I’m pretty sure we won’t be disturbed.’
They pulled alongside and waited as the water impatiently slapped the sides of the boat and her sensitive nose picked up the scent of salty ocean mingled with fuel. As the rope was pulled tight, men appeared from nowhere—all of them poised, it seemed, to help her on board.
‘OK, I’ve got this,’ barked Matteo, and they melted away. ‘Ruby?’
She slid her hands into his as he helped her aboard with what seemed suddenly like something close to gentleness. Then they walked up through one deck into another and right into the prow of the ship, where tiny lights were draped around the wooden railings and a single table was set for dinner for two.
‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Is this for us?’
Maids appeared with vases of white roses and domed silver platters.
‘For you,’ he said, pulling out her chair as if it was no big deal. ‘And just one more thing...’
He reached out and pressed a button and the roof retracted, opening them up to the starry sky above. The ship’s mast stretched high, and from the top fluttered a little flag. The distant sounds of the party rumbled behind them and all around a warming breeze stirred the trails of bunting that clung prettily to the ropes.
It was the most romantic scene she’d ever witnessed. She had been prepared for denial, a fight, maybe even a pay-off, but she hadn’t been prepared for kindness or consideration or—romance?
Maybe it was Matteo’s way of softening her up, lulling her into giving in to his will. She sat straight in her seat. She wasn’t going to make any of this easy for him.
‘OK. We’re here now, and we’ve got a lot to talk about, but I suggest we take this slowly,’ he said, easing his large frame into the seat opposite with the grace that, even now, she found irresistibly alluring. ‘I don’t want to rush into talking about things that are bigger than anything we’ve ever had to deal with before. We’re going to take a little time to get to know one another again—you know, build up some trust. You OK with that?’
He poured water into her glass, his eyes concentrating only on that, his face registering nothing other than patience. But it wasn’t patience that she wanted to see. She needed reassurance. She needed action.
‘I’m OK with that as long as you understand that I’m not here for dinner and dancing. I’m here for one reason only and that’s to discuss next steps.’
He put his glass down slowly. ‘All right. If that’s the way you want to play it I can’t force you. All I’m saying is that we’re asking a lot of each other if we don’t take our time here. I never get into talks cold. It’s a really dumb thing to do.’
‘You think forcing small-talk is really going to make a difference to the outcome?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of forcing my small-talk on anyone. It’s not that great. But I assume you’ll want to eat and that you’ll at least stay until morning. There’s loads of space here, and you’ll need to rest in...’
The steepled hands, the patient, soothing voice again.
Instantly her hackles rose.
‘Please don’t patronise me by saying in your condition. I’ve survived the past few weeks of this pregnancy being sick in toilets, without your help, so I think I’m well aware of what I do and don’t need.’
The silence with which he met her sharp words sat heavy and still.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said finally. ‘I should have realised. It’s not just coming to terms with being pregnant that you’ve had to cope with. It’s all the physical things too. I’ve got a lot to learn.’
She looked sharply at him. This was not what she had expected. At all.
‘Don’t worry—the physical things only relate to the woman. You’re quite safe.’
‘OK, Ruby,’ he said, obviously swallowing down on a chuckle. ‘I know that I’m not going to be the one who actually goes through the pregnancy. I was only trying to say that I want to be part of this with you, and to do that I need to find out more about it. That’s all.’
‘You want to be part of this?’
He was saying the right things. He was making eye contact and acting concerned. But still...
‘Yes, but, as I said, tomorrow is time enough for us to talk about all that. Why don’t you tuck in? You must be hungry. And I know how much you like to eat.’
She lifted the dome from her plate to reveal a platter of ice and lemon and six fat oysters glistening in their shells.
‘I can’t eat these,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I can’t drink wine or eat soft cheese or lots of other things. And cream makes me sick. And soy sauce. Anything like that.’ She pushed the plate away.
Matteo threw down his napkin, stood up and walked around the table. Startled, she tilted her head back to look at him.
‘You see—this is just the sort of thing I mean. I need to know how to look after you.’
He put his large hands out and she slid hers into them. Like some stupid marionette, she allowed herself to be lifted to her feet. She could feel the heat from his body, sense the strength from his core, the sure, solid presence that she’d once buried herself in, guard down and heart wide open.
‘Come on. Let me show you to your cabin and I’ll get some food that you can eat sent in to you. Food that’s not going to harm you or the baby.’
She could feel herself sinking towards him, the magnetic pull of his body offering and demanding in equal measure, natural as sunset and sunrise, just like the last time. But she couldn’t afford that luxury again. She had to keep herself apart, head clear and mind sharp as a tack.
He was using her weakness against her—making her dependent. She shook her head, ready to argue, but the waves of tiredness were huge now. She’d been on the go for hours, hadn’t slept well the night before, and stress and strain and emotion were all beginning to drag her under. She opened her mouth in a deep yawn.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘No arguments. I’m taking control here and you’re going to bed.’
‘I will not be ordered around,’ she muttered stubbornly. ‘I’ll make my own decisions and...’
But she was engulfed in another yawn and the last of her energy evaporated.
‘Make your own decisions in the morning. Make all the decisions you like. But right now I’m in charge. Let’s go.’
He scooped her up, and just that—the sensation of his body around hers and his fierce directive—had her lost in the waves of her own fight. She caved, allowed him to hold her close, didn’t fight the warm glove of his hand on her head. Didn’t fight the steady beat of his heart on her cheek or the warm male scent of his chest. She didn’t lift her head
to check where he was going, or worry or wonder how she was going to get home.
She let herself melt.
When he opened the door of a cabin she saw subtle lights and soft fabrics in creams and pinks and lacquered wood. And she didn’t resist.
He laid her down on the bed and she felt his hands peel down her zip and ease her out of her dress. And still she didn’t struggle. She let it happen. She rolled over in her underwear, felt sheets pulled back, and then she was enveloped in the softest satin and her path into dreams stretched out ahead.
And she knew, as she drifted under, that she was here again, with Matteo, and that the hole in her armour was getting wider and wider.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ON HIS EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY his father had given Matteo the fountain pen he now held in his hands. He ran his fingers along the onyx lacquer and tested the brass nib. The first time he’d used it was when he’d had to sign the lease for his flat at university. It had felt like a step into adulthood, symbolically marked by such a formal object. It was a lovely pen—now used for signing contracts and legal documents—but it wasn’t what he needed right now.
He put the lid on it and tucked it away.
Right now he needed something much more current. Something with no trace of the past. Something he could use to write out his future. Because it was right there, in front of him, fast asleep on the bed.
He stretched out his legs and rolled his shoulders. The chair was comfortable enough for short people who wanted to take a load off their feet for a few minutes, but it was totally useless for a six-foot-three ex-rugby-player who’d been folded into it for the past five hours.
But where else would he be with all the chattering in his mind, the constant conversations he’d been having with himself since he’d closed the door on the Arturos, watched them roll off down the drive and then turned to see that vision in red at the window.
She had his mind—every corner of it.
He’d better get it back—and fast.
The Tycoon's Shock Heir Page 10
