The Frenchman's Marriage Demand

by Chantelle Shaw

  ‘Damn you, Zac,’ she burst out when his silence became intolerable. ‘There’s no need to look so horrified,’ she muttered bitterly. ‘I don’t want a penny of your wretched money. All I ever wanted was for Aimee to have a daddy who would love and protect her, and that clearly isn’t going to be you. But I can do those things. I’ll be a mother and a father to her and right now I’m taking her home.’ She glared at him, and a frisson of unease ran the length of her spine when he stood up and strode around the desk.

  ‘No, chérie, you are not,’ he said steadily, his eyes narrowing when she jumped up and backed away from him. He could see the hurt and confusion in her eyes and felt a flicker of remorse. But when he closed the gap between them and noted how her pulse was jerking frantically at the base of her throat, he felt a surge of quiet satisfaction. Sexual alchemy was a potent force that held her in its thrall, however much she might resent its power.

  There was no point in denying that he was deeply shocked by the results of the paternity test. Aimee was his child, a Deverell who, like him, was a possible carrier of the gene that had caused the illness and deaths of his baby sisters. His one relief was that Aimee was eighteen months old and safe from the risk of developing the disease, which caused death in infants usually before they were a year old.

  Discovering that he was a father was something he hadn’t been prepared for, but he had felt protective of Freya’s child from the moment Joyce Addison had abandoned her to his care and he knew without doubt that he would love Aimee unconditionally for the rest of his life. Aimee was adorable and, having missed the first eighteen months of her life, he was determined not to miss another day.

  His feelings towards Freya were more complicated. On the few occasions that she had crept into his mind during the past two years, he had angrily dismissed her, reminding himself of her true colours. But the moment he had seen her again he’d been forced to accept that his desire for her was as fierce as it had been in the past. He had made love to her last night because he couldn’t resist her, and now it seemed that he didn’t have to try. She hadn’t lied to him, she was the mother of his child and she wanted him with the same urgency that he wanted her. All he had to do now was persuade her to resume her place in his bed.

  ‘It seems that I am one of the rare cases for whom the vasectomy reversed, but now I know Aimee is my child and I accept that I have a responsibility for her.’ he began, but Freya interrupted him.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ She shook her head fiercely, hating the fact that he felt a duty towards Aimee. Her grandmother had tolerated her out of a sense of duty, but it had been a loveless upbringing and she would do everything in her power to prevent her daughter from feeling the same sense of worthlessness that she had felt as a child. ‘I hereby absolve you of all responsibility. What were you planning to do, Zac—appease your conscience by arranging regular maintenance payments and maybe send her a birthday card once a year?’ she demanded sarcastically. ‘Aimee’s conception was the result of a freak chance, it wasn’t your fault and there’s no reason for you to feel obligated towards either of us.’

  ‘It’s not a question of obligation,’ Zac said forcefully. ‘I want to play an active role in my daughter’s life.’ The ring of steely determination in his voice caused Freya’s heart to jerk in her chest and she stared at him, bemused by his unexpected statement.

  ‘You mean you want to arrange visitation rights? Think carefully, Zac. A child is for life, not just for Christmas,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s all very well for you to decide you want to see Aimee occasionally, but what happens when the novelty of fatherhood wears off? I remember how excited I used to feel when my mother promised to visit, and the crushing sense of disappointment when she let me down yet again. I won’t allow you to do that to Aimee.’

  ‘That’s not how it will be,’ he stated angrily. ‘Aimee is my child, a Deverell, and I want her to live here in Monaco.’

  ‘But how would that work?’ Freya argued faintly, her mind reeling. ‘Even if I finish my degree, I’m not sufficiently fluent in French to find a job that would pay rent on a property here. Aimee’s home is in England and that’s where I’m taking her. If you’re serious about wanting a relationship with her, you can easily afford to visit as often as it suits you.’ Her tone plainly indicated that she believed he would soon lose interest in playing daddy, and Zac’s jaw hardened.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that we live in separate homes and pass our daughter between us like a parcel. A child needs two parents and I want you and Aimee to move into the penthouse with me.’

  For the sum total of twenty seconds Freya experienced a surge of incandescent joy—quickly followed by the feeling that her heart was plummeting towards her toes with the speed of an express elevator. Of course he wanted her to move back in with him—it would be much more convenient for him than having to travel back to England to visit Aimee. She was still stunned by Zac’s declaration that he intended to be a proper father. Undoubtedly Aimee would benefit from having both her parents around, but what role was he expecting her to play in his life?

  ‘Won’t that cramp your style?’ she queried sarcastically. ‘You can hardly maintain your reputation as Monaco’s most eligible bachelor with an ex-lover and a baby in tow.’

  His slow, sensual smile sent a tremor of awareness through her. ‘Since last night, you’re no longer an ex-lover, are you?’ he murmured softly, his warm breath fanning her ear.

  Freya suddenly became aware that he was too close; she could feel the heat from his body and the waves of sexual energy emanating from him triggered alarm bells in her head. She took a jerky step backwards, but his arm snaked around her waist to draw her inexorably towards him.

  ‘You know how it was between us, Freya. Don’t deny it,’ he said fiercely when she opened her mouth to remonstrate. ‘The passion we shared was explosive for both of us, chérie.’

  ‘No.’ Freya made an inarticulate sound low in her throat as she watched his head descend. Any second now his mouth would touch hers and she would be lost to the simmering, burning need that only Zac could arouse. Outrage battled with desire and won by a narrow margin. ‘Do you honestly think you can click your fingers and I’ll fall into your arms?’ she demanded, shamefully aware that she had done exactly that the previous night. ‘Yesterday I was a common slut with a predilection for wealthy lovers—’

  ‘That was before I knew the truth,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I know now that I was wrong and I am willing to accept that you didn’t sleep with Brooks.’

  ‘That’s big of you,’ Freya muttered bitterly, ‘but you’re too late, Zac. It’s a pity you didn’t believe me two years ago—when I needed you. Instead you almost destroyed me with your distrust, and, to be frank, I wouldn’t come back to you if you were the last man on the planet.’

  His slow smile disarmed her and she missed the warning gleam of battle in his eyes. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ he said softly, tightening his arm around her until her face was pressed against his chest.

  ‘Let go of me, you…brute.’ She hammered her fists on his shoulders, like a wild bird frantically beating its wings against the bars of a cage, but he ignored her blows and threaded his other hand through her hair, tilting her face to his. The scorching heat in his gaze sent a quiver of excitement through her and she gave a silent groan of despair. How could she fight him when this was the only place she wanted to be? Clutching the remnants of her pride, she tried to turn her head, but lean fingers held her chin as he angled her mouth to his satisfaction before claiming it with his own in a searing kiss that drove all thoughts of resistance from her mind.

  His tongue explored the contours of her lips, stroking, caressing, until he judged the moment she relaxed her guard and thrust into the moist warmth of her mouth in a flagrantly erotic gesture. Freya felt the drugging sweetness of desire flood through her veins, leaving her limp and boneless with longing. Her fists unfurled and she laid her hands flat against his chest, feeling the erratic thud of h
is heart beneath her fingertips.

  ‘Last night was a mistake. We can’t simply take up where we left off two years ago,’ she protested when he eased the pressure of his mouth and traced her swollen lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘Too much has happened, Zac. You hurt me so badly,’ she whispered as she relived the agony of his rejection and the countless nights when she had cried herself to sleep. She was appalled by her weakness—how could she be such a pushover? He was probably congratulating himself that he had demolished her resistance with one kiss, but when she stared into his eyes and saw the undisguised hunger flare in his blue depths she felt a heady sense of elation. He felt it too, this pagan drumbeat of desire that pounded in her veins until she was conscious of nothing but the desperate, overwhelming need to surrender her soul to passion.

  ‘Then let me try to make amends,’ he growled against her throat. ‘Let me remind you of how good it was between us and show you how good it can be again. We always communicated better without words, chérie.’ He slid his hands down and curled them possessively around her buttocks, drawing her up against him so that her pelvis was in direct contact with the throbbing force of his arousal.

  Freya gasped and he captured the faint sound, grinding his lips on hers with a primitive passion that whipped her senses into a feverish state of anticipation. She was on fire for him and nothing else mattered—not the past and all the pain he’d caused her and not the future and all its uncertainties. She wanted him now, the only man she had ever loved, and when he lifted her into his arms she clung to him, her fingers tearing at his shirt buttons until she was able to part the material and run her hands over the dark hairs that covered his chest.

  Zac cleared the surface of his desk with one sweep of his arm before laying her down on the polished wood and immediately covering her body with his own. He deftly removed her blouse and muttered his satisfaction that she wasn’t wearing a bra, his voice hoarse as he bent his head and captured the tip of one pink nipple between his lips. The effect on Freya was electric and she arched her back so that her breasts thrust provocatively towards him, the taut, swollen peaks begging for his possession.

  She was shaking—or was it him? she wondered feverishly as she pushed his shirt over his shoulders and ran her hands over his smooth, tanned skin. This was madness but they were both caught up in the conflagration that threatened to consume them in a flame of white-hot need. With a rough, almost violent movement he grabbed the hem of her skirt and jerked it up to her waist before skimming his hand over the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs.

  ‘Zac.’ His name escaped her lips as a plea rather than a protest. She lifted her hips and he dragged her knickers down before spreading her legs with a deliberate intent that made her tremble with anticipation. When he touched her she thrust against his hand and moaned when his skilful fingers slid into her and began to explore her with a thoroughness that made her clench her teeth as her pleasure built. Through heavy lids she watched his hand move to the zip of his trousers, no thought in her head other than that he should hurry before she died with the urgent need to feel the full length of him inside her.

  ‘You see, Freya, some things never change,’ he groaned as he came down on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows so that the rigid strength of his penis pushed intimately against her eager body. He slid his hand beneath her bottom to lift her towards him, but his words penetrated the haze of sexual heat surrounding her and she bunched her hands on his shoulders to hold him back.

  Was it the element of satisfaction in his voice that she had capitulated so easily—yet again? Or was it his arrogant assumption that nothing had changed and she was still a slave to his touch, despite the way he had treated her? She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept over her—how could she be so stupid? Zac hadn’t changed—he said he believed that she hadn’t had an affair with Simon Brooks, but only because the DNA test proved that Aimee was his child. Two years ago he had been so ready to believe the worst of her and if other issues arose between them in the future she had no faith that he would trust her word above all else.

  ‘You’re wrong, Zac,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I’ve changed. I’m not the pathetic, lovesick girl I once was. You abandoned me when I needed you most, and I had to grow up fast. I won’t let you do this to me again,’ she muttered, tearing her gaze from him as she fought to control the dictates of her body that begged for her to surrender and accept his full possession. From somewhere she found the strength to push against his chest, but the glitter in his eyes warned her that she was too late. His body was primed and ready to take her, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he fought for control.

  The discreet knock on the study door shattered the tension and the butler, Laurent’s, imperturbable tones sounded through the wood. ‘Madame Deverell has arrived and is waiting in the salon.’

  Hysterical laughter bubbled in Freya’s throat. ‘Madame? You have a wife?’

  ‘Non, I have a mother—who has impeccable timing,’ Zac replied sardonically as he rolled off her and snatched up his shirt, muttering a string of profanities beneath his breath. ‘But the very fact that you believe I could be married does not say much about your opinion of me, chérie.’

  ‘It’s an opinion I formed during the time I’ve spent struggling to bring up our child,’ Freya bit back sharply. She couldn’t imagine what he must think of her when she was semi-naked and spread-eagled across his desk. Scarlet-cheeked, she tugged her skirt down and hopped inelegantly from foot to foot trying to pull her knickers on, praying that Zac’s mother wouldn’t walk in. She’d suffered enough humiliation to last her a lifetime—much of it self-induced, she thought miserably as she recalled her shameless response to him. One thing was clear: she dared not trust herself to be near him for another day. He could deal with his mother and explain why his elegant bachelor pad was littered with toys and teddies, while she collected Aimee and made her escape.

  ‘I’ll go and speak to my mother while you tidy yourself up,’ he said tersely, his expression unfathomable as he inspected her dishevelled appearance and hot face. He on the other hand looked as cool as a cucumber and had obviously had no difficulty in bringing his desire under control. Any minute now and he would pop a couple of bank notes down her blouse in payment for services rendered, Freya thought furiously, shrivelling beneath his look of haughty disdain. She held her breath until he left the room, and as soon as he had gone raced around his desk and searched for the passports. Flights back to England would stretch her overdraft to its limit, she acknowledged ruefully, but it couldn’t be helped, she had to get away.

  Ignoring the sound of voices from the sitting room, she raced along the hall to the nursery and snatched up the holdall she’d packed with Aimee’s things. With any luck she could collect her daughter from the roof-garden, bid a quick farewell to Jean Lewis and disappear before Zac realised that she had no intention of remaining at the penthouse until he grew bored of fatherhood. At the doorway she spun round and gave one final glance around the room, groaning when she spied Aimee’s favourite toy rabbit at the end of the cot. With a muttered curse she dropped the holdall and flew across the carpet to retrieve the toy, her heart sinking at the sound of Zac’s voice.

  ‘There you are—I thought you were going to come and meet my mother,’ Zac drawled, his eyes narrowing when Freya gasped at the sight of him.

  ‘I…thought Aimee was here,’ she said quickly, praying that he wouldn’t notice the holdall behind the door.

  ‘She’s with Jean in the salon. My mother would very much like to meet you,’ he added quietly.

  ‘You never introduced me to her during the time I lived with you,’ Freya muttered, remembering how hurt she’d felt when Zac had used to visit Yvette Deverell but never suggested that she accompany him. ‘Why the sudden urgency?’

  ‘The situation is different now.’ He paused and then explained, ‘When you lived here, my mother was still devastated at the loss of my father. She became a virtual recluse and I was
the only person she wanted to see. Thankfully she is much better now and she’s eager to meet you.’

  The glint in Zac’s eyes warned Freya that she had no option but to comply and she hastily shoved the passports behind her back and followed him down the hall. Voices were audible from the salon, Jean Lewis’ calm tones and another, heavily accented voice, mingled with Aimee’s gurgling laughter. ‘What an adorable child—how old is she?’

  ‘Eighteen months,’ Zac answered his mother’s query as he ushered Freya into the room while Jean quietly excused herself. ‘Maman, this is Freya Addison—Aimee’s mother.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Addison.’ Yvette Deverell stood and held out one elegantly manicured hand to Freya. She was tall, willowy and effortlessly chic in an exquisite dress and jacket from one of the leading fashion houses. Freya immediately felt conscious of the creases in her cheap skirt and, as had so often happened during her childhood, she was swamped by a feeling of inadequacy, not helped when Yvette continued to study her from beneath faintly arched eyebrows, in a silence that spoke volumes. ‘You have a delightful little girl,’ she commented at last, and Freya stiffened when Zac placed his arm around her waist and drew her forwards.

  ‘Aimee is my daughter, Maman.’ He spoke softly to his mother. ‘You have a granddaughter.’

  Freya was prepared for Yvette to look surprised, shocked even, but the expression of horrified dismay on the Frenchwoman’s face filled her with cold fury. Suddenly she was eight years old, walking up the path of Nana Joyce’s house clutching the hand of the social worker who had collected her from the foster family she had been staying with. There had been no look of pleasure on her grandmother’s face when she had opened the door, no welcoming smile.