by Heidi Rice
‘Okay,’ she murmured. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Mr Blackstone, the sale on the property you selected is complete,’ the woman standing next to him, who had been tapping on her smartphone throughout their conversation, piped up.
Blackstone nodded. ‘Good work, Lisa.’
‘Not that good, Mr Blackstone,’ Lisa said, still clicking. ‘I’m afraid they wouldn’t settle for anything less than twenty-eight point five.’
Twenty-eight point five what? Bronte thought, wondering why Blackstone was making property deals in the midst of a children’s hospital. Wasn’t that taking multi-tasking a bit too far?
‘Not a problem,’ Lukas replied. ‘Twenty-eight point five million sterling isn’t bad for a house in that location.’
Bronte simply blinked, feeling as if she’d just jumped back into the alternate reality she’d been ushered into twelve hours ago when she’d found herself aboard Lukas Blackstone’s private jet climbing into the night sky over JFK.
Twenty-eight point five million pounds? What kind of house was he buying?
It didn’t take her long to find out when he continued talking to Lisa, who Bronte had realised must be another of his many personal assistants.
‘Arrange to move Ms O’Hara and the boy’s possessions in as soon as possible. Hire the staff. And then handle the other details.’
‘Excuse me, but where is Ms O’Hara moving to?’ Bronte asked. ‘And what staff?’
‘I’ve purchased you and Nico a property in Regent’s Park,’ Lukas said with about as much inflection as if he’d just informed her he’d bought her a caramel latte. ‘Lisa is my executive assistant in the London office of Blackstone’s,’ he continued. ‘She’ll make all the necessary arrangements to see you settled in there tonight. Hire the necessary staff. So it’s ready for the boy when he’s well enough to leave the hospital.’
‘But we already have a home in Hackney,’ Bronte said. Maybe their tiny basement flat wasn’t exactly salubrious but it was all she could afford on her salary.
‘It’s no longer suitable,’ he said, as if that answered anything.
‘Why not?’ she replied, trying to stay calm and stop the panic from fuelling her temper. Maybe she should be grateful for his generosity but what gave him the right to swoop in and take over their lives?
Instead of giving her an answer, he spoke to the two men in dark suits who had accompanied him onto the ward and remained silent and watchful throughout the conversation. ‘This is Nico, gentlemen.’ He indicated the boy. ‘He’s a Blackstone. I expect him to be guarded with your lives. There is never to be less than two guards on him at all times. Understood?’
Both men nodded.
‘Wait a minute.’ Bronte grasped Lukas’s arm, immediately withdrawing her touch when he swung round to trap her in that dark gaze. ‘Who are these men?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know them from Adam, and neither does Nico. I haven’t agreed to them guarding him,’ Bronte finished, her voice rising despite her best efforts to remain calm.
‘My team have already cleared their presence here with the consultant and the ward staff. They’re part of a six-man team of bodyguards who will be guarding my nephew from now on.’
My nephew? So what does that make me?
‘Well, I haven’t agreed to their presence and he was my nephew first,’ she hissed, hating Lukas Blackstone for making her sound ridiculous. Nico’s welfare wasn’t something to have a catfight over, but she wasn’t about to have her and Nico’s life disrupted by this man’s arrogant decision to take charge after spending exactly ten minutes at Nico’s bedside.
Instead of replying, Lukas closed strong fingers round her upper arm and led her towards the exit. ‘Let’s take this outside before we wake any of the patients.’
His grip wasn’t painful, but it was so firm and unyielding she had no choice but to keep pace with his long strides as he led her out of the ward and into an empty waiting room like an unruly child. The zip and zing of sensation shooting up her arm only added to the galling feeling of impotence and the wave of temper which was fast becoming unstoppable.
‘Get the ball rolling on the relocation, Lisa.’ He spoke to the assistant, who trotted along beside them both—the two of them ignoring Bronte’s struggles to free herself from his unyielding grip. ‘I want it completed as soon as we leave here tonight. And then arrange my nephew’s move to the private hospital in Chelsea for tomorrow morning.’
The personal assistant bowed—as if he were some sort of feudal lord—then scurried off, leaving them alone in the waiting room.
As he closed the door, Bronte yanked her arm free and scrambled back. Rubbing her biceps where his touch still burned, she tried to gather her wits about her, and stop the renewed wave of panic from consuming her temper.
She’d wanted to be grateful, to be helpful, to let him know how much his contribution, his willingness to help Nico in his hour of need meant to them both. But this didn’t feel helpful: it felt overwhelming. And oppressive. And controlling.
She hated this feeling of powerlessness. Because it reminded her of the little girl she’d once been with an absent father and a mother who couldn’t cope. But she had to stand her ground, to state her case, no matter how intimidated or overwhelmed she felt.
Lukas Blackstone was clearly a man used to having his every order and command obeyed without question. But she was Nico’s sole carer, the person who had always had his best interests at heart.
Lukas had just said he wanted no real part in his own nephew’s life—which also made her the only one in this room who loved Nico and would continue to love him and care for him long after Lukas’s involvement in saving his life was over. That gave her some rights. Rights that he seemed intent on taking away.
‘Nico’s not transferring to a private hospital,’ she said, as succinctly as she could while her whole body was shaking with reaction. ‘Any more than we’re both moving into a twenty-eight-point-five-million-pound house in Regent’s Park.’
His brows flattened, the dark eyes becoming stormy as the scar on his cheek twitched in warning.
‘I appreciate your generosity, but it’s not necessary,’ she continued, feeling as if she were trying to placate a rampaging lion with a feather duster. ‘Nico’s treatment team is here. His home is our flat. And Nico’s my responsibility. I’m his guardian and I decide what’s best for him. Not you.’
* * *
The surge of adrenaline hit Lukas unawares, and shot straight into his crotch. He braced himself against the spike of temper that swiftly followed.
So his perverse reaction to this woman hadn’t been an aberration. Something about her had the power to turn him on, even when she was daring to defy him. Especially when she was daring to defy him, he realised, taking in the sheen of enraged moisture turning her eyes into deep emerald pools.
The rise and fall of her breathing made her full breasts press against the simple tank top she’d donned after their flight over the Atlantic. The flight when he’d buried himself in work and details to ignore her dozing in the bed at the back of the cabin.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked.
His unprecedented reaction to the boy a few minutes ago had only confused things further. Seeing the child in the flesh for the first time had been a shock. A shock he’d thought he’d been prepared for but hadn’t. The hazy childhood memories had slammed into him before he’d had a chance to completely mask his reaction. Having the child’s arms cling to him, seeing the curls of dark hair, so like his brother’s at that age, feeling sobs racking the child’s small frame had been a torture he had not been prepared for—leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
And now this ludicrous sexual reaction to Bronte O’Hara’s childish show of defiance, which he also seemed powerless to control, was the last straw.
‘Nico is a Blackstone,’ he said tightly, keeping
a rein on his temper and the desire to yank her into his arms and feast on that mouth until neither of them could think straight.
‘I know he is. I came all the way to Manhattan to tell you that, remember. But I don’t see what that has to...’
‘You announced it in public at the Full Moon Ball in front of about a hundred journalists and social media bloggers,’ he continued, clinging on to his patience with an effort when she still looked clueless. ‘Those same journalists and bloggers will be well aware that my jet left JFK with you and me on board less than an hour later.’
‘I still don’t see how...’
‘Speculation is already rife on the Internet. By tomorrow morning, Nico’s illness, his whereabouts, your whereabouts, the location of your apartment and every other minute detail of your life, your sister’s life and death, and her one-night stand with Alexei will be all over the gossip columns and the Internet. Blackstone’s main offices here and in Manhattan have already been besieged with requests for a comment. The Blackstone fortune is worth upwards of thirty billion dollars at a conservative estimate.’
Her deep green eyes popped wide. ‘You’re joking!’
The sprinkle of freckles across her nose brightened as her skin flushed a vibrant shade of red to match her hair. Apropos of exactly nothing, it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a grown woman blush—and certainly not with the spontaneity and regularity of Bronte O’Hara. Why he should find it captivating he had no idea. Maybe it was simply because it made her so easy to read.
‘I’m not joking,’ he said, but strangely he felt like smiling. She didn’t look defiant any more or argumentative—she looked horrified. ‘And the moment Dr Patel told me the results of the DNA test, Nico became my heir—which means he’s now worth upwards of thirty billion dollars too.’
‘But we don’t need your money. We just need your stem cells and your bone marrow.’ The blush intensified as he watched her realise what she’d just said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so mercenary.’
If she didn’t know it sounded exactly the opposite of mercenary, who was he to enlighten her?
‘But seriously, a twenty-eight-and-a-half-million-pound house?’ she continued. ‘I can’t accept it. It’s too much.’
‘It’s not for you. It’s for Nico,’ he said, even though he realised that for the boy’s sake she would need to live there just as much, which would allow him to keep a close eye on her.
The blood pounded back into his groin at the proprietorial thought and he had to steel himself against the urge to drag her back into his arms and kiss her senseless again.
He was not making any moves on this woman.
‘And it’s really not your place to deny him his birthright,’ he finished. ‘As Alexei’s son, he deserves Alexei’s share of the fortune.’
Lukas could only hope that Nico didn’t inherit any more of the Blackstone curse. But that seemed unlikely. From the brief interaction he’d witnessed between Bronte and the child, she was a devoted mother to the boy in everything but name.
His own mother had had no interest in him or Alexei once they’d been born—happily handing over their care to a string of nannies and governesses so she could spend as much of their father’s fortune as was humanly possible before her untimely death in a light aircraft crash a few days before their fifth birthdays.
He could still remember the nanny informing them of the news—and both him and Alexei wondering why the usually stern woman had looked so upset.
He hadn’t felt the loss then and he still didn’t now. He had cut off the need to be nurtured as a child. Had forced himself to become emotionally self-sufficient and he considered that a strength. Because he knew how weak it could make you when those needs weren’t met. But, even so, he was glad Alexei’s son wasn’t having to struggle through this difficult time in his life alone.
‘But he’s just a little boy, and he’s dealing with so much already,’ Bronte pleaded. Noticing the dark bruises under her eyes—not for the first time—Lukas acknowledged it wasn’t just the boy who had been through the wars of late. She looked exhausted. And while he still felt a certain anger towards her—because she’d kept the boy’s existence a secret—he had to give her credit for doing it for the right reasons. Unfortunately, rightly or wrongly, Nico was now in the eye of the hurricane, which meant he needed protection—something Bronte couldn’t possibly understand or provide. He, on the other hand, knew only too well how vulnerable the boy was.
The scar throbbed, the brutal reminder of the ripping pain threatening to surface. He shoved it back.
This is not about you. This is about Alexei’s son.
While he had no desire to have a relationship with the boy, the necessary protection was something he could and would provide, whether Bronte liked it or not.
‘Couldn’t we just pretend he’s not your heir?’ she added. ‘Tell the press a story? I don’t want his life disrupted even more.’
‘It’s too late for that—the story’s already out,’ he said, astonished at her naïveté. ‘My PR people have arranged for me to give a press conference tomorrow to try and contain it. The statement will be brief. I’ll announce Nico as my heir, give details of his illness and then request privacy at this difficult time.’
‘Will that work?’ Bronte asked, the desperate hope in her eyes making him think of a puppy who was used to being kicked but still believed things would work out okay.
He almost felt bad telling her the truth. ‘It’ll keep the more reputable journalists at bay and should help to deaden the story faster. Cold hard facts never sell as well as lurid speculation. But you still won’t be able to return to your apartment, or your former life. Because the press aren’t the only threat,’ he finished, choosing not to elaborate. She might be young and naïve, but she had been alone with a young child surviving on her wits for four years; she had to know the depths of depravity some people would go to when it came to money.
‘I see,’ she said, sounding dejected, and he could see she did know. ‘I’m sorry for complaining. You’re just trying to do the right thing, and I’m making things more difficult. But it just all feels so overwhelming.’
Her honesty floored him a little.
‘Surely it can’t be that tough knowing you’ll never have to scrub another john?’ he said, the desire to lift some of the heavy burden she seemed to be carrying as unprecedented as his reaction to her.
Her eyes flickered with surprise, then suspicion. Clearly she hadn’t expected him to have her investigated. Yet more evidence of her naïveté—which he was starting to find far too appealing.
She drew herself up to her full height and stuck out that stubborn chin. ‘There’s nothing wrong with scrubbing toilets!’ she announced, looking like a pint-sized Valkyrie. ‘Someone has to do it and it’s honest work. You probably pay someone to scrub yours.’
‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘But, whoever they are, I’m sure they would rather be doing something else, if they could.’
The fact that she had been working so hard, in such a menial job, when she seemed to be an intelligent and resourceful woman struck him again as above and beyond the call of duty for an aunt. According to the interim report he’d received from his security team, she’d taken over the care of her nephew—their nephew—when she was only eighteen, and had worked like a dog in a series of dead-end jobs to make ends meet. She should have contacted him about Nico long before now. But the fact that she hadn’t seemed like an act of selflessness now. And a surprising one at that. She could have used the child as a bargaining chip and she hadn’t.
‘I suppose,’ she said, but her shoulders slumped and she looked more dejected than ever. ‘I’ll be honest it’s not the john-scrubbing I’ll miss, but the anonymity. I guess I didn’t really think this through. All I cared about when I came to Manhattan to confront you was making Nico bette
r. I wish I hadn’t blurted out the truth in front of all those people. This is all my fault.’
Unable to resist the urge to touch her a moment longer, he tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted that bright emerald gaze to his.
‘It’s not your fault. Once Nico’s relationship to Alexei was confirmed, the press would have gotten hold of the story eventually.’
‘But you’ve been calm and practical and I’ve been a basket case.’
Only because he wasn’t as emotionally invested in the outcome, he thought dispassionately. But the urge to comfort her and take the regret out of her eyes wouldn’t abate.
‘This is a difficult situation for both of us,’ he said, surprising himself with the desire to meet her honesty with at least some of his own. ‘I hadn’t expected to become an uncle out of the blue, or to discover at the exact same moment that I may be my nephew’s only chance of survival.’
Her head tilted back, dislodging his finger, but the sheen of moisture in her eyes announced the depth of her feelings, and her vulnerability. She really was an open book.
‘You’re right—of course you’re right,’ she said and, even though he could hear the strain in her voice, the apology a shot to what he suspected was a phenomenal amount of pride, he could also tell she meant it. ‘I haven’t given enough thought to what you’re going through,’ she added. ‘I’ll try to be more cooperative. And I really do appreciate everything you’re doing. You’ve been amazing and I’ve been rude.’
The forthright statement made him feel like a fraud—he wasn’t going through that much. After all, he barely knew the boy, and he’d never truly grieved for Alexei. As adults they hadn’t been that close because he’d never been able to get that close to anyone, not since... He cut off the thought and tucked his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to touch her again.
