Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir (HQR Presents)

by Pippa Roscoe

  The vehemence of the connection he felt to his unborn child shocked him. The determination to protect, to claim, the yearning to meet this heir of his was utterly astounding. So long he had lived, ruthlessly avoiding any sense of commitment or connection to another... He had thought it would chafe, that he would wrangle against it defiantly. But he had been wrong.

  As if in a single moment, the compass points of his life had changed, now pointing solely to his child and Maria. And as he looked at himself in the mirror, dark blue suit and a shirt of such pale blue it was almost white, for the first time in more years than he could count he wondered what his father would think. Matthieu searched his own features for traces of the father who had loved him so much he had searched a flame-ridden building to drag Matthieu out, unthinking and unheeding of the danger and damage to himself. Before he had gone back in for his wife.

  A blade-sharp pain twisted in his chest before he closed the door on his thoughts.

  ‘Ah, Matthieu.’

  He turned to find Malcolm standing in the doorway of his office suite. The older man was nodding in approval. ‘They would be so proud of you.’

  Matthieu gritted his teeth against the sentiment. He doubted very much that his parents would be proud of his knocking up an innocent and forcing her into a marriage she had no desire for.

  ‘Where is David?’ he enquired of Malcolm’s husband. The two had finally married once the bill allowing for same-sex marriage had passed in California. After almost eleven years of being together, Malcolm had felt that they didn’t really need a piece of paper to certify their relationship, but the battle for legal recognition had been hard fought and hard won, and David and Malcolm had married for the world they wanted as much as the love they already had.

  Goosebumps rose over Matthieu’s skin, soothed only slightly by the soft cotton of his shirt. He didn’t have to wonder if Maria had wanted that kind of love in her life. He knew she had, and for the first time since demanding that she wore his ring, he realised the cost to her, despite having paraded all that she would gain before her.

  ‘David has gone to meet Maria at the hotel. He wanted to walk over to the register office with her.’

  Matthieu bit back a curse. How had he not thought of that? Was he truly such a bastard that while he espoused the virtues of what his money could mean to her and their child, he had failed to even see to the first emotional requirement she might have on her wedding day? He would do better. He had to.

  * * *

  Maria stared at herself in the mirror, marvelling that it had almost been easier to pack up her entire life in Camberwell than to find a dress that would suit not only a civil ceremony but the burgeoning baby bump that still caught her by surprise.

  Two days ago she had answered the door to an incredibly efficient removal team who had retrieved an almost miserably small stack of boxes containing her clothes, books, the few items of furniture she’d possessed to be sent on to Switzerland. But her equipment—her jewellery, the bits and bobs she’d gathered over the years—had been sent to her brother’s estate in Italy. Those boxes must have looked as if they belonged to a very talented magpie: rich colours, sparkling, semi-precious stones, bursting from the seams. Her moulds, her tools and the series of bracelets, rings, earrings and necklaces she had already started to amass had been by far the greatest part of her belongings. For some reason, one she neither could nor would put a finger on, she hadn’t wanted to take them to Switzerland.

  She had bid a tearful farewell to Evin and Anita, and had allowed herself one last day in the small studio she had rented a space in, up near the Thames in Bermondsey. That was where she’d felt the pull greatest. That was where she had poured her hopes and dreams into the small projects that she had made for her first gallery showing only months earlier. That was where she had returned to after that fateful night with Matthieu and forged a new, determined and optimistic outlook for her future...until she had discovered her pregnancy and all her imaginings had disappeared in a puff of silver smoke.

  And now when she thought of her future, one irrevocably bound to the father of her child, her future as his wife, she wondered at it. Would she be expected to be on his arm at business functions, the practically perfect wife? Or would he grow tired of her once she had his child and then package her off to some distant place? She had no idea what his home looked like, where she would be able to find space to create the pieces that were so important to her. Not once in the last two months had she been able to find that heady, almost meditative sense of creativity that would have, in the past, consumed and calmed her.

  A knock on the door jolted her from her day dreams. She opened it to a tall, smiling, slightly rotund blond man, who seemed only to smile even more at her evident confusion.

  ‘Maria? I’m David Antoinelli.’

  ‘The witness?’ Maria had remembered his name from one of Matthieu’s emails.

  ‘Yes,’ he laughed easily. ‘I did hope that you’d recognise my name. Didn’t think you’d appreciate a complete stranger knocking on the door the morning of your wedding.’

  She pulled the door open wide, gesturing for him to enter.

  ‘I thought you might like someone to walk with you to the register office, given that...’ He trailed off, clearly not wanting to point out that she was alone. But his rich, upper-class British accent was so wonderfully familiar, she instantly warmed to him.

  ‘You’re English.’

  ‘Ha! Yes. I grew up in North London,’ he said, leaning towards her conspiratorially.

  ‘I live—lived—in Camberwell.’

  ‘South of the river!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never really crossed the Thames much, but I did have some rather indecent nights in Vauxhall, but the less said about that to my husband, the better.’

  Maria couldn’t help the smile that grew on her lips, and the well of relief that bloomed in her chest. The thought of walking towards her wedding on her own...

  ‘I must say,’ he said, taking her in with a beam of approval, ‘you look glorious.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, exhaling a breath of relief. The simple, knee-length dress had an empire waist cinching just above the beginning of her bump and a beautiful sweetheart neckline. The form-fitting cream satin was covered by beautifully detailed lace that rose up the material and covered her arms and décolletage. And even better, she’d been able to afford it with her meagre savings.

  She had tamed her curls into braids either side of her head and pinned them up, leaving only a few strands of her dark hair free to frame her face.

  David offered her his arm, and she held up a hand for one moment while she gathered the things she would need from the suite. The rest—her small bag of belongings—would, she had been told, be retrieved and sent on to Matthieu’s house before they arrived there that evening. She stifled the blush that rose at thoughts of just how that evening would be spent. It was perhaps one of the only things that hadn’t yet been negotiated and settled on.

  She caught her shawl and the small bouquet of flowers she had ventured out for earlier that morning. She had looked longingly at the sweet bundle of white peonies, sage and rosemary. She knew that a herb bouquet might be slightly unorthodox but she hadn’t been able to resist them. With one last glance at herself in the mirror, one last look at herself as a single woman, she bid her adieu, took David’s proffered arm and closed the door on her past life, ready to assume the role of Mrs Montcour.

  * * *

  Matthieu and Malcolm were waiting on the steps of the register office he’d deemed perfectly suitable for their needs until he caught sight of Maria. He felt the heated glare of disapproval from Malcolm beside him as his oldest friend looked from Maria and his husband to Matthieu and the building behind him.

  Matthieu felt the instant denial on his lips. I didn’t know. Because he hadn’t. He hadn’t known she would look so beautiful, almost ethereal. He had
n’t expected to see the small, perfectly formed shape of the promise of their child beneath her dress. He hadn’t realised that he would see her and think that he had absolutely got it wrong. They should have been in a church—the biggest one he could find, filled with everyone they knew to show off his stunning bride, with pride and adoration shining in his eyes. He just hadn’t known that he would feel that way.

  When they finally drew close, David pronounced in his usually enthusiastic way, ‘If I wasn’t an already happily married man, I’d be tempted to run away with the bride.’

  ‘And now that I can see for myself exactly how lovely you are, Maria, I am tempted to do the same,’ Malcolm replied, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

  Maria shone beneath the words of their encouragement, and only took a moment to seem slightly bemused at the contrast between his friends’ open expressions and his utter silence. Because he was simply incapable of speech. The sight of her had robbed him of it.

  The two men embraced leaving Maria and Matthieu to stare at each other, taking in each’s appearance in silence, in weighted anticipation of what they were about to do.

  ‘You look...beautiful,’ he said, aware that his tone was guttural and hoping that it didn’t sound begrudging. Because somewhere deep within, he did feel that way. Strangely resentful that he didn’t deserve this. Deserve her. Deserve the child they carried. But Maria most definitely deserved more than he was able and willing to offer.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, casting her eyes away from his as if she was embarrassed or flustered by his simple words.

  He guided her into the building, Malcolm and David close behind them as they made their way towards the office where the registrar was waiting for them. Despite the almost ugly functional exterior of the building, the interior was a relief. The rich tones of whisky-coloured wood flooring soothed. Expensive, yet tasteful chairs filled the almost empty room, the focus of which was a beautiful mahogany table where the registrar and the officiant waited to greet them.

  Matthieu felt oddly detached from proceedings he’d never thought he’d experience. In every one of his past encounters he’d ensured that the only thing that passed between the women who had shared his bed and himself was pleasure. Given and received—nothing more. Once they had left his life, he gave them little thought. Only that hadn’t been true of Maria. There hadn’t been an hour that had passed in between that night in Iondorra and the night she’d crashed back into his life with news that had changed everything, that he hadn’t thought of her. From the very first moments leaving her bed, he’d tasted her on his tongue, felt her skin beneath his, the echoes of her sighs and gentle laughter, haunting his nights.

  Now, he cast a look over to where Maria sat in the corner of the room with the celebrant, presumably going over the same questions that he was currently answering to the registrar. His mind working automatically to supply the requisite information as his heart picked itself up and reached for her.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  The question mocked him, but he nodded, swift and sure, knowing what must be done.

  She deserved more.

  He would give her everything he could, he promised. Not just because of their child. But because she deserved it. She had uprooted her entire life, placed it in his undeserving hands and no matter what the future brought them, he would make sure that she was protected.

  ‘We are gathered here today...’

  * * *

  Maria let the words wash over her. She had wondered how she’d feel, ever since agreeing to Matthieu’s outrageous proclamation that they would marry, and now that she was here, now that she stood before the registrar and officiant and they were saying the words that every young girl had dreamed of hearing as a child, she just didn’t know. She didn’t know how she felt. She had expected fear, but—she thought, resisting the urge to shake her head—that wasn’t what she felt. Defiance? No, not that either. Hesitation? Oddly, no. Not even that. Numb, she decided. Numb as the words brought her closer and closer to the moment she would be bound to Matthieu for ever.

  She suddenly felt as if she’d left something behind. That she’d forgotten something vital, but couldn’t for the life of her think what it was. She frowned, then realised that the officiant had said something that required a response from her. Mistaking her lack of response for nerves, the officiant smiled and repeated the question.

  ‘Will you, Maria, take Matthieu to be your lawful wedded husband?’

  No words of love in this perfunctory service, then. No honouring above all else. But she wasn’t doing this for herself. She was doing this for their child. There would be love, would be honouring above all else. There would be protection and security and...

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And will you, Matthieu, take Maria to be your lawful wedded wife?’

  Finally Maria found the courage to look to Matthieu then, startled somewhat to find him gazing at her with an intensity that reminded her immediately of that night. In his eyes she saw the lake in Iondorra, she saw the stars that blanketed the night sky. She saw the deep pull of arousal in his eyes, hypnotic and unfathomable. And if her heart hurt, because for just a moment she saw how it could have been, she chided herself for wanting more.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘The rings?’

  Rings. That was what she’d forgotten. She didn’t know a single jewellery maker who hadn’t spent hours pouring attention and passion into a creation that symbolised a couple’s love for each other. She had once thought that she might make her own and her future husband’s. There was a special part of her designs and sketches that, long ago, she’d thought she might use as the basis for what she would one day wear for the rest of her life. But the intensity of the last few weeks, the practicalities, had thrown that from her mind. And for a moment she was relieved. Because this was not what she’d wanted. Not really. While Matthieu reached to his pocket, she ran a hand over the lower part of her abdomen. The small, firm bump cradling her soon-to-be child.

  She realised that Matthieu’s eyes had snagged on the movement, and hesitated just a second before he produced something from his pocket. He reached for her hand and held the ring in his fingers in such a way that she couldn’t see it until he had slipped it over her finger.

  And she stared.

  Stared and stared. Because in some impossible way it was perfect. As if he’d found what she wanted without her even knowing it. The silver band gave way to a circle of small diamonds encasing a beautifully cut shard of jet.

  ‘This is how I see us, Maria,’ he whispered to her. ‘Joined together, surrounding our child with love and security, with protection.’

  The sincerity and certainty shining in his eyes settled about her, her heart aching with the want of love, but appeased by the promise he was offering her. Not of fairy tales of happy-ever-afters, not with offers of obscene wealth that meant nothing to her, not with lies of unfelt emotions, but a promise of everything he could and would do for her and her child. Their child.

  ‘I now declare you husband and wife.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MARIA BREATHED IN the cool scents of water and woods. She had been walking for twenty minutes towards Lake Lucerne, marvelling once again at the sheer breadth of acreage within Matthieu’s estate.

  She shook her head at the beauty of the sight before her. Water spreading out like a spool of molten silver, reflecting the blue of the cloudless sky and the stunning emerald greens of the trees bordering the banks of the lake.

  Her fingers rubbed against each other, soothing the nipping bite of the cold against her skin, brushing gently the band of silver, diamond and jet that she had worn now for almost a month. Nothing had been as she’d imagined. Nothing she’d expected or dreamed of that moment he had slipped the ring over her finger had come to pass.

  After their wedding ceremony, David and Malcolm and whisked them away to one of
Bern’s most renowned restaurants for an exquisite wedding breakfast, nothing of which she remembered tasting. If the jovial couple had noticed anything peculiar in the silence between the newly minted husband and wife, neither acknowledged it. Their happy, gentle, mocking banter had washed over her before the limousine had arrived to take her and Matthieu to his home, here on the edge of Lake Lucerne.

  She remembered sitting beside Matthieu in the dark cocoon of the luxurious interior of the sleek machine that ferried them towards their wedding night, tension palpable and thrumming from where he held himself almost impossibly still and she practically vibrated with it. In clipped words he had told her about his home, the team of staff employed to service, clean and cook for them, the extensive gym and leisure equipment, including an infinity pool that overlooked Switzerland’s famous lake. The walks that had been cleared throughout the estate, the woodlands and down to the shorefront.

  ‘Anything is yours,’ he’d said.

  Apart from you, she’d noted silently.

  As the limousine had eaten up the miles of smooth tarmac, winding closer and closer towards their destination, she had wondered why on earth he was talking. Reams of descriptions about the house, the architect, the way life would be, and all she could think was, Yes, but what about now? What about tonight? Because in truth she had been almost overcome by a maddening sense of him. Everything about the previous weeks had been about practicalities, packing up her home and life, getting to the register office, the exchanging of rings and signing of marriage certificates... But the moment it had happened, the moment that they had been declared husband and wife—she blushed now at the memory of it—all she had thought of was spending the night with her husband.

  She had wanted to share his bed, to feel even just for a little the same kind of ‘rightness’ she had experienced the night they had conceived their child. To feel the heady sense of desire, the way that their bodies had somehow communicated beyond words or civilities but more with raw, intense and all-consuming passion. An equal passion—the one thing that they had most definitely shared.