by Pippa Roscoe
It hadn’t gone away, she’d marvelled as they’d drawn closer and closer to Matthieu’s estate. She had seen her husband in the sweep of the passing road lights, illuminating the darkness that surrounded their journey. The soft dark swirls of his beard doing little to gentle the stark outline of his jaw. The thick dark brows almost startling atop eyes of pure molten honey that gleamed almost with traces of emerald. The width and breadth of him made her feel deliciously small, delicate but also strong—strong in her desire for him, the need to make that physical contact, any kind of contact with the man she had just married.
And when they had finally drawn to a halt at the top of a sweeping driveway beyond a set of stunning iron electronically controlled gates, she had thought, This is it. She had turned to him, just in front of the large wooden door to a building she had been unable to take in because of the sheer magnificence of her husband, her hand poised to raise to his jaw, her palms itching to feel the heat of him, the soft whorl of his beard against her skin, just as he’d pushed open the door, explained where her room was and stalked off to his ‘office’.
He had left her standing in the foyer of an unknown home, alone, in her wedding dress, untouched and unwanted.
She had retreated to the room he had given some offhand directions to before the first tear had fallen. She had kicked off her shoes, before the second and third, she had collapsed onto the bed and pressed her face into the pillow before the sounds of her sobs could be heard. Because it was then that she’d realised what she had done. She had looked for love for her entire life and now she had consigned herself to a man who would never love her.
As she turned her back on the beautiful lake and made her way back to the estate, Maria realised she had neither of the futures she’d envisioned for herself just before the wedding. She was not his perfect wife, nor the discarded wife. Instead, he had put her in this strange kind of half-life, and she feared that it was slowly choking her.
* * *
No matter what he did, Matthieu couldn’t shake the stranglehold that had wrapped around his chest. Couldn’t escape the realisation, sheer and shocking, that he had done something very wrong. It had started that first night they had come here. Before that even, in the limousine bringing them home. Home. He’d not really ever thought of this place as a home before. It was his sanctuary, yes, the place he hid away from the outside world. But a home?
In the limousine, he’d felt it. The sensual undercurrent ebbing and flowing between them. As it had done that first night in Iondorra, her expressive features, her body, it had called to him. Teased and tempted him. The thick band of arousal fierce and shocking, as everything in him roared to reach out and take what he wanted, to take her.
But he had meant the promise he’d made to himself, to Maria silently, the day of their wedding. He meant to protect her. Which meant that he needed to ensure that they started their marriage as it would continue. He would give her her every material need or desire. But he could not give her himself. Because if he lifted the tight leash he had on his control, if he did what he so desperately wanted, to sink into her soft warm heat, to give into the exquisite pleasure that she brought him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back. And he couldn’t shake the thought that doing so would unleash the thoughts and memories he felt biting at the edges of his consciousness.
So he had held himself back from her that night and all the nights since. And if that meant he had to suffer this constant state of frustration, then so be it.
His legs pounded away on the treadmill of the sprawling gym housed on the floor beneath the living quarters and kitchen, and two floors beneath the bedrooms and infinity pool that stretched out towards the lake.
Sweat dripped down the sides of his head and he swiped at it with his arm. If he could exhaust himself, perhaps then he would find relief from this...thing. This feeling in him that felt like a ragged beast, tearing and snarling away in his chest.
Exercise had become something vital for him over the years. It had started with the rehabilitation after hours, days, weeks of surgeries in the years following the fire. He barely remembered those first few months. A pain so intense it had made him delirious with agony, which at times he’d actually been thankful for. Because it focused his mind on something other than the fact he had lost his entire family. Something other than the last look his father gave him, having hurled him from the living-room window before turning back for his mother.
His feet and legs compensated for the shiver that ran through his body, the heat and sweat turning icy cold beneath the memory of the screams from that night. Their screams, his screams, he couldn’t tell. But neither his mother, his father, nor his uncles and aunt had escaped the inferno that had consumed the old estate.
Faulty electrics, a real Christmas tree, and a two-hundred-year-old estate. That was what the insurance investigation had decreed. An accident. An accident that had robbed him of everything.
He increased the treadmill’s speed in an attempt to force his focus to shift back to nothing more than the movement of his feet and body. He never dwelled on thoughts of his family. He had become adept at avoiding them but as he picked up the pace, to run almost flat out, he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps he was running from his past.
Because unaccountably since Maria had moved into his home, he’d felt it rising up around him. Memories of family meals, the echoes of childhood laughter at his parents’ gentle mocking, or the warm love they offered, they all hovered around Maria like a promise of what could be, but what he would not allow himself.
So Matthieu had begun to avoid her, plunging himself into work, into new acquisitions. He’d even left her here while he’d travelled to one of the mines in Russia, hoping that the distance between them would cause things to settle back into what his life had been like before. But the moment he’d returned, he’d seen signs of her throughout the estate. Books left on side tables, a throw on the sofa that hadn’t been there before. Having lived alone for more than ten years, he’d found it disconcerting. It had felt like an intrusion and, although he shouldn’t, he found himself begrudging her for it. For presenting reminders, evidence of what she had done without him.
And soon it wouldn’t just be evidence of his wife...it would be their child. Would he spend his future trying to avoid them both? No, he growled internally. Once again shocked by the possessiveness of his feelings towards his child.
A noise startled him and he nearly lost his footing. His hands flew to the bar in front of him to steady himself, as he mentally checked the ankle he’d nearly turned over, cursing loudly.
‘Sorry! I didn’t...’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, between huge lungfuls of air, not having to look up again to know what had caused him to nearly fall from the speeding mill beneath him. He reached out and decreased the speed, waiting until it had slowed to a walk before casting a look up at the doorway.
He was already breathing hard when he took in the sight of her, thankful that he had a reason to disguise his body’s natural reaction to her beauty, to her presence. She was simply glorious.
The long dark loose curls fell over her bare shoulders and hovered near her waist. Her leggings clung to shapely legs and he had a sudden and shocking urge to wrap his palm around the curve of her thigh. He drenched himself in memories of that night for just a moment before flinging the door closed on that train of thought. He was still staring at the way the vest clung to her breasts and to where it pulled tight across the increasing swell around her stomach. No. It was no longer a swell and had—in the last few weeks—most definitely formed into a bump. He marvelled at how her body had changed even in the weeks since their wedding, and couldn’t help the word forming in his mind possessively and with no uncertain amount of finality...mine.
* * *
Maria had heard him curse and was startled that it echoed the exact same thought crashing through her mind. She hadn’
t expected to find him here having returned from her walk by the lake, convinced that he had left before dawn to head to his office, as he had done almost every single day since their wedding.
But he was here. And he looked...
Her mouth actually watered.
Seriously, she thought to herself, am I that base?
Yes. Yes, I most definitely am.
A pair of soft grey sweatpants hung low on lean hips, showing off the taut muscles dipping beneath its waistband. Because, naturally, he was shirtless, and all-consumingly magnificent. The breadth of his arms, the sheen of sweat covering his skin, her eyes ate up every inch of him. The scars becoming less something that she noted, but more something that highlighted the way his sculpted muscles shifted along with his body’s movements.
She regretted the moment he reached for the T-shirt hanging from the bars of the treadmill, almost begged him not to cover up such sheer masculine beauty, and she very much hated that he felt he had to cover his body for her. He pulled it over his head, tugging it down over the breadth of his chest, and cut off the sight that had both shocked and enticed.
‘I wanted to do some yoga and thought that...’ She felt that she had to fill the silence, otherwise they might just continue to stare at each other, like combatants facing off against...what? Their desires? Their wants? Because she knew that he wanted her. She could see it in his eyes. And that made his almost continual absence from her presence so much harder to bear. She cut off thoughts that were beginning to feel a little too self-pitying and made her way over to the soft mat flooring by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
‘Of course,’ he said as he started to leave.
‘I...’ she started, and then stopped, as he looked confused as to why she might want to continue to talk to him. Might want him here. She cursed inwardly again. She couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t live like this. Two separate people in one house, barely seeing or speaking to each other. ‘I thought I’d take the car into town this morning.’
‘You have an obstetrician appointment?’ he asked, surprised, as if scanning his memory for some piece of missing information.
‘No,’ Maria replied, shaking her head, her curls cascading down the bare skin on her shoulders and back. That had been one of the last things they’d done together, met with the obstetrician—an efficient, kind Swiss national with gleaming offices and state-of-the-art equipment. They weren’t due to visit Ms Klein for another three weeks. ‘I wanted to go shopping.’
‘What for?’
‘A dress for the gala.’
‘What gala?’
She shivered at his tone, which was cut through with shards of icicles. She frowned, wondering whether it was the purchase of the dress that bothered him or the attendance at the gala they’d received an invitation to.
It had been the first and only piece of correspondence sent to her—well, them—since her arrival at Matthieu’s estate and the gentle scrolling swirl, Mr and Mrs Montcour, had caught her eye. She had been faintly surprised that she was acknowledged as his wife, not thinking that the news of their marriage had become public knowledge yet, but then had seen the silver insignia of Montcour Mining Industries in the bottom right-hand corner of the embossed invitation. Perhaps he had meant to tell her about the gala, presuming her to have a spare ball gown that would fit a burgeoning baby bump hanging in her closet. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was Mrs Montcour and as such had absolutely every right to open a letter addressed to her.
‘The one in Lausanne, this evening,’ she said slowly and clearly, because surely he was feigning such a blank, strange reaction. ‘I must say, I was a little surprised to find that you have a charity.’
‘I have three goldmines, two diamond mines and a multibillion-dollar business, why would it surprise you that I have a charity?’
‘Please don’t tell me it’s just a tax write-off,’ she bit back, resenting the dismissive list of his impressive assets. And suddenly she was angry. Angry that he seemed to think that she wouldn’t want to attend a charity gala they had been invited to. Angry that he insisted on leaving her alone to roam this sprawling, yet luxurious estate. A place seemingly made entirely of concrete and steel, the cold greys serving only to remind her constantly of its aloof owner. Angry that she felt she had had to explain or justify her movements. Surely she wasn’t trapped here and could come and go as she pleased?
‘We won’t be going,’ he said, his tone almost a growl and his hand cutting through the air between them as if punctuating his decree.
‘Why not?’
‘I have business to attend to.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ The thought of spending yet another night alone suddenly became impossible to her and everything in her wanted to escape. He looked at her then as if her wants and needs didn’t matter. As if she had grown two heads and four extra arms and he simply couldn’t understand her desire for more.
Enough. She’d had enough of tiptoeing around the father of her child.
‘So I will be going,’ she said, staring up at the stone effigy that her husband had become. ‘You, however, don’t have to. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. Because I find that I don’t want you to spoil this evening for me, in the same way that you have spoiled almost every day since our wedding,’ she said on a shaky breath, drawing strength from her new determination. ‘I refuse to live like this, Matthieu. Yes, you might have offered me every material comfort within our marriage, but a person, a human being, cannot live in isolation and it’s driving me crazy. I don’t think that I’ve actually had a longer conversation with anyone beyond, “Hi, how are you?” “Fine, thanks, and you?” in over three and a half weeks! I know more about Tomas, your driver, than I do about you. He has three children, by the way—not sure if you know that—and he likes his coffee with a hint of caramel, though he doesn’t like his wife to know as she’s been after him to watch his calorie intake. Matthieu, tell me, how do you like your coffee?’
It was as if the dam had broken within her against the almost unending silence of the last few weeks and words—nonsensical words—had flowed forth like a flood. She was almost breathless from the speed with which she’d delivered her little speech, and now she held her breath, waiting to see how Matthieu would respond.
‘How I like my coffee is irrelevant, Maria. We, you, I, or any combination thereof, will not be going to the gala. If you want to go out, Tomas will take you anywhere you wish to go. But only if that somewhere has the very limited possibility of your outing being uncovered by the press. And as that will not be the case of the gala this evening, you will not be attending.’
She shouldn’t have been surprised. He stalked from the room without a word and she felt even more furious than she had before. Press or no, she would not be a prisoner here any longer.
* * *
Maria sat in the back of the limousine, the partition down between her and Tomas, who had kept a gentle running commentary since leaving Matthieu’s estate in Lucerne, and she was thankful because if he hadn’t the two-and-a-half-hour drive would have given Maria too much time to think. To wonder at what she was doing and how Matthieu would react when he realised she had defied his decree and sneaked out of his estate like a runaway child. This was the first time that she would have crossed him. But he didn’t understand. She had needed to. She needed this.
Mrs Montcour.
Was she? Really? Given they hadn’t consummated the marriage. Did something like consummation work retrospectively? And even if it did, who was this strange Mrs Montcour? Maria had been many things, the daughter of an exiled Duke, the sister of an international playboy, an art student, coffee-shop worker, jewellery maker. But now she was a wife, and would be a mother. And somewhere swirling amongst the discomfort in her belly was the fear that she didn’t know how to be this person.
She had considered reaching out to her brother, but Sebastian had been unusuall
y preoccupied recently, simply accepting her explanation that she had gone to stay with a friend in Switzerland for ‘a while’, rather than interrogating her over every minute detail as he usually did. As for her father, well, months could go by without speaking to him and she couldn’t help but hide behind the familiar feeling that it was easier for her father not to see her and be reminded so painfully of his dead wife.
She had thought of reaching out to Anita and Evin, but what would she say? I tracked down the father of my child, happens to be a billionaire several times over, we married for the sake of the child and he whisked me off to his secluded lair?
The only person she had to tether her to her new role was Matthieu and he seemed hell-bent on leaving her alone and untouched.
‘We’re here, Mrs Montcour,’ Tomas said, in his crisp Swiss-French accent.
It was then that she realised she hadn’t really thought this through. She hadn’t expected a red carpet, even pre-warned, she hadn’t expected the sprawling mass of paparazzi lining the street to the entrance of the grand building where the gala was being held.
Maria stepped out of the limousine on autopilot. What had she been thinking? Would they even know who she was? Or would they think her some impostor trying to sneak into the gala? As far as she knew, no one had identified her, no one knew her as Mrs Montcour. She cursed as she drew to a halt, staring somewhat in horror at the huge sprawling mass of reporters and photographers quite possibly about to witness the ultimate humiliation of her being refused entry.
Tomas closed the door behind her and stood beside her as if ready to reopen the door and shove her unceremoniously back into the sleek black machine. Until a small, suited man holding a clipboard rushed up to meet her.
