by Pippa Roscoe
‘Welcome...’
The query in his voice was so clear that it echoed within her chest. All her fears, all her questions, it was now down to her to own this new person she had come to be, whatever the consequence.
‘Mrs Montcour,’ she replied, hiding behind a steady voice.
The look on the man’s face would have been comical under any other circumstances and she couldn’t help the feeling that perhaps he wasn’t going to believe her. Her fingers gripped the embossed invitation ready to thrust it towards him as if in evidence of her claim.
‘Of course,’ he said, shaking his head as if she might disappear at any moment. ‘It is...wonderful to meet you. We had not expected your attendance this evening, given that...’ Whatever he might have been about to say was cut short as he stepped back slightly, his gaze drawn to the bump positioned almost between them. ‘May I offer my congratulations, Mrs Montcour?’ The pure beam of happiness shining from this small, suited stranger was oddly infectious, and she couldn’t help but sweep a hand over her unborn child.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling, as the first flash of the bulb cut through their conversation, nearly blinding her. It was then that the shouts started and starburst-like strobe lighting covered her from head to toe. She vaguely saw the man gesture for her to follow him and, keeping her gaze down on the red carpet and away from the bright lights, she made her way into the gala, her heart pounding and irrationally slightly afraid.
Once up the stairs and through the grand entrance to the museum that had been co-opted for the gala, Maria blew out a shaky breath.
‘My apologies for the scrum, Mrs Montcour, it is a necessary evil, but the notoriety brings much attention and finances for our charity.’ The seemingly endless stream of dialogue coming from the small man was as much of a shock as the press had been. And suddenly Maria wasn’t sure that she wanted to be here. Couldn’t help herself longing for the quiet peaceful solitude of Matthieu’s estate.
‘Mr Montcour regrettably has been unable to attend our events in Lausanne for many years, the invitation is usually sent out as a courtesy, but we are truly honoured that you have come.’ Maria found nothing but sincerity in the man’s words, soothing some of her initial reluctance.
‘That’s very kind of you to say...’
‘Benjamin Keant,’ he supplied.
‘Benjamin. It is lovely to meet you.’
‘Charmed, Mrs Montcour. Simply charmed. Would you allow me to introduce you to some of the other patrons and guests? I can also tell you anything you’d like to know about our charity.’
Maria smiled, thankful that she could disguise her ignorance. ‘Absolutely. And why don’t you imagine that I know absolutely nothing about your charity and start from the very beginning?’
Already she had realised that she’d drawn the curious gazes of the many guests she could see in the large open foyer of the museum. It distracted her from the start of Benjamin’s spiel, until she caught words that fired an alarm instantly within her mind and heart.
‘And the money raised here is put back not only into the medical centres that deal with such devastating burn injuries, but rehabilitation, financial support for families who may struggle with the exorbitant costs of years-long, if not life-long, medical care, and emotional counselling and support for all affected.’
Burn injuries. Medical care. Emotional counselling.
A cold shiver passed over Maria’s shoulder blades and down her spine as she realised exactly why Matthieu might not have wanted to be here. It had nothing to do with her whatsoever, and everything to do with him and what had happened to him all those years ago.
CHAPTER SIX
LONG BEFORE THE whirring blades of the helicopter slowed after touching down on the discreet helipad in the back of the museum’s gardens, Matthieu’s jaw had clenched in a vice-like grip. It had nothing to do with the hastily rescheduled phone meeting with the South African Ambassador about future mining prospects and everything to do with his runaway wife. He forced himself to loosen his jaw or risk losing a molar. Instead the tension travelled to his hands as he took long, powerful strides across the manicured pathways towards the gala, fisting and un-fisting fingers that topped white knuckles.
He did not want to be here. In fact, he had not attended the charity in nearly ten years, ever since that first time. Memories coursed through his veins, thickening the blood with anger and frustration, and something a little like scorn at his naivety back then. He’d had such great hopes of what the charity would become, but from the very first moment, the very first flash of a paparazzo’s camera he’d realised that the vultures had descended not to support the charity but to feast on the wounds left by the loss of his family. To feast upon him. All of the resulting photographs and press had been so focused on the notorious Matthieu Montcour, with all but a few lines about the legacy he’d wanted to create. That night he’d sworn never to attend again, never to detract from the charity, to taint it with his own burgeoning reputation as a beast. Instead he had left the running of the charity to the highly efficient man he had appointed almost ten years ago. Not for a second did he regret founding the charity—he just couldn’t have anything to do with it personally.
But Maria had no idea what she was walking into. The press, the celebrities who attended his event feasted on gossip and drama as much as water to live and breathe, and the discovery that he had not only married but had impregnated his wife would be irresistible fodder for tomorrow’s headlines.
On the short flight over he had already fired off an email to his secretary to handle the impending fallout of the news. Security would be tightened not only at his office, but at each of his properties, including the estate in Lucerne. He hated living under a microscope, having done so both medically and publicly ever since the deaths of his parents.
What did you think? an inner voice chided. That you could keep Maria to yourself? That you could keep her and your child a secret for ever? Keep Maria to yourself?
The words ran through his mind, almost like a directive, an order, a demand.
I refuse to live like this.
Maria’s words from earlier that day in the gym had cut through him like a knife and he cursed, wondering for a moment if he had truly become a monster, locking her away in his home, keeping her isolated from the rest of the world.
But she didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like.
Two black suited men stood either side of the small white entrance to the back of the building, swirling white wires betraying the discreet earpieces indicating their business here. Noting his arrival, they cast an assessing gaze over him, almost in unison, their faces utterly impassive, before one pushed open the door allowing Matthieu entrance to the museum.
A small, blonde woman met him on the other side, simple make-up adding a professional sheen to her face in the absence of a smile. That was what he’d liked about Margery, the charity director’s assistant. Unlike most, she didn’t fawn, paw or even, like now, smile. Crisp, unemotional efficiency. The kind he’d always surrounded himself with...until Maria.
Margery explained in her no-nonsense way that Maria had arrived thirty minutes earlier, had been met by the charity’s director, Mr Keant—never Benjamin, she never used his first name—but that the press had almost been rabid at the realisation of her identity. Keant had ushered his wife down the red carpet unharmed and was now introducing her to various guests. The keynote speech would start in five minutes, the dinner in thirty, and the quickest possible exit he could make without drawing undue attention would be after the dinner, which would conclude in ninety minutes.
He nodded as they came to another discreet door, accepting the information, digesting it, before he swiftly stepped through the door into the large foyer of the museum where the main reception was being held.
* * *
He saw her immediately, halting mid-stride at th
e sight of her. She was stunning. The midnight-blue dress had been drenched in a million tiny sequins, the material clinging to every curve, every inch of the perfect bump riding low on her abdomen, down over her thighs and reaching all the way to a pair of high heels that sparkled silver glints in the spot lighting high above them on the museum’s domed interior. Mine. Everything in him roared with satisfaction, as if he’d found the one and only thing he’d wanted since he’d left the gym and retreated to his office earlier in the day, not even once imagining that she would defy him.
She was speaking to a couple, the woman holding a young baby, and the man holding the hand of a boy of about seven. She was laughing. That was what had struck him still. He hadn’t seen her laugh since that night in Iondorra. Her hand was outstretched in front of her, where the baby was gripping her silver bangles and tugging on them, bringing more laughter from her peach-coloured lips.
His gaze searched the tableau, finally resting on the young boy, whose smile wasn’t dimmed in the slightest by the slash of scar tissue reaching up from his neck and covering half of the child’s face. There was no way for the boy to hide the damaged skin, not as Matthieu could.
He felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest, shocking and powerful as he took in the sight. All around him were patrons and guests of his charity, all ready and more than willing to donate to a more than worthy cause. And yes, there were a few glances his way, but most of the attendees were wrapped up in their present conversations. Here were people who had been affected, just like him, those who had fared both better and far worse than he.
Something harsh skittered over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. All this time he had stayed away, telling himself that he hadn’t wanted to take away attention from the charity, but for the first time, he wondered whether that was the true reason he had avoided the charity for so many years. Because the people who were here, the people who bore similar scars to him, rather than hiding away, stood proudly beneath the lights of the museum, bared themselves to the world and still smiled, still laughed.
In that moment, as if she had sensed his presence, Maria caught his gaze and a whole raft of emotions cried out loud and clear across the crowded room. Surprise, concern, apology and compassion. And all he wanted to see was flaming desire. The same sensation burning deep within him. He pushed away the sudden and shocking arousal, and stalked towards her in firm, quick strides.
‘Matthieu...’ she said, her voice slightly breathless. ‘You came.’
‘I did,’ he managed to bite out beneath the swirls of resentment and shocking half-thought-out self-revelations.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, with a smile that soothed, and in that moment he caught just a glimpse of what kind of mother she would become. He’d told her that night at his office that she would be strong, defiant and determined. But now he could see that she would be kind, loving, supportive...all the things his own mother had been.
Suddenly he was plunged back into a memory—one from early in the evening of the fire. His mother was helping him with his tie for the meal they would share with their family. You look so handsome. Just like your father. She’d swept him up in an embrace that was tight—one he’d squirmed within—but was full of love and something a little like hope for what he would become. She’d kissed him on his forehead and taken his hand...
‘Mr Montcour!’ Benjamin Keant practically squealed, having discovered his arrival. ‘It is so good to see you here.’
Matthieu shook off the shocking effect of a memory he had not delved into once since the night of the accident, simultaneously yearning for and strangely resenting the remembered feeling of his mother’s embrace.
He ignored the varied ramblings of the director, but he couldn’t shake the overly watchful gaze of his wife—the wife that saw far too much.
Maria had felt the pull from Matthieu almost as more of a physical tug than the hold the lovely little baby currently had on her bracelets. She had been talking to the couple and their children, finding relief in their easy open conversation more than the vacuous twitterings of the famous socialites or patrons attending the charity gala. Forging even more of a yearning to hold her own child one day.
But then she’d felt it. His gaze lifting the light hair on her arms, a tingling at the back of her neck. When she’d finally seen him, stalking towards her through the crowd, her breath had caught at the sight of him. Impossibly broad shoulders encased in a midnight-blue tux, the material pulled tight across the muscles on his arms, his dark tie pulled slightly at the neck of a startling white shirt as if he’d yanked at it in frustration. On many it would have looked disrespectful. On Matthieu it looked irresistible.
His dark brow and beard accentuated the severe look on features that softened momentarily when he took in the sight of her standing with the young family whose son, Edward, had been caught in a car accident that had swiftly turned life-threatening when the petrol tank had leaked and gone up in flames.
Though the charity director had released an almost unstoppable flow of words at her husband, apparently failing to discern the dark mood swirling about him, Matthieu had not once taken his eyes from her. She felt it almost as a physical touch, a caress, a brand across her skin. A promise of something she couldn’t quite identify and once again she felt herself hurtling towards some kind of impending confrontation and welcomed it. She’d meant what she’d said to him earlier. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, live like this.
‘I like your bracelets,’ Edward said, reaching up to where his baby sister was still shaking them to produce a tinkling she took great joy in.
‘Thank you, Edward,’ Maria replied, unable to keep the beam of pride from her voice. ‘I made them myself, so the fact you like them makes it extra special for me.’
‘You make jewellery?’ he asked. She thought of the boxes she had sent to Italy, initially unsure how to work her past into this new present—her marriage. But over the last weeks she had filled sketch pad upon sketch pad, ideas brimming from the stunning surroundings of the estate by Lake Lucerne. The beautiful natural structures of the woods, the trees, leaves and berries... The smooth, mirror-like surface of the water, the reflections to be found there, working with the solitude to fire her imagination. It had been strange to suddenly find this creativity—one that had been languishing, despite her faith and belief in her work, ever since she had left Iondorra. Ever since she had left his bed that first and only time.
‘I do,’ she decided, realising that it was as much part of her as the baby growing within her.
‘And what will you do when you grow up?’ Matthieu asked, a tone to his voice Maria didn’t think she’d heard before.
Edward peered up at him, cast a quick glance to his parents as if to ask if it would be okay to speak to the stranger and, receiving encouraging smiles, answered, ‘I am going to be a firefighter,’ with no small amount of pride and determination.
‘That would be a very exciting job—and a very important one too.’
‘I know,’ Edward said, almost dismissively, in that easy childlike way, of his scars.
Matthieu crouched down, bringing his huge frame to Edward’s level. ‘I do too,’ he whispered conspiratorially, lifting back the shirt collar as he had once done with her. Maria held her breath as Edward’s eyes grew wide and round, then narrowed in assessment. ‘I had skin taken from my head and used in the graft on my face.’
‘Wow,’ Matthieu said, letting out a low whistle of awe that seemed to satisfy Edward greatly. ‘Okay,’ he said, making it clear that he was giving something deep consideration and bringing a surprising smile to Maria’s lips. ‘I had fake skin used in my graft.’
‘Split or full thickness?’ Edward fired back challengingly.
Maria’s skin vibrated with the rumble of laughter let loose by Matthieu and she couldn’t help but feel it within her too as she watched her husband and the young boy compare and compete over
their various conditions and treatments, seeing for the first time how he might be with their child. The bond she wanted and yearned for between them. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be a doctor when you grow up, rather than a fireman?’ Matthieu asked.
‘I like the fire truck best.’
The group’s responding laughter was cut short by the gala’s welcoming speech. Benjamin spoke clearly, and surprisingly slowly, on how the money raised would be put to use, and introduced a few of the inspiring success stories from some of the guests present, leaving barely a dry eye in the room, before turning his final thanks and debts of gratitude to Matthieu himself.
Maria shivered from the effect of hundreds of pairs of eyes on her and the powerful man beside her, who managed to hide the discomfort she imagined he must be feeling as he gracefully accepted the acknowledgement and thanks of the charity director. As the cheers from the crowd died down, and Edward and his family disappeared into the throng, Maria finally turned to her husband.
‘Do you regret coming tonight?’ she asked tentatively. She watched him choose his response carefully.
‘Not yet, but the night is still young,’ the ironic tone to his voice a fragile olive branch.
She smiled up at him then, reaching for his hand, slipping her fingers in between his, and marvelled at the jolt of electricity and happiness that shot through her as he squeezed gently, the light pressure saying so much more than his brief, carefully chosen words.
* * *
As Matthieu took her hand in his he looked about and saw the good that had been done by the charity he’d created from his family’s insurance pay-outs. The help it had brought others. Both his uncles and his aunt had been younger than his parents with no children of their own and, as Matthieu was their next of kin, their wealth had all been funnelled his way. More money than he could ever imagine spending in a hundred lifetimes. On top of Montcour Mining Industries it would have seemed almost laughable, if it had not been tied to such a great loss.
