Читать книгу Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir - Pippa Roscoe - Страница 10

STUPID, STUPID, STUPID.

What on earth had she done? Maria had fled the opulent ballroom of the Hotel La Sereine after her argument with Theo—shaking and shivering at the devastation she’d seen in both his and his fiancée’s eyes, the moment she’d accidentally revealed Theo’s plans to leave Sofia at the altar. Theo Tersi—the man she thought she’d loved for nearly six years.

But, she hadn’t. She’d realised it the moment she’d seen the horror and grief on the faces of the engaged couple. Nothing she’d ever felt for Theo had engendered that much...pain. Maria Rohan de Luen sucked in a huge lungful of air around the tears that were now freefalling from her cheeks. Tears for them, for herself. Because she knew that she’d destroyed something between them that she’d been looking for herself for so, so long. Knew that what she’d thought she’d felt for Theo was nothing more than the desperate need to...be loved?

She cursed herself for that weakness. Part of her desperately wanted to go back, to find Sofia and explain, to apologise to Theo...but truly she feared she’d do more harm than good and instead, after taking one step forward and one back, collapsed onto the soft grass banking the smooth, mirror-like surface of the lake stretching out beneath the night sky.

She resisted the urge to peek into the depths of the water, reluctant to see what would be reflected back at her. Her hand grasped the cool glass neck of the bottle of champagne she’d been blindly holding as she’d hurled words that threatened to sever the bond between two people who very clearly loved each other. She’d never much had a taste for the stuff, but if there was ever a time to get blind drunk, at twenty-two years old, Maria decided that surely now was it.

Part of her was conscious that she was on the verge of over-indulging in self-pity, and the other part wanted to punish, believing that she didn’t even deserve that selfish act. Not after what she’d just done.

Theo, her older brother’s best friend, had loomedlarge in her life, ever since her sixteenth birthday. Sebastian and Theo had become almost instantly joined at the hip after a mutually beneficial business deal and there wasn’t a family memory in the last six years that didn’t have them both in it. Maria bit back a laugh at her inner thought’s use of the word ‘family’. She hadn’t seen her father or stepmother in almost eighteen months. And she was fine with that. In some ways they factored so little in her day to day life that occasionally a random thought or memory would catch her by surprise and remind her of them.

She wondered what her father would think of her and what had just happened. He’d probably give her that gaze, the one that said he wasn’t really seeing her, but another woman—one he had loved so all-consumingly that he’d not been able to recover from the loss of her. Then he’d almost start when Maria would speak because it only served to show that she wasn’t her mother, no matter how similar they might have looked.

She had nothing else of her mother, no memories, no heirlooms—Valeria, her stepmother, had seen to that—save but one necklace. The one she wore, always, even though it served as both an anchor and a homage to a woman who had died giving her life.

So no, while exiled Duke Eduardo Rohan de Luen would have been as ineffectual as always on the subject of what had just happened, Valeria would have sniffed in contempt and been only gleeful whilst declaring that she’d always known ‘that boy’, Theo Tersi, would cause nothing but trouble.

And Theo’s crime? Guilt by association. Valeria had never forgiven Sebastian for the drastic measures he’d had to take to save their family from complete and utter destruction. When Maria had been eight, Eduardo had doubled down on an incredibly risky oil investment in the Middle East and lost not only his own money, but a large portion belonging to other members of Spain’s nobility. A shocking and shameful moment that had seen the Rohan de Luens exiled from Spain, yet allowed to keep their hereditary title.

The only thing that had kept them from bankruptcy had been Seb who, at eighteen, had taken control of the financial purse strings and done what was needed. This included selling off almost every single piece of property and valuable item that wasn’t nailed down. And for a woman who had only married Eduardo for prestige and money, Valeria hadn’t taken it well at all.

For Maria? It had meant leaving behind everything she’d ever known, moving to Italy from Spain, and starting all over again. But in her heart, she’d known that the damage was already done. Suddenly unsure about even the most seemingly permanent things in life, Maria had withdrawn from friends and education, choosing instead to lose herself in her art and sculpture.

Until London’s Camberwell College of Arts had accepted her on a foundation course, and she’d fallen utterly in love with the place, the people and the freedom she’d found away from her family. The friends she’d made during her degree, the little flat-share she lived in... Now, sitting on the bank of the river, all she wanted was to be back there.

She groaned out loud into the night sky and pressed the heels of her palms into the orbs of her eyes.

Oh, God, what had she done?

‘Is this seat taken?’

From the first moment Matthieu had seen the figure down by Lac Peridot, some strange sense of self-preservation told him to walk away. Run. From the empty veranda sweeping around the ballroom of the Iondorran hotel where a charity gala was being held, he’d seen the white lace dress worn by the dark-haired woman glowing in the moonlight. Tendrils of her long, gently curled hair had hung almost down to her hips and the sudden memory of his mother’s favourite painting stole his breath. He’d not seen or thought of the painting for years and when the figure had turned, for just a moment, back to the ballroom, something in her features, as clearly picked out by the moonbeams as her dress, had called to him as if across the years.

Matthieu Montcour knew better than to approach a woman so clearly lost in her own private thoughts, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something almost tragically beautiful about her. And Matthieu had had his fair share of tragedy. He knew how life could be one thing in one moment and an entirely new thing in another.

He’d been about to turn away from the figure and the direction of thoughts he rarely visited, when he saw her inexpertly take a swig from the champagne bottle, failing to account for the back flow of the bubbles, and nearly smiled as the froth rushed from the mouth of the bottle forcing the woman to lean out of the way as the alcohol funnelled onto the grass beside her. Nearly smiled, because smiling was something Matthieu did very little of. The figure gave up, indelicately wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, placing the bottle in the nest of skirts she’d made between her legs and went back to studying the lake. The carelessness about her clothing spoke to her distraction. This was no skilled seductress, his usual preferred companion. There was an innocence about her, shining, glowing, and all the more reason for him to stay away. But something about her drew him in—even though he was the last person to play white knight. No. He was the beast that mothers warned their daughters about.

Yet for the first time in years, he simply couldn’t deny himself the urge to take a closer look at the woman who had caught his eye and imagination. He’d stepped away from the veranda, leaving the sights and sounds of the ballroom behind him, and slowly padded his way over the soft grass, pulling up about a metre away from where she sat.

‘Is this seat taken?’

She started, peering up at him from her seat on the grass, momentary shock painting her features that righted themselves back to neutral. He’d chosen English—it being the most widely used at the gala and, as such, he figured it a safe bet, given that it was highly unlikely she spoke Swiss French.

‘Standing room only, I’m afraid.’

Her response surprised him, as much as her gentle European accent. Spanish perhaps? Maybe Italian? Taking his shock for persistence, she finally inclined her head.

‘Pull up a pew,’ she invited.

Frowning again, and confused instantly—which was untenable to Matthieu—he chose to comment. ‘That’s a very English turn of phrase for such a European accent.’

‘That’s a very round about way of asking me where I’m from.’

And whilst Matthieu decidedly didn’t like confusion, he found the slightly circuitous bent of her conversation appealing. Too many women, once they knew who he was, decided upon a brute-force attack of the sensual kind, the only thing that he would respond to. But he didn’t see that jolt of recognition in her eyes. When she’d finally turned to take him in, the woman seemed only to pass over his features as if gazing over a far horizon. And damn him if there wasn’t a part of him that was pleased by that.

He took a seat beside her on the comfortable grass and felt a sigh of relief escape him. He was glad to be away from the ballroom. He hated this part of his role as CEO for Montcour Mining Industries. ‘Schmoozing’, Malcolm called it. Matthieu preferred to call it a waste of time. But he knew better than to argue with his Managing Director, oldest friend, and one-time legal guardian. The Iondorran Minister for Trade had decided that the charity gala would be a neutral arena to test the waters of a possible joint mining venture within the small European country. Matthieu was slightly on the fence about it—unsure as to whether Iondorra actually had the financial infrastructure to take on such an ambitious project. But he wasn’t ready to shoot it out of the water completely. Not yet anyway. These days Matthieu was incredibly choosy about his ventures, simply because he could be.

He saw, from the corner of his eye, the woman beside him—young, he noticed now that he was closer—wipe discreetly at her cheek. A blade of grass, or a bubble of champagne from earlier? A tear perhaps?

The action had released a trail of perfume, wafting towards him on the warm night air, teasing his senses with tones of woody sage and something almost like the sea...salt, he realised. Inexplicably his mouth watered, desire creeping through his body.

‘Would you like some?’

He shook his head at the bottle she nudged with her knee. Matthieu rarely drank, refusing to allow anything to dull his senses to such an extent. But in the back of his mind, he wondered if he was already part drunk on the woman and the situation he found himself in.

They sat for a while in silence as if neither felt forced to speak. It was a blessed relief after the hours he’d spent in the gala being solicited by the Minister of Trade. Being peppered with unwanted and intrusive questions that were almost ritualistic in any negotiation. How are you finding Iondorra? What did you think of the capital Callier? Have you tried some unnameable food the small country hailed as their own pride and joy? The man’s offence that Matthieu had driven here from Switzerland, and intended to drive back without sampling any of this proud nation’s delights, had been both clear and disapproving. Not that it mattered—Matthieu hadn’t bothered with such things as niceties in a long while. He didn’t have to. He was Europe’s fourth richest man both in private income and net worth. People came to him.

But not this woman.

‘Do you think that there are some things that are unforgivable?’ she asked into the night air, without glancing his way.

In truth, he couldn’t imagine anything done by a girl who couldn’t even drink from a champagne bottle could be unforgivable. However he knew that yes, some things were beyond forgiveness. So he chose his words carefully. ‘I think there are two sides to every story.’

She seemed to take this in, as if considering her reply just as carefully.

‘I broke up an engagement tonight.’

‘Really?’ He couldn’t help the surprised word that fell from his lips. ‘Well, if that’s the case, he either wasn’t worthy of the engagement, or she wasn’t constant in her feelings enough for it.’

‘That simple?’ she asked of his blunt declaration.

‘It usually is, once you take emotions out of it.’ He was good at that. He had to be. ‘Do you love him?’ he asked, genuinely curious.

‘I thought I did.’

He knew that feeling too. ‘Then he either lied to you, or her.’

‘It’s not what you think. He had his reasons.’

‘They always do.’

‘No, I mean...he never... I never...’

He frowned at her confusion, not quite sure what she was unable to put words to.

She turned to him then for the first time and he was struck full force by her beauty. ‘What is it like to be kissed?’

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘You thought you loved him, but have never been kissed?’ he asked, unable to hide the incredulity from his tone.

Perhaps I don’t know what love is.

She hadn’t said the words out loud in that rich accented tone of hers, but her face was so expressive he could almost read her thoughts. He was used to the practised masks of women hell-bent on seduction. But hers? So open, so revealing, it distracted him for a moment.

Her skin glowed as much as her white lace dress in the beams of the moon. Flawless. Her jaw was strong, angular almost, stubborn even, but drew the eye to perfect rosebud lips slicked with just a trace of something that glistened in the night. Dark brows above dark eyes, highlighted with just a trace of mascara and liner as to outline, rather than dominate the deep rich dark eyes that stared back at him with confusion and hope—and a request he was almost one hundred per cent sure she wasn’t aware of.

What is it like to be kissed?

Maria was embarrassed. Should never have asked such a question. Especially not to a man like him. She might not have known who he was—which was partly why she’d felt able to speak her mind—but she didn’t have to know his name to know that he most definitely knew what it was like to kiss, to touch...to... She yanked her mind back before she could give away her thoughts.

A blush rose almost painfully to her cheeks and she hoped that he might not see it beneath the cover of the night sky. She felt naïve and uncouth next to him. And small. Because...his body, his presence, it was huge. She’d seen the impressive width of his arms as he’d sat down and leaned his weight back on his hands behind him. Arms and muscles that looked too wide for her to encompass with both her hands. If it hadn’t been for the champagne bottle, she would have pressed her thighs together against the feeling that was growing within her. She might have been innocent, but she knew the shocking arousal sparking within her was something she rarely felt, even with Theo.

She turned away, but even then, every single feature on his face glowed within her mind. Harsh cheekbones defined by the short beard that covered the strong line of his jaw, framing lips that were almost cruelly sensual. His eyebrows hung low above eyes that were a honey-green shade of hazel, so bright almost that she could have lost herself within their depths.

She thought he wouldn’t answer and almost jolted when he did speak.

‘There are lots of different types of kisses. Manipulative kisses, to get what you want. Cruel kisses to punish.’ Later she would wonder that he chose those two descriptions first. ‘Soft, gentle kisses a mother gives her child,’ he said, his tone unfathomable and causing a sudden yearning in the pit of her heart. ‘Passionate, mindless kisses that are all-consuming, thoughtless and more than a little selfish.’

She turned back to him, startled to find him looking so intently at her. As if trying to figure something out. As if...no. Surely it was only her wondering what it would be like to kiss this man.

‘But your first kiss? Honestly? Probably messy and awkward.’

Maria felt a little sad at that. As if somehow he’d taken away the promise of something that would be...good?

‘Perhaps I should just get it out of the way, then.’

He huffed out a gentle laugh—not at her, she realised. With her. There was a difference.

‘Perhaps,’ he said ruefully.

‘Would you do me a kindness, then? Would you kiss me?’

He met her gaze then, this man whose name she did not even know. And she felt it. That low hum through her body, as if his penetrating stare could reach into the depths of her soul and figure her out, understand her. That was what she’d wanted, she realised. All this time, all these years. Someone to understand. And, having done so, choose to stay.

His eyes roamed her face, looking for what, she didn’t know. The hairs on her arms lifted and goosebumps raised across her skin. She resisted the urge to shiver beneath his gaze, because she was scared. Not of him, but of what was happening to her. She’d never wanted something as much as she did his kiss. He frowned for a moment, as if fighting some inner battle she couldn’t imagine. He reached out his hand and raised her chin with his finger, looking at her, inspecting her almost.

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded, unable to speak. Wondering if he would walk away instead, or give into this strange web woven around them, separating them from the rest of the world.

He moved slowly, as if giving her the chance to turn away, to change her mind. She watched, wide-eyed and fascinated as he bent his head towards her, and...instead of pressing his lips to hers, he passed them, pressing his cheek to hers, stroking it almost, the heat warming her skin and heart, and she heard him breathe in, as if taking her into him, only to finally turn his head back towards her and almost brush a kiss across her lips. Once, then twice.

Her heart soared at the gentle yet firm feel of his lips against hers. Something within her rose to the surface of her skin, clamouring to reach out to him, to feel more than the simple contact of his finger beneath her chin and his lips against hers.

Desperate and fearful that he might pull away, that he might take this away from her, she reached up, inexpertly, to either side of his face, the soft hair of his beard against her palm, her fingers brushing the silky thick strands of his hair. Holding him gently, pulling him back towards her in case he turned away.

His lips hovered barely a centimetre away from hers, she felt his breath against hers, she drew it into her lungs and her stomach clenched as she wished so much that she knew what to do next. Instead, they hovered on this almost kiss, fire scorching through her veins, heart beating so wildly she thought she might never find equilibrium again. Then, as one, they moved, coming together—she opened to the tongue he’d pressed against the seam of her lips and she met it with her own, the first shocking feel of him against her, inside her, filling her and delighting her completely. She lost herself to the kiss, the dance of their bodies, the impossible almost dizzying feeling that consumed her.

She felt his hands in her hair, his fingers curling into the thick tendrils and tightening just a little in a way that strangely made her feel both safe and wanted at the same time. She stretched into the feeling, trying to hold on to each different strand of emotion and desire he was wringing from her with just a kiss.

She couldn’t hold back the moan of pure pleasure that fell from her lips to his and regretted it instantly as he finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, breathing as harshly as she, as if as shocked as she.

‘Is it...is it always like that?’ she dared to ask.

‘No,’ he replied darkly. ‘Never.’

He took her hand in his, gently pulling it down from the side of his face, his thumb pressing against the palm of her hand soothing a little of the hurt, until it tripped over the scar that stretched over her palm to the top of her wrist. She pulled her hand away, rubbing at the scar with her thumb, not from pain but from the tingles and sparks his touch had created there.

She huffed out a little laugh, disguising her shock from the pleasure he’d just given her.

‘My stepmother hates them.’

‘What?’ he asked as if confused.

She shot a dark look his way. Surely he hadn’t missed the callouses, the little scars and nicks around the pads of her fingers, and the larger burn scar that topped the oblique arch of her palm.

‘My hands. The scars. She thinks that all well-born ladies should have delicate, unblemished, dainty hands and bathe in milk daily.’

‘And sleep on rose petals, I’m sure.’

‘And wrap themselves in cotton wool,’ she replied, continuing their word game.

‘And what do you think?’ he asked quietly, as if more weighed on her answer than just her thoughts about herself.

Maria turned her hands over, inspecting them impartially for the first time in a very long time. Seeing them as more than a body part, but as the tools she used to create her jewellery, to meld and mould precious metals, to create beautiful things.

‘I think they speak of hard work and sacrifice, hard-earned lessons, and I am proud of every single one of them.’

It was strange to hear her talk of the thing that had blighted so much of his life in a way that was full of pride and defiance rather than disgust or sick fascination. He had certainly met both those reactions. And then there was the other kind. The women who simply viewed what he could give them, in spite of the scars that covered almost half of his torso. The women who were more interested in his wealth or what pleasure he could give them.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said dismissively and he laughed. Properly then, out loud, from deep within him. She turned back to him, curiosity shining in her eyes.

He nodded once, quickly loosening his tie, releasing the button behind it and, moving his head to the side, he pulled slightly at the collar of his shirt. He knew that she would see the tendrils of scars that licked at his neck glinting in the moonlight. Then held out his arm, the same side of his body, and released the cufflink that held his shirt sleeves in place to reveal the edges of the scars that reached from his neck to his wrist.

‘I’m sorry.’

As he secured the cufflink, forgoing the button at his neck, he reflected that he’d heard that phrase so many times. From the doctors and nurses who had originally treated him, even from Malcolm. And worse, from the women who decided they couldn’t bear to be near him, to touch him. They’d all held that tone. Apologetic and, more often than not, disgusted. But this woman’s voice held neither of those and for the first time he found himself asking, ‘For what?’

‘That you feel you have to hide them.’

A jolt passed through his body. No one had ever said that to him. No one had ever accepted his scars so simply and his mind went blank. Well. Almost blank. Because suddenly he was plunged back into the memory of their kiss. He’d not lied when he’d said that a kiss had never been like that for him.

Even now he felt the throb of desire coiled tight within him. His heart was still racing, which had probably accounted for why he had shown her his scars. Perhaps unconsciously he’d been trying to scare her away. Because she was threatening to undo him in a way he’d never experienced before.

‘Passionate, mindless kisses that are all-consuming, thoughtless and more than a little selfish.’

His words came back to haunt him and he realised the truth of them. Because it had made him selfish. Her kiss had made him want more, a need rising within him, demanding to be heard and satisfied. More. He laughed at himself cynically. He didn’t just want more, he wanted it all. Everything she could give him. Need fired his blood, throbbing thick and heavily through his veins. He desperately fought the urge to haul her into his lap and simply feast on her like the beast he was.

‘They’re from smelting,’ she said, cutting through the raging desire he felt and pulling him back to the present. ‘It’s—’

‘I know what smelting is.’ His voice had come out harsher than he’d intended and she had noticed, if her look of confusion was anything to go by. ‘Professional interest. Mining.’

She nodded as if that explained everything, including his seven-point-four-billion-dollar net worth that she clearly didn’t know about. ‘You don’t like it though,’ she stated.

‘I don’t like fire.’

‘I can’t work without it,’ she replied, not dwelling on the probable cause of his injuries. She tapped the series of silver bracelets hanging loosely on her wrist. Jewellery. She must make jewellery.

He wished she hadn’t said that. Because now there was an image of her taming molten silver, harnessing the power of fire and heat—his greatest foe—and bending it to her will. It would require a greater deal of strength than he’d thought her capable of only ten minutes before. But looking at her now, the pride and innate confidence about her work...her scars even, made her glorious to him.

‘One of your own making?’

‘Yes. My first piece,’ she said lovingly of the simple silver band, not smooth like so many others, but beaten, textured, perfectly imperfect.

Matthieu hadn’t realised how strong the cast of light was from the ballroom until it went out. The charity gala had ended and the staff of the hotel had clearly finished their clean up. A brief glance at his watch showed that it was nearly two a.m.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked, almost reluctantly.

She shook her head and shrugged a delicate shoulder. ‘Not sure. I can’t go back to the suites as my brother will be there and I’m not ready to...’ Her rich accented voice trailed off.

‘You can’t stay out here all night.’

He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard. She had started to shiver as if the gentle light from the hotel behind them had offered both warmth and illumination. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it around her shoulders, resisting the urge to smooth down the material that swamped her small frame. She smiled her thanks up at him and he cursed the innocence shining in her eyes. If only...

‘The hotel is fully booked from the gala. You can have my suite.’

And for the first time that night it was as if his words had broken the spell. There, finally, was that hesitation, that sense of insecurity about his intentions, about him. It was only to be expected, from women who got in over their heads, women who weren’t quite ready to ‘bed the beast’ as he’d heard one such descriptor of himself. She need not worry. He could never touch an innocent such as her.

‘You will have it to yourself. Alone,’ he concluded firmly.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, standing, firmly tucking his desires and wants for her away. He held out his hand to her. ‘Come.’