Читать книгу The Tycoon's Hidden Heir - Yvonne Lindsay - Страница 7

Your son. Your son.

The words echoed in his head, drowning out the roaring denial that filled his brain. Somewhere, deep inside, an intangible flicker leaped at the possibility, but then the heated brand of her fingers fought through the fog of shock to remind him she was there. A part of this—potentially a part of him through Brody—and he didn’t trust her. Not so much as a millimetre.

She’d dealt with her grief in record time—it made sense she was on the lookout for her next cash cow, of course she’d look to pin something as outrageous as this on him. There was no way on this wide earth he was going to fall for that one—he’d seen firsthand how destructive a lie like that could be. He placed his hand over hers, peeled her fingers off his arm and dropped her hand.

“I don’t believe you.” He pitched his voice low and hard so she’d be in no doubt that he could be dissuaded.

She started and paled, as if he’d slapped her.

“You don’t…?”

“You’ve wasted enough of my time, Helena. Now get out of my house.” He banked down the anger. He simply wanted her to take her lies and her sexy body somewhere he’d never have to hear them, or see her, again. He stalked across the room, snapped up the handset of a cordless phone and began punching in a series of numbers. “You can wait in the front porch for the taxi.”

“No.”

His finger hovered over the last digit. “No?”

“I’m not going until you agree to help.”

Fury clenched low in his belly like a tight fist. If he had to take her physically from the property himself he’d damn well do it. He dropped the phone back on the side table he’d snatched it from and began to walk toward her, his intent obvious in every step.

“I have proof that Patrick isn’t Brody’s father.”

Mason stopped in his tracks. “Proof?”

“On his death he instructed his solicitor to make certain documents available to me, documents that prove he was incapable of fathering a child.”

Mason choked out a humourless laugh and raised one brow. “And Evan? How do you explain him?”

“Adopted.”

Sure he was. Was there no end to her lies? “Does he know?”

“Yes. I think that’s partly why he’s so bitter toward Brody. He thinks Brody is Patrick’s natural-born son.”

“And you, of course, know he’s not.”

“I do now.”

“Why the hell should I believe you?”

She scrabbled in her bag, withdrew a letter-size envelope and handed it toward him. “Here. Read it yourself.”

Reluctantly he took the envelope from her and lifted the flap to remove the folded sheets from within. He sat down on the long sofa facing her chair and began to read.

“So, this proves Patrick was infertile.” He tossed the papers back across the coffee table toward her. “It certainly doesn’t prove I’m Brody’s father. How many other men have you slept with, or are none of them rich enough to pin this onto?”

“Brody is your son. You and Patrick were the only ones.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that. You might have lost track of the details during your parade of lovers but I remember that night very, very clearly. You were no innocent virgin, Helena.”

“Okay, you weren’t my first, no, but there was no one else once I married Patrick.”

He could neither help, nor wanted to prevent, the incredulous snort that escaped him. He’d been an unwilling audience to Evan’s drunken boasts about how athletic his father’s beautiful young wife was in bed. He knew she was lying right down to the delicately formed bones of her exquisite body.

A sudden flash of lightning split through the room, rapidly followed by a deafening rumble of thunder and an almighty crash outside. The lights overhead flickered, dimmed and brightened.

He had to get rid of her before the power went out altogether. Mason picked the phone back up and hit the Talk button. Silence. He hit the button two times in quick succession. Still nothing.

“Problem?” Helena sat back on the chair and crossed her legs.

“Phone’s out.”

“So use your mobile.”

“Can’t. This is a black spot. No reception. I’ll take you into Whitianga myself. You can check into a motel and get a taxi back home in the morning.”

Helena watched in dismay as he grabbed a set of car keys from a softly glazed pottery dish on top of the dining table. That he meant what he said, she had no doubt. Reluctantly she picked up the papers from the table, pushed them back into her bag and rose to follow him through to the garage. If need be she’d come back tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that until he’d agree to help.

Inside the garage, Mason flipped a switch on the wall. The ceiling light bathed a black behemoth parked in solitary splendour in the middle of the parking bay. She stared at the four-by-four, recognising in its strong powerful lines the personality of the man who drove it—yet, with the chrome running boards and highly polished mag wheels, enough of the daredevil showman who’d brazenly taken the freight community by storm to build the largest privately owned company in the country. The blip of the car alarm disengaging startled her as it echoed in the large area.

“Get in.” Mason walked around the other side of the four-by-four, opened the driver’s door and climbed up.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Helena opened her door and placed a foot on the running board to give her a lever up into the high leather seat. As she settled in and clipped her seat belt he put the key in the ignition and pressed a button on a remote on the central console. The wooden segmented door behind them slowly lifted open.

A long low-pitched string of expletives ran from Mason’s mouth as he looked through the rearview mirror to the driveway. Before she knew what was happening he was out of the truck. What? She unclicked her belt and scrambled back down. Mason stood, just inside the doorway, hands on hips and with frustration and anger roiling off him in tangible waves.

She looked past him and out onto the softly lit forecourt. There, firmly planted across the drive, its tip entangled in dark wires, lay the solid trunk of a toppled pine tree.

“Is that what took the phone out?” Helena looked at the sorry excuse for a tree. It looked as if it should have come down years ago.

“Yeah, it was tagged for removal next week along with a few others. Stay here,” he commanded.

“Is there anything—”

“Just do as I said.”

Without another word, Mason went to a large storage cupboard along the back wall of the garage and flung open the door. He reached inside and pulled out a set of earmuffs, safety glasses and gloves and a mean-looking chain saw. Setting the saw onto the concrete floor he checked the petrol level, put on the earmuffs, then hefted the saw up again. For a split second, as he passed her, he met her gaze—accusation stark in his angry stare—before striding out into the driving rain. As if it were her fault the stupid tree had come down. Helena crossed her arms defensively in front of her body and fought back a shiver of cold. The temperature had dropped markedly with the onset of the storm.

In a half a dozen steps the driving rain had plastered his shirt to his body. She tried to tear her eyes away from him, from the outline of a supremely well-honed male, but failed miserably. About as miserably as she’d managed to convince him of the truth of Brody’s parentage. It was her fault. If she hadn’t come he wouldn’t be out there right now. But she’d had to try—still had to. There was simply far too much at stake.

She should be helping him—after all, he wanted to get rid of her, didn’t he? Another gust of wind whipped a flurry of needles and small branches to lash against him as he pulled on the gloves and started up the saw, immediately setting to work to remove the branch nearest him. Before she knew it she was out the door.

“Let me help,” she shouted over the ragged noise.

Mason lifted one side of the silencers protecting his ears. “Don’t be stupid, it’s too dangerous. I told you to stay inside.”

She ignored him and gripped a hold of the branch he’d just cut, and dragged it away to the side of the drive.

“Go to the garage and get yourself a set of earmuffs and safety glasses, you’ll need them. And Helena?”

She paused and straightened.

“Don’t get in my way.” The words were nothing but a growl.

She gave a sharp nod to acknowledge his warning. Sure, she wouldn’t get in his way, at least not while he wielded that chain saw with the dexterity of a seasoned professional.

From the garage cupboard she pulled out a pair of gardening gloves, although after trying them on she decided to do without. The way they fell off her hands would be more hindrance than help and right now it was more important to her to leave a better impression on Mason than that she’d arrived with.

The rain had soaked through her hair and ran in rivulets beneath the collar of her jacket, sending trickling shivers of discomfort down her spine. She mentally squared her shoulders and focussed on what she had to do. She slipped on the glasses and earmuffs and went back outside.

It was more difficult than she’d expected to clear the branches off to the side, especially in a suit and shoes better suited to a cocktail party than a logging operation.

Mason’s eyes burned a hole through her back more than once as she staggered with another branch across the driveway. Through the earmuffs the softened roar of the saw bounced between the bank and the side of the house until Helena’s head felt as if it was vibrating in unison with the noise. She pressed fingers, sticky with pine resin, over her earmuffs to seal off any gaps as Mason battled a particularly knotted piece of wood. He wielded the chain saw as if it was second nature to him, but then that’s pretty much the way she’d noticed he managed everything in his life. A total perfectionist in whatever he did.

Any other day of the week Helena would have turned tail and left. The discomfort, the noise and the incessant rain would individually have been enough to persuade her to find sanctuary elsewhere. But she couldn’t stop. She had to prove she was worth listening to and not, as Mason so clearly thought, just some grasping bimbo out to find her next sugar daddy. She bent to pick up the branch he’d finally worked free and jumped when Mason leaned forward and pulled one of the earmuffs away from the side of her head.

“Ready to give up yet?”

She looked up, raking his face for any clue that she’d satisfied him she wasn’t just some pretty thing looking for an easy ride, but his features remained unreadable except for the flicker of heat in his eyes when they dropped to the gaping neckline of her jacket.

“Are you finished yet?” she countered, not daring to move.

Slowly, his eyes trailed back up to her face. “Not yet.” His pupils dilated slightly.

Helena felt a brief surge of power. He might act as if he hated her, but he wasn’t unaffected by her. At least not as much as he tried to portray. That telltale flare in his eyes had given her more control than she’d dreamed. “Well, then, I’m not finished either.”

Despite all the activity, the cold evening air and her wet clothes combined to send a deep chill into her bones. She shivered as she bent to pick up one of the slices of the trunk. Mason reached out to stop her.

“What?” She stood up and put her hands on her hips.

“Go inside, you’re wet through.”

“It’s okay, I can manage,” she replied through gritted teeth, bending at the knees to get closer to the richly scented disk of wood.

Mason stood and watched her as she hefted up the piece. Holding it close to her body, she lurched over to where she’d stacked the cut branches. Then, he set to finishing off the remainder of the tree, although she noticed that he cut the slices narrower to make her job a little easier. Eventually he was done and, scooping up three disks to her miserable one each time, they finished clearing the driveway.

“What about that bit?” Helena gestured toward the tip of the tree that had tangled in and brought down the phone line.

“I’ll leave that for the phone guys. C’mon.” He gestured toward the garage.

Helena hesitated a moment in the rain, which hadn’t let up even the tiniest bit as they’d worked to clear the tree, then followed him back inside. She fought to combat the shivers that now cascaded through her body. The last time she’d come close to feeling this cold she’d been with him, too. Only then the outcome had been vastly different to today. She resolutely pushed away the memory of that night, of the lover who was as far removed from this aloof creature as a person could be.

From beside the passenger door of the truck she watched as he grabbed a rag from the cupboard to wipe down the chain saw and put everything away. She lifted a foot to the running board to climb back into the vehicle when warm hands slipped around her waist and lifted her back down. He only touched her for a moment yet it was enough to send a fire coursing through her body, radiating out from where his hands had rested against her sodden clothing. Fire blended with a bit of something else—something she couldn’t afford to acknowledge or identify.

“Forget the road trip tonight.”

“You mean it?” Relief coursed through her. The prospect of sitting in cold wet clothing even for the relatively short trip to Whitianga was anathema to her.

“I don’t say what I don’t mean. Clearing this mess took longer than I expected and we’re both soaked through. By the time we get dried out it’ll be too late for you to check in anywhere around here. I’ll get you some dry things. You can stay in one of the guest rooms.”

He sounded as though he’d rather endure a root canal without anaesthetic. Even so, Helena tried to say thank-you but he was already walking away from her. She followed him down the native-timber parquet floor hall to a separate wing of the house that she hadn’t noticed on her arrival. He flung open a door at the end of the passage and walked through to another door that led into a large champagne-coloured marble bathroom and snapped on the faucet in the shower. Steam slowly started to fill the room.

“Don’t lock the door,” he said as he left her. “I’ll find something for you to wear and drop it inside.”

Helena could barely respond. The lure of warm running water called to her from the shower stall. With cold, stiffened fingers she tried to undo the buttons on the front of her jacket but they just wouldn’t cooperate.

“Here, let me.”

Warm hands brushed her fingers aside. She shivered as Mason deftly undid the buttons and peeled the tailored jacket from her body. Underneath, her simple black silk camisole clung to her skin, shamelessly exposing the fact she wore no bra. Under his gaze her nipples hardened and pressed against the dark silk. A flush of embarrassment flooded her cheeks.

“I’ll be all right from here,” she protested as he started to lift the hem of her camisole.

“You’re so frozen you can barely move. Be sensible, Helena. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

His fingers brushed against her belly as he took hold of the bottom edge of her cami. The shiver that rippled through her body had nothing to do with cold—his touch scorched like a brand.

“Please, stop.” Helena pushed his hands away and stepped backward. “I’ll be fine from here. Truly.” Blindly, she reached for a towel and pulled it in front of her.

“Whatever you say.” He took a step back. “Come through to the living room when you’re finished. I’ll get the fire going and warm up something for us to eat.”

Helena nodded and watched as he left the bathroom. She let go of the breath she’d been holding and swiftly shimmied out of her skirt and peeled off her clinging wet pantyhose and undies. She released her hair from the army of clips that bound it then gratefully stepped beneath the cascade of warmth thundering in the shower. Sheer bliss. She quickly lathered herself up and rinsed off. The stinging needles of the spray invigorated her and although her fingers and toes still felt cold she felt much better. Hungry though. She towelled off her wet skin, and arranged her damp clothes on the heated towel rail to dry, then picked through the mixed assortment of clothing Mason had dumped just inside the door while she’d been luxuriating in the hot water.

In amongst a couple of well-washed soft T-shirts and a pair of grey track pants her hand hesitated over a powder-blue merino wool sweater and a relatively new pair of woman’s jeans. Was he sending her a message by including some other woman’s forgotten clothing? Resolutely Helena selected a large faded sweatshirt and the track pants. There was no way she would wear another woman’s castoffs—years of hand-me-downs from her parents’ neighbours combined with the smart remarks from her classmates when she’d worn their old clothing to school had seen to that.

The sudden lance of jealousy that shafted her sideways at the thought of Mason with another woman came as an unpleasant surprise. It’s not as if she had any say in his love life, she groaned inwardly, don’t even think about it. She’d been a happily married woman herself for twelve years, so why did it suddenly bother her so much to think of another woman’s clothing being left here?

With a determined push she shoved the blue sweater under the pile of remaining clothes and dragged on the pants and sweatshirt. The pants were far too large, but they were warm, and she wasn’t beyond sacrificing a bit of dignity for warmth right now. She rolled over the waistband several times to try and pull them up a bit on her hips and turned up the legs. The sweatshirt hung almost to the top of her thighs. Well, she decided, looking in the large vanity mirror, she wouldn’t win any fashion parades but then she wasn’t here to impress anyone, was she. Lord, but her hair was a mess. She rummaged through the vanity drawers, searching for a comb or a brush. Her cheeks flamed as her hand brushed against an unopened twelve-pack of condoms.

“You okay in there?” Mason’s voice at the door made her slam the drawer shut. Okay, she could go with the wild look for her hair for now.

Helena opened the bathroom door. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for the clothes.”

He looked at what she was wearing and then the pile of clothes she’d dumped onto the vanity. If she wasn’t mistaken the corners of his mouth lifted slightly for just a moment. She bit her teeth together to avoid verbalising the snaky comment that came unbidden from the jealousy that still twinged inside. He was letting her stay the night. There was no way she was going to do anything to jeopardise his reluctant goodwill.

“Come and eat then.”

She followed him back down the hall to the sitting room where the aroma of warmed bread made her mouth water. Fire licked hungrily over split logs in the large stone fireplace and Helena bent to warm her fingers.

“Still cold?” Mason asked.

“Just a bit.” Helena grimaced at the state of her fingernails and her hands. No sign now of the elegant manicure she’d had earlier in the week. But it was worth it to get this opportunity. If she hadn’t already lugged so much of the tree from one place to another she probably would’ve hugged it for falling as it did and giving her the chance to stay longer.

“You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat. Sit down.”

When she was settled in the chair nearest the fire, Mason brought a tray with a bowl of a soup, filled with chunks of vegetables and meat, and several slices of warm French bread. They consumed their meal in silence. It was only as Helena placed her spoon back down in her now-empty bowl that he spoke.