The Tycoon's Hidden Heir

by Yvonne Lindsay

  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.

  “Thanks for your help outside.”

  “You’re welcome. I don’t like standing around while others do all the work.”

  Mason shot her a look of disbelief. Yeah, she knew what he was thinking. She was no better than a pampered poodle in his eyes. The truth couldn’t have been further from his opinion. She knew all about the hard yards and what people had to do to make ends meet. Wealth and privilege hadn’t always been tattooed on her forehead. And wasn’t that what had put her in this situation in the first place?

  Three

  Helena held his gaze, defying him to contradict her statement. As their eyes locked in a silent duel, his pupils enlarged, the blackness all but consuming the darker brown iris. The only sound was that of the occasional hiss from the wood in the fireplace as flames consumed the logs and added to the heat escalating in the room. She could feel the throb of her pulse at her neck, and the answering beat from deep inside her. The beat that built in rhythm and send a curl of need to spiral outward from her core.

  He hadn’t spoken a word, yet in that look—no matter how much he abhorred her—she knew he still wanted her. And she wanted him back. Nothing had changed. The twel
ve years that lay between them yawned like a chasm—her marriage, their son. Each of them barriers to the desire that clawed with growing hunger and demanded to be assuaged. A log snapped in the fireplace, the sound giving her the impetus she needed to break the stare between them.

  She gripped the sides of her tray and stood, making her way quickly to the kitchen. A small groan of discomfort escaped her as her muscles protested their sudden inactivity after the work she’d done outside.

  “A bit too much action for you, Helena?”

  To anyone else his enquiry would have sounded like no more than a tease, yet in the velvet stroke of his deep voice Helena could only hear contempt.

  “Perhaps it’s been a bit longer since you actually did ‘the work’ than you realised?” He deliberately baited her with her own words, twisting them to make her sound foolish.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she answered softly before moving over to the kitchen where she unloaded her tray and rinsed her dishes in the sink. “Being a good wife involves a different muscle group altogether.”

  The words had no sooner left her mouth before she regretted them. They were far too easily misconstrued, and in Mason’s current frame of mind he would definitely have drawn the wrong impression. His next words only confirmed her fears.

  “I can only imagine what you’re referring to.”

  His voice came from right behind her, as steely and cold as a stiletto blade. Helena rotated her shoulders and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t matter what she said right now, he wouldn’t believe her. He was determined to think the worst.

  “Not what you’re thinking.”

  “Whatever you say, Helena. But then you have a habit of leaving out the important details, don’t you. Like being engaged to be married the day after you seduced a total stranger?”

  “Mason—”

  “Forget it. I don’t want to trawl through the past. You made your bed, now you get to reap the consequences. I’ve been thinking about Brody. You say he’s my son.”

  “He is your son.”

  “I want proof.”

  “I’ve shown you—”

  “No.” Mason crossed his arms in front of him. The black wool of his sweater stretched tight across his shoulders and over his upper arms. Her mouth dried at the latent power he projected, at the superbly sculpted masculine form that lay beneath the finely woven fabric. “Before I’ll even consider another step, I want scientific proof.”

  “A paternity test?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you’ll help us?” She clenched her fingers into fists, her broken nails pressing jagged lines into the palms of her hands. He had to agree.

  “If you’re telling the truth I’ll look into what I can do.”

  “How soon can we get it done? Where?”

  “That’s what you’ll have to find out when you get back to Auckland, won’t you. And quickly, Helena. This had better not drag out any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “I’ll do whatever I have to, to prove it, Mason. You can count on it.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He arched a cynical dark brow and leaned forward, trapping her against the kitchen bench with one hand locked on either side of her hips. “Just get one thing straight in your mind. If I am Brody’s father, that doesn’t mean I agree to support you in any way. Not a cent. Do you understand me?”

  Helena sucked in a breath, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled the scent of his woody cologne. To her shame she felt her breasts swell and lift, her nipples tighten and press seekingly against the cotton of her borrowed sweatshirt. Desire pooled low in her belly. “I don’t need or want your money, but Brody needs a future. I’ll do whatever it takes to satisfy your demands if it means my son’s security. Whatever. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh yeah, you’re coming through loud and clear.” He leaned a little closer. So close she could see the tiny rings of gold around the pupils of his eyes. “Maybe we should start that satisfaction right now.”

  “Wha—?”

  He closed the distance between them. Every nerve in her body fired into attention and Helena felt the air shift as he brought his face to hers. She had a fleeting impression of darkness and heat before his lips were on hard on hers, consuming the startled cry that fled her mouth. She squeezed her eyes closed. She didn’t want to think anymore. She didn’t want to feel. But despite her wants, her body took on a life of its own, greeting Mason’s plunder of her lips with a liquid heat that melted every last bastion of reserve.

  His mouth pulled at hers, tasting, sucking, caressing her lips until they were sensitive and swollen. Suddenly she was kissing him back with a hunger she’d thought she’d never experience again. Mason’s tongue probed between her lips, invading, taking possession. She met him on his own terms, deepening the kiss, permitting his invasion.

  She was lost and helpless against the capacity of emotion that swelled within her. The rational part of her mind ratified his need to dominate her with the power of his passion, but as a tiny moan of desire rose from her throat, Helena admitted she had never wanted a man as much she wanted Mason Knight. She’d suppressed that need, had wrapped herself up in her husband and her son with an intensity that belied her behaviour during that one night she’d spent with Mason. Yet deep inside lurked a craving that hadn’t diminished one bit in the past twelve years.

  She knew what he thought of her, even understood it in a way. He would hate it that he betrayed his own desire for her in the tiny tremors that rocked his body, in the weight of the insistent erection that pressed against her. Helena lifted her hands with every good intention of shoving him from her, but instead her fingers assumed a life of their own as they dug into his shoulders, relishing the leashed strength of him.

  Mason’s lips broke away from hers. His breathing came in harshly drawn gasps as he rested his forehead against hers. His eyes were shut, and another shudder rippled through his body. Then, slowly, he pulled back and opened his eyes.

  “You’re a little rusty,” he said in a voice that grated against her ears in scorn. “But it’s a start.”

  A start? She stood, locked in shocked silence as he walked away. In the distance, down the hall, she heard a door swing open then click firmly shut. Then, nothing. Her mind whirled. Was he serious? Did he expect her to become his mistress? When she’d talked about his demands she’d meant for information and for proof of Brody’s paternity—but not this, never this. She lifted a shaking hand to her face, her fingers pressing against her swollen lips. She could still feel him there; feel the impression of his body where he’d pressed against hers.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not again.”

  Pushing all thoughts of Mason Knight to the back of her mind, Helena automatically went through the motions of clearing up the kitchen and stacking the dishwasher. A minimum of investigation showed her where to store the trays and before long the kitchen was returned to its earlier pristine state. Unfortunately she couldn’t say the same for her state of mind. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get that kiss out of her head. She needed to talk this out with Mason, sort out what his expectations were and make her position quite clear. She’d be no man’s plaything. She’d seen and heard more than enough in the past to know she’d rather walk over hot coals than debase herself like that again.

  Her mind made up, she stalked down the hallway. Which room was his? A bar of light shone from beneath one of the doors and before she could change her mind Helena rapped sharply on the door and reached to twist the handle.

  Mason heard her knock and schooled himself not to spin around at the sound of the door being opened. So, she’d come to him. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him. He focussed on the dark vista across the bay, silvered by rain and moonlight, and drew in a deep breath before he turned to face her. A slew of emotions flitted across Helena’s face. First, something akin to anger and determination, but it was closely followed by a hesitance that assured him—despite how his body had flamed to life o
nly minutes ago, and still smouldered—he continued to hold the upper hand.

  “What did you mean by that comment?” While the words were a demand, he observed, the delivery was sadly lacking. A telltale tremor in her voice confirmed she was still shaken by their kiss. As shaken as he was himself, no doubt, although there was no way she’d ever know that.

  “Comment?”

  “Don’t play word games with me, Mason. You know what I’m talking about.” She stared at a spot just to the side of his face, clearly unwilling to make eye contact.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, Helena?” He swiftly crossed the room, coming to a halt to stand directly in front of her and forcing her to look up to meet him eye to eye.

  “What you said—a start. A start to what?”

  His mouth quirked at one corner. The million-dollar question. He lifted a hand and reached for a long tendril of her hair, rubbing its silky texture between his fingers, taking his time over his response.

  “Well now, that all depends on you, Helena. As I recall we were discussing demands and satisfaction. Your demands. My satisfaction.”

  “Brody’s your son. I shouldn’t have to make any demands on you.”

  Mason let go the piece of hair and let his finger drop to the exposed prominence of her collarbone where the neckline of his sweatshirt dipped against her skin. She felt like satin, cool smooth luxurious satin, and held herself rigid as if his touch had frozen her in place. But beneath the fabric he could see what effect he had on her and he could hear the catch in her breathing as he traced a line to the top of her shoulder and round to the nape of her neck.

  “Let’s not discuss Brody just now. Not until I have the information I require.” He slid his hand behind her neck, cupping it with his palm. “I’m curious about what you’re prepared to do, Helena. What, exactly, you define as ‘whatever it takes.’”