The Tycoon's Shock Heir

by Bella Frances

Matteo would be off soon, back to Rome—more hosting, more guests, more fancy clothes and fancy people.

  Her mind wandered, imagining how he would look, what he would wear and who he would meet.

  Lady Faye and others like her.

  She racked her brains. Had he mentioned her or any of his exes last night? She didn’t think so. He hadn’t really said much about himself at all. Only the stuff about rugby. He hadn’t mentioned any women and had closed her down fast when she’d mentioned his mother.

  But all those women in his life, said a little voice. That wasn’t such a great character trait. And those were only the ones who’d been photographed. There were bound to be even more—the one-night stands. And now she was one of them...

  A sickly sense of unease rolled through her. She could be lying in exactly the same place as countless women before her. That was not a good feeling.

  Matteo groaned quietly. He was coming closer to the surface. But if she lay still he might go back under, and then she could slip away—no small talk, no awkward glances, no shame.

  His breathing steadied and deepened again and she took her chance, easing out from under his arm, sliding one leg out into the cool of the room, then another, gently shifting her weight, pausing to make sure his breathing hadn’t shifted, then easing out further.

  Finally she put one leg down on the floor and backed away from the bed and his sleeping form. She felt over the carpet for her shoes, grabbing them up into her hands, then taking her dress from the chair.

  She tiptoed across the room, put her hand on the door and eased it open, pausing suddenly when it began to squeak. But Matteo’s slow, steady breathing carried on as daylight pushed forward, letting her slip out into the hallway.

  She needed to phone a cab and get out of there as quickly as possible. She pulled the door open and paced along the wooden floor, past the photographs of skiing trips and yachting trips, past his mother’s beaming face and along the hallway to the kitchen.

  There was her bag, and there through the glass was the ice bucket, the strawberries, and her wrap discarded over a chair. Midnight’s debris dressed in daylight’s accusing glow.

  She tugged open the patio door and lifted her bag—but when she turned there was Matteo, framed in the kitchen doorway, tall and bronzed and looking murkier than the Thames on a winter’s day.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, and his voice was a growl, rough with lack of sleep. ‘You’re up already.’

  He tugged at the waist of his boxers as he walked into the room and she watched as his fingers trailed along the red, raw-looking marks on his stomach. Marks that she had made with her nails.

  She looked away. ‘Yes. I thought I’d get going. I’ve got a lot to do.’

  He was at the sink. She heard the tap running and the sound of water filling a glass.

  ‘You should have said,’ he said, drinking thirstily. ‘Could have set an alarm. Want some?’

  He wiped water from his mouth with the back of his hand and it was completely mesmerising. Just looking at him made her mouth water, but she shook her head and turned her face away.

  ‘No, thanks. Just call me a cab, please.’

  He filled a pot with coffee and water and set it on the hob, looking at her over his shoulder as he did so.

  ‘A cab?’ he said. ‘You don’t want to stay for breakfast? I can order whatever you like. You had a great appetite last night...’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a rush.’

  At that he looked up. His eyes flashed with something, but it was too fast to see what before his face smoothed out into rock.

  ‘I didn’t catch on to that last night—apologies. I’ll not keep you back if you want to go.’

  ‘Yes, I should have said I had to leave early—sorry.’

  ‘It’s no problem.’

  He paused, and the silence and his accusing stare were like a toxic cloud, mushrooming between them. She tried to find words—but what could she say? It was like corpsing on stage. Sentences were dying in her mind, not even making it to her mouth.

  Please let me off the hook, she thought. Let me go.

  ‘I thought we had a lovely night, Ruby,’ he said finally. ‘An amazing night.’

  ‘Yes, we did. Thanks.’

  He put his hands up.

  ‘“Thanks”? I’m not completely clear what’s happening here. I thought we might hang out a bit longer?’

  He walked towards her, stretched his hands out as if to rest them on her shoulders. She side-stepped that neatly.

  She stared down at a corner of the kitchen worktop along which his mail was arranged in two neat rows. Bills and official-looking stuff in one, and cards and invitations to parties in another. She could see his name emblazoned on one in cursive font and the name of the world-famous hotel it was to be held in. He was probably out every night of the week at some thing or other. Meeting women...having supper afterwards.

  That bed was probably never cold.

  She turned. Looked at him. At the navy stretch of his boxer shorts as they cut across his perfect stomach, the bump of each muscle and the dark arrow of hair. His wide, hard chest, its bones extending out, broken and uneven on one side, perfect on the other. The wide trunk of his neck, his stubbled jaw, hair messed up and framing his cool morning-after face.

  For a split second she hovered. The urge to jump into his arms and wrap her legs around his waist, to bury herself in all that man, glory in the kissing and hugging and sweet, dirty loving they had shared was as tempting as her next breath.

  But she didn’t move a muscle. Because she couldn’t unwrap herself all over again. She’d get away with it once, but not another time. Not now that she had bound herself back together again.

  She shook her head vigorously.

  ‘I can’t. I have to go. I’m sorry—I need to...to get things done.’

  He was looking at her carefully, warily, and then he put his hands down. ‘Fair enough. You don’t need to explain anything. I’ve got a lot on too.’

  ‘Yes, I hope it goes well. So, can you call me a cab, please?’

  He looked at her, then lifted his phone. ‘Send the car,’ he said.

  He stared at her, his brown berry eyes now glassy and hard. The coffee brewing on the hob began to splutter and spill out of the spout.

  ‘It won’t be too long.’

  The lid of the coffee pot rose up as steam and coffee broke free. Matteo reached for it and casually lifted it to the side.

  ‘I can wait downstairs.’

  ‘If you like.’

  She strode through the hallway, her heels clicking on the tiles, the faces on the walls grinning like clowns now, mocking her desperation to get out of the apartment, onto the street and out of this stupid dress.

  She stared at her scarlet reflection in the hallway mirror, and the agony of waiting was accompanied by the sonorous bell as the lift slowly climbed closer.

  ‘Wait,’ said a voice, and then Matteo too was in the mirror, hopping towards her, pulling on a pair of joggers, his big body loose and powerful, his face smooth, his lips closed.

  The lift doors opened and she rushed gratefully inside, willing the doors to close before he could come in. But in he came, utterly consuming the air, the space, her line of sight—everything.

  She stared straight ahead at their twin reflections, blurred lines in the glass: her in last night’s dress and him broad, bronzed and bare-chested.

  She bowed her head. ‘You don’t need to do this.’

  ‘I’ll see you into the car.’

  The rest of the trip down thirty floors was silent but for the whoosh of the lift. She stared at her shoes. The satin toe of one was scuffed. His feet beside hers were bare. She turned her head.

  With infinite slowness the lift finally bumped to a stop and the doors eased open. She stepped out into the plush, hushed re
ception area. Ahead, the glass doors screened the city—the world she knew, the world she was desperate to reclaim. Anywhere but here.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he said, suddenly grabbing her hand. ‘This doesn’t feel right at all. Did I say something? Or do something?’

  They were almost at the doors. A round glass table laden with fruit stood in their way. A car rolled into view.

  He swung her round and she looked up into his face. She memorised the lines of his eyelids, the crooked bridge of his nose, the soft pillow of his lower lip. She’d never see them again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re just not my type.’

  He winced as if she’d slapped him and stepped back.

  A doorman loomed into sight through the glass. The doors were opened. She looked at the roll of burgundy carpet spread out before her, ending at the gutter.

  The car door was opened. She stepped inside.

  ‘Nobody is,’ she whispered as the car sped away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE WAITING ROOM at the clinic was light and bright and cheerful. Magazines lay neatly stacked in a wall rack and a water cooler offered its shimmery blue contents silently beneath.

  Above the sofa opposite a screen flashed news from an announcer as a tape of stories ran underneath. To her left the white-uniformed staff competently filed and welcomed and attended to various other things.

  Ruby sat alone. Upright and alone. Her knees were locked together and she gripped the edge of the chair—waiting.

  She glanced up at the staff, wondering when she would hear her name. And then she did. And she jumped so suddenly people turned to stare.

  A uniformed, clean-faced woman holding a clipboard raised her eyebrows. ‘Nobody with you?’

  Ruby shook her head. When would people stop asking her that?

  The woman softened slightly, cast a glance over her. ‘Follow me.’

  Ruby placed her weight carefully on her feet and stood. There was no pain. It was fine. It was all going to be fine. She followed the woman through a set of doors. A long corridor stretched ahead. She’d never been in this hospital before. The medical team normally came to the studio. But her physician had a clinic here and had specifically told her to come to the hospital for her final meeting.

  Since she’d learned that her mind had run and her stomach had lurched. This incessant scrolling through every spinal, disc and musculature injury had got out of control. It didn’t necessarily mean it was bad news, just because she wanted to see her here. Maybe she preferred to do her consulting here. Maybe all sorts of things might explain the gnawing aches, the awareness she had that she didn’t want to listen. Maybe it would all be nothing.

  But she had been through all the maybes in her head. It wasn’t going to be good news. No one else had been asked to come here. She could only hope it wasn’t really bad news.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ the consultant said, standing up when she opened the door, then nodding to the nurse. ‘Have you brought anyone with you?’

  Ruby stifled the urge to snap at her and shook her head instead.

  The room was a square sterile box, with a window at the back and a desk facing the wall. She stared closely at the paper files on the desk, at the slice of computer screen she could see angled away to one side. She sat down on the chair she was offered—carefully. There was no twinge of pain. She was going to be given the all-clear. She could go back to rehearsals. It was going to be OK...

  ‘Your knee,’ said the doctor. ‘How has it been?’

  ‘Since the brace came off—nothing. I’ve been incredibly careful. All the physio and hydrotherapy—that’s made a difference. My diet—I’ve followed every instruction. I can’t wait to get back.’

  ‘And the other pain?’

  ‘It’s almost gone, I think. I barely notice it.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘We did some blood tests, as you know, after you mentioned this new pain in your back.’

  She knew. She’d been feeling so tired, so lethargic. She pressed her knees together and sat up as straight as she could. She angled her chin and stared ahead, ready to hear the next words. She’d heard those kind of words before—that was all they were. Words. There was always hope after the shock.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

  The consultant had turned to read the screen, scrolling through the notes.

  ‘No? In that case, I should tell you we screened for pregnancy as well as other things. I don’t know if you’re aware of that?’

  A hammer fell in her head. Why was she saying that word? Pregnant. What did that have to do with anything?

  ‘It’s routine in medicine. With women of child-bearing age it’s always a consideration.’

  That hammer fell again as another thought forced its way through. The tiny voice that had been talking to her, whispering it.

  Pregnant.

  She’d refused to hear it, had blocked it out.

  The hammer crashed the barrier down and suddenly she could see what she had known was there—the hideous thought that had been lurking in the shadows of her mind.

  The whole world spun into a sickening swirl as a wave of nausea from low in her tummy rose up.

  ‘I think that would explain all your other symptoms too. You know—the low blood pressure. That can happen. And back pain can be a symptom for some women. I wasn’t sure if you already knew.’

  ‘But I’m a dancer.’ She looked into the pleasant face of the other woman.

  ‘Dancers have babies,’ she said, as if that was the most obvious and delightful thing in the world.

  ‘But I can’t have a baby.’

  ‘Is there a reason why not?’

  Her mother’s face swam into view—frowning, angry, tearstained. Ruby was sitting beside her on a park bench as a little girl, putting her hand on her mother’s leg to comfort her—she had long, slim legs, like hers. She jerked away, stood up.

  ‘Are you OK, Mummy?’

  ‘No, Ruby—I’m not. I’m not OK. I hate this life! It’s so unfair...’

  She’d never said what fair would be, but Ruby knew it wasn’t this. She’d never smiled when it was just them. But she’d been happy when someone else was there—she would light up, laugh and sparkle. And then she would like it when Ruby would dance.

  ‘Come and dance for us, Ruby.’

  They’d all smile and everyone would be happy, and the coldness and fear would slide away because Mummy liked it that she could do this for them. Mummy loved her then.

  And that was all she’d wanted—to see her mother smile, to make her happy. But the music would end, the people would go, and they’d be left alone again. That aching, empty sadness would fall around them.

  She’d lie in her bedroom, listening to the sounds of her mother, knowing that Mummy wanted to be out with her friends, praying that she wouldn’t leave her alone again. The house was so dark, so quiet, so empty... She’d hear her own heart beating, hear the fear creeping through her, hear every single sound in the house.

  The ping of the kettle was good, and the striking of a match to light a candle, the lights being turned off and Mummy’s feet on the stairs. But sometimes she’d hear other sounds—the slide of the cupboard door, the rustle of a raincoat, the drag of keys along the shelf, the pause, the whoosh of the world outside, the silent click...

  No, she couldn’t have a baby because she couldn’t have that world again. She couldn’t look after a baby and give it everything it needed. She couldn’t cause that pain. She could only keep her own pain at bay by dancing and rehearsing over and over and over. She couldn’t be responsible for another living soul.

  ‘I understand it’s a shock. There’s help available... I wasn’t sure if you knew already. I can arrange for someone from the ballet company to speak to you—your mentor? Or there are services here. Is there
no one close at hand? The father?’

  The father. Matteo Rossini. What on earth had she been thinking? His face. His smile. His body. His never-ending stream of women.

  This is what happens when feelings are given space. This disaster!

  He was the worst possible person she could have let her guard down with. The very worst. She’d thought he might, just might get in touch with her—but, no. There had been nothing. He’d have had another whole troupe of women in his bed since then.

  Would he even acknowledge that this had happened? He had been extremely careful with contraception. She had been reassured when he’d taken care of it so well because she knew she couldn’t afford to get pregnant. She couldn’t be a mother...

  She put her hand out into the space that swam around her. Seconds, days, years suddenly spun ahead of her, showing her a different world that she could never in her worst nightmare have imagined would be hers.

  ‘Let me get you some leaflets. We can talk about options.’

  She couldn’t talk about options. There were no options. He would have to take responsibility and let her get on with her life. There was only that. She couldn’t mother anyone. She couldn’t and wouldn’t do that.

  She breathed in, filling her lungs with air, willing her legs to be still, praying for the strength to stay calm and cope. Focus.

  She stood up. ‘So, just to be clear,’ she said slowly. ‘I am ready to go back to work. The ligaments are fully repaired and I won’t be risking doing any damage. You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Your body will start to change during pregnancy, but you’ll get all the help and advice you need.’

  Her body would change? Her body was her only weapon in this world. She needed it to work.

  Her throat closed over a new wave of fear.

  Focus. Focus, she told herself, refusing to let it wash her away. You’ve come so far. You’re nearly there. It’s just like those early calls to Mum. Focus on the good parts—ignore the rest or it’ll pull you down.

  She swallowed again. ‘My blood tests were clear? I’m in perfect health?’

  ‘Ruby, you’re pregnant. I can see that this is quite a shock and I’m here to help and advise.’