Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir. Pippa Roscoe

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СКАЧАТЬ out at the stunning night panorama of Lac Peridot, her gaze instantly drawn to where the two opposing mountains met low in the distance.

      From the corner of her eye she could make out almost obscenely expensive furnishings and a doorway that presumably led to a bedroom and en suite bathroom, perhaps. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the view from the windows, just beyond which she could see a small wooden deck with a table and chairs.

      She turned, expecting to find him right behind her, wanting to even, but instead, she was surprised to find him hovering at the threshold as if reluctant to enter.

      ‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said, her words a whisper that pitched somewhere between humour and surprise.

      ‘Do you need it?’ he asked with a small answering smile curving his lips.

      ‘I’d like to thank you properly.’

      ‘Matthieu.’

      She repeated his name, the word rolling off her tongue, shaped by her accent, and read sudden and shocking desire in his eyes as she did so. She felt it. Bound to it, to him. Firing in her a confidence she didn’t know that she possessed.

      ‘Thank you, Matthieu.’

      He shook his head, dismissing her thanks, and made to turn, but she wasn’t ready for him to go. Not yet.

      ‘I—’ she said, halting his departure, but also desperately searching for something to say, something to bring him into the suite, to her. ‘I told you a secret. Before you go, would you share one with me?’

      He frowned then, as if remembering her earlier confession, as if choosing whether to give into her request, and something passed over his features, something hard won.

      ‘What? Like my favourite colour?’ he asked, stalking towards her silently on the plush carpet.

      ‘No,’ she said, casting her head to one side, taking the entire breadth of him in her gaze. ‘It’s blue,’ she asserted and then smiled when she caught the look of surprise. ‘Your suit is deep blue, your watch straps are blue leather.’ She shrugged her shoulder.

      ‘That simple?’

      ‘It usually is,’ she replied, using his words from earlier that evening. He liked that, she could tell and it warmed her strangely, somewhere beneath her breast bone.

      He had reached her and, now that they were standing so close, she had to crane her neck back to look at him. He really was breathtaking, his piercing eyes, a colour similar to rich honey, bearing down into hers.

      ‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if it really was a secret to be shared.

      ‘Truly?’ she asked as a wide smile pulled at her mouth.

      ‘I don’t...usually do celebrations,’ he said somewhat distastefully.

      She wanted to tell him then that she understood. That she hated her birthday too. But it felt...too personal, too intrusive. His birthday was about him. Not her. She pulled up the bottle of champagne she still clutched, and offered it to him, wondering whether he would take a sip this time.

      He gently took the neck of the bottle in his large hands, put it to his lips, making sure there was enough air angled in the throat of the bottle not to funnel the bubbles over him.

      But not once did he take his eyes from hers. After he’d taken a mouthful, he passed the bottle back to her and she placed her lips where his had been. The knowledge of it fired her blood once again, bringing a blush to her cheeks and the low v between her breasts. She followed his actions as she took a sip, faintly happy that she didn’t end up with a face full of bubbles and look as naïve as she felt in that moment.

      She didn’t know what she was doing...how to do what she wanted to. And she really wished that weren’t the case. Wished, suddenly, for experience to entice, to draw him to her. To know whether it was just her enthralled to this madness.

      Matthieu could see it—what her body was asking for—and feared that she wasn’t even aware of it. And God help anyone when she became aware of her power. The beauty of this woman could fell armies.

      ‘You know my name,’ he stated.

      She smiled and nodded her head slowly, understanding the implied question, and delighting in teasing him for it. And surprisingly, he liked it. That teasing sense of her with no emotional undercurrent or ulterior motive. He watched as the teasing morphed into something else...something more primal yet serious.

      ‘Maria. Maria Rohan de Luen.’ It was said with a slightly Spanish flare and he mentally rolled it around his mind, liking the way it bounced within him. Unconsciously he mouthed the words, drawing her attention to his lips. The way she looked at his mouth caused that infernal beast within him to roar with pride and need and all the things he knew he should lock down tight. He should not be here. Not tonight, when this woman was threatening his cast-iron defences against things he had not thought of for years.

      A timely reminder and one he needed to heed. He nodded once, to himself at his decision made, and then again at Maria, silently bidding her adieu. Because if he didn’t leave here soon, he might not leave at all. And she was too pure, too innocent for that. Had never been kissed until this night.

      He gave her an almost apologetic smile, the gesture unfamiliar on his lips, and turned to go. He had reached the door, his fingers around the handle before her words stopped him.

      ‘Before you go, can I ask one more thing?’

      He turned his head, not a single clue as to what she might ask for. But whatever had run through his mind, it hadn’t been what she proceeded to say.

      ‘Would you show me your scars?’

      White noise was all he could hear in his mind and below that, somewhere deeper, a furious roar, snarling and gnashing as if some great wound had been reopened. It must have shown on his face, because Maria took a step back for which he felt instantly regretful. He didn’t want her to be scared. But she would be if she saw them. They all were.

      Instantly he was transported back to the first time he’d bared himself to a woman. At seventeen, he’d been naïve enough to think that Clara had cared for him. The swift fury that streaked through him at the memory of betrayal had him turning away from Maria.

      But...

       ‘I’m sorry.’

       ‘For what?’

       ‘That you feel you have to hide them.’

      And why couldn’t he show them to Maria? It wasn’t as if he would ever see her again after this night, not once he left this room. She’d found strength and pride in her own scars, but what would she find in his?

      ‘They’re not pretty,’ he warned.

      ‘I don’t care for pretty,’ СКАЧАТЬ