Demanding His Hidden Heir. Jackie Ashenden

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СКАЧАТЬ had even been a certain amusement in her gaze, as if she hadn’t seen the icy, powerful CEO that everyone else saw. The ruthless king of business he’d turned himself into.

      It was as if she’d seen the man he was underneath instead.

      It had suddenly made his trousers feel two sizes too tight.

      He hadn’t thought twice about breaking off his conversation with the resort manager and following her to the pool.

      She’d already settled herself on the lounger and, when he’d approached her, she’d given him a cool look from over the top of her book.

      It hadn’t remained cool for long.

      Electricity had crackled in the air as their eyes had met and an hour later he’d been in her villa, his suit on the floor along with her bikini.

      He’d had her against the wall that first time, fast and hard, no time for niceties. There had only been desperation for them both. She’d gasped as he’d pushed inside her, and she’d felt so hot and tight, her silky thighs wrapped around his waist. Incredible. Her eyes had gone dark as they’d met his, and there had been no fear in them whatsoever. Only wonder. As if she’d never seen anything like him before in her entire life. Nothing had ever turned him on more. And then that wonder had fractured into pleasure as he’d begun to move inside her, driving her against the wall, driving them both into insanity...

      Two days they’d had. Two days when he’d touched and tasted every inch of her, when he’d held her in his arms and shared things he’d never shared with another person before; had given her pieces of his soul that he’d never shared with anyone else.

      And he’d thought that maybe he’d been mistaken when he’d thought home could be a place. That, maybe, home could be a person too.

      Until she’d left him without a word.

      No, it shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t matter.

      ‘Matilda?’ St George finally ended his conversation with the woman to whom he’d been talking, his craggy face turning puzzled. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

      And the redhead—his Summer—finally tore her gaze from his to look at St George. ‘N-no,’ she said in that familiar smoky voice, the one that had turned husky when he’d been deep inside her. Or when his mouth had been between her thighs. Or when his hands had cupped her breasts, her skin silky against his palms. ‘Simon woke up and got out of bed.’ She bent and scooped the little boy up into her arms. ‘I think he wandered in here by mistake.’

      Matilda. Her name was Matilda. And she was St George’s wife.

      Enzo stood there, frozen, as St George came over to her and bent to the boy in her arms, murmuring something to him. The child turned his head to his father, but for a second looked over St George’s shoulder, his bright golden gaze meeting Enzo’s.

      And realisation hit Enzo like a skyscraper falling.

      Matilda St George was Summer, the island fling whose ghost had haunted him for four long, lonely years.

      And really, even apart from the timing, there was only one way a child could have eyes that colour.

      Enzo’s fist tightened on his tumbler and a crack ran down the side of the glass.

      That boy wasn’t St George’s.

      That boy was his.

      * * *

      Matilda held Simon tightly as Henry murmured to him, her heart beating so fast and so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.

      She’d made a mistake. She’d made a terrible mistake.

      She’d thought she’d been so clever, making sure she’d avoided him the whole weekend—going on a couple of day trips and then in the evenings keeping both Simon and herself to the upper levels of the house away from the guests.

      There had only been tonight to get through and she’d been congratulating herself on how well that had worked out, Simon in bed early and herself curled up in bed too, watching a movie and eating ice-cream.

      Forgetting all about the one guest she must avoid at all costs.

      And then Simon had woken up and, because he liked people very much, the sounds coming from the drawing room had been irresistible.

      Too concerned with finding her son, Matilda hadn’t noticed the man in the corner at first. She’d given the room a quick scan, spotted nothing and had taken a step further into it before she’d recognised the crackle of electricity that had suddenly hummed over her skin.

      A horribly familiar electricity.

      So she’d stopped. And she’d looked. And there he’d been, standing near the sofa. So impossible to miss, she wondered how she hadn’t seen him the first time.

      Impossibly tall, impossibly broad. Radiating the same fierce, kinetic energy she remembered from years ago, all impatience, restlessness and heat.

      He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit of dark charcoal and his ink-black hair was cut ruthlessly short, highlighting those aristocratic cheekbones and the strong, sharp line of his jaw, the long blade of his nose and the carved sensuality of his mouth. A beautiful face, intensely compelling. Predatory, fierce and utterly unforgettable.

      But it was his eyes that had caught her, held her. Making her freeze in place right where she’d stood.

      Bright, burning gold. Like the tropical sun on an island years ago and full of the same searing heat.

      Now a shudder coursed through her, a fire inside her that had long been cold suddenly bursting into flame. And, helplessly, she found herself glancing at him again, just to be sure it was actually him. As if the instant response of her body hadn’t been enough.

      But his attention wasn’t on her this time. He was looking at Simon. And she had one second to think that perhaps he wouldn’t notice the colour of her son’s eyes, then his gaze lifted to hers once more.

      And the weight of his fury descended on her.

       He knows.

      Henry was still talking but Matilda had long since ceased to listen. The fight or flight response had kicked in and all she could think about was getting out of the drawing room and away from the man she could still feel staring at her.

      The man with whom she’d spent two intoxicating days.

      The man from whom she’d run without even a goodbye.

      The man who’d fathered the boy she held in her arms.

      She felt strangely hot and cold at the same time, a bit sick too, and it was all she could do not to jerk away from Henry and run from the room there and then. But he wasn’t one for public fusses so she stayed until he’d soothed Simon. Then, before he could do anything else, such as introduce her to his guests, she took her son and fled.

      Back upstairs, Matilda tried to calm her frantically beating heart and attempted not to think about the man and the fury in his golden eyes. About how he’d taken a step СКАЧАТЬ