Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir. Pippa Roscoe
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including his seven-point-four-billion-dollar net worth that she clearly didn’t know about. ‘You don’t like it though,’ she stated.
‘I don’t like fire.’
‘I can’t work without it,’ she replied, not dwelling on the probable cause of his injuries. She tapped the series of silver bracelets hanging loosely on her wrist. Jewellery. She must make jewellery.
He wished she hadn’t said that. Because now there was an image of her taming molten silver, harnessing the power of fire and heat—his greatest foe—and bending it to her will. It would require a greater deal of strength than he’d thought her capable of only ten minutes before. But looking at her now, the pride and innate confidence about her work...her scars even, made her glorious to him.
‘One of your own making?’
‘Yes. My first piece,’ she said lovingly of the simple silver band, not smooth like so many others, but beaten, textured, perfectly imperfect.
Matthieu hadn’t realised how strong the cast of light was from the ballroom until it went out. The charity gala had ended and the staff of the hotel had clearly finished their clean up. A brief glance at his watch showed that it was nearly two a.m.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked, almost reluctantly.
She shook her head and shrugged a delicate shoulder. ‘Not sure. I can’t go back to the suites as my brother will be there and I’m not ready to...’ Her rich accented voice trailed off.
‘You can’t stay out here all night.’
He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard. She had started to shiver as if the gentle light from the hotel behind them had offered both warmth and illumination. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it around her shoulders, resisting the urge to smooth down the material that swamped her small frame. She smiled her thanks up at him and he cursed the innocence shining in her eyes. If only...
‘The hotel is fully booked from the gala. You can have my suite.’
And for the first time that night it was as if his words had broken the spell. There, finally, was that hesitation, that sense of insecurity about his intentions, about him. It was only to be expected, from women who got in over their heads, women who weren’t quite ready to ‘bed the beast’ as he’d heard one such descriptor of himself. She need not worry. He could never touch an innocent such as her.
‘You will have it to yourself. Alone,’ he concluded firmly.
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, standing, firmly tucking his desires and wants for her away. He held out his hand to her. ‘Come.’
MARIA FOLLOWED HIM through the dark halls of the hotel, still clutching the bottle of champagne she had snagged earlier in the evening, thankful that he had his wits about him when hers felt as if they’d fled. Because at first when he’d told her that she could have his suite, she’d been momentarily unsure. But when he had added that she’d have it to herself, alone, she’d been...disappointed.
Which was silly. Even she could recognise that. After all, she’d told him that she’d been in love with another man only hours ago. But Theo had never, ever, installed feelings that this man had conjured from her with his presence, his touch...his lips.
She knew she should be ashamed, but she couldn’t quite bring the feeling to mind. His impressively broad shoulders took up almost the entire width of the hallway she followed him down, gentle night lighting casting him in shadows. He was huge in comparison to her. Maria didn’t usually consider herself small at five foot four, but he must be well over a foot taller than her.
He drew up short at the last doorway at the end of the corridor. Turning to one side, he slid the slim black key card over the electronic plate beneath the handle, pushed the door open and gestured for her to enter.
She stepped past him, registering the oaky cologne that made her think of autumnal woods, earth and something else...something musky and enticing. Her thoughts on that, it took her a moment to recognise the sheer opulence of the room she had entered and she nearly gasped.
Yes, her family might have once been well versed in luxury, but her little flat-share in South London had adjusted her expectations. And this? Plush cream carpets met floor-to-ceiling windows looking 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.