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Already she had realised that she’d drawn the curious gazes of the many guests she could see in the large open foyer of the museum. It distracted her from the start of Benjamin’s spiel, until she caught words that fired an alarm instantly within her mind and heart.
‘And the money raised here is put back not only into the medical centres that deal with such devastating burn injuries, but rehabilitation, financial support for families who may struggle with the exorbitant costs of years-long, if not life-long, medical care, and emotional counselling and support for all affected.’
Burn injuries. Medical care. Emotional counselling.
A cold shiver passed over Maria’s shoulder blades and down her spine as she realised exactly why Matthieu might not have wanted to be here. It had nothing to do with her whatsoever, and everything to do with him and what had happened to him all those years ago.
CHAPTER SIX
LONG BEFORE THE whirring blades of the helicopter slowed after touching down on the discreet helipad in the back of the museum’s gardens, Matthieu’s jaw had clenched in a vice-like grip. It had nothing to do with the hastily rescheduled phone meeting with the South African Ambassador about future mining prospects and everything to do with his runaway wife. He forced himself to loosen his jaw or risk losing a molar. Instead the tension travelled to his hands as he took long, powerful strides across the manicured pathways towards the gala, fisting and un-fisting fingers that topped white knuckles.
He did not want to be here. In fact, he had not attended the charity in nearly ten years, ever since that first time. Memories coursed through his veins, thickening the blood with anger and frustration, and something a little like scorn at his naivety back then. He’d had such great hopes of what the charity would become, but from the very first moment, the very first flash of a paparazzo’s camera he’d realised that the vultures had descended not to support the charity but to feast on the wounds left by the loss of his family. To feast upon him. All of the resulting photographs and press had been so focused on the notorious Matthieu Montcour, with all but a few lines about the legacy he’d wanted to create. That night he’d sworn never to attend again, never to detract from the charity, to taint it with his own burgeoning reputation as a beast. Instead he had left the running of the charity to the highly efficient man he had appointed almost ten years ago. Not for a second did he regret founding the charity—he just couldn’t have anything to do with it personally.
But Maria had no idea what she was walking into. The press, the celebrities who attended his event feasted on gossip and drama as much as water to live and breathe, and the discovery that he had not only married but had impregnated his wife would be irresistible fodder for tomorrow’s headlines.
On the short flight over he had already fired off an email to his secretary to handle the impending fallout of the news. Security would be tightened not only at his office, but at each of his properties, including the estate in Lucerne. He hated living under a microscope, having done so both medically and publicly ever since the deaths of his parents.
What did you think? an inner voice chided. That you could keep Maria to yourself? That you could keep her and your child a secret for ever? Keep Maria to yourself?
The words ran through his mind, almost like a directive, an order, a demand.
I refuse to live like this.
Maria’s words from earlier that day in the gym had cut through him like a knife and he cursed, wondering for a moment if he had truly become a monster, locking her away in his home, keeping her isolated from the rest of the world.
But she didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like.
Two black suited men stood either side of the small white entrance to the back of the building, swirling white wires betraying the discreet earpieces indicating their business here. Noting his arrival, they cast an assessing gaze over him, almost in unison, their faces utterly impassive, before one pushed open the door allowing Matthieu entrance to the museum.
A small, blonde woman met him on the other side, simple make-up adding a professional sheen to her face in the absence of a smile. That was what he’d liked about Margery, the charity director’s assistant. Unlike most, she didn’t fawn, paw or even, like now, smile. Crisp, unemotional efficiency. The kind he’d always surrounded himself with...until Maria.
Margery explained in her no-nonsense way that Maria had arrived thirty minutes earlier, had been met by the charity’s director, Mr Keant—never Benjamin, she never used his first name—but that the press had almost been rabid at the realisation of her identity. Keant had ushered his wife down the red carpet unharmed and was now introducing her to various guests. The keynote speech would start in five minutes, the dinner in thirty, and the quickest possible exit he could make without drawing undue attention would be after the dinner, which would conclude in ninety minutes.
He nodded as they came to another discreet door, accepting the information, digesting it, before he swiftly stepped through the door into the large foyer of the museum where the main reception was being held.
* * *
He saw her immediately, halting mid-stride at th
e sight of her. She was stunning. The midnight-blue dress had been drenched in a million tiny sequins, the material clinging to every curve, every inch of the perfect bump riding low on her abdomen, down over her thighs and reaching all the way to a pair of high heels that sparkled silver glints in the spot lighting high above them on the museum’s domed interior. Mine. Everything in him roared with satisfaction, as if he’d found the one and only thing he’d wanted since he’d left the gym and retreated to his office earlier in the day, not even once imagining that she would defy him.
She was speaking to a couple, the woman holding a young baby, and the man holding the hand of a boy of about seven. She was laughing. That was what had struck him still. He hadn’t seen her laugh since that night in Iondorra. Her hand was outstretched in front of her, where the baby was gripping her silver bangles and tugging on them, bringing more laughter from her peach-coloured lips.
His gaze searched the tableau, finally resting on the young boy, whose smile wasn’t dimmed in the slightest by the slash of scar tissue reaching up from his neck and covering half of the child’s face. There was no way for the boy to hide the damaged skin, not as Matthieu could.
He felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest, shocking and powerful as he took in the sight. All around him were patrons and guests of his charity, all ready and more than willing to donate to a more than worthy cause. And yes, there were a few glances his way, but most of the attendees were wrapped up in their present conversations. Here were people who had been affected, just like him, those who had fared both better and far worse than he.
Something harsh skittered over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. All this time he had stayed away, telling himself that he hadn’t wanted to take away attention from the charity, but for the first time, he wondered whether that was the true reason he had avoided the charity for so many years. Because the people who were here, the people who bore similar scars to him, rather than hiding away, stood proudly beneath the lights of the museum, bared themselves to the world and still smiled, still laughed.
In that moment, as if she had sensed his presence, Maria caught his gaze and a whole raft of emotions cried out loud and clear across the crowded room. Surprise, concern, apology and compassion. And all he wanted to see was flaming desire. The same sensation burning deep within him. He pushed away the sudden and shocking arousal, and stalked towards her in firm, quick strides.
‘Matthieu...’ she said, her voice slightly breathless. ‘You came.’
‘I did,’ he managed to bite out beneath the swirls of resentment and shocking half-thought-out self-revelations.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, with a smile that soothed, and in that moment he caught just a glimpse of what kind of mother she would become. He’d told her that night at his office that she would be strong, defiant and determined. But now he could see that she would be kind, loving, supportive...all the things his own mother had been.
Suddenly he was plunged back into a memory—one from early in the evening of the fire. His mother was helping him with his tie for the meal they would share with their family. You look so handsome. Just like your father. She’d swept him up in an embrace that was tight—one he’d squirmed within—but was full of love and something a little like hope for what he would become. She’d kissed him on his forehead and taken his hand...
