An Heir for the Millionaire (7 page)

J
OEY
was asleep, his bed drawn next to hers, his teddy tucked in beside him. Jet lag had finally overcome him, despite his state of excitement at being here on holiday—and at the wonderful new addition to his life.

As Clare smoothed his dark hair gently, a heaviness of heart pressed on her.

How could two people react so differently to another one? Joey's pleasure and excitement at Xander's presence in his life shone from his eyes. While she dreaded every moment in his company.

And now she was going to have to face him again, without even Joey to dilute the hideous tension she felt.

Another round of Xander's virulent hostility to endure. What would it be this time? she thought bitterly. More trying to make her feel bad for not having told him she was pregnant? More lectures on Joey's right to a father? Or, worst of all, more insane proposals like their getting married?

At least he'd backed off on that one. Maybe even he now saw the insanity of it. Cold ran down her spine at the memory of him coolly informing her he was going to marry her—

Marriage to him would be as agonising now as it would have been four years ago. Nothing could change that…

She straightened and left the room, checking the baby monitor was on and taking the handset with her. As she walked back along the terrace she could hear the cicadas in the bushes, the occasional piercing chirrup of a tree frog, and feel the encircling warmth of
the tropical night embrace her. She was still warm, even in shorts and T-shirt. She hadn't bothered to change. What for?

Who for?

Not for Xander, that was for sure.

Never again for him.

The heaviness in her heart crushed her yet more.

The swift Caribbean night had fallen. The sky to the west carried the faint remains of blueness, while in the east brilliant gold stars were pricking through the floor of heaven.

The beauty of the setting mocked her.

So, too, even more cruelly, did the beauty of the man waiting for her, in an old-fashioned steamer chair set on the lawn near the pool, his legs stretched out, a bottle of cold beer in his grip. He looked at her as she walked towards him.

She felt suddenly acutely self-conscious. There was something in the way he was watching her that had nothing to do with the way he had regarded her since their fateful, nightmare encounter in the cocktail lounge.

Heavily, she plonked herself down in the other steamer. Almost instantly one of the house staff was there, enquiring politely what she would like to drink. She asked for a fruit punch, and it was there moments later, served in a beautiful expensive glass, with slices of fresh fruit and a frosted rim. She took a sip and frowned. It had alcohol in it—rum, probably. For an instant she thought to return it, then shrugged mentally. She could probably do with some Dutch courage.

She looked across at Xander.

‘Well?' she said. She might as well get this over with. ‘You wanted to talk, so talk.'

For a second he said nothing. Then he spoke. ‘You've changed. I would hardly have known you.'

Even in the dusk she could feel a flush in her cheeks as his glance levelled at her assessingly.

‘Well, that's hardly surprising,' she retorted. ‘My lifestyle's a little different,' she said sarcastically.

He gave a quick shake of his head. ‘I don't mean your looks.
That's understandable. I mean you.' He paused, looking at her. ‘You're—harder.'

She gave a snort. ‘Depends on the company,' she said. She took a mouthful of the rum punch. The alcohol kicked through her.

His eyes narrowed. ‘So this is the real you I'm seeing now? I never saw it before.'

No, she thought, because I wasn't like that then. I was—stupid. Trusting. Hopeful.

Stupid.

Well, so what? That was then, this was now. She took another drink from her cocktail, and stared across at Xander.

‘I thought you wanted to talk about Joey,' she demanded

He didn't like her speaking to him like that, she could see. But she didn't care. He was right—she wasn't the same person she had been when she'd been his mistress. She
was
harder now. She'd had to be. Had to be ever since the moment she'd murmured, ‘Will you excuse me a moment?' to him in the restaurant at the St John and walked out of his life. Taking the marching orders he'd just handed her with brutal suddenness.

‘Obviously,' he answered brusquely. ‘What else would we have to talk about?' For a second, the very briefest second, there was a shift in his eyes. Then it was gone. ‘Like I told you—this aggression is not good for him. It's got to stop.'

She stared at him. ‘So stop it,' she said.

His mouth tightened. He definitely did not like being spoken to like that. Then, visibly, he made his expression impassive.

‘For Joey's sake, I will. And so will you.'

For a moment Clare wanted to bite back that she did not take orders. Then she subsided. Joey would only be upset if he realised how much hostility there was between the two people who had created him.

‘OK,' she conceded. ‘In front of Joey.'

He shook his head.

‘Not good enough. It's not something you can turn on and off, whenever he's around or not. It's got to be permanent.'

She just looked at him. Looked at the man who had deleted her from his bed—his life—in a single sentence. With brutal
words. A man she had actually thought felt for her something that went beyond her role as his mistress.

But all he had felt for her had been ‘appreciation'.

Appreciation that he had paid for with a diamond necklace.

‘How the hell,' she said heavily, ‘do you think that's possible?'

Again there was that brief flicker in his eyes. Then it was gone.

‘By forcing ourselves,' he replied. ‘Until it becomes a habit. Because this isn't going to go away.
I
am not going to go away. I'm going to be part of my son's life for ever—and you'd better accept that. This is what I propose—'

She snorted again. ‘Not another insane idea like the last one, I hope?'

Again came that strange, very fleeting expression in his eyes, which she could hardly see in this dim light.

‘No. For Joey's sake we behave…normally…with each other. Putting everything else aside. And we can start right now.' He got to his feet. ‘Over dinner.'

He indicated the terrace, and Clare could see that the table there had been set for a meal, with flowers and napery and soft candles. Xander was looking at her. She headed towards it, rum punch in her hand, and plonked herself down, flicking her plait over her shoulder.

He took his place opposite her. It seemed a whole lot too close for Clare's liking.

‘Your hair is longer,' he said.

‘Long hair's cheaper than short,' she answered.

‘Why do you wear it constrained like that in a…a pigtail all the time?'

She looked at him. ‘It keeps it out of the way when I'm busy.'

‘Well, you are on holiday now. You don't have to be busy. You can relax. Let your hair down.'

His eyes flicked over her. In the pit of her stomach Clare felt desire begin to pool.

The appearance of the steward was a reprieve, and the whole formal rigmarole of serving dinner gave her the insulation she needed. Wine and water was poured, bread was proffered, plates deposited with gloved hands. This might be a villa by the sea, but it was a silver service. No doubt.

Sickly she realised that the last time she had sat having dinner with Xander it had been the night she had been terminated.

He had seemed preoccupied then—and with hindsight, of course, it had been obvious why. He hadn't even wanted to be there—had simply been waiting for the moment to hit the delete button on her…

She glanced across at him now. Four years ago. Had it really been so long? It seemed much, much closer in time than that.

But it wasn't—it was four years ago. Four years—and everything changed that night. Your whole life. And nothing—not even Xander Anaketos storming back to claim his fatherhood of Joey—will change it back. Nothing.

She started to eat.

It was a strained, bizarre meal. Xander made conversation. Deliberately so, she realized. Perhaps partly for the waiting staff, but also because he was following his own precepts and trying to give an appearance of normality to their dining. He talked of the island—a little of its history as a former colony, and the activities it afforded those rich enough to holiday here. Clare returned the barest replies, a feeling of unreality seeping through her.

She tried not to look at him, tried not to hear that naturally seductive timbre in his voice, tried not to catch the scent of his skin. She had to stop herself, she knew. But it was a torment.

I've got to get used to this. I have no other option. So if I'm to endure it, I must make myself immune to it. To him.

It was with a sense of relief that she felt herself yawn at the end of the main course. She pushed her chair back. The glass of wine she'd sipped almost without realising it, combined with jet lag, was knocking her out fast.

‘I'm falling asleep,' she said. ‘I'm going to go to bed.'

Did that slightest flicker come again? She didn't know, didn't care—was too tired to think about it.

‘I'll see you in the morning,' he murmured, and reached for his own wine glass.

She left him to it and headed indoors. The cool of the air-conditioning made her shiver after the warmth outdoors.

Or something did.

Behind her, Xander watched her go. His expression was strange. His mood stranger. She had changed, all right—she was a different woman from the one he remembered. The one who had been so reserved she had refused to look at him as he walked past the time he'd first spotted her at his London offices. The one who had become his mistress without a murmur, her cool, understated beauty engaging his interest as an intriguing contrast to the sophisticated passions of the previous incumbent, whose charms had palled for him. Clare had fitted into his life effortlessly, and he had taken her with him because she'd been undemanding and accommodating, calm and composed—the classic English rose without thorns…

His mouth twisted. Well, that had gone, and with a vengeance! Now she scratched and tore at him verbally, snapped and snarled and answered back, defying him and refusing to do what was best for his son. His expression darkened. Would she realise why he had brought her here? He lifted the wine to his mouth and savoured its rich, expensive bouquet. His eyes glinted opaquely.

Not until it's far, far too late for her…

C
LARE
sat on a padded lounger on the beach, under the shade of a coconut palm, looking out over the brilliant azure water beyond the silver sand.

She had been here a week. The most difficult week of her life. Even the days after Xander had thrown her out of his life, even when she had given birth to his child, even the nightmare of coming face to face with him again, did not compare with this.

Each passing day here seemed more difficult than the last. She tried her hardest not to let it show for Joey's sake—to be calm and normal, to conceal from him the emotions roiling in the pit of her stomach, to speak civilly to Xander so that Joey would not be upset. But it was hard, so hard.

But only for her, it seemed. Joey, she could see with her own eyes, day after day, was having the time of his life—and so was Xander.

Her eyes went to the two figures in the sea, one so small, battling with his armbands, the other tall and bronzed and lithe. She watched Joey throwing a huge inflated ball at Xander, who made a vastly exaggerated play of launching himself sideways to catch it, landing in the water with an almighty splash. Joey whooped with laughter and Xander surfaced, his grin wide, shaking water drops from his head.

Clare felt her hands tighten around her book. Watching them together sent a pain through her heart she could not stop.

Could that really be Xander Anaketos there? Playing with his
little child? It was a man she had never seen before. Xander as she had never known him. A man who—pain pierced her—had existed only in her imagination, for so brief and pathetic a time, when she had hoped against hope that he felt something for her, that when she told him the news that she was pregnant he would sweep her up into his arms and declare his love for her—marry her, make them a family together…

That dream had been obliterated for ever in a single moment.

‘It's over.'

Pain stabbed again, the deepest yet. All she had was this hollow mockery—three people who looked like a family but who were no such thing…

‘Mummy! Mummy! Come in the water!'

Joey's excited voice called to her. He was wading out, running across the sand to her. He seized her hand. ‘Come on, Mummy,' he said, and started to drag at her.

‘Your mother wants to rest, Joey.' Xander's deep voice sounded as he came up to Joey, ready to lead him back to the sea. Water ran from his sleek, bare torso, dazzling like diamonds. Clare did not want to look.

Joey's expression grew doleful. ‘It's no fun resting,' he objected. ‘Come on, Mummy.'

Clare got to her feet. ‘Of course I'll come in,' she said. There was no point lying there, heart heavy.

Joey seized her hand enthusiastically, then grabbed Xander's hand.

‘Swing me!' he commanded.

Automatically Clare raised her arm, as did Xander.

‘One, two, three,
swing
!' ordered Joey.

She hefted him up, and Xander did too.

‘Whee!'
cried Joey. ‘Again, again!'

‘One, two, three,
swing
!' said Clare, hefting Joey up again, and realised that she had said it in unison with Xander. Her eyes flew to his, and just for a moment, the briefest moment, they met. Then she tore her eyes away.

Emotion buckled through her.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, it seemed unbearable—just unbear
able. To be here, Joey's mother and father, so close to him, with him linking them together, and yet to be so unbridgeably far apart.

‘Swing me into the water!'

‘You'll have to run, then,' said Xander. He glanced at Clare. ‘Ready?' he said.

She nodded. They ran, all three of them, down into the water, and at the last moment they lifted him up and up, then swung him out and let him go in the deeper water. He gave a squeal of glee as he splashed down.

Clare laughed. She could not stop herself. She felt Xander's eyes on her as well, and suddenly he gave a laugh too, plunging forward to scoop up Joey.

‘Throw me again, Daddy!'

Xander laughed, and tossed him once more into the water with a huge splash.

And now Clare wasn't laughing. She felt, of all things, her throat constrict and tears start in her eyes.

He was good with Joey—so
good
! The evidence could not be denied. Full of fun, laughter and, most piercingly painful of all, affection. And she knew, with a deep hollowing of her stomach, full of love. Love for Joey. His son.

And Joey loved him, too. She could see that—could not deny it. And how should it not be? He was a father any child would adore.

Memory came to her out of the years so long ago. A beach holiday with her parents. She'd only been little, how old she could not remember, but she remembered her parents, running down into the sea with her, how happy she had been…

I should have told him—I should have told him I was pregnant. I should have taken the risk and lived with it. He had a right to know, and Joey had a right to a father.

The self-accusation burned in her. Xander might not be capable of love for her—perhaps not for any woman—but he was capable of love for Joey. And she must accept it. Whatever it cost her, however cruel the fate she had been left with. The fate of knowing that all she could have was this bitter mockery—to see Xander with Joey, so warm and loving, and know that she was forever excluded.

And another torment too. One that was twisting in her day after day, night after night. For if the days were bad—when she had to watch Xander and Joey forge their new bond together, a bond that shut her out—the evenings were even worse. Because every evening, when Joey was asleep, she had to endure the ritual torture of dining with Xander.

And that was the worst of all. For the most awful of reasons.

Anguish flashed in her eyes.

Why?
Why
was it so hard? It should be getting easier, not harder! Day after day of seeing Xander again—surely it should be getting easier to endure? She should be getting more immune to him, day by day—surely she should?

And yet she wasn't. Her helpless, crippling awareness of him was increasing. It was a torment—a terror. Everything about him drew her eye—made her punishingly aware of him.

During the day she could fight it—she had Joey's presence to strengthen her. But over dinner…Oh, then, dear God, it was an excruciating torment. For him to be so close to her, a few feet away across the table—and yet further from her than if he had been on the moon.

She had tried to fight it, but it was so hard, so impossible. While she had been able to resort to open hostility it had been a bulwark, a barrier against him. But now—

I don't want to want him!

As she stared out over the beach, let her eyes run with helpless longing over his lean, muscled torso, feast on the sculpted features of his face, caught her breath as he threw back his sable head and laughed, she felt her stomach clench unbearably and knew the truth that terrified her.

She still wanted Xander Anaketos.

Whatever he had done to her—she still wanted him.

 

Xander lifted his wine glass and looked across the table at Clare. Turbid emotion, laced with memory, swirled within him, but he ignored it. The past was gone, over. It was the present he had to deal with. And the absolute priority right now was to achieve his goal. He would do so. He had no doubt. He had always achieved
his goals in life. He would now, too—whatever it took. Too much was at stake. His son's future.

His son…

As he had done time after time, whenever those words rang in his head, he felt his heart turn over. Catch and swell with pride and love. How was it possible that he should feel so strongly? Emotion had never figured much in his life. He had had no use for it, no need of it, and he had always kept it at bay, taking whatever steps necessary to do so. Irony flickered briefly, then he brushed it aside, as an irrelevance that he could do without. And yet when he had set eyes on Joey, recognised him as his son, his reaction had been overwhelming. In an instant his son had become the overriding imperative of his life.

Every day he spent with Joey only made him more determined that he would spend his life with him. And how he achieved that did not matter. Only his son's happiness mattered. And Joey
was
happy—every grin, every excited cry of glee, told him that. There was no sign, none at all, that Joey sensed any hostility between his parents.

He watched as Clare crumbled a piece of bread in her fingers. He had demanded a cessation of hostilities and she had complied. He granted her that. From the outside they must look like a normal family on holiday.

His mouth twisted. How deceptive appearances could be.

And yet…

Xander's fingers tightened momentarily around the stem of his wine glass. That moment today, when they had swung Joey into the water, for a few fleeting moments they had acted in unison, as if it were normal, natural to do so. As if the appearance was, even for a brief moment, the reality.

His eyes rested on his son's mother.

Four years since she had been in his life.

She had changed, indeed. Or had she merely revealed the person she had always been, having concealed it from him when she was his mistress? He had called her harder now than when he had first known her, and with him that was true—and yet with Joey she was as soft as butter. Emotions warred within him. What
she had done was unforgivable—to keep his son from him, to deny Joey his father. And yet all the evidence of his eyes, both in London and now here, day after day, was that she was devoted as a mother. Warm and loving. Affectionate and demonstrative.

A good mother.

He had to allow her that, begrudge it though he did. And for his son's sake, he had to be grateful. Even though the disparity between how she was with Joey and everything else he knew about her was so discordant.

He frowned inwardly. With Joey he saw her being someone he had never seen before. A different woman from the one he'd known four years ago. As his mistress she had always been so cool, so detached, so undemonstrative. As his mistress he had found it highly erotic—knowing that, for all her outward composure, all he had to do was touch her and she would come alive at his touch. Within seconds she would be quivering with passion. It had been a powerful fascination for him, the contrast between her public self and the private one that he could arouse in her.

That alone had been enough to justify why he had kept her so much longer than any other mistress.

For a moment his eyes shadowed, as he remembered again the moment when he had finished with her. When she had got to her feet and walked calmly out of his life. Carrying his child away with her out of spite for being discarded.

No. He set his glass down with a click on the surface of the table. There was no point going there. No purpose in revisiting the past. It was the present he had to deal with—and the future. That was all that was important. Right now, only his son's happiness was important—and he would take whatever measures necessary to safeguard that happiness.

Whatever measures necessary…

His eyes rested on the woman who had once been his mistress, and he focussed his mind on the task ahead. She had been responsive to him then—oh, so responsive!—and neither the passage of four years, nor the splenetic anger she had unleashed on him, nor her cursed vindictiveness towards him by keeping his son from him, had changed that. He'd had proof, every day
they'd been here, with no room for her to shut him out, ignore him, escape him.

Exactly the proof he wanted.

He eased his shoulders and lounged back in his chair as the staff served dinner. Opposite him, Clare sat stiffly. But her eyes had followed his movement, he knew. Surreptitiously, but discernibly. He could see her eyes following him and then flicking away, the way she didn't want to meet his eyes, the way she pulled herself away from him if he got too close. Her whole body language and behaviour with him betrayed her.

Well, that was good—very good. Just what he wanted.

Excitement flared briefly in him, but he suppressed it. In its place he forced himself to look at her with impassive objectivity.

Four years on her beauty had matured. Even without her making the slightest attempt to improve on nature by way of make-up, hairstyling or clothes, her beauty revealed itself. Beneath the cheap fabric of her T-shirt he could see the soft swell of her breasts, and her chainstore shorts could not disguise the slenderness of her waist and hips, the long smooth curve of her thighs.

He felt the shimmer of sexual arousal ease through him.

A sliver of emotion broke through the barrier he'd imposed.

Can I really go through with this?

For a moment doubt possessed him. Then he freed himself.

He would do what he intended.

For his son's sake.

 

Tonight was the worst yet. Clare sat, tension racking through every limb, and picked at the exquisitely presented food in front of her. It felt so wrong not to appreciate it more, but she had no appetite. Maybe too much sun?

But she knew that wasn't the reason she had no appetite—wasn't the reason she kept taking repeated unwise sips from her wine, even after she'd fortified herself with the rum punch that she was diligently handed every evening as she emerged from seeing Joey to sleep.

The reason she felt so strangely weak, so hazed, was not
because of the sun. It was because of the man sitting opposite her. The man who was lifting his wine glass to his lips with a lounging grace that sent a tremor through her veins. The man whose long legs were stretched out underneath the table, so close to hers that she had to inch them away, awkwardly shifting her position.

The man whose gaze was resting on her now, with an expression she could not read.

She took a forkful of food and tried to chew it, but it was hard to swallow. She washed it down with another mouthful of wine and set the fork back on the plate, letting it be.