Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir

‘David has gone to meet Maria at the hotel. He wanted to walk over to the register office with her.’

Matthieu bit back a curse. How had he not thought of that? Was he truly such a bastard that while he espoused the virtues of what his money could mean to her and their child, he had failed to even see to the first emotional requirement she might have on her wedding day? He would do better. He had to.

* * *

Maria stared at herself in the mirror, marvelling that it had almost been easier to pack up her entire life in Camberwell than to find a dress that would suit not only a civil ceremony but the burgeoning baby bump that still caught her by surprise.

Two days ago she had answered the door to an incredibly efficient removal team who had retrieved an almost miserably small stack of boxes containing her clothes, books, the few items of furniture she’d possessed to be sent on to Switzerland. But her equipment—her jewellery, the bits and bobs she’d gathered over the years—had been sent to her brother’s estate in Italy. Those boxes must have looked as if they belonged to a very talented magpie: rich colours, sparkling, semi-precious stones, bursting from the seams. Her moulds, her tools and the series of bracelets, rings, earrings and necklaces she had already started to amass had been by far the greatest part of her belongings. For some reason, one she neither could nor would put a finger on, she hadn’t wanted to take them to Switzerland.

She had bid a tearful farewell to Evin and Anita, and had allowed herself one last day in the small studio she had rented a space in, up near the Thames in Bermondsey. That was where she’d felt the pull greatest. That was where she had poured her hopes and dreams into the small projects that she had made for her first gallery showing only months earlier. That was where she had returned to after that fateful night with Matthieu and forged a new, determined and optimistic outlook for her future...until she had discovered her pregnancy and all her imaginings had disappeared in a puff of silver smoke.

And now when she thought of her future, one irrevocably bound to the father of her child, her future as his wife, she wondered at it. Would she be expected to be on his arm at business functions, the practically perfect wife? Or would he grow tired of her once she had his child and then package her off to some distant place? She had no idea what his home looked like, where she would be able to find space to create the pieces that were so important to her. Not once in the last two months had she been able to find that heady, almost meditative sense of creativity that would have, in the past, consumed and calmed her.

A knock on the door jolted her from her day dreams. She opened it to a tall, smiling, slightly rotund blond man, who seemed only to smile even more at her evident confusion.

‘Maria? I’m David Antoinelli.’

‘The witness?’ Maria had remembered his name from one of Matthieu’s emails.

‘Yes,’ he laughed easily. ‘I did hope that you’d recognise my name. Didn’t think you’d appreciate a complete stranger knocking on the door the morning of your wedding.’

She pulled the door open wide, gesturing for him to enter.

‘I thought you might like someone to walk with you to the register office, given that...’ He trailed off, clearly not wanting to point out that she was alone. But his rich, upper-class British accent was so wonderfully familiar, she instantly warmed to him.

‘You’re English.’

‘Ha! Yes. I grew up in North London,’ he said, leaning towards her conspiratorially.

‘I live—lived—in Camberwell.’

‘South of the river!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never really crossed the Thames much, but I did have some rather indecent nights in Vauxhall, but the less said about that to my husband, the better.’

Maria couldn’t help the smile that grew on her lips, and the well of relief that bloomed in her chest. The thought of walking towards her wedding on her own...

‘I must say,’ he said, taking her in with a beam of approval, ‘you look glorious.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, exhaling a breath of relief. The simple, knee-length dress had an empire waist cinching just above the beginning of her bump and a beautiful sweetheart neckline. The form-fitting cream satin was covered by beautifully detailed lace that rose up the material and covered her arms and décolletage. And even better, she’d been able to afford it with her meagre savings.

She had tamed her curls into braids either side of her head and pinned them up, leaving only a few strands of her dark hair free to frame her face.

David offered her his arm, and she held up a hand for one moment while she gathered the things she would need from the suite. The rest—her small bag of belongings—would, she had been told, be retrieved and sent on to Matthieu’s house before they arrived there that evening. She stifled the blush that rose at thoughts of just how that evening would be spent. It was perhaps one of the only things that hadn’t yet been negotiated and settled on.

She caught her shawl and the small bouquet of flowers she had ventured out for earlier that morning. She had looked longingly at the sweet bundle of white peonies, sage and rosemary. She knew that a herb bouquet might be slightly unorthodox but she hadn’t been able to resist them. With one last glance at herself in the mirror, one last look at herself as a single woman, she bid her adieu, took David’s proffered arm and closed the door on her past life, ready to assume the role of Mrs Montcour.

* * *

Matthieu and Malcolm were waiting on the steps of the register office he’d deemed perfectly suitable for their needs until he caught sight of Maria. He felt the heated glare of disapproval from Malcolm beside him as his oldest friend looked from Maria and his husband to Matthieu and the building behind him.

Matthieu felt the instant denial on his lips. I didn’t know. Because he hadn’t. He hadn’t known she would look so beautiful, almost ethereal. He had

n’t expected to see the small, perfectly formed shape of the promise of their child beneath her dress. He hadn’t realised that he would see her and think that he had absolutely got it wrong. They should have been in a church—the biggest one he could find, filled with everyone they knew to show off his stunning bride, with pride and adoration shining in his eyes. He just hadn’t known that he would feel that way.

When they finally drew close, David pronounced in his usually enthusiastic way, ‘If I wasn’t an already happily married man, I’d be tempted to run away with the bride.’

‘And now that I can see for myself exactly how lovely you are, Maria, I am tempted to do the same,’ Malcolm replied, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

Maria shone beneath the words of their encouragement, and only took a moment to seem slightly bemused at the contrast between his friends’ open expressions and his utter silence. Because he was simply incapable of speech. The sight of her had robbed him of it.