Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir

* * *

From the first moment Matthieu had seen the figure down by Lac Peridot, some strange sense of self-preservation told him to walk away. Run. From the empty veranda sweeping around the ballroom of the Iondorran hotel where a charity gala was being held, he’d seen the white lace dress worn by the dark-haired woman glowing in the moonlight. Tendrils of her long, gently curled hair had hung almost down to her hips and the sudden memory of his mother’s favourite painting stole his breath. He’d not seen or thought of the painting for years and when the figure had turned, for just a moment, back to the ballroom, something in her features, as clearly picked out by the moonbeams as her dress, had called to him as if across the years.

Matthieu Montcour knew better than to approach a woman so clearly lost in her own private thoughts, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something almost tragically beautiful about her. And Matthieu had had his fair share of tragedy. He knew how life could be one thing in one moment and an entirely new thing in another.

He’d been about to turn away from the figure and the direction of thoughts he rarely visited, when he saw her inexpertly take a swig from the champagne bottle, failing to account for the back flow of the bubbles, and nearly smiled as the froth rushed from the mouth of the bottle forcing the woman to lean out of the way as the alcohol funnelled onto the grass beside her. Nearly smiled, because smiling was something Matthieu did very little of. The figure gave up, indelicately wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, placing the bottle in the nest of skirts she’d made between her legs and went back to studying the lake. The carelessness about her clothing spoke to her distraction. This was no skilled seductress, his usual preferred companion. There was an innocence about her, shining, glowing, and all the more reason for him to stay away. But something about her drew him in—even though he was the last person to play white knight. No. He was the beast that mothers warned their daughters about.

Yet for the first time in years, he simply couldn’t deny himself the urge to take a closer look at the woman who had caught his eye and imagination. He’d stepped away from the veranda, leaving the sights and sounds of the ballroom behind him, and slowly padded his way over the soft grass, pulling up about a metre away from where she sat.

‘Is this seat taken?’

She started, peering up at him from her seat on the grass, momentary shock painting her features that righted themselves back to neutral. He’d chosen English—it being the most widely used at the gala and, as such, he figured it a safe bet, given that it was highly unlikely she spoke Swiss French.

‘Standing room only, I’m afraid.’

Her response surprised him, as much as her gentle European accent. Spanish perhaps? Maybe Italian? Taking his shock for persistence, she finally inclined her head.

‘Pull up a pew,’ she invited.

Frowning again, and confused instantly—which was untenable to Matthieu—he chose to comment. ‘That’s a very English turn of phrase for such a European accent.’

‘That’s a very round about way of asking me where I’m from.’

And whilst Matthieu decidedly didn’t like confusion, he found the slightly circuitous bent of her conversation appealing. Too many women, once they knew who he was, decided upon a brute-force attack of the sensual kind, the only thing that he would respond to. But he didn’t see that jolt of recognition in her eyes. When she’d finally turned to take him in, the woman seemed only to pass over his features as if gazing over a far horizon. And damn him if there wasn’t a part of him that was pleased by that.

He took a seat beside her on the comfortable grass and felt a sigh of relief escape him. He was glad to be away from the ballroom. He hated this part of his role as CEO for Montcour Mining Industries. ‘Schmoozing’, Malcolm called it. Matthieu preferred to call it a waste of time. But he knew better than to argue with his Managing Director, oldest friend, and one-time legal guardian. The Iondorran Minister for Trade had decided that the charity gala would be a neutral arena to test the waters of a possible joint mining venture within the small European country. Matthieu was slightly on the fence about it—unsure as to whether Iondorra actually had the financial infrastructure to take on such an ambitious project. But he wasn’t ready to shoot it out of the water completely. Not yet anyway. These days Matthieu was incredibly choosy about his ventures, simply because he could be.

He saw, from the corner of his eye, the woman beside him—young, he noticed now that he was closer—wipe discreetly at her cheek. A blade of grass, or a bubble of champagne from earlier? A tear perhaps?

The action had released a trail of perfume, wafting towards him on the warm night air, teasing his senses with tones of woody sage and something almost like the sea...salt, he realised. Inexplicably his mouth watered, desire creeping through his body.

‘Would you like some?’

He shook his head at the bottle she nudged with her knee. Matthieu rarely drank, refusing to allow anything to dull his senses to such an extent. But in the back of his mind, he wondered if he was already part drunk on the woman and the situation he found himself in.

They sat for a while in silence as if neither felt forced to speak. It was a blessed relief after the hours he’d spent in the gala being solicited by the Minister of Trade. Being peppered with unwanted and intrusive questions that were almost ritualistic in any negotiation. How are you finding Iondorra? What did you think of the capital Callier? Have you tried some unnameable food the small country hailed as their own pride and joy? The man’s offence that Matthieu had driven here from Switzerland, and intended to drive back without sampling any of this proud nation’s delights, had been both clear and disapproving. Not that it mattered—Matthieu hadn’t bothered with such things as niceties in a long while. He didn’t have to. He was Europe’s fourth richest man both in private income and net worth. People came to him.

But not this woman.

‘Do you think that there are some things that are unforgivable?’ she asked into the night air, without glancing his way.

In truth, he couldn’t imagine anything done by a girl who couldn’t even drink from a champagne bottle could be unforgivable. However he knew that yes, some things were beyond forgiveness. So he chose his words carefully. ‘I think there are two sides to every story.’

She seemed to take this in, as if considering her reply just as carefully.

‘I broke up an engagement tonight.’

‘Really?’ He couldn’t help the surprised word that fell from his lips. ‘Well, if that’s the case, he either wasn’t worthy of the engagement, or she wasn’t constant in her feelings enough for it.’

‘That simple?’ she asked of his blunt declaration.

‘It usually is, once you take emotions out of it.’ He was good at that. He had to be. ‘Do you love him?’ he asked, genuinely curious.

‘I thought I did.’

He knew that feeling too. ‘Then he either lied to you, or her.’

‘It’s not what you think. He had his reasons.’