An Heir for the World's Richest Man

She couldn’t afford to have her days disrupted by illness, too.

Her temperature wasn’t high and her stomach didn’t ache. With weak relief, she ruled out food poisoning. She’d sampled a few of Chef Bouillard’s delightful concoctions but overall her appetite had been low. Whatever was messing with her system would remedy itself sooner rather than later.

She staggered to her feet, exhaling thankfully when she felt a little better. By the time she’d showered and dressed, only faint shadows remained beneath her eyes to remind her of her restless night and the bathroom mishap.

Her ivory-coloured designer power suit and three-inch heels lifted her spirits and lent much needed confidence as she headed for the dining room.

Joao was sitting at the head of the table, perusing the Financial Times. For one stolen second, she froze, their conversation last night unfolding through her mind.

She knew rejection, had felt it deep in her soul each time she’d been passed over at the orphanage. But she couldn’t imagine what Joao must’ve felt when his father had said those horrible, cruel things to him.

It was clear that, like her, he’d used it as fuel to achieve his goals but it was also clear now that it’d left an indelible mark. One he possibly carried inside as well as outside in the form of that scar across his palm. One that made her yearn, impossibly and foolishly, to soothe.

What other damage had it done? Was that why he couldn’t accommodate the idea of children? Bewilderingly, her heart lurched at the thought. What did it matter how he felt about children? This journey she intended to take when she was free of him was hers and hers alone.

So why did that idea suddenly further dampen her spirits—?

‘Are you going to stand there all morning, Saffie, or would you like to join me so we can start the day?’ he drawled in a deep, skin-tingling voice from behind his newspaper.

Saffie jumped, grimacing at the heat that rushed into her cheeks. She approached, momentarily wondering why the superb coffee she usually loved suddenly smelled so strong and pungent, enough to cause her stomach to roil.

Joao lowered his paper and her stomach calmed as if he controlled even that somehow.

Dear heaven, he really had no business looking this effortlessly magnificent. His Milan-designed grey shirt and matching tie both held a dulled gloss that drew attention to the streamlined torso beneath. Coupled with the hand-stitched pinstriped suit that made his broad shoulders even broader and more powerful, they made Saffie’s palms grow clammy with need as Joao’s every powerful sensual asset hit her like a sledgehammer.

She grabbed the back of the dining chair for support, the whole effect weakening her knees so she sank into it with less than her customary poise.

If Joao noticed, he chose not to comment. Nevertheless, his gaze scrutinised her face with sizzling thoroughness, and his face clamped into a frown seconds later.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Excuse me?’

He tossed his newspaper away. ‘Are you still unwell?’ he asked, angling his mouth-watering body towards her. ‘You were sleeping well enough when I checked on you.’

Surprise lit her up. ‘You checked on me during the night?’

For the first time in her life, Joao looked anything but supremely arrogant. Even his shrug was a little off. ‘Of course. I’m a vampire, you will recall.’

She wasn’t fooled by his flippancy. She was more alarmed by the warm softening inside her. The thought that he’d been concerned with her well-being.

Realising he was still scrutinising her face, she hastily answered. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, swallowing the disturbing amount of moisture that filled her mouth.

One eyebrow lifted. ‘If that’s a pat little statement to throw me off the scent, think again. I have eyes, Saffie.’

She reached for her napkin, busied herself with opening it so she wouldn’t have to look at him. ‘If you ever need another challenge, don’t take up the medical profession. Your bedside manner is atrocious.’

‘My current position in life satisfies me greatly. And don’t change the subject,’ he replied. ‘If your stomach still ails you I will call the—’

‘I said I’m—’ She stopped as the dining-room door opened and the resident tail-coated butler entered, holding aloft a silver platter.

She knew what would be on offer.

Eggs Benedict. Her favourite breakfast. Ordered for her by Joao and prepared by Chef Bouillard.

Saffie felt the ripples in her belly intensify as the butler set the dish down in front of her. Lifted the sterling-silver cloche with a discreet flourish.

‘Good morning, ma’am. I hope you will enjoy—’