Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (11 page)

‘I want to celebrate,' Max told her. His voice was low and strangely fierce. ‘I want to remember the good things.'

Zoe tilted her head, unnerved by the fierce resolve in his voice. He sounded almost as if he were speaking about the past rather than the future. The waiter came then with the champagne, and made a show of opening the bottle, the cork popping and bubbles frothing over.

Max lifted his glass, and so did Zoe. ‘To the future.'

It was a rather open-ended toast, Zoe thought, but at least Max thought there was a future. For them. ‘To the future,' she echoed, and took a tiny sip.

After they'd ordered, a silence seemed to descend on them, heavy and awkward. Zoe was conscious of how little they knew each other. She pleated her napkin in her lap, ridiculously tongue-tied. She could flirt famously, banter with the best, and yet now she found she had nothing to say. Or perhaps she had too much to say, and none of the courage to actually say it.

‘So,' Max said after a moment. ‘Zoe Balfour.' Zoe tensed, waiting. ‘You're from quite a famous family.' Words crowded in her throat so she could only manage a
jerky nod. ‘I'd never heard of you, of course,' Max continued insouciantly, and Zoe gave a little gurgle of laughter.

‘No?'

‘But apparently you've got a family manor in England and a million sisters…or so a search on the Internet shows.'

‘Really? Did it tell you anything else?' she asked, bracing herself for what else it might reveal.

Max shook his head. ‘No, just your family name.' He smiled. ‘Sorry, you're not that important.'

‘Shame.' She waited, expecting him to ask more. Know more. Yet he didn't say anything, and even as she felt a flicker of relief, she found herself saying, ‘Actually, it's not really my family name.'

Max cocked his head, his expression alert and watchful. Waiting. Zoe forced herself to continue, unsure why she'd begun this in the first place, and yet knowing she wanted to say it. She wanted Max to know.

‘I'm illegitimate. You probably heard—read about it, if you did some kind of Internet search.'

‘There were a few mentions of that,' Max agreed quietly. Zoe tried to smile.

‘Just a few? I must really not be important.'

He smiled faintly.

‘I just found out a few weeks ago—well, a few months now, I suppose.' She stared down at her lap, a lump of painful emotion lodging in her throat.

‘That must have been hard,' Max said quietly. Simple words, yet Zoe knew he meant them. She felt he understood, and his words were a balm.

‘It was. It still is. I suppose that's why I was so determined to find you—for this baby to know you. I don't want her—or him—to wonder. I don't want there to be secrets.'

‘There won't be.'

Zoe nodded, her throat tight—too tight. She wanted to ask him how. Why. She wanted details, plans, promises. She knew neither of them were ready for any of those. They barely knew each other, and while tonight was wonderful, it was also fragile. It wasn't ready to be tested.

They kept the conversation light and impersonal as they ate their dinner, yet even so Zoe enjoyed the talk of weather, films, the best restaurants and museums in New York. She found herself beginning to banter, even to flirt, and she liked that her old self was still there. She wasn't completely changed.

By the time dessert came round, the restaurant had started to fill up and a jazz quartet was playing near a small dance floor that was, Zoe saw, completely empty. Yet she felt reckless, hopeful, and so she tossed her napkin on the table.

‘Let's dance.'

Max froze. ‘What?'

She gestured to the dance floor, still buoyant. ‘Come on, Max. We're celebrating, remember? Let's dance.'

 

Max couldn't quite see Zoe's face, but he could feel the energy and enthusiasm rolling off her in intoxicating waves and he was reluctant to quench them. He was also reluctant to make a complete fool of himself. He couldn't dance. His fingers clenched on the napkin in his lap.

‘I don't dance.'

He felt rather than saw Zoe's disappointment and uncertainty. ‘Come on, Max,' she said lightly, although he heard the yearning underneath. ‘I bet you could really cut up the rug if you wanted to.'

The image was ludicrous. He smiled faintly. ‘I don't think so.'

‘No? You're not a dancer?' She still sounded light but
Max could tell she was hurt. He felt like a cad. Worse, he shared her disappointment because he couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed himself so much. Tonight he'd felt free, unburdened. Happy. Hopeful. He wasn't going to give that up so easily, even if it meant he might look like a fool.

‘Well, I suppose there's a first for everything.' He tossed his napkin on the table and rose stiffly, the restaurant seeming to stretch endlessly in every direction, full of unknown obstacles, hidden dangers. Smiling, he held out his hand. ‘Shall we?'

Zoe rose and slipped her hand into his and Max laced his fingers with hers, remembering how he'd held her hand at the doctor's office, how he'd wanted to. He still wanted to, and he needed her strength. She was his anchor as they wove through the sea of tables to the relatively safe stretch of dance floor.

A lone saxophone wailed soulfully, and Max knew very little dancing would be required. What was dancing but an excuse to hold someone? And he wanted to hold Zoe. He reached for her, glad and grateful that she slid into his embrace naturally and without reserve. For a split second their bodies remained apart, separate and untouching, and then by mutual accord Zoe nestled into him, her body pliant and seeming to fit around his so perfectly. Max rested his head on her hair, one hand on the gentle curve of her hip, the other laced with her own. They barely moved, merely swayed and shuffled. It was enough; it was more than enough.

It was wonderful.

Max didn't know how long they danced; it could have been minutes or even hours. He was conscious of nothing, of no one but Zoe and the feel of her against him. It felt like home and heaven all at once.

At some point he felt instinctively that she was tired, and he remembered with a pang that she was pregnant, that only this morning she'd been nearly too nauseous even to leave the apartment.

He stepped away, steadying her with one hand. ‘It's late. I should get you home.'

‘I am tired,' Zoe admitted with a little laugh. ‘But I feel like dancing forever.'

So do I,
Max thought, but somehow he couldn't say the words. Now that they weren't dancing he felt the old fear come back. The restaurant seemed to yawn menacingly around them, and the walk back to their table and then outside to the car felt as arduous and impossible as climbing a mountain. As impossible as having a relationship with a woman as beautiful and desirable as Zoe Balfour. He would have to tell her about his blindness at some point, yet Max knew it wasn't even about saying the words.

It was about building that trust, allowing himself to be honest, to hope, perhaps even to love. Opening himself up to pain, and opening Zoe to pain.

As terrifying as the prospect of her not giving him a chance was the possibility that she would.

What if he failed her?

He would, Max thought bleakly, rather not try—or love—at all.

 

Despite her fatigue and nausea, Zoe practically floated out to the limo. Her whole body tingled from their dancing, where Max had touched her. He'd been a different man tonight, she thought almost dreamily. He'd been the man she'd first seen, the man she'd hoped she'd seen, and even
better
than that.

Her body hummed. Her mind flew to distant pos
sibilities, dreams she'd hardly acknowledged until now. Dreams of a family, of her and Max…

‘I want you to come with me,' Max said. They were riding in the limo, cars streaming past, the night still dark around them. Zoe turned to him, startled.

‘Where?' she asked, knowing at this moment she'd go with him anywhere.

He smiled faintly, although Zoe felt something sad emanating from him and it made her a little afraid. She half reached out to him, but then dropped her hand at the last moment. Afraid, even now. Especially now. ‘To the Hamptons,' Max said, and Zoe's heart swelled with hope.

‘Of course,' she said simply, and they didn't speak again except to say goodbye.

S
HE
should refuse, Zoe thought. That would be the sensible thing to do. She barely knew Max. One dance did not change everything, even if it felt as if it had. He'd been harsh, judgemental, even cruel. Going on their track record, she should not trot after him to the Hamptons as soon as he crooked his finger. The very idea was absurd and unreasonable.

So why, Zoe asked herself, had she agreed so absolutely, felt the certainty of her own decision deep in her bones? Why had she rung the pregnancy centre to say she wouldn't be volunteering for at least a week? Why was she, in fact, packing her bags?

Why was she now staring out the window at the stream of taxis speeding by, counting the minutes until Max came to pick her up? Why was she looking forward to this unexpected and unexplained trip with excitement and, more damning still,
hope
?

What on earth was there to hope for?

He held my hand. He danced with me.
She blew out an exasperated breath, feeling as stupid and naive as a little girl who believed in fairy tales. Happy endings. A few little kindnesses did not change the cold, hard fact that they barely knew each other, and Max had not even given a hint
as to how he thought he would be involved in their baby's life. In her life.

She had no idea what was going to happen, or even what she wanted to happen.

I could love him.

‘No.' She spoke out loud, the treacherous thought slipping from her mind so softly, so dangerously. Love was dangerous. Loving someone like Max—someone she didn't completely understand—was way too much of a risk. She'd been rejected too many times recently; she surely couldn't think of taking the biggest risk of all.

Her whole heart.

No.

Max's limo pulled to the curb, and Zoe's fruitless, fearful questioning ground to a halt as her heart skipped a beat and her hands grew clammy with nerves. She watched as Max exited the limousine, walked with his deliberate, measured strides to the entrance of her building.

The doorman didn't ring up, just as he hadn't the last time Max had visited. Max, Zoe realised, had the kind of imposing presence that quailed even Park Avenue's premier doormen, and kept them from the kinds of security checks he so obviously didn't require.

When the front bell finally buzzed, Zoe knew it was Max himself and she went to open the door with both trepidation and joy—a heady, uncomfortable and even dangerous mix.

Max stood there, dressed with casual elegance in a white button-down shirt and pressed khakis. He stared straight ahead, his expression rather grim.

‘Zoe?' he said, and for a tiny second Zoe thought he almost sounded uncertain.

‘Yes.'

‘Are you ready?' There was a bite of impatience in his
voice now, and to her annoyance Zoe realised she was flushing. Any intimacy they'd shared the night before seemed to have evaporated in the glare of day. Zoe found it hard to believe that he'd held her, that she'd nestled close to his body as if she'd always belonged there.

‘Yes. Of course. I'll just get my bag.'

‘I'll carry it.' After a second's pause he stepped forward, and it took Zoe a moment to realise he was waiting to tell her where it was. She felt awkward, gauche even, clumsy and uncertain.

‘It's right here.' She reached for the handle of a suitcase that was far too large—she'd ended up packing most of her wardrobe, even the outfits that were sadly becoming a little too tight.

‘I told you, I'll do it,' Max said, and hefted the heavy case with ease.

Zoe followed him out of the apartment, into the lift and then downstairs and outside into the warm sunshine. Neither of them spoke.

Max's driver took her suitcase and Zoe slid inside the limo, Max following her. His thigh pressed against hers as he sat down, and Zoe tingled from his touch, no matter it was obviously inadvertent, for he muttered some kind of apology and moved closer to the window. What had happened to last night, when he'd gathered her to him, when he'd wanted to touch her?

What had changed?

Zoe couldn't answer for Max, but she knew that, for herself, fear replaced hope. Doubt took over from certainty, and she was left huddling near the window in silent near-misery.

The limo sped away from the curb, and within minutes they were leaving the endless city blocks behind them for
the Lincoln Tunnel, and then the golden stretch of highway towards Long Island Sound.

Zoe leant her head back against the seat, nerves making her queasier than usual, her heart still racing and skipping as skittishly as a newborn foal. Max remained brooding and silent, and she couldn't even begin to think what to say. What to feel. The situation was so bizarre, so strange and unexpected, and yet still—even now—so hopeful.

It was there, a precious seed, determined to take root, determined to believe that even if this was the mess Max claimed it was, even if they were two damaged and broken strangers whose only tie was the child she carried, even if she was afraid Max wouldn't—couldn't—love her,
even if
…

There was
some
way forward. Max had said so himself.

Despite the tension in the car, Zoe drifted into a doze without realising, for she found herself blinking sleep from her eyes as the limo slowed to a stop. Outside the sky was hard and blue, glinting brightly off the water.

The limo was parked in front of a sprawling, shingled beach house perched on a bluff overlooking the sound. Zoe glanced around and couldn't see another house or building, just scrub and sand. The limo, she realised, had come down a narrow, sandy track, and this was its end.

‘This looks like the last house on all of Long Island,' she joked as she slid from the car and stretched, her muscles aching, her stomach still queasy…although Zoe wondered how much this nausea had to do with pregnancy.

She was nervous, she realised. She was afraid—of what? Not of Max, even though his expression was shuttered, his eyes dark; not of the house, which looked beautiful, jutting out to sea; not even of the future, which loomed in front of her, uncertain, unknowable.

No, she was afraid of herself, afraid of the longing this
man created inside her, a deep well of need she didn't even understand. Why her? Why Max? Why did her body and soul and perhaps even heart long for something from a man who was so obviously inappropriate and unwilling to give it?

Why now?

Her hands went to the small of her back, where a persistent knot of tension had lodged.

‘Are you all right?' Max asked, his tone all too polite.

‘Just tired.'

‘Come inside.'

He turned and walked up the slate path that wound through a landscaped garden of rhododendrons and hydrangeas, his steps measured and precise. Zoe followed, gazing out at the winking sea, a few sailboats bobbing lazily in the distance, the air fresh with the tang of brine, and felt that little seed of hope nestle inside her soul and start to unfurl.

Inside, the house was all light and space, every window providing a breathtaking vantage point to view the sea and sky. The foyer soared upwards, lit by an immense skylight, bathing the room with the warmth and brightness of the sun.

Zoe's footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor, and she felt the emptiness of the rooms around her.

‘Are we alone?'

Max had dropped his keys on the hall table and shrugged out of his suit jacket. Zoe watched in helpless fascination at the ripple of muscles under the smooth, expensive fabric of his shirt and felt a tug of desire—and remembered longing—deep in her belly.

‘Yes. There's a live-in housekeeper but she's on vacation at the moment.' He paused. ‘I thought we might as well manage for ourselves.'

‘OK.' Zoe tried to keep her voice light and unconcerned
even though the thought of being alone with Max made her stomach dip yet again. ‘I have to warn you, I'm not much of a cook.'

‘I wouldn't expect you to be. We can order in.' He turned to her, the glimmer of a smile on his face, flickering in his eyes. ‘Any cravings yet?'

‘Actually, I could kill for a good tikka masala,' Zoe admitted with a little laugh. ‘And I don't even like Indian food all that much.'

‘Consider it done.' He turned away from her, and Zoe felt ridiculously bereft, as if he'd somehow withdrawn from her even though he was still in the room, still only a few feet away. Words crowded and clogged in her throat.

Why are you so distant? What changed you from the man you were last night? Which man were you last night?
And then, surprising her,
Who am I? I feel like I may have found myself here, and yet I'm not even sure who that is
. Who could she be, in relation to Max, if not Zoe Balfour? The Zoe Balfour the world knew, the Zoe Balfour she knew.

‘You should rest,' he told her. ‘You can have any bedroom you like upstairs.' Already he was walking away. ‘I'll see you at dinnertime.'

 

Max walked stiffly away, forcing back the stupid feeling of regret at leaving Zoe alone. He'd brought her here because he'd wanted to, because he needed to. He'd told himself they needed to spend time together, if simply to figure out where they were going. What kind of future they could have. Yet now that she was here, observing him,
seeing
him, he realised he couldn't bear the thought of her seeing him unguarded, vulnerable. Knowing the truth.

He had work to occupy him, at least, several conference
calls to make, deals to conclude. Work grounded him, kept him sane. Made him feel useful and alive.

Yet as he sat down at his desk and punched in the numbers on the telephone—it took a damnably long time—he found he couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was Zoe lying upstairs, her golden hair spread across the pillow like some kind of Rapunzel, the scent of rose water perfuming the air. What was she thinking? Was she glad to be here? Would she be bored? Would she discover the truth of him, even before he told her?

Suppressing a groan of frustration, Max forced his mind back to the telephone conversation that would conclude a multimillion-dollar deal—a deal he'd worked months for, that now felt as empty as his own bleak heart.

 

Zoe wandered up the marble steps, her fingers trailing along the wrought-iron railing, to the main floor of bedrooms. She peeked in a few rooms; each one was spectacularly decorated, the nautical colours perfect for the beach house and its many views of the sound.

Which bedroom was Max's? They were all anonymous guest rooms, and Zoe had the unwelcome feeling that Max would choose a bedroom as far from hers as he could. Perhaps that's why he'd asked her to pick one first.

Whatever had transpired between them before seemed well and truly gone.

Zoe finally picked a room in the centre of the house, its bay window overlooking the beach. She prowled around restlessly for a few minutes, examining the array of little soaps and shampoos in the en-suite bathroom, uselessly straightening a towel, glancing disinterestedly at the row of glossy paperbacks on the bookcase. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, she stretched out on the king-size bed with its smooth
navy sheets—sheets so similar to Max's back in New York—and after only a few moments she fell asleep.

When Zoe awoke the sun was slanting its long, mellow rays across the water, turning the sea's surface to burnished gold. The sky was cloudless and hazy, a few seagulls circling over the water. All around her the house seemed utterly still and empty and Zoe wondered where Max was, what he'd been doing. She must have slept for several hours. Her stomach growled, and she realised she was hungry. She hadn't eaten anything all day.

After a quick brush of her hair and teeth—she looked basically presentable, which seemed as much as she could hope for these days—she wandered downstairs, room after room empty and silent, lit only by the long, setting rays of the sun.

She found Max in the kitchen, a hymn to granite and stainless steel, standing at one of the counters, two foil containers in front of him. The pungent aroma of tikka masala wafted through the room, and Zoe's stomach growled again.

‘You remembered,' she said, and heard the pleasure in her own voice.

Max looked up, turning his head so he wasn't quite looking at her; his face was unsmiling.

‘Yes. Are you hungry?'

‘Starved.' She hesitated, unsure how to gauge Max's mood, uncertain what the source of the sudden tension in the room was. Of course, there had always been a tension between them. Why should she expect anything different, just because he'd ordered her a takeaway, for heaven's sake? It was a moment's kindness, nothing more, perhaps not even that. ‘Shall I get some plates?' she asked, injecting a bright note into her voice.

‘Good idea. They're above the sink.'

Zoe busied herself with fetching plates and forks, and setting two places at the huge oak table in the breakfast nook of the kitchen. French doors led directly out onto a patio with a flagstone path leading to the beach, the water now lost in darkness.

Within a few minutes they were both sitting down at one end of the table, the kitchen huge and empty around them. Zoe took a bite of chicken and closed her eyes.

‘Good?' Max asked, and she heard a hint of laughter in his voice.

‘Heavenly. It's wonderful just to
enjoy
eating something for a change.' She opened her eyes, smiling ruefully. ‘I didn't realise I took my health for granted until I started feeling so utterly unwell.' She took a piece of nan bread, dipping it in the sauce. ‘At least it will pass.'

‘Yes,' Max agreed after a tiny pause. ‘It's only temporary.'

They both lapsed into silence, and Zoe thought Max looked even grimmer than before. ‘So,' she finally said, determined to keep this awkward conversation going, ‘I don't really know anything about you.' Max merely lifted one shoulder in what Zoe supposed was a shrug. ‘Where did you grow up?'