Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (8 page)

‘No?'

‘I'm not asking you to get an abortion if you don't wish to have one,' Max said flatly, his face still turned to the window. ‘I'm not quite that selfish.'

The limo pulled to the curb in front of Max's building and he got out of the car, leaving Zoe no choice but to follow, tripping once more over the uneven cobbles.

They didn't speak in the foyer, or in the closed space of
the lift as it soared thirty-two floors up into the sky. Zoe waited tensely as Max stalked across his living room—shoving aside a chair in an almost vicious movement—before he poured himself a rather large Scotch and downed it in one gulp.

‘I'd offer you a drink but I suppose that's not the thing when you're expecting,' he said, his back to her, his voice dark with a savage humour.

‘No, it's all wretched herbal teas,' Zoe replied lightly. ‘I'd kill for a cup of coffee.'

‘Surely a little caffeine can't be that bad for you, this early on?'

Zoe shrugged. She'd read a brochure that linked excessive caffeine to the threat of a miscarriage, and while the research showed that a cup a day was fine, she realised she didn't want to take unnecessary risks, or even any risks at all.

She wanted this baby. A lot. More than anything she'd ever wanted before. Perhaps even more than she wanted to be a Balfour. The realisation surprised her, and even scared her a little bit.

‘So.' Max put his glass down carefully on the table and turned slowly to face her. ‘I appreciate you telling me the news, but what exactly are you hoping to achieve here?'

Zoe swallowed. It was, she knew, a good question. What
was
she doing here? What did she want—realistically, possibly—from Max? ‘I want you to be involved in our child's life.' The words came out in a nervous rush, and Max arched one eyebrow.

‘Involved?' he repeated, and there was no disguising his incredulity. ‘What are you talking about?'

His blatant disbelief stung her, reminded her of her own biological father's utter refusal to acknowledge her in any way. ‘I'm talking about responsibility, Max—'

‘The responsible thing would have been not to get you pregnant in the first place,' Max replied shortly. ‘Barring that, it would be to give you the money—'

‘No.' Zoe took a step closer to him, her hand pressed against her tummy. ‘Are you really that cold-hearted, that you'd wish your own child out of existence?'

Max's face and voice were both expressionless. ‘I can't really be sure it's mine, can I?'

‘We can have a paternity test as soon as you like,' Zoe said evenly. ‘I have nothing to hide.'

‘Don't you?' Max remained motionless, but Zoe could still feel his heat, his anger. He stood still, seemingly relaxed, yet to Zoe he felt like a panther ready to pounce. On her. ‘Just Zoe?' he jeered softly. ‘Who are you, really?'

Zoe met his taunting gaze, her voice steady. ‘The woman who is going to have your child.'

Max let out a sharp bark of disbelieving laughter. ‘You really are a piece of work.'

‘What—'

‘Have you even considered what having this baby means, Zoe? What it will do to that lovely little body of yours, to your lifestyle? No more parties, no more late nights. No more spending the night with your latest lover—'

‘That's not fair.' Zoe felt the sting of tears under her lids and furiously blinked them away. ‘You don't know me—'

‘Exactly. I don't know you.' The words seemed to hang in the air, flat and final. ‘Do you even know what it means to have a child?' Max demanded after a moment, his voice harsh. ‘Or are you just seeing this baby—this life—as another fashion accessory, something different because you're bored?'

Each word, Zoe thought numbly, was a judgement, a condemnation. Of course, there was very little reason for
Max Monroe to think more of her; she hadn't given him any reason to. She hadn't given
anyone
any reason to. And standing there, her face drained of colour, her mouth dry, she wondered at the truth of his words.

Was it selfish—stupid, even—to have a baby because you wanted a family of your own? Because at last you'd have someone to belong to?

Perhaps it was.

Yet even as these thoughts—fears—slipped slyly through her mind, Zoe knew she wanted this baby for more reasons than her own selfish desires. She wanted this baby because it was a child,
her
child, part of her own body, and he or she deserved to live.

‘If I wanted a fashion accessory,' she finally said, her voice thankfully dry, ‘I'd buy a bracelet.'

Max inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Zoe thought she almost—almost—saw the glimmer of a smile in the curve of his mouth, the flicker in his eyes. Then he shrugged. ‘Naturally I'll offer financial support, if that's what you need.'

‘Write a cheque and be done with it?'

Max narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you angling for, Zoe? Because you can't possibly expect—' He stopped, swallowing, and turned away.

‘Expect you to be involved in your child's life? Funny, how men seem to think that idea is so absurd. So impossible.'

Max swung around sharply. ‘Are you telling me you've been in this situation before?'

Zoe hesitated. ‘In a manner of speaking. But no, I've never been pregnant before.' She took a breath; it hitched slightly. ‘I'm not asking you to marry me, Max, or even attempt some kind of godforsaken relationship.' She said the word with a little sneer, even though she didn't feel like
sneering. She didn't want a relationship with Max; she was realistic enough to realise how ill-fated that would be. Yet it still hurt that he hadn't even considered it for a moment. He'd dismissed her the morning after they'd made love, and he was dismissing her and her child now.

Hadn't she had enough of rejection? When was she going to wise up and stop insisting on these confrontations? A wave of dizziness passed over and she swayed on her feet, a tiny moan escaping her. Max inhaled sharply.

‘Are you all right?'

‘I'm just a little dizzy. I haven't eaten in awhile.' She sat down in the nearest chair with an inelegant thud, closing her eyes against the dizziness, the accompanying nausea and, worst of all, the reality of Max's rejection.

Her eyes still closed, she heard him mutter a curse under his breath and he moved from the bar to the kitchen. She heard the sound of cupboards and drawers being opened and shut, and then she opened her eyes to see him at the kitchen counter, its gleaming, pristine surface marred only by the presence of a knife and a jar of peanut butter.

She watched him stand there for a moment, looking lost and a little helpless, and she wondered if he'd actually ever been in his own kitchen.

‘I have my meals delivered,' he explained tersely, even though Zoe hadn't said anything. Clearly he must have guessed what she'd been thinking. ‘I'm afraid peanut butter and bread is all I have.'

‘That's fine.'

He reached for the jar of peanut butter, unscrewing the cap and setting it aside; in the process his elbow knocked the knife from the counter. He cursed again, under his breath. Zoe watched, strangely transfixed, as Max bent, his long, lean fingers slowly sweeping the black marble tiles
for the knife. His fingers closed around it after only a few seconds, yet Zoe was left with the odd feeling that he hadn't known where the utensil was.

She opened her mouth to say something—
what?
—but Max's cold, closed expression kept her from uttering a word.

‘Thank you,' she finally murmured, for he'd spread peanut butter on two slices of bread and silently handed her a sandwich. She took it, her appetite absolutely vanished, her mind seething with questions. Somehow she felt making a simple sandwich had cost Max something—and she didn't even know what it was.

Was he still injured from his accident? She wanted to ask, but she was uncertain of Max's response. She couldn't bear another rebuff, and actually she wasn't sure she wanted the truth.

Suddenly, she was afraid. Afraid of all the things she didn't know, the future looming dark and so terribly uncertain in front of them both.

‘If you're envisioning some kind of happy-families scenario,' Max said after a long, tense moment of silence, ‘I'm afraid that it is quite impossible.' He'd moved to the window and propped one shoulder against the wall of glass, seeming utterly indifferent to the spectacular view.

Zoe stared down at her sandwich, unable to manage even a mouthful. ‘Impossible?' she repeated slowly, and let it linger in the air, a question.

‘Impossible,' Max confirmed. Then, to her surprise, the words seeming reluctant and yet no less heartfelt, he added, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You speak as though you have no choice.'

‘I don't.' The two words were laced with a surprising and deep regret.

Zoe looked up, eyes flashing, anger—and hurt—
coursing through her. ‘What are you saying, Max? You don't want to be involved in this child's life at all?'

His mouth tightened, a muscle flickering in his jaw. ‘It's impossible.'

‘Only if you choose for it to be so.'

‘What are you actually imagining, Zoe?' he demanded harshly, his voice a raw, ragged whisper. ‘We barely know each other. I don't even know your last name. Are you actually expecting us to be a
family
?'

That one word—
family
—caused tears to gather under her lids, crowd her throat. She swallowed, blinked, forced it all back. ‘I don't know what to expect, Max. All I know is—' She swallowed again, her throat so very tight, and continued. ‘I won't let this baby grow up without knowing who her father is.'

He looked at her sharply, as if he wanted to ask a question, and Zoe didn't want to have to explain. She continued in a quieter, more subdued voice. ‘And it's Balfour.'

‘What?'

‘My last name. It's Balfour.'

He shrugged, obviously indifferent and Zoe felt a ridiculous urge to laugh. The name clearly meant nothing to him. That all-important social symbol—a sign of wealth, luxury, prestige and, finally, scandal—was simply a name to Max Monroe. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed; she felt nothing at all.

‘At the very least,' she continued, ‘you could visit—'

‘What? Fly over to England every couple of weeks?'

She blinked, suddenly realising how very little she'd thought any of this out. All she'd thought about since learning she was pregnant—all she'd wanted—was her baby to know her father. To feel as if she belonged, as if she was loved.

Yet you couldn't force either of those. Maybe, Zoe thought hollowly, it would be better for this child not to know her father…if her father didn't want to know her. Yet even as she considered this, she knew it wasn't true. Not knowing, for her, had been as bad as knowing.

Carefully she placed the uneaten sandwich on the table next to her. She rose slowly, dizziness still lapping at the edges of her mind, her self-control a slippery thing. ‘I haven't thought any of this through,' she said with as much dignity as she could gather. ‘I don't have all the answers, Max, and I won't pretend that I do. I just…' She drew a breath into her lungs, sharp and painful. ‘I just wanted this child to know where he or she came from. Because—' She stopped, then forced herself to go on. ‘Because I didn't.' Max's mouth opened soundlessly, his eyes widening in surprise, and Zoe hurried on. ‘Anyway. It doesn't really matter, does it? Because you can't force the kind of thing I want. You can't force love—not even a father's love for a child. I should know.'

Max closed his eyes briefly; he looked as if he was in pain. ‘Zoe—'

‘So,' she finished, her voice sounding high and strained, ‘that's it. I just wanted you to know.'

He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. His face was utterly expressionless, devoid of emotion, and Zoe knew then, with a chill, that he had decided. He'd made up his mind not to be involved. He didn't move, didn't change at all, as he said tonelessly, ‘Now I know.'

And he still didn't move as Zoe, on leaden legs, walked slowly to the elevator. She pushed the button, waiting, half expecting or at least hoping for Max to say something. Do something.

He didn't.

It seemed to take ages for the elevator to arrive, yet even so all too soon the doors whooshed open, leaving Zoe with no choice but to step inside. And then, just as once before, they closed, and Max had never said a word.

 

Max heard the elevator doors close, heard the swoosh as it started downwards. He heard the silence all around him, angry and mocking, and he wished he could close his ears—and heart—against it. He heard Zoe's accusations and, worse, her pleas.

You can't force love
—not even
a father's love for a child—I should know.

He didn't know her history, although he supposed he could guess a little bit of it now, and the thought of how he was letting her down—letting their child down—cut through him cleanly. He'd never wanted to let anyone down again. To fail another person was, he knew, the same as failing himself.

Yet better to let her down now—a little—than far more, far worse, later.

You speak as though you have no choice.

Zoe had no idea how true those words were. She'd meant them as an accusation, yet Max felt them as a sentence. A life sentence, impossible to escape. Would Zoe be so eager for him to be involved in their child's life when she learned he was nearly blind, on his way to becoming a virtual invalid? He could imagine her distaste, her horror, at his condition all too well.

And even if she pretended it didn't matter, Max knew it did…to him. To a child. How could he be a father when he couldn't see his child's face? He couldn't play catch with a son; he couldn't whirl a daughter around and around without stumbling, falling, putting her into danger.