Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (9 page)

He was useless. And worse, far worse, he was afraid.

He choked back another curse, pressing his fists to his eyes, closing them against the bright, blurred shapes. The darkness was complete and almost soothing…for a moment. Then the panic, all too familiar, rose within him, a cry, a silent scream of anguish he'd never voice.

He stalked to the bar, bumping hard into a chair which he shoved out of his way, and reached for the whisky bottle. Here, at least, oblivion—temporary, sweet—could be found.

It was past midnight when he finally stumbled to bed, shedding his clothes with haphazard indifference. Sleep claimed him all too quickly, and with it came the dread and the dreams—the suffocating darkness, the taunts and jeers and, worst of all, the supplications.

Max…do something…help me, please….

He'd done nothing. He'd sat and waited, unable even to help himself. In his sleep a groan of abject misery escaped him, and he thrashed against the slippery sheets as the memories took hold of him, held him in their vicious grasp.

No…no…please…don't hurt her….

Help me, Max….

He hadn't. He hadn't been able to.

As dawn broke, he finally fell into a deeper, dreamless sleep, his muscles still knotted with tension, his eyes clenched closed and his sheets wet with the tears he would never shed while awake.

T
HE
next few days passed in a lethargic blur. Zoe didn't go out; she spent most of her days lying in bed, drained and empty. Finally she dragged herself from the apartment, determined to do something. To act.

Yet how? What? She found herself wandering the streets, gazing listlessly at the store fronts and office buildings, watching as people hurried everywhere, busy and productive, part of something. She'd never felt so listless, so separate. Then her gaze fell upon a discreet sign in front of a midrise office building, no different than a thousand others.

Midtown Pregnancy Support Center. Where Women Find the Help They Need.

Without even considering what she was doing, or why, Zoe pushed through the office doors and took the lift to the fourth floor. She entered the support centre, her surprised gaze taking in a few faded, squashy armchairs and a battered desk where a woman was arranging brochures in a basket. She looked up when Zoe entered. ‘Can I help?'

‘Actually,' Zoe said, and her voice sounded surprisingly strong, ‘I was wondering if I could help you.' The woman raised her eyebrows, surprised, and Zoe smiled. ‘I'd like to volunteer.'

‘Volunteer? Have you been here before?'

‘No.' Zoe realised how absurd she must seem, storming in here and asking to be part of it. Yet she wanted to be a part; she wanted to contribute, to act. She needed to
do
, rather than just think and wonder and fear. ‘I'm new to the city, but I've got plenty of time on my hands, and I want to do something useful. I know I'm not trained in much of anything,' she continued with determined cheer, ‘but I could file and answer phones, surely?'

‘Right…' The woman glanced down at the papers on her desk and Zoe felt her tenuous hold on her composure slipping. Please, not another rejection. At this point, she felt as if she might fall apart if someone so much as frowned at her on the street. Then the woman looked up and smiled.

‘It's usually so difficult to find volunteers. Everyone is so busy in this city. We'll need to run a few background checks, but I'm sure we'd love your help.' She stuck out her hand. ‘I'm Tiffany.'

‘Brilliant.' Zoe took her hand and shook it. ‘I'm Zoe,' she said, and then added, her voice still strong, ‘Zoe Balfour.'

Within a few days Zoe had learned all the menial tasks—from watering the potted plants on the windowsill to making copies of brochures and forms on a rather antiquated photocopier—that she'd once never have even thought to stoop to. She tried to imagine Holly Mabberly or even Karen seeing her in this setting, and knew they would be incredulous, most likely scornful.

She was, Zoe realised on her third day of volunteering, happy. Or close enough. She knew she'd never be truly happy with the men in her life so indifferent—the men who had actively chosen
not
to be in her life. Yet she was doing something, something good, and that gave her a deep sense of satisfaction she'd never expected to feel.

Yet the nearly eight hours that she put in at the pregnancy centre didn't fill the other long, empty hours of the day and night, hours where she walked through the park, observing the children with their mothers and fathers and nannies, where the sight of a baby dozing contentedly in a pushchair made her insides contract with both hope and fear.

Hours where she lay in bed, exhausted yet sleepless, wistfully imagining a different scenario, a different life, one where her father and the father of her child accepted and embraced her.

Bedtime stories. Fairy tales.

And still there was too much time to think, to wonder, to fear, for she was realising with an increasing sense of panicked urgency that she had no idea what she was doing.

Where would she live? What would she do? How was she going to tell her family, her father? In one grim moment, she pictured the tabloid headlines—
Bastard Gives Birth to Bastard
—and shuddered.

Perhaps she was being foolish, pushing these thoughts away, taking each precious day as it came, enjoying her work at the pregnancy centre, her camaraderie with Tiffany and the other counsellors and volunteers. Yet Zoe knew herself well enough to realise that all the implications and problems of the future would destroy the fragile sense of equanimity she'd finally managed to achieve.

Then the sickness hit. She'd been feeling a little queasy off and on, but nothing like the utter wretchedness that descended on her just a little over a week after she last saw Max. Exhausted and utterly nauseous, she took several days off volunteering and spent them in bed, nibbling on dry crackers and trying to sleep as much as she could.

One dreary, drizzly afternoon the doorbell rang and, thinking it must be the housekeeper, Lila, forgetting her
key, she roused herself from her state of lethargy and went to open the front door.

It wasn't Lila. It was Max.

Zoe's mouth dropped open in shock as she stared at him; his hair was damp from rain, and he wore an exquisitely cut grey suit, the steely colour matching his eyes. He looked grim, determined and resolute—and absolutely wonderful.

Zoe's heart bumped against her ribs and she was suddenly, painfully conscious of how she looked. She hadn't showered, her hair was in a scraggly mess and she was wearing the comfort pyjamas that nobody ever saw her in. Max, however, didn't seem to notice, and he made no comment. Still, she folded her arms across her chest in a gesture of self-protection.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘We need to talk.'

Zoe arched an eyebrow in cool scepticism even as her heart lurched. ‘Oh, really?'

‘Yes, really,' Max snapped. ‘Now are you going to let me inside?'

‘Since you asked so graciously,' Zoe muttered, and stepped aside. She watched as Max walked slowly into the foyer, gazing around at the priceless antiques—her father had a passion for ancient art and sculpture—with something close to disdain.

The scornful look on his face made Zoe's own cheeks burn with shame and resentment. Had he learned of her own birth? It would have only taken the most rudimentary Internet search to discover who she was; she'd given him the ammunition when she'd told him her full name. Was that why he looked so contemptuous now, because he knew who she was? He knew she didn't belong here, didn't deserve—

Zoe clamped down on these thoughts and gazed levelly at Max. ‘What do you want?'

‘Are we going to be so uncivilised as to stand here in the hall?'

‘You're hardly one to speak of civility,' Zoe fired back.

Max inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I'm sorry.'

Surprised, it took Zoe a moment to find her tongue. ‘You said that before.'

‘You shocked me. I spoke out of turn.' The words were spoken flatly, without emotion, yet their meaning made Zoe's heart turn. Was he having second thoughts? Good ones?

‘Follow me.' She turned and led the way into the living room, with its thick Aubusson carpet and its sweeping view of Central Park. After the slightest hesitation, Max followed.

‘I'm sorry I look such a fright,' Zoe said in what she hoped was a flippant tone. ‘If I'd known you were coming, I would have taken a bit more care.'

Max just shrugged. ‘It's not important.' He cleared his throat. ‘Have you been feeling well?'

Zoe let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You see me like this and you can ask that? No, I've been feeling wretched.'

‘I'm sorry,' Max said after a moment.

‘It's meant to pass in a few weeks,' Zoe replied. ‘I think.' They both lapsed into a tense, uneasy silence. Max stood in the centre of the room, unmoving, his face so terribly expressionless. Zoe had no idea what he was thinking, wanting. Wearily she pushed a tangled mass of hair behind one ear and asked, ‘Why are you here, Max?'

He turned slowly to face her, his body tense and straight, shoulders thrown back, chin angled haughtily, yet even so Zoe wondered if she saw a shadow of vulnerability in his dark eyes. Or was she just being fanciful, hoping for some more tender emotion that wasn't there?

‘I told you, I spoke out of turn the other day,' Max said tightly. ‘I…I shouldn't have dismissed you quite so readily.'

Was that actually meant to be an apology? Zoe wondered. ‘Thanks for that,' she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. ‘It didn't take you long to realise you were an utter cad—'

‘I was surprised,' Max cut her off, his voice sharpening. ‘And I still don't know how—' He stopped, his lips pressed tightly together, and Zoe felt a thrill of trepidation ripple coldly through her.

‘How what?' she asked quietly.

‘How any of this will work, if you actually intend to have this baby,' Max snapped. ‘We're
strangers
, Zoe—'

‘Strangers who slept together.' She couldn't quite hide the note of sorrow from her voice. Max simply shrugged and Zoe drew herself up. ‘So what exactly are you proposing?' she asked, then winced at her choice of words.

‘I'm not
proposing
anything,' Max returned evenly. ‘But if you are indeed having my child, then naturally I have a certain responsibility.' He made it sound so cold, so heartless, a matter of duty, not desire, yet Zoe knew she couldn't really expect much more. ‘Are you planning on remaining in New York for the duration of your pregnancy?'

‘I…I haven't thought…' Zoe pleated the worn fabric of her track bottoms between her fingers. She hadn't thought through anything, yet she knew she couldn't return to England—not yet, not when the tabloid's rabid eye would be trained so viciously on her, especially if anyone learned she was pregnant. ‘I think I should stay here,' she said after a moment, and heard the hesitation and uncertainty in her voice.

‘Is there a reason why you don't want to return to England?' Max asked, his tone neutral, but nerves and fear made Zoe spiky. ‘You mentioned—'

‘I just want to stay here,' Zoe cut him off, and Max nodded. He wasn't going to press, Zoe realised with a wave of relief. At least not yet.

‘Fine. Have you seen a doctor?' he asked after a moment.

‘No, not yet. It's still early days.'

‘Yet if you're feeling wretched, surely there is something a doctor could prescribe.'

‘I don't know—' Zoe admitted. She watched as Max withdrew a slim mobile phone from his breast pocket and began to punch in numbers. ‘What are you—?'

He spoke tersely into the mobile, and Zoe realised he must be talking to some assistant, a staff member ready to scurry and obey his sharply given commands. He snapped the phone shut. ‘My assistant is looking into doctors. We'll try to get an appointment for this afternoon.'

Zoe was torn between annoyance, admiration and a strange sort of gratitude. When he put his mind to it, he obviously got things done, but she wasn't sure she wanted to be quite so
managed
. ‘I'm fine—'

‘You said you were feeling wretched,' Max pointed out, and then had the gall to actually sniff. ‘Perhaps you'd like to shower before your appointment?'

Mortified, Zoe flushed to the roots of her unwashed hair. Surely she didn't actually
smell
? ‘Fine,' she said stiffly. She rose from her chair; Max hadn't moved from his militarylike stance in the centre of the room. ‘Are you just going to wait here?' He shrugged one powerful shoulder and Zoe couldn't help but ask a bit resentfully, ‘Don't you have things to do? Money to make?'

Max gave her the faintest flicker of a smile. ‘The good thing about making money,' he said, ‘is that after awhile it makes more all on its own.' He shoved one hand in his trouser pocket, looking a shade more relaxed. ‘I have time.'

She should be glad Max was here, Zoe knew, grateful that he'd changed his mind and wanted to be involved in some way. Yet for some perverse reason she could only feel resentful. He changed his mind, and now she was meant to leap to do his bidding? She felt like a parcel to be cared for, rather than a person.

The shower felt good, stinging and hot, and despite her queasy stomach she felt a bit better, enough to dress with care in a pair of skinny jeans—she could still fit into them, although the zip stuck a bit in the middle—knee-high leather boots and a silky T-shirt the colour of sea foam. She did her make-up, knowing she was being ridiculously vain, wanting to look good for Max. She doubted he would even notice, and yet still she was ludicrously disappointed when she returned to the living room and he didn't even glance at her.

‘We have an appointment in an hour,' Max said briskly. ‘My car will be here in five minutes.'

‘That was quick,' Zoe said a bit sulkily. ‘Amazing how you can get things done when you put your mind to it.' She knew she sounded sharp and sarcastic and didn't really care.

Max fixed her with a cool, even stare. ‘I understand why you're angry with me, Zoe. I didn't behave as I should have—as I wanted to—the last time we spoke. I'm sorry. But I'm doing my best now to take care of you and our child, and I'd appreciate not having it tossed back at me at every turn.' He spoke levelly, his face expressionless, and Zoe nodded in acceptance.

‘I suppose this situation is difficult for us both.'

‘Indeed.' He reached out an arm, and belatedly Zoe realised she was meant to take it. She slipped her arm through his awkwardly, conscious of his nearness, the scent of his aftershave, something woodsy and clean, and a deeper, muskier smell underneath that was surely just him.
His arm felt strong under hers, the muscles rippling beneath the smooth fabric of his suit, and for a second Zoe wanted to lean into him, to feel the strength of him as she had before, that night. She wanted to lean on someone—on him—and admit that she was uncertain and afraid, that the future scared her, that she really had no idea what she was doing or who she was. That she was
trying
—and this baby felt right, the first right thing in a long time—but she was still afraid of failing. Of messing up. Of losing—losing even Max himself, which was ridiculous, because she'd never even had him in the first place.