Page 30 of The Tycoon's Shock Heir

She swallowed again. ‘My blood tests were clear? I’m in perfect health?’

‘Ruby, you’re pregnant. I can see that this is quite a shock and I’m here to help and advise.’

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder, looked inside it—her purse, her phone, her keys. One, two, three—all there. Everything was there. Time to go. She checked her watch. Eleven-thirty. An empty day ahead. But soon her days would be full again.

One step at a time.

‘Thanks. I’ll let you know if I need anything. What a beautiful day,’ she said staring past the doctor’s head to the trees and the sky outside.

She retraced her steps along the corridor, past the nurses’ station, where their chatter was bright and chirpy, past the television and the blue water cooler, past the automatic doors and out into the warm sunny morning.

She could go back to rehearsals now. That was amazing—the hugest relief.

You’re going to have a baby.

She should call someone to tell them the news. That she was able to dance. She should call someone and not think of anything else. Her mind whirred. Her heart pirouetted in her chest. They were about to start rehearsals for the winter season. She had a good chance of getting a principal role.

December.

Her heart sank. What size would she be? There was no chance of her being cast in any role, in any performance. There wouldn’t be any point until after the baby was born.

And what was she going to do until then? More coaching and more watching? And then—childcare? She could never afford that. Not on her salary, in London, alone.

Her feet were moving—left, right, left, right. She was at the underground station. She went down the steps. People thronged past her. She walked to the platform, felt the unbearable heat surround her. The noise of a train rumbled in the distance. People flicked their eyes at the information screens, fanned their faces in the stifling heat.

Like a dragon roaring closer and closer, the train finally loomed into view, lights like eyes blasting through the trapped turgid air.

There really was only one thing she could do.

CHAPTER NINE

MATTEO FASTENED THE cuffs of his shirt. He buttoned the single button on his suit jacket and straightened his collar. Tie or no tie? No tie. And no pocket square either.

He checked his image in the mirror one last time. It wasn’t great. His hair needed a cut, but he hadn’t had time, and he’d nicked his cheek shaving.

At least his lack of sleep was hidden under a midsummer Mediterranean tan. And it had been worth those two days on a yacht, convincing some of the wealthiest men in Europe to become part of the bank’s youth sponsorship programme. That had felt good. And it didn’t do any harm that it would look good—this was a week when appearances mattered.

He walked to the dressing table, collected his keys and phone. He pressed the screen, opened the contacts, scrolled until he found the one he wanted: Ruby, Ballet. It was time he deleted that number. He’d been right not to chase her—she was too much trouble. He’d barely been able to concentrate since that night, and there was no time or space for that right now. He’d had a lucky escape, truth be told.

He tugged his cuffs down one last time and walked through the immense French doors to the grand terrace of the Château de la Croix.

David had done a brilliant job. He’d really pushed the boat out arranging the Cordon d’Or Regatta this year, leasing this fabulous former home to royalty and movie stars from days gone by. There was nowhere finer than the Bastion St-Jaume, and no better event in the entire social calendar of the Riviera. Tonight the high-rollers and big spenders would descend. And the die would be cast.

Outside the finishing touches were being set. Three huge marquees dotted the immaculate lawns that ran down from the swimming pool through densely planted palms and onto the beach beyond. Already the château’s tiny harbour was filling up with launches as people journeyed in from ships anchored further off shore. Above, the sound of rotors slicing the air announced the arrival of the media, here to set up camp to get the very best shots of the A-list as they arrived.

And among them would be the sedate and conservative, deeply pious Augusto Arturo and his wife Marie-Isabelle.

---