The Gold Collection. Maggie Cox

full possession. From somewhere she found the strength to push against his chest, but the glitter in his eyes warned her that she was too late. His body was primed and ready to take her, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he fought for control.

      The discreet knock on the study door shattered the tension and the butler, Laurent’s, imperturbable tones sounded through the wood. ‘Madame Deverell has arrived and is waiting in the salon.’

      Hysterical laughter bubbled in Freya’s throat. ‘Madame? You have a wife?’

      ‘Non, I have a mother—who has impeccable timing,’ Zac replied sardonically as he rolled off her and snatched up his shirt, muttering a string of profanities beneath his breath. ‘But the very fact that you believe I could be married does not say much about your opinion of me, chérie.’

      ‘It’s an opinion I formed during the time I’ve spent struggling to bring up our child,’ Freya bit back sharply. She couldn’t imagine what he must think of her when she was semi-naked and spread-eagled across his desk. Scarlet-cheeked, she tugged her skirt down and hopped inelegantly from foot to foot trying to pull her knickers on, praying that Zac’s mother wouldn’t walk in. She’d suffered enough humiliation to last her a lifetime—much of it self-induced, she thought miserably as she recalled her shameless response to him. One thing was clear: she dared not trust herself to be near him for another day. He could deal with his mother and explain why his elegant bachelor pad was littered with toys and teddies, while she collected Aimee and made her escape.

      ‘I’ll go and speak to my mother while you tidy yourself up,’ he said tersely, his expression unfathomable as he inspected her dishevelled appearance and hot face. He on the other hand looked as cool as a cucumber and had obviously had no difficulty in bringing his desire under control. Any minute now and he would pop a couple of bank notes down her blouse in payment for services rendered, Freya thought furiously, shrivelling beneath his look of haughty disdain. She held her breath until he left the room, and as soon as he had gone raced around his desk and searched for the passports. Flights back to England would stretch her overdraft to its limit, she acknowledged ruefully, but it couldn’t be helped, she had to get away.

      Ignoring the sound of voices from the sitting room, she raced along the hall to the nursery and snatched up the holdall she’d packed with Aimee’s things. With any luck she could collect her daughter from the roof-garden, bid a quick farewell to Jean Lewis and disappear before Zac realised that she had no intention of remaining at the penthouse until he grew bored of fatherhood. At the doorway she spun round and gave one final glance around the room, groaning when she spied Aimee’s favourite toy rabbit at the end of the cot. With a muttered curse she dropped the holdall and flew across the carpet to retrieve the toy, her heart sinking at the sound of Zac’s voice.

      ‘There you are—I thought you were going to come and meet my mother,’ Zac drawled, his eyes narrowing when Freya gasped at the sight of him.

      ‘I…thought Aimee was here,’ she said quickly, praying that he wouldn’t notice the holdall behind the door.

      ‘She’s with Jean in the salon. My mother would very much like to meet you,’ he added quietly.

      ‘You never introduced me to her during the time I lived with you,’ Freya muttered, remembering how hurt she’d felt when Zac had used to visit Yvette Deverell but never suggested that she accompany him. ‘Why the sudden urgency?’

      ‘The situation is different now.’ He paused and then explained, ‘When you lived here, my mother was still devastated at the loss of my father. She became a virtual recluse and I was the only person she wanted to see. Thankfully she is much better now and she’s eager to meet you.’

      The glint in Zac’s eyes warned Freya that she had no option but to comply and she hastily shoved the passports behind her back and followed him down the hall. Voices were audible from the salon, Jean Lewis’ calm tones and another, heavily accented voice, mingled with Aimee’s gurgling laughter. ‘What an adorable child—how old is she?’

      ‘Eighteen months,’ Zac answered his mother’s query as he ushered Freya into the room while Jean quietly excused herself. ‘Maman, this is Freya Addison—Aimee’s mother.’

      ‘Mademoiselle Addison.’ Yvette Deverell stood and held out one elegantly manicured hand to Freya. She was tall, willowy and effortlessly chic in an exquisite dress and jacket from one of the leading fashion houses. Freya immediately felt conscious of the creases in her cheap skirt and, as had so often happened during her childhood, she was swamped by a feeling of inadequacy, not helped when Yvette continued to study her from beneath faintly arched eyebrows, in a silence that spoke volumes. ‘You have a delightful little girl,’ she commented at last, and Freya stiffened when Zac placed his arm around her waist and drew her forwards.

      ‘Aimee is my daughter, Maman.’ He spoke softly to his mother. ‘You have a granddaughter.’

      Freya was prepared for Yvette to look surprised, shocked even, but the expression of horrified dismay on the Frenchwoman’s face filled her with cold fury. Suddenly she was eight years old, walking up the path of Nana Joyce’s house clutching the hand of the social worker who had collected her from the foster family she had been staying with. There had been no look of pleasure on her grandmother’s face when she had opened the door, no welcoming smile.

      ‘You’d better go up to your room, Freya, and mind you don’t make any noise. You can come down at teatime as long as you’re quiet—I don’t expect to be disturbed by childish chatter,’ Joyce Addison had greeted her coldly.

      To this day she rarely spoke unless spoken to, and even in her own flat she’d crept about on tiptoe out of habit, Freya thought bleakly. Her grandmother had crushed her spirit and destroyed her self-confidence—she would not allow Zac’s mother to do the same to Aimee.

      ‘I don’t understand. How can this be?’ Yvette Deverell was staring at her son, a look of blank incomprehension on her face. ‘Are you certain this is your child?’

      Her comments were the last straw, Freya decided furiously, her face burning with mortification as she tugged out of Zac’s hold and grasped Aimee’s hand. It was bad enough that Zac had doubted Aimee’s paternity—how dared his mother do the same? ‘There was some debate over whether Aimee belonged to the tinker, the tailor or the candlestick maker,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing fire as she met Yvette Deverell’s stunned glance. ‘Zac is Aimee’s biological parent, but that’s where his involvement ends. Please don’t worry, madame, I’m taking my daughter home to England and, I assure you, you won’t see either of us again.’

      ‘Zac! I don’t understand.’ Yvette bombarded her son in a torrent of rapid French while Freya spun on her heel and raced towards the door, tugging Aimee after her. But Zac beat her to it and stood blocking her path, his eyes focused intently on her face.

      ‘Let me go,’ she said in a low voice that shook as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. ‘Aimee doesn’t belong here. Your mother just made that abundantly clear. She’s my daughter and I’m taking her home.’

      ‘Zac, I insist you tell me what is happening,’ Yvette demanded plaintively.

      ‘Calm down, Maman,’ he ordered impatiently as he lifted Aimee against his chest. Without giving Freya a chance to react, he captured her chin with his lean fingers and lowered his head to take her mouth in a brief, searing kiss. ‘There has been a simple misunderstanding, but it’s sorted now,’ he said coolly, his bruising grip on her chin preventing her from speaking while his eyes burned into hers. ‘Freya agrees that our daughter should grow up in Monaco with her family, and from now on she and Aimee will live permanently here in the penthouse with me. Isn’t that so, chérie?’

CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘I CAN’T believe you said that to your mother.’ Freya yelled at Zac as she stormed down the hall after him and followed him into his room. ‘I can see we’re going to have to come to some sort of