The Tycoon's Shock Heir. Bella Frances

felt the world crumble under his feet, felt himself spinning in space. He’d thought his father sure and solid and strong. He’d had all the answers. He’d been wise and clever and honourable and he’d loved his mother—and Claudio had been his best friend.

      They had been almost inseparable—closer than brothers. The only thing that had ever came between his parents had been Claudio’s suffocating presence in their lives—until something had happened and everything had changed.

      Matteo had once suspected that Claudio had made a move on his mother and his father had found out. It had to be something like that for the schism between them to have been so deep. How wrong he had been.

      His father’s fight to save the family bank had been epic. He had worked tirelessly for weeks, but so much of it had gone. People with lots of money wanted lots more. Loyalty was too expensive. Especially when Claudio had offered a fast dividend and people had been too greedy to care how it was made.

      But it had been his father’s death more than the losses to the company that had devastated Matteo’s life. His mother had been inconsolable—the thought of her anguish still made him wince with pain. He had gone to her side, nursed her and taken charge as he knew his father would have wanted. A stream of people from the banking world had arrived—all firm handshakes, sober suits and quiet conversations.

      All of that he had lived through, knowing that it couldn’t get any worse. Knowing that Sophie was there for him.

      And the knowledge of her warm, loving body had driven him one night to take a flight north to university, then a two-hour taxi ride from the airport to the cold, stormy coast of St Andrew’s, where he’d known she would be just about to wake up. Maybe he’d slip into bed beside her, feel the love in her arms and bury himself and his pain...

      How many times must he relive those moments? The crunch of the gravel, the lightening shadows of the morning and the frosted cloud of his breath. The cold, metallic slide of his key in the lock, lamps still burning in the hallway, the TV on, glasses on the table.

      Like an automaton he had turned to the sound of the shower.

      And then had come the sight he wished he could burn from his eyes.

      His beautiful Sophie, naked and wet, her legs wrapped around another man. And the other man had been the national rugby coach, come all the way to Scotland to ask him to play for his country.

      Was he emotionally stunted? All day long. And for the rest of his life.

      ‘Most people don’t believe what they read. I never do, if it’s any consolation.’

      His eyes tracked round, following the voice that had split through the sick daydream. Angel-faced Ruby, with those huge brown eyes and wide red lips was looking up at him with something that might be described as concern. How sweet. But if it was concern, it was wasted.

      ‘Please don’t worry about me,’ he said, fastening the last button on his jacket. ‘I’m a big boy. I can take what they dish up and swallow it whole.’

      He winked. He smiled. He put one hand on her shoulder. Her delicate, silken-skinned shoulder. He stepped a little closer and watched as her eyes did that widening thing that women always did—usually just before he leaned in for his first kiss...

      And wouldn’t a kiss be the perfect way to start his evening with Ruby? Those gorgeous lips, that ivory skin, her lustrous hair... Hadn’t he been tempted from the moment he’d seen her? Hadn’t she shown that she was tempted too?

      This could turn into the perfect night after all.

      Oh, yes, he thought, and the stirring and hardening in his groin were now very obviously happening. There was only one thing left to do.

      ‘But it must hurt your mother—reading that,’ she said, turning her head.

      He paused in mid-air, correcting himself and exiting the move swiftly. He’d been rebuffed. Well, well, well...

      ‘What my mother feels is no concern of yours or anyone else’s,’ he heard himself say. ‘I wish people would leave well alone.’

      Colour rose like a scarlet tide over her cheeks and he instantly regretted his sharp tone.

      Damn, that had been too harsh. Ruby didn’t seem like the gossipy type. And she was only being kind. And, worst of all, she was right. He knew his mother had been hurt by the press, and he knew he had no one to blame for that but himself.

      But why couldn’t people worry about their own lives instead of raking all over his?

      He reached out a hand—an involuntary gesture—but she muttered an apology under her breath and was already making her way back through the cabin. He watched her walk carefully, the red satin billowing out above her calves, swishing gently with each step, until he was almost hypnotised by the sight.

      And then the plane bumped and dropped. And she stumbled. She reached out to grab at the nearest chair and held on to it for two long seconds. He could tell she was holding herself in pain. She didn’t utter a sound.

      He rushed to her.

      ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘Perfectly, thanks,’ she said, keeping her eyes ahead and fixing that smile in place as she started to walk again.

      ‘I saw you stumble there. Is it your injury? I know that’s why you’re not dancing at the moment. Is everything OK?’

      She raised her eyebrows and flicked him an as if you care glance. He deserved that.

      ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m going to sit down now, if that’s OK.’

      ‘Ruby—hold up.’

      She sat carefully in the seat, straightening her spine, and her bright smile popped back into place. He recognised that—smiling through pain. Everybody had a mask.

      He sat in the seat opposite her. She tucked her knees to the left and pressed them together, sitting even straighter—a clearer Keep Back message he’d never seen.

      ‘What is it? Hip? Knee?’

      ‘It’s no big deal. It’s nearly healed.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘A fall. That’s all.’

      ‘Must have been some fall to have taken almost six months to heal.’

      The bright smile was fixed in place. At least it looked like a smile, but it felt more as if she was pushing him back with a deadly weapon.

      ‘You know, I’ve had my fair share of injuries too,’ he said, when she didn’t reply. ‘I played rugby for years. I know that you might never have guessed, thanks to my boyish good looks, but I was a blindside flanker at St Andrew’s—when I was at university.’

      He tilted his head and showed her the mashed ear that had formed after too many injuries. Luckily that and his broken nose were his only obvious disfigurements, but he’d lost count of the fractures and tears tucked beneath his clothes.

      ‘Blindside flanker...’ She looked away, sounding totally, politely uninterested. ‘Sounds like rhyming slang.’

      ‘I was about to be capped for England,’ he said, grinning through her cheeky little retort.

      ‘Really?’

      At least that merited a second glance. He smiled, nodded, raised his eyebrows. Got you this time, he thought.

      ‘About to be? So what happened?’

      ‘Long story. Doesn’t matter. So, what exactly is wrong with you, may I ask?’

      ‘It’s complicated.’

      ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to follow. I’ve been heavily involved in most sports, one way or another, and I know the pounding bodies take. Ballet is tough—I know that. It might not be my cup of tea, but I respect what you guys do.’