Page 46 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

But her heart continued to float on the flight to Genoa, and the journey on the Foxx company jet back to the UK—lightened by hope and determination and the promise of all the possibilities ahead of her, which she couldn’t wait to explore.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THESCENICLIFTtravelled up the outside of the Foxx Suites building—Tower Bridge looking suitably imposing as it spanned the river—while Bea grappled with the realisation that she had basically come full circle in five months.

She’d built her life back up from that low point—built it back better and stronger. She wasn’t that panicked girl any more, but it still felt strange, and emotionally a little overwhelming, to be back at Mason’s London penthouse again.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Mason asked, his hand stroking her back.

She glanced over her shoulder and sent him a tired smile. He’d asked that question constantly since the helicopter had left Portofino. And he couldn’t seem to stop touching her, which—while kicking off those unruly desires—had also felt protective and comforting, sort of.

‘Yes, it just feels weird. Being back here again. When I feel like a different person.’

He tugged her gently into his arms until her belly rested against his waist. ‘I guess you’re two different people now,’ he joked.

She chuckled, grateful that he could joke about the baby. ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

As they walked into the lobby area he dumped the rucksack she had stuffed with all her most precious possessions several hours ago on the breakfast bar. Still a little dusty from her journey through Europe to get to Portofino and made of cheap nylon, her pack looked out of place on the sleek marble surface.

But then she felt totally out of place in the stunning designer bachelor pad.

She gulped down the tickle of anxiety in her throat.

Mason strolled to the kitchen area and poured her a glass of chilled water from the gleaming double wide refrigerator. She chugged it down gratefully. The throb in her abdomen returned when he tucked a short curl of hair behind her ear, the look in his eyes a mixture of bossy, possessive and intense.

Which was also super-hot.Damn him.

‘If there’s anything you need, just text,’ he said, while she continued to drink the cold water. ‘I can get the rest of your stuff in Portofino shipped over. I’ve had all my things cleared out, so the place is all yours.’

‘You won’t be sleeping here too?’ she asked.

His lips quirked and she realised how needy she sounded.

But she’d assumed—had hoped, in fact—that they would be living together. She wanted to get to know him. Not just how he felt about the baby, about them, but everything, because he fascinated her—on so many different levels.

‘Not sleeping, no,’ he answered, the sensual smile suggesting he was enjoying her discomfort. ‘I prefer my own space. But I’m hoping that won’t preclude us sharing the bed here on a regular basis.’ His gaze heated, and hot blood charged into her cheeks, while turning the throb in her belly into a definite hum. ‘Or the kitchen counter. Lady’s choice.’

‘I see,’ she said, or rather croaked, her throat having dried to parchment. She took another gulp of the icy water.

She could tell him she didn’t want to continue their sexual relationship. But that ship had already sailed and hit an enormous iceberg on her kitchen counter in Portofino. Plus, the hum was making it clear a sexless relationship wasn’t what she wanted.

But his decision to live elsewhere was more problematic. How could she get to know him if he was hardly ever here?

‘Why do you need your own space?’ she asked, because it occurred to her that could be even more of an issue when the baby was born. Not that she expected him to live with them, exactly, if he wasn’t comfortable with that. But perhaps it was time to start asking more direct questions about how he envisioned his place in this child’s life.

He shrugged. ‘I guess I’ve never been good at sharing,’ he said cryptically. ‘Plus, I’m a workaholic. I do a lot of travelling. I sleep, at most, five hours a night. And I’ve never had to tell anyone where I am or what I’m doing. Joe, my PA, knows my schedule. But that’s it.’

‘You’ve never lived withanyone?’ she asked, a little astonished by the revelation—and the insight it gave her into his life.

She had known he was a lone wolf. It was all part of the Foxx brand. But had he always been alone, and why did that seem a little sad somehow? He’d mentioned the dysfunctional relationship he’d had with his father, but what about his mother? Or other carers and relatives? And why had he never lived with any of the many women he’d dated? She guessed commitment issues weren’t uncommon in workaholic billionaires in their thirties. But what would that mean when he became a dad?

He shrugged again, but the movement was less relaxed. ‘Not since I was a kid,’ he said. ‘And even then, I was always much better off on my own,’ he clarified.

‘Okay,’ she said, feeling oddly bereft for him.

She’d always had Katie—even when her big sister was sofa surfing round London as a homeless teenager she’d kept in touch. And when Bea was really small, she’d had her Welsh grandmother too. She could still remember the cottage in Snowdonia where Angharad Evans had lived, and which Katie had eventually inherited. The warmth of the wood-burning stove on a rainy day, and the cosiness of the big brass bed upstairs where theirNainhad told them bedtime stories about the mother who had loved them but had died too young.

Why would any child be better off without the security of being loved? Unless the people who were supposed to love them never had.

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