Pierre de la Mare had never been his father, whatever his mother said. It had taken him years to figure out the blood tie between them meant nothing to his father and it never had.
How the hell his father’s ten-second wife had figured out their connection, though, was beyond him.
He forced himself to breathe, to calm down as everything inside him rebelled against the pity in her eyes and the volatile mix of emotions it caused to roil in his gut—shame, humiliation, anger.
‘I can see him in you,’ she said, searching his face. ‘Pierre spoke of you all the time; you were like an obsession of his. I thought it was because you’d been so successful in this business so young. But I can see now it was always more personal than that.’
Maxim’s stomach tightened into a knot of fury at the softly spoken words.
‘In his own way, although he feared you, I think he was proud of you too,’ she added.
The comment knifed into his gut. Was she serious? Was this some kind of sick joke? Did she think he gave a damn about what de la Mare thought of him or his business? He’d stopped seeking his father’s approval sixteen years ago. He’d run away from the vineyard that night and left Burgundy the next day to make his own way in the world, after years living on the outskirts of his father’s land, effectively begging for scraps by doing everything de la Mare asked of him in the hope he would one day acknowledge their connection.
No one here had recognised him when he’d returned. No one except de la Mare—which was precisely why he had enjoyed remaining aloof and at the same time stymied all the old man’s attempts to save the vineyard from its debts. He hadn’t had to get his hands dirty because the old fool had run the place into the ground on his own. And when de la Mare had come to him, begging for help and investment, thinking that Maxim still wanted his acknowledgement, Maxim had taken great pleasure in laughing in his father’s face.
He had promised Pierre de la Mare at that meeting that once the old bastard was dead he would buy the vines and stamp the Durand name, his mother’s name, his low-class gutter name on them—and the de la Mare legacy that his father had been so proud of, and so determined to deny him once, would be gone for ever.
The old bastard had married this woman in a last-ditch attempt to trick Maxim out of the legacy that was rightfully his. And for that alone he should despise her...
Although...
Devoid of make-up, the girl’s face—fresh sun-burnished skin, high cheekbones, wide too-blue eyes and a mouth ripe for kissing—was all the more compelling. And her body, even disguised in the shorts and work shirt, looked ripe for a great deal more. No wonder his body had responded to her. She was a beautiful woman. The fact that she was his father’s widow did not detract from her physical allure.
He huffed out a harsh laugh, determined to break the spell she had weaved over him so effortlessly. ‘Do you actually think I care what that bastard thought of me?’
She blinked, obviously taken aback by the savage tone.
He realised too late he had made a tacit admission that the girl was right about his biological connection with de la Mare when the lawyer—whom he’d forgotten was in the room with them—murmured, ‘Is this true, Monsieur Durand? Pierre de la Mare was your biological father?’
He glanced at the lawyer, who looked shocked to the core.
He could continue to deny it. He had no desire to have it become common knowledge. But, feeling the girl’s eyes on him, he realised he didn’t want to lie. Lying made the truth more powerful. Made it seem as if he cared about the connection when he considered it nothing more than an unfortunate accident of birth.
‘My mother was one of de la Mare’s mistresses,’ he said, careful to keep any inflection out of his voice. ‘Elise Durand Pascale. We lived here—’ he glanced around the room ‘—until he got bored with her.’ He shrugged. ‘Then he allowed us to live in a small shack on the edges of the estate. But as soon as I was old enough, de la Mare insisted I work for him to pay for that privilege as my mother was too weak to work full-time.’ The bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down, the details of that devil’s bargain, a bargain he had only become aware of when he’d confronted de la Mare years later as a fifteen-year-old, still sickened him. What a fool he’d been to believe his father had wanted to train him in the art of winemaking so he could eventually take over the business, when all the old bastard had really wanted was a free field hand. ‘But I have no desire to claim a connection I take no pride in,’ he continued. ‘If you don’t keep the information private you’ll be facing a lawsuit.’ He turned back to de la Mare’s widow, although calling her anyone’s widow seemed absurd. Her young heart-shaped face was surprisingly guileless for a woman who had slept with an old man to get a hand on his property. Somehow he couldn’t quite get himself to think of her as a putain any more, though, when the disturbing mix of pity and understanding in her expression looked genuine.
‘And that includes you, Madame de la Mare,’ he said, just in case she was in any doubt.
Instead of looking surprised, she simply nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Your connection to
Pierre is private, I understand that.’
He doubted she did understand. Perhaps she thought she had a better chance of keeping the land if no one knew of his relationship to de la Mare. If so, she was mistaken. He didn’t need to be de la Mare’s son to take the land... And complete his revenge on the man who had sired him. And then discarded him.
‘If you wish to dispute the will based on this information you would have to submit to a DNA test,’ the lawyer said, obviously fearful for his job. He had to know Maxim had an impressive legal team and enough money at his disposal to keep the guy’s practice tied up in litigation for years over the legality of this last-minute bequest.
‘I have every intention of disputing this will,’ he clarified. ‘But I certainly don’t need to prove I am de la Mare’s flesh and blood to do it. All I have to do is prove the man wasn’t of sound mind when he made it.’ He let his gaze rake over the woman in front of him, lingering on the rise and fall of her breasts under the worn cotton camisole she wore beneath her shirt.
The visible outline of her nipples had the now familiar heat settling low in his belly. He knew he should ignore it—he didn’t want de la Mare’s leftovers—but then her breath caught and the heat intensified, despite his best efforts.
So she could feel it too? This pull between them that had disturbed him so much at the graveside.
‘I doubt it will be hard to persuade a judge that de la Mare was enthralled by the charms of his new wife when he made this will,’ he said, the husky tone hard to disguise. ‘And the ludicrous stipulations contained within it.’
In truth, he doubted the girl had had anything to do with the will—de la Mare had probably planned this final slight ever since their meeting two years ago, and she had simply been a willing participant. But that didn’t make his instinctive attraction, and his apparent inability to control it, any less baffling. Or annoying.
The girl’s flush rose up her neck and her breathing became shallower. Her nipples were so prominent now, he felt sure they must be painful. The heat throbbed and swelled in his groin as he imagined easing down the soft cotton to relieve her pain with his lips. He inhaled, capturing the scent of wild flowers and the vague musk of her arousal.
Damn, but she was exquisite. Beautiful, fiercely desirable and apparently unable to disguise her sexual needs. The veneer of innocence—however fake—was also captivating.