‘I’MOUTOFHERE, Cheryl,’ Alex said as he strolled past his personal assistant’s desk in the executive offices of Costa Tower—an art deco building he’d rescued from demolition and rehabbed as the headquarters of Costa Tech. The place where he had spent all his time, until he and Eleanor had returned from their Thanksgiving vacation—and he’d found it harder and harder to stay away from her.
He ignored the now familiar one-two punch in his heart rate. The fear of missing out had only got worse over the last few weeks, each morning leaving her curled in his bed to do the work that had once defined his life. Or on the afternoons he sat at his desk, the late sunlight shining off the polished wood flooring, watching the vintage gold clock face embedded in the cherrywood panelling and waited an eternity for the hands to edge towards four-thirty. The time he’d pinpointed as respectable enough for him to play hooky for the rest of the day, but which also happened to be the perfect time to ensure he was back at the apartment when Eleanor got in from her shift at The Circle Bar.
Mel had come through on that score, and hadn’t booked Eleanor for any evening or weekend shifts. Which had given him even more excuses not to work on weekends too, the way he always had in the past. And that was without counting all the meetings and overseas trips he’d cancelled during the past three weeks.
Don’t think about it. It’s Christmas in two days and your last chance to make the most of this chemistry while you still can.
Plus there were all the events he never would have attended in the past, which had become enchanting with Eleanor by his side. His marketing team were having orgasms about the media coverage the two of them were generating. The speculation about New York’s Hottest Eligible Bachelor—because apparently the media had forgotten Roman had won this year’s title!—and the ‘mystery Scottish girl’ had been gold dust, according to his PR department. Not that he wanted that kind of attention, but Eleanor had taken it in her stride, had even seemed amused by the speculation.
‘If they only knew I’m just using you for your abilities as a tour guide of my clitoris,’ she’d joked last night.
His heart beat in hard heavy thuds at the thought of the New Year, when their Christmas hook-up was set to end.
Was that why her joke hadn’t seemed as funny as he’d wanted it to? Any more than her failure to ask about his plans past New Year had reassured him... Eleanor seemed so adept at staying in the moment, enjoying each new experience as it came, it was actually starting to bug him.
He stalked into the closet to pick up his coat.
Get over yourself, Costa. You’re not that desperate to spend time with her...you’re just learning to enjoy Christmas in New York with someone who knows how.
It was the season he found captivating, not Eleanor so much. After all, when was the last time he’d had a chance to trash his favourite designer coat so he could teach a date how to make snow angels in the park?
No one would call him a Christmas nut, or even a romantic, because he wasn’t. But when they’d been walking back from the bar last night—after he’d decided to make a last-minute detour on the way home so he could walk Eleanor back after her shift—and she’d fessed up about having never made a snow angel before, he’d had no choice but to shove her into the fresh drift on Sheep Meadow. A tussle had ensued and then a snowball fight, before he’d discovered Eleanor had a better throwing arm than the Yankees’ current roster of starting pitchers.
The ride on the Central Park carousel had been the only way to distract her from the snowball war before they both froze to death.
The secret smile crept over his face as he shrugged on the coat.
‘Yes, Mr Costa,’ Cheryl replied, now used to him ducking out early. ‘By the way, the Galloway Clinic called half an hour ago. They asked if you could call them back.’
‘The Galloway?’ he asked, surprised by the news.
He’d finally sent in the DNA sample Eleanor had given him as planned at the beginning of this week—even though he no longer needed it as an excuse to keep her by his side for the duration of the month. In the end he’d decided not to let Roman know he was doing the test at all. The clinic had a DNA profile for Roman to check the sample against, and his friend had given Alex the authority to use it back when they had tested several of the girls and women who had come forward over the years since the initial search. Why bother Roman with the possibility when he knew the test would be negative...again?
‘Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t put it through,’ Cheryl said. ‘But you were on that conference call to Berlin.’
‘Not a problem, I’ll call them on my way out.’
But even as he strode out of the office and tugged his cell out of his pants, panic started to consume him. Had they found something? Something wrong in Eleanor’s DNA sample, some genetic disease or inheritance? What other reason could they have for contacting him direct, instead of just emailing the results?
The clinic picked up on the second ring and put him through to the relevant department.
‘Mr Costa,’ the technician’s voice came over the line bristling with excitement. ‘I thought I should call you straight away with the good news. The DNA sample for Eleanor MacGregor shows a one hundred per cent match for a filial relationship with Mr Fraser.’
He stopped dead, his footsteps echoing into silence as he struggled to process the information.‘What?’
‘It’s conclusive, Mr Costa—which isn’t always the case with siblings. Miss MacGregor and Mr Fraser come from the same genetic ancestry. They match in more than fifty per cent of the markers—which in layman’s terms means they come from the same parents. They are full brother and sister.’
The technician then proceeded to launch into a load of scientific jargon, none of which Alex could hear, past the thunder of his heart crashing against his chest wall.
Eleanor is Eloise Fraser.
She was the baby girl whom he had assured Roman must have died twenty years ago in the Scottish Highlands. The little girl who had been stolen by two people who she thought had loved her. And who had hidden her on a remote island for nearly all of her life.
Those bastards.
She was the rightful heiress to a billion-dollar fortune who right now was probably stacking cocktail glasses in a dishwasher.
He thrust his fingers through his hair, the reality still not entirely computing as her eyes—the intense cerulean blue with the dark rim around the edge, and the patch of brown Roman had remembered—swirled in his mind’s eye. And he now realised they were much more like Roman’s eyes than he’d ever wanted to acknowledge.