An Heir for the Millionaire by Julia James

that was important. Right now, only his son’s happiness was important—and he would take whatever measures necessary to safeguard that happiness.
    Whatever measures necessary…
    His eyes rested on the woman who had once been his mistress, and he focussed his mind on the task ahead. She had been responsive to him then—oh, so responsive!—and neither the passage of four years, nor the splenetic anger she had unleashed on him, nor her cursed vindictiveness towards him by keeping his son from him, had changed that. He’d had proof, every daythey’d been here, with no room for her to shut him out, ignore him, escape him.
    Exactly the proof he wanted.
    He eased his shoulders and lounged back in his chair as the staff served dinner. Opposite him, Clare sat stiffly. But her eyes had followed his movement, he knew. Surreptitiously, but discernibly. He could see her eyes following him and then flicking away, the way she didn’t want to meet his eyes, the way she pulled herself away from him if he got too close. Her whole body language and behaviour with him betrayed her.
    Well, that was good—very good. Just what he wanted.
    Excitement flared briefly in him, but he suppressed it. In its place he forced himself to look at her with impassive objectivity.
    Four years on her beauty had matured. Even without her making the slightest attempt to improve on nature by way of make-up, hairstyling or clothes, her beauty revealed itself. Beneath the cheap fabric of her T-shirt he could see the soft swell of her breasts, and her chainstore shorts could not disguise the slenderness of her waist and hips, the long smooth curve of her thighs.
    He felt the shimmer of sexual arousal ease through him.
    A sliver of emotion broke through the barrier he’d imposed.
    Can I really go through with this?
    For a moment doubt possessed him. Then he freed himself.
    He would do what he intended.
    For his son’s sake.
    Â 
    Tonight was the worst yet. Clare sat, tension racking through every limb, and picked at the exquisitely presented food in front of her. It felt so wrong not to appreciate it more, but she had no appetite. Maybe too much sun?
    But she knew that wasn’t the reason she had no appetite—wasn’t the reason she kept taking repeated unwise sips from her wine, even after she’d fortified herself with the rum punch that she was diligently handed every evening as she emerged from seeing Joey to sleep.
    The reason she felt so strangely weak, so hazed, was notbecause of the sun. It was because of the man sitting opposite her. The man who was lifting his wine glass to his lips with a lounging grace that sent a tremor through her veins. The man whose long legs were stretched out underneath the table, so close to hers that she had to inch them away, awkwardly shifting her position.
    The man whose gaze was resting on her now, with an expression she could not read.
    She took a forkful of food and tried to chew it, but it was hard to swallow. She washed it down with another mouthful of wine and set the fork back on the plate, letting it be.
    â€˜You don’t like the fish?’
    Xander’s enquiry, civilly made, but with the slightest lazy drawl in it, drew a quick shake of the head from her.
    â€˜I’m just not hungry,’ she said.
    â€˜The chef will cook you something else. You only have to say.’
    â€˜No—no, thank you.’
    She took another sip of wine—for something to do. She could feel the effects of the alcohol and knew she should not drink any more. Yet it seemed to give her the strength she knew she needed. She took another sip, turning her head to gaze out over the softly lit pool and the glimmering sea beyond. She could just make out the shape of the palm fronds, outlined against the sky.
    It was so beautiful.
    Idyllic.
    Idyllic to be here, on this beautiful tropical island, with the warmth kissing her body, the softest breeze playing with her hair, the coil