Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon by Kate Hewitt

Tiffany.’
    â€˜Brilliant.’ Zoe took her hand and shook it. ‘I’m Zoe,’ she said, and then added, her voice still strong, ‘Zoe Balfour.’
    Within a few days Zoe had learned all the menial tasks—from watering the potted plants on the windowsill to making copies of brochures and forms on a rather antiquated photocopier—that she’d once never have even thought to stoop to. She tried to imagine Holly Mabberly or even Karen seeing her in this setting, and knew they would be incredulous, most likely scornful.
    She was, Zoe realised on her third day of volunteering, happy. Or close enough. She knew she’d never be truly happy with the men in her life so indifferent—the men who had actively chosen not to be in her life. Yet she was doing something, something good, and that gave her a deep sense of satisfaction she’d never expected to feel.
    Yet the nearly eight hours that she put in at the pregnancy centre didn’t fill the other long, empty hours of the day and night, hours where she walked through the park, observing the children with their mothers and fathers and nannies, where the sight of a baby dozing contentedly in a pushchair made her insides contract with both hope and fear.
    Hours where she lay in bed, exhausted yet sleepless, wistfully imagining a different scenario, a different life, one where her father and the father of her child accepted and embraced her.
    Bedtime stories. Fairy tales.
    And still there was too much time to think, to wonder, to fear, for she was realising with an increasing sense of panicked urgency that she had no idea what she was doing.
    Where would she live? What would she do? How was she going to tell her family, her father? In one grim moment, she pictured the tabloid headlines— Bastard Gives Birth to Bastard —and shuddered.
    Perhaps she was being foolish, pushing these thoughts away, taking each precious day as it came, enjoying her work at the pregnancy centre, her camaraderie with Tiffany and the other counsellors and volunteers. Yet Zoe knew herself well enough to realise that all the implications and problems of the future would destroy the fragile sense of equanimity she’d finally managed to achieve.
    Then the sickness hit. She’d been feeling a little queasy off and on, but nothing like the utter wretchedness that descended on her just a little over a week after she last saw Max. Exhausted and utterly nauseous, she took several days off volunteering and spent them in bed, nibbling on dry crackers and trying to sleep as much as she could.
    One dreary, drizzly afternoon the doorbell rang and, thinking it must be the housekeeper, Lila, forgetting herkey, she roused herself from her state of lethargy and went to open the front door.
    It wasn’t Lila. It was Max.
    Zoe’s mouth dropped open in shock as she stared at him; his hair was damp from rain, and he wore an exquisitely cut grey suit, the steely colour matching his eyes. He looked grim, determined and resolute—and absolutely wonderful.
    Zoe’s heart bumped against her ribs and she was suddenly, painfully conscious of how she looked. She hadn’t showered, her hair was in a scraggly mess and she was wearing the comfort pyjamas that nobody ever saw her in. Max, however, didn’t seem to notice, and he made no comment. Still, she folded her arms across her chest in a gesture of self-protection.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’
    â€˜We need to talk.’
    Zoe arched an eyebrow in cool scepticism even as her heart lurched. ‘Oh, really?’
    â€˜Yes, really,’ Max snapped. ‘Now are you going to let me inside?’
    â€˜Since you asked so graciously,’ Zoe muttered, and stepped aside. She watched as Max walked slowly into the foyer, gazing around at the priceless antiques—her father had a passion for ancient art and sculpture—with something close to disdain.
    The scornful look on his face made