Читать книгу A Vow To Secure His Legacy - Annie West - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

THE LIGHTS DIMMED and at the far end of the room a band struck up. The swell of the bass was incongruous in this ornate setting, but no one seemed surprised, even when beams of purple, blue and white light shot across the crowd.

A spotlight caught Imogen’s eyes and she flinched, moving closer to Thierry. Instantly, his arm curved protectively around her. She liked that too much, but she had no desire to pull away. Not when every nerve screamed at her to lean into him.

His arm was hard and reassuring as the band’s volume rose to a pounding beat. Imogen relished the unfamiliar thrill of being close to all that imposing masculinity. For, despite his perfectly tailored suit, there was no disguising that Thierry was all hard-muscled man.

His hands were a giveaway too. Neat, clean nails, but there were tiny, pale scars across his tanned skin, hinting he did more than wield a pen.

Imogen wondered how they’d feel on her bare flesh.

He said something she didn’t hear over a crescendo of music. At the same time the light show became more frenetic, a staccato pulse in time with the drums. Imogen felt it all swirl and coalesce like a living thing. Light stabbed her eyes.

Not now. Please not now!

Just a little more time. Was that too much to ask?

Her stomach cramped and her breathing jammed. She blinked. It wasn’t the light from the stage blinding her, it was the white-hot knife jabbing inside her skull. Her vision blurred, pain sawing through her.

‘Imogen?’ That arm at her back tightened. She caught a drift of something in her nostrils, some essence that reminded her of the outdoors, before the metallic taste of pain obliterated everything. Sheer willpower kept her on her feet, knees desperately locked.

‘I...’ It came out as a whisper. She tried again. ‘I’d like to leave.’

‘Of course.’ He took the glass from her unresisting hand. ‘This way.’ He turned her towards the exit but she stumbled, her legs not obeying.

Music shuddered through her, a screaming beat, and in her head the jab, jab, jab of that unseen knife.

Warmth engulfed her and it took a moment to realise it was from Thierry’s powerful body as he wrapped his arm around her waist and half carried her from the room.

Imagine what he could do with two arms.

And those hands. You’ve always had a thing for great hands.

That was her last coherent thought till they were in the peace of an anteroom. She couldn’t recall exactly how he’d got her there but the lean strength of his body made her feel anchored and safe, despite the lancing pain.

‘Imogen? What is it? Talk to me.’ His accent was more pronounced, slurring the words sexily. Even in her dazed state she heard his concern.

‘Headache. Sorry.’ She tilted her head up, trying to bring him into focus through slitted yes.

‘A migraine?’ Gently, he pulled her to him, resting her head on his shoulder and palming her hair in a rhythmic touch that amazingly seemed to make the pain recede a little.

She wanted never to move, just sink into his calm strength. The realisation she’d never be held like this again by anyone brought a sob rushing to her throat. She stifled it. Pity wouldn’t help.

‘Sorry.’ She sucked air through clenched teeth as she straightened. ‘Enjoy the rest of the party. It’s been—’

‘Where are you staying?’ His voice was low, soothing.

‘Here. Three-hundred and five.’ She fumbled in her purse, dragging out her key card. All she had to do was get to her room.

Had he read her befuddled mind? One minute she stood on trembling legs, the next she was swept up in his embrace. She felt bone and muscle, the tickle of his breath on her face. She should have objected. Breathing through excruciating pain, she merely slumped against him, grateful that for once she didn’t have to manage alone.

This past year she’d had to be strong, for her mother and more recently for herself. Leaning against Thierry, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath his jacket, she felt a little of the tightness racking her body ease. Was it her imagination or did the pain pull back a fraction? She shut her eyes, focusing on his iron-hard arms beneath her, the comfort of his embrace.

Another first. Being swept off your feet by a man.

Warm fingers touched hers as he shifted his hold and took the card from her hand.

‘Here we are.’ His deep voice wrapped around her. ‘Not long now.’ A door snicked closed and soon she was lowered onto a mattress. Smoothly, without hesitation, his hands withdrew and Imogen knew a moment’s craziness when she had to bite back a plea that he not let her go. There’d been such comfort in being held.

Her eyes shot open and she winced, even in the soft glow from a single bedside lamp. Thierry towered above her, concern lining his brow.

‘What do you need? Painkillers? Water?’

Gingerly, she moved, the smallest of nods. ‘Water, please.’ While he got it she fumbled open her bedside drawer and took out her medication with a shaking hand.

‘Let me.’ He squatted, popped the tablet and handed it to her. Then he raised her head while she swallowed it and sipped the water, his touch sure but gentle. Stupidly, tears clung to her lashes. Tears for this stranger’s tenderness. Tears for the extravagant fantasy she’d dared harbour, of ending the night in Thierry’s arms, making love with this sexy, fascinating, gorgeous man.

Fantasy wasn’t for her. Her reality was too stark for that. She’d have to make do with scraping whatever small pleasures she could from life before it was too late.

Defeated, she slumped against the pillow, forcing herself to meet his concerned gaze.

‘You’re very kind. Thank you, Thierry. I can manage from here.’

* * *

Kind be damned. He looked into drowning eyes shimmering green and golden-brown and his belly twisted. This woman had hooked him with her vibrancy, humour and enthusiasm, not to mention her flagrant sexiness. Even her slight hesitancy over his name appealed ridiculously. Her vulnerability was a punch to the gut, and not just because he’d aimed to spend the night with her.

‘Shut your eyes and relax.’

‘I will.’

As soon as you leave. The unspoken words hung between them and who could blame her? He was a virtual stranger. Except he felt curiously like he’d known her half his life or, more correctly, had waited that long to meet her.

A frisson of warning ripped through him but he ignored it. She was no threat. With her tear-spiked lashes and too-pale face, she was the picture of vulnerability. There were shadows beneath her eyes too that he hadn’t seen before.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was husky, doing dangerous things to his body. Thierry had to remind himself it was from pain, not arousal.

He put the house phone to his ear, dialling room service. ‘Getting you peppermint tea. My grand-mère suffers from migraines and that helps.’

‘That’s kind but...’ Her words petered out as he ordered the tea then replaced the phone.

‘Just try it, okay? If it doesn’t work you can leave it.’ He straightened and stepped back, putting distance between them. ‘I’ll stay till it’s delivered so you don’t have to get up.’

She opened her mouth then shut it, surveying him with pain-clouded eyes. Again that stab to his gut. He frowned and turned towards the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder. ‘You’re safe with me, Imogen. I have no ulterior motives.’ Not now, at any rate. ‘Trust me. I was a Boy Scout, did I tell you?’

When he returned with a damp flannel, he caught the wry twist of her lips.

‘I’m to trust you because you were a Boy Scout?’ Her voice was pain-roughened but there was that note of almost-laughter he’d found so attractive earlier.

‘Of course. Ready to serve and always prepared.’ He brushed back a few escaped locks of hair and placed the flannel on her forehead.

She sighed, and he made himself retreat rather than trace that glossy, silk-soft hair again. He pulled up a chair and sat a couple of metres from the bed.

Shimmering, half-lidded eyes met his. ‘Are all Frenchmen so take-charge?’

‘Are all Australian women so obstinate?’

A tiny smile curved her lips, and she shut her eyes. Ridiculously that smile felt like a victory.

* * *

The musical chimes of a mobile phone grew louder, drawing the attention of other café patrons. It was only then that Imogen realised it was her phone chirping away in her bag. In a fit of out-with-the-old-Imogen energy, she’d decided the old, plain ring tone was boring, swapping it for a bright pop tune.

‘Hello?’

‘Imogen?’ His voice was smooth and warm, deep enough to make her shiver.

‘Thierry?’ The word was a croak of surprise. She’d berated herself all morning for wishing last night hadn’t ended the way it had.

The fact Thierry had stayed so long only showed how dreadful she must have looked. And that he was what her mum would have called ‘a true gentleman’.

‘How are you today? Are you feeling better?’

‘Good, thank you. I’m fit as a fiddle.’ An exaggeration—those headaches always left her wrung out. But she was perking up by the moment. ‘How are you?’

There was a crack of laughter, and Imogen’s hand tightened on the phone. Even from a distance his laugh melted something inside. She sank back in her chair, noticing for the first time a blue patch of sky through the grey cloud.

‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

She blinked, registering his deep, seductive tone. Her blood pumped faster and she tried to tell herself she imagined it. Nothing, she knew, put men off as much as illness. Even illness by proxy. For a moment Scott’s face swam in her vision till she banished it.

‘How did you get my number?’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Your mobile was on the bedside table last night.’

‘You took the number down?’

‘You’re annoyed?’

Annoyed? ‘No. Not at all.’ Surprised. Delighted. Excited! A little buzz of pleasure zoomed through her.

As she watched, the blue patch of sky grew and a beam of sunlight glanced down on the wet cobblestones, making them gleam. The café door opened behind her and the delicious aroma of fresh coffee drifted out.

‘What’s on your agenda this evening? Night-time bungee jumping? Motorcycle lessons? Or maybe that ghost tour?’

She smiled, enjoying his teasing. ‘I’m still deciding between a couple of options.’ Like a long bubble bath, painting her nails scarlet or gathering her courage and finding the dance venue Saskia had mentioned.

‘How would you like dinner at the Eiffel Tower? There’s an unexpected vacancy.’

‘There is?’ She sat up. ‘But I couldn’t get a reservation when I tried.’

‘There’s one for you now if you want it.’

‘Of course I want it!’ She squashed a howl of disappointment at the idea of dining in such a romantic setting alone. But she was a pragmatist. She’d learned to face hard truths. Thierry felt sorry for her after last night and had arranged this treat. ‘It was kind of you to do that, Thierry. Thank you.’

‘Excellent. I’ll collect you at eight.’

‘Eight?’ She blinked, dazed. He was collecting her? He was taking her to dinner?

‘Yes. See you then.’

He ended the call, and Imogen stared at the phone. Thierry Girard, the most drool-worthy, fascinating, charming man she’d ever met, was taking her to dinner? She didn’t know whether to be stunned or nervous.

She settled for thrilled.

* * *

Imogen felt like she floated on air as they drove back to her hotel. The evening had been perfect. The food, the wine, the company, the weight of Thierry’s gaze on her like a touch.

When he surveyed the dress of green and bronze her sister Izzy had created, his eyes lingered appreciatively. But when his attention roved again and again to Imogen’s bare throat and shoulders, and especially her lips, heat coiled inside, like a clock wound too tight.

It made her laughter at his outrageous stories die, replaced by a hunger that no food could remedy. Was it possible to explode with sheer longing for a man’s touch?

Did she have the nerve to follow through? Casual sex wasn’t in her repertoire. Yet there was nothing casual about how Thierry made her feel.

The question was, what did he feel? Was tonight a random kindness to a stranger or something else? Imogen wished she knew. She had absolutely no experience of high-octane, sophisticated men like Thierry Girard.

He stopped the car before her hotel and she turned towards him, only to find he was already out the door, striding around the car. A moment later her door swung open and he was helping her out.

Now. Ask him now before he says goodnight.

But her throat jammed as he hooked her hand over his arm and led her into the grand hotel—her big splurge on this end-of-a-lifetime trip. His heat, his scent, fresh as the outdoors, and the feel of his body against hers, made her light-headed. He led her through the luxurious foyer, past staff who stopped to greet them, to the bank of lifts.

‘I—’ Her words died as he stepped into the lift with her and hit the button for her floor.

So, he was seeing her to her room. She shot him a sideways look, discovering that in profile his features were taut, as if his earlier good humour had faded.

Abruptly, her anticipation drained away.

Had she misread him? Perhaps he didn’t feel that hum of sexual arousal, that edge-of-seat excitement. Maybe he’d used up all his charm entertaining the unsophisticated tourist over dinner. She’d known last night she was out of place at that glamorous party, despite the wonderful dress she wore. Maybe after hours in her company he’d realised it too. Did he regret asking her out?

‘You...?’ Eyes of ebony locked with hers, and she sagged in Izzy’s green stilettos.

Izzy would have known what to say. How to entertain and attract him and, above all, follow through. Imogen’s only intimate experience had been with Scott, cautious Scott, who never acted on impulse, never broke rules or took a chance. He’d never made her feel the way Thierry did.

But, cataloguing the tension in her companion’s shoulders and the pronounced angle of his strong jaw, she realised her mistake. Thierry’s was a casual charm. Of course he didn’t want more from her. He was French. He was being polite. And those heavy-lidded looks that stopped her breath? They probably came naturally to him and didn’t mean anything.

‘It’s kind of you to see me to my room.’

The doors slid open, and he ushered her down the hall to her room, her arm clamped to his side.

Probably afraid you’ll collapse like you did last night.

‘That’s the second time you’ve accused me of being kind.’ His voice sounded tight, but she didn’t look at him, delving instead into her purse for her key card.

‘You’ve been wonderful, and I appreciate it. I—’ She frowned as he took the card and opened the door.

Did he have to be so eager to say goodnight?

But, instead of saying goodbye, Thierry stepped over the threshold, drawing her in. The door closed behind them and, stunned, Imogen turned. His tanned features looked chiselled, uncompromising, and those liquid, dark eyes...

‘I’m not good at “kind”.’ He stroked a finger down her cheek in a barely there touch that rocketed to the centre of her being. ‘In fact, I excel at doing exactly what pleases me most.’ His head dipped, and Imogen’s breath stalled as his breath caressed her lips. ‘And what pleases me most is to be with you, Imogen.’

Imogen swallowed hard. It was what she wanted, what she’d steeled herself to ask. Yet part of her, the cautious, reserved part that had kept her safe for twenty-five years, froze her tongue.

Safe? There was no safe, not any more. Not when she could count the future in months, not decades.

‘Or am I wrong?’ His hand dropped, and still she felt his touch like a sense memory. ‘Do you not want...?’

‘Yes!’ Her purse tumbled to the floor as her hand shot out. She clutched his fingers, threading hers through them. The flash of heat from the contact point was like an electric charge. ‘I want.’

How badly she wanted. Need was a shimmering wave, engulfing her.

He didn’t smile. If anything his features grew harder, flesh pulling taut across those magnificent bones. His fingers tightened around hers.

‘I can offer you short-term pleasure, Imogen. That’s all.’ His eyes narrowed as if he tried to read her thoughts. ‘If that’s not what you want—’

Her finger on his mouth stopped his words and sent another ripple of sensual awareness through her. Despite his honed, masculine features his lips were surprisingly soft. She felt light-headed just thinking about them on her mouth.

‘That sounds perfect.’ She drew a breath shaky with grim amusement. ‘I’m not in the market for long term.’

The words were barely out when his head swooped and his mouth met hers. Firmly, implacably, no teasing, just the sure, sensual demand of a man who knew what he wanted and, Imogen realised as her lips parted, who knew how to please a woman. The swipe of his tongue, the angle of his mouth, the possessive clasp of his hand around her skull were so right; she wondered how she’d gone her whole life without experiencing anything like it.

Whatever she and Scott had shared, it was nothing like this.

Thierry circled an arm around her, pulling her against his hard frame. Everywhere they touched, from her breasts to her thighs, exploded into tingling awareness, as if she’d brushed a live wire. Darts of fire shot to her nipples, her pelvis, even up the back of her neck as he massaged her scalp, and she heard herself moan into his mouth.

He tasted better than chocolate, rich, strong and addictive. She slid her arms around his neck and hung on tight as her knees gave way.

Instantly, the arm at her back tightened. He swung her off the ground, high in his arms, making her feel precious and feminine against his imposing masculinity. His mouth devoured hers, seeking, demanding, yet giving so much pleasure that exultation filled her.

This was a kiss. This was desire.

She was greedy for him, hungry for the passion he’d stoked so easily. She pushed her fingers through his hair, its soft thickness enticing.

‘More,’ she mumbled against his lips.

For answer she felt movement. Then she was on the bed and he over her, his weight pressing her down, his long legs imprisoning hers. She’d never felt anything as erotic as his hard length pinioning her, his breath hot on her neck as he grazed her with his teeth, making her jolt and squirm.

‘Thierry!’ That scraping little nip at the spot where her neck met her shoulders had her shuddering as great looping waves of delight coursed through her. They swamped her body, arrowing in to concentrate at the sensitive point between her legs.

He shifted his weight, settling low in the cradle of her hips, and she throbbed deep inside.

Urgently, Imogen arched, feeling the strong column of his arousal between her legs, and her brain shorted. She slid her hand down, wrapping around the solid weight of him, needing that contact. Desperate for more.

His breath hissed as he lifted his head. One large hand covered hers, holding her palm against him for a moment then dragging it away.

‘Patience, Imogen.’ She barely comprehended. His accent was so thick and her ears so full of her pulse pounding like the thud of a hammer on metal.

‘Yes, now.’ Was that reedy, desperate voice hers?

His eyes looked smoky, on the edge of focus, as he forced her arm wide, imprisoning her hand. When she shifted and brought her other hand down to touch him he pulled that arm wide too, so she lay spread-eagled.

The action pressed his groin against her pelvis, and her eyelids fluttered. Circling her hips, she moved against him, and to her amazement almost tipped over the edge into ecstasy. How could pleasure be so intense? So instantaneous? With Scott...

Thought died as Thierry murmured something in that lush, deep voice and lowered his head again. His breath feathered the sensitive flesh of her neck and then warm lips pressed just there and... Oh, yes, just there.

Again that powerful pulse through her pelvis, making every muscle clench and every erogenous zone shiver in anticipation.

‘No. Don’t!’ It was a gurgle of sound, a hoarse whisper scraped from the back of her throat, but he heard it. Stilled.

She felt him draw a deep breath, his chest expanding. His hands tightened as if in spasm before loosing their hold. Then he pulled back, lifting his head.

Gone was the urbane sophisticate. Gone was the man in control. The glittering eyes that met hers held an unfamiliar wildness. His lips were a twist of what looked like raw pain.

Imogen watched him open his mouth. He shut his eyes and swallowed. Fascinated, she followed the jerky movement of his throat. Then blazing, dark eyes met hers again. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ Even his voice was unfamiliar.

‘Of course not.’ How could he even think it? ‘But I can’t wait. I need you now.’ Already she was running her hands over him, revelling in the heat of ridged muscle beneath his fine shirt. One hand dipped to his belt buckle and her fingers fumbled in their haste.

Thierry’s eyes widened, his body rigid, as if he couldn’t trust her words. Hadn’t he ever met a woman so eager for him? Impossible!

What was impossible was that she, Imogen Holgate, was so desperate she didn’t think she’d survive another minute of his seduction.

He was going to kiss and caress her, taking his time, and she’d self-combust at any moment. She’d never known anything like this spike of arousal.

‘Please, Thierry.’ Finally, she got his buckle undone and slid the belt free with clumsy hands. ‘You can seduce me later. Whatever you like. But I need you inside me now.’

Fire washed from her throat to her hairline. But she didn’t care about embarrassment or appearing unsophisticated. Desire was too tame a word for this urgent, visceral need. Nothing mattered but being one with this man.

Imogen bit her lip as her fingers slipped on his zip. She tried again and heard his sharp inhale. Hard fingers closed around hers.

He wasn’t going to stop her, was he? Not now. She almost sobbed with frustration, her whole body burning like a single, vibrant flame that would at any minute consume her.

‘Let me, ma chérie.’

* * *

Thierry kept his eyes on her face as he shucked his shoes and grabbed one of the condoms he’d brought.

She was glorious, her skin flushed with sexual arousal. Her eyes were bright as stars, veiled by long black lashes. Her reddened lips were plump and inviting, but not as inviting as the rest of her. His movements quickened, sheathing himself as his gaze dropped to proud breasts straining against that tight bodice. A surge of hunger hit and he drew an uneven breath. Despite what she said he needed to rein himself in, not surrender to hunger and take her with no preliminaries. He needed to...

Thierry’s thoughts spun away as she reefed up the hem of her dress. Long, pale, toned thighs. Skimpy, emerald-green lace panties. The subtle, enticing scent of vanilla sugar and feminine arousal.

Slender fingers hooked the green lace and she arched her hips up, wriggling, to pull it away.

His hands tangled with hers, stripping the lace off. Then his hands were on her, skimming satin-soft flesh, stroking the dark silk, already damp, at her core.

He didn’t register moving closer. But an instant later he was there, pressing against her softness, his hands planted beside her on the bed. Her skirt was up around her waist and her hair had come down on one side, dark tresses curling to her breasts.

A shudder ripped through him. He wanted to feast on her, take his time to build their pleasure, but he couldn’t.

It wasn’t the tug of her fingers digging into his shoulders that shattered his control, or the tiny, throaty purring sound she made. It was simply that he’d never wanted a woman so urgently.

His hand shook as he lifted her to him. Then in one sure, glorious stroke he surged home, high and hard, till he felt nothing but her, knew nothing but her liquid heat, sweet scent and indescribable pleasure.

Tawny green eyes snared his. Her head pressed back, baring that delectable throat. He heard his name in a throaty, broken gasp. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, and to his amazement was all it took for him to lose the last of his control.

She quivered, jerking and shaking around him, drawing him into the most mind-blowing climax he’d ever experienced.

It was a long, long time before his brain functioned again. Imogen shifted drowsily, and he found himself quickening into arousal again. His immediate thought was to wonder if he’d brought enough condoms.

His second, when her eyes fluttered open and her tentative smile hit him square in the chest, was to congratulate himself on finding her. He’d never known a woman so unstinting in her passion.

Two weeks would barely be enough to enjoy all she had to offer. Yet that was all they had. She’d be gone in a fortnight.

Thierry felt a flicker of something almost like regret. But it would dissipate. A temporary lover was all he wanted. A couple of months and he’d be free of the shackles that had tied him down for four years. Then he’d leave, ready for adventure and the physical and mental challenges he missed. Which was why Imogen, who could only ever be temporary in his life, was absolutely perfect.