Читать книгу A Vow To Secure His Legacy - Annie West - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

IMOGEN STARED FROM her hotel window at the London square with its communal garden and neat Georgian buildings. A couple strolled by hand in hand and her stomach did a little somersault. She looked away, lifting her peppermint tea to her lips.

She’d developed a taste for herbal tea since that night in Paris when Thierry had ordered it for her.

Turning, she found her gaze following the couple and felt a pang of regret. They were in their seventies, she’d guess, yet they held hands, heads turned towards each other as if in conversation.

What would it be like to grow old with the man you loved? The question wormed into her brain and she had to slam down a protective portcullis before her thoughts went too far.

Thierry Girard had been a revelation. Any woman would have been in heaven experiencing Paris with him, even if she hadn’t spent years buried in a half-life of tedium, hemmed in by caution. Was it any wonder Venice, Reykjavik and London hadn’t seemed quite as fabulous as Paris? He’d brought the city alive.

He’d brought her alive.

But she couldn’t give in to romantic fantasy.

What they’d had had been wonderful and she’d lingered over each memory, loving the hazy sense of wellbeing they brought. But their passion, the romance and sense of connection had been illusory, the product of an affair that could only be short-lived.

She sipped her tea then grimaced as her taste buds did that strange thing again, turning a flavour she enjoyed into a dull, metallic tang. She put the cup down then realised she’d turned too fast, for the nausea rose again. Imogen gripped the table, taking slow breaths.

Her mother hadn’t had these symptoms. Did it mean Imogen’s condition was different after all? If anything the headaches had eased a little and were less frequent. But the nausea worried her. It was so persistent.

Reluctantly, she turned towards the bathroom. It was silly to consider the possibility of it being anything else. There was no chance a woman in her condition...

She shook her head then regretted it as the movement stirred that sick feeling again.

Clamping her lips, she headed to the bathroom. Of course it was absurd. This must be a new symptom of her deteriorating condition. Though, with the exception of the nausea, she felt better than she had in ages.

What was the point of second-guessing? She needed to see the specialist back in Sydney. He’d explain what was happening. How long she had.

Imogen drew a slow breath, deliberately pushing her shoulders down as tension inched them higher. Whatever the future held, she’d meet it head on.

She crossed the bathroom and reached for the test kit she’d left there. She hadn’t had the nerve to look at the result before, telling herself it was nonsense and she’d be better having tea and biscuits to settle her stomach.

Now, reluctantly, she looked down at the indicator.

The world wobbled and she grabbed the counter.

Had her illness affected her eyes? But the indicator was clear. It was only her brain that felt blurry.

Pregnant.

She was expecting Thierry’s child.

* * *

It was harder, this time, to contact him. He had a new PA who seemed dauntingly efficient and not eager to help.

No, Monsieur Girard wasn’t in Paris. No, she couldn’t say where he was. Her tone implied Imogen had no right to renew his acquaintance. Had she been placed on some blacklist of importunate ex-lovers? Imogen imagined a throng of women trailing after him, trying to recapture his attention.

Was she to be so easily dismissed? Embarrassment and anger warred, and her grip tightened on the phone.

‘When will he be back? It’s urgent I speak with him.’ She’d taken the first train from London to Paris, checking into a tiny hotel with the last of her travel money.

‘Perhaps you’d like to leave a message, mademoiselle? He’s very busy.’ The cool tone implied he’d never find time for her again. Was that an overprotective assistant or a woman acting on orders?

Her crisp efficiency and Imogen’s realisation she could only contact him via this dragon brought home the glaring differences between them. Thierry was powerful, mixing in elite social circles and living a privileged life. Employees protected him from unsolicited contact. She was working class and unsophisticated, more at home with a spreadsheet of numbers than at a glittering social event. Only the bright passion between them had made them equals.

Imogen set her chin.

‘I need to speak with him in person. It’s imperative.’

‘As I said, I can take a message...’

But would it be delivered?

Imogen gritted her teeth, staring over the slate-grey roof of the building across the lane. It seemed close enough to touch in this cheap back street. A far cry from the magnificent hotel she’d splurged on during her first stay in Paris.

‘Please tell him I need to see him. Five minutes will do.’ She bit down grim laughter. How long did it take to break such news? ‘I have...important information for him. Something he needs to hear as soon as possible.’

‘Very well, mademoiselle.’ The phone clicked in her ear.

* * *

‘That’s all now.’ Thierry looked at his watch. ‘Finish those in the morning.’

Mademoiselle Janvier primmed her mouth. ‘I find it more efficient to complete my work before leaving and start fresh tomorrow.’

Thierry forbore from comment. His temporary PA took efficiency to a new level. At least these notes would take no more than half an hour.

He should be grateful. When there’d been that recent glitch in his plans to take over a rival business, her hard work had been invaluable. She’d even tried to match his eighteen-hour work days till he’d put a stop to it. Dedication he appreciated, but sometimes she seemed almost proprietorial.

If only she’d smile occasionally.

His lips twitched. That was his unregenerate, unbusinesslike side. The side that preferred being outdoors on a clear evening like this, rather than cooped up with a sour-faced assistant.

That part of him would far rather share a champagne picnic with an intriguing dark-haired beauty whose enthusiasm, sensuality and unexpected flashes of naïveté intrigued.

That couldn’t be regret he felt? There’d be excitement enough in his life once he cleared this final hurdle. He’d given up four years of his life and wrought a small miracle, wresting the family business from the brink of disaster. Soon...

He rolled his shoulders. Soon he could take up his real life again. The one that defined him, no matter how irresponsible his grand-père branded it. But his grand-père had never understood it was the rush of adrenalin, the thrill of pitting himself physically against the toughest challenges, that made him feel real. These past years he’d been condemned to a half life.

Adventure beckoned. What would it be first? Heli-skiing or hot-air ballooning? Or white-water rafting? Orsino had mentioned a place in Colorado...

‘By the way, there’s a woman waiting to see you.’

‘A woman?’ Thierry checked his diary. He had no appointments.

‘A Mademoiselle Holgate.’

‘Holgate?’ Something inside his chest jerked hard. ‘How long has she been waiting?’

His PA’s eyes widened as he shot to his feet. ‘I warned her she’d have to wait. You had a lot—’

‘Invite her in. Immediately!’

Mademoiselle Janvier scurried out, shock on her thin features. It was the first time she’d seen him anything but polite and calm, even when it had looked like his expansion plans, so vital to the solidity of the company, had unravelled.

The door opened and his breathing quickened. He stepped around the desk, elation pulsing.

Elation? He halted, a prickle of warning skating through him.

He and Imogen had enjoyed themselves but Thierry wasn’t in the habit of feeling more than casual pleasure at the thought of any woman. Not since Sandrine, a lifetime ago.

He’d learned his lesson then. Women added spice and pleasure, especially now his chance for serious adventure had been curtailed. But none lasted. He made sure of it. Women fitted into the category of rest and recreation.

Thierry frowned as a trim, dark-haired figure stepped into the room and an unfamiliar sensation clamped his belly.

He almost wouldn’t have recognised her. Those glorious dark tresses were scraped into a bun that reminded him of Mademoiselle Janvier with her rigid self-control. Imogen wore jeans and a shirt that leached the colour from her face. He’d never seen her in anything but bright colours. And there were shadows under her eyes, hollows beneath her cheekbones.

Again that inexplicable thump to his chest, as if an unseen hand had punched him.

‘Imogen!’ He started forward but before he reached her she slipped into a visitor’s chair.

Thierry pulled up abruptly. It wasn’t the reaction he got from women. Ever.

‘Thierry.’ She nodded, the movement curt, almost dismissive. And her eyes—they didn’t glow as he remembered. They looked...haunted as they stared at his tie. Yet there was defiance in the set of her chin. Belligerence in her clamped lips.

What had happened? He’d seen her ecstatic, curious, enthralled. He’d seen her in the throes of passion. His lower body tensed. Those memories had kept him from sleep too many nights since she’d left. He’d even seen her in pain, with tears spiking those ebony lashes. But he’d never seen her look like this.

He grabbed a chair, yanked it around to face her and sank onto it, his knees all but touching her thighs.

She shifted, pulling her legs away, as if he made her nervous. Or as if his touch contaminated.

Something jabbed his gut. Deliberately, he leaned back, gaze bland, his mind buzzing with questions.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘Is it? That’s not the impression I got.’ Her chin lifted infinitesimally and colour swept her too-pale face. That was better. The woman he knew had sass and vibrancy.

‘You’ve just walked in the door.’ He gave her the smile he knew melted female hearts. Despite her tension it was good to see her. He’d missed her more than he’d expected and—

‘I suppose I should be grateful you found time out of your busy schedule to see me.’

* * *

Imogen bit her lip. This wasn’t going right. She’d let fear and anger get the best of her. Anger at how long it had taken to see him, only then to be kept waiting for an hour. And fear. Fear that even with his help, assuming he would help her, the new life growing inside her was likely in danger.

She threaded her fingers together, trying to hide their tremor.

It didn’t help that one glance was all she’d needed to fall under Thierry’s spell again. He looked wonderful. Strong and fit, so utterly masculine that just sitting beside him was a test of endurance. She wanted to touch him, feel that strong life-force, remind herself there was some hope in this bleak situation.

‘I’m sorry you had to wait. I didn’t know you were there.’

Imogen waved a dismissive hand, her gaze skating across the huge office with its expansive, and expensive, views over one of Paris’s most prestigious neighbourhoods.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She drew a breath, trying to slow her racing heart, only to discover she’d inhaled his distinctive scent—warm male flesh and clear mountain air. It teased her nostrils and set up a trembling deep inside.

For one self-indulgent instant she let herself remember how glorious it had been between them. How perfect.

But that was over. He’d moved on and she, well, she had more important things to worry about than her attraction to a heartbreaker of a Frenchman.

‘I thought you’d be in Australia now. Wasn’t it Venice, Reykjavik, London and then home to Sydney?’

He remembered. A tiny curl of delight swirled inside. ‘That was the plan.’ Her voice emerged husky, not like the firm tone she’d aimed for. ‘But things have changed.’

‘I’m glad.’ His voice caressed. ‘I’ve been thinking of you.’

Surprised, she jerked her head up, their eyes meeting. Instantly, sultry heat unfurled in her belly like coiling tendrils. Her skin drew taut.

She didn’t know how Thierry did that. She didn’t know whether to be shocked, stoic or despairing that absence hadn’t lessened his impact. Even with so much on her mind, that low voice, that slurred ripple of accented sound, made her body hum.

He leaned close, and she sat back, seeing the moment he registered her withdrawal. A frown puckered his brow.

‘I came because I had some news.’

He stilled, and she sensed a watchfulness that belied his air of unconcern.

When they’d been together all that powerful energy had been focused on pleasure. Now, in this vast office that screamed authority, with those unblinking eyes trained on her, she saw how formidable Thierry was. Not just as the sexiest, most charismatic man she’d ever met, but because of the power he wielded with such ease.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched.

‘News?’ The word was sharp.

‘Yes.’ She swiped her top lip with her tongue and a flicker of something crossed his proud features. ‘Yes, I...’

Spit it out! How hard is it to say? You’ve had a week of waiting to get used to it.

‘You...?’ He leaned forward, and she knew an urge to slide onto his lap and burrow close.

As if Thierry’s embrace would make everything right! Nothing could make this right.

Again she licked her lips. ‘I’m pregnant.’

For what seemed a full minute he said nothing, merely looked at her with a face frozen into harsh lines that emphasised the chiselled hauteur of those superb features.

‘You say the baby is mine?’

* * *

Mistake number one, Thierry realised when Imogen snapped back in her seat as if yanked by a bungee cord.

Ice formed in her hazel eyes, turning them from warm and a little lost to frozen wasteland. Then there was the taut line of her mouth, the hurt in the way she bit her lip.

He hated it when she did that. He always wanted to reach out and stop her. And she...

Belatedly, he yanked back his thoughts. Pregnant. With his child?

His breath disintegrated and a sense of unreality engulfed him. Like the day, as a kid, when he’d learned his parents had died in a crash outside Lyon. Or four years ago, when his indomitable grand-père had had a stroke.

Was it possible?

Of course it was possible. He and Imogen had spent every night for almost two weeks together, insatiable for each other.

He’d never known any woman to test his control the way Imogen had. He’d plan some outing to tick off her bucket list—a visit to a dance club, or a moonlight picnic—and all the time she was beaming at him, laughing and thrilled at the novelty of new experiences, he was calculating how long before he could get her naked and horizontal. Or just naked enough for sex. As for horizontal...the missionary position was overrated.

Molten heat coiled in his belly.

‘There’s been no one else. Just you.’

Stupid to feel that punch of pleasure. Thierry forced himself to focus. This was too important.

‘Since when?’

‘That’s not relevant. I—’

‘Since when, Imogen?’ Stranger things had happened than a woman trying to pin an unexpected pregnancy on some gullible man.

Her chin rose and the expression in her eyes could have scored flesh. ‘Seven months.’

So long between lovers? Did that make him special, or a convenient way of ending the drought? Or maybe a target?

‘That’s very precise.’

‘I don’t make a habit of sleeping around.’

He’d worked it out. He vividly recalled her charmingly unpractised loving, the shock in her eyes at the ecstasy they’d shared.

‘Pregnant.’ He paused, frustrated that his brain wouldn’t function. Now it had side-tracked into imagining Imogen swollen with his child, her hands splayed over her ripe belly. He’d never lusted after a pregnant woman yet the image in his head filled him with all sorts of inappropriate thoughts.

Diable! He should be concentrating, not mentally undressing her.

He dragged his attention back to her face. ‘We used condoms.’

Jerkily she nodded. ‘It turns out they’re not a hundred percent effective.’

‘You’re sure about this?’ He searched her features. She looked different—drawn and tired. And...was that fear?

‘I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t. I took the test in London. That’s why I came to Paris, to find you.’

Thierry stared into those haunted eyes and told himself the sensible thing would be to insist on a paternity test. He had only her word the child was his.

Yet, crazy as it was, he was on the verge of believing her. He’d been with her just two weeks, but he felt he knew her better than any of the women he’d dated.

Even better than Sandrine.

The thought sideswiped him. He’d grown up with Sandrine and had loved her with all his youthful heart.

The memory served its purpose, like being doused in a cold mountain stream. He needed to think critically. He straightened.