Читать книгу Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress - Эбби Грин, Fiona McArthur - Страница 8

BY THE time Alana had stepped back into her house, followed by a tall, dark and imposing Pascal Lévêque, the shock was rapidly wearing off. She crossed her arms and rounded on him with a scowl on her face. Once again he was demonstrating that ability to suck in the space around him and make everything seem more intense—dwarfed. She tried to block out the fact that he was quite simply the most handsome man who’d ever stood feet away from her and looked at her with an intensity that bordered on being indecent.

‘That phone call was a conversation that shouldn’t have had to happen. And it was all your fault.’

He inclined his head slightly. He looked huge in her tiny sitting room. ‘I apologise, but, as all I heard was the intriguing last sentence, you’ll have to forgive me as I don’t know what I’ve done. And we certainly haven’t had sex yet.’

Alana flushed when she recalled what she’d been saying to her sister as she’d opened the door. ‘Did you know that apparently our dinner date was in the papers today?’ Defensive, angry energy radiated off her in waves. She could almost see them, like a heat haze.

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers, hypnotising her. ‘No. I wasn’t aware of that. But of course, there were people at the restaurant, and I would imagine that one or two people heard me ask you at the studio; perhaps it was leaked.’

Alana laughed out loud. ‘One or two? Try the whole crew standing in the room. It’s recorded on tape, for God’s sake.’

He started to shrug off his big, black overcoat and proceeded to whip out a bottle of wine from somewhere, like a magician. Panic flowed through Alana. She put out her hands as if that might halt him. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Stop taking off your coat right now.’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘No way; you are not coming in here with a bottle of wine, and we are not going to be having a cosy chat.’

For a big man he moved swiftly and gracefully. His coat was already draped over one arm, the bottle of red wine in one hand, long fingers visible. She remembered him holding her hands, entwining those fingers with hers. A pulse throbbed between her legs.

She looked up at him and knew she must look slightly desperate—she felt desperate.

‘I don’t mind where we go, Alana, but I’ve come all this way to see you, so you’re not getting away.’

His voice was like deep velvet over steel. He meant what he said.

She gulped. ‘What do you want?’ she asked weakly. He was threatening and invading every aspect of what had been up till now her impregnable defence.

Pascal restrained himself from telling her exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want to frighten her off. But what he wanted very much involved a lot less clothes and a flat, preferably soft surface. She was dressed all in black, her hair tied back. Not a stiff shirt this time, but a roll-neck top that effectively concealed everything. And yet the material had to be cashmere or something, because it clung to her torso and chest, and for the first time he could see the proper shape of her. The thrust of her breasts against the fabric was sensual torture. They were perfectly formed, high and firm. He could imagine that they would fill his hands like ripe, succulent fruits, their tips hardening against the palm of his hand … He slammed the door on his rampant imaginings. His arousal was springing to life. He forced himself to sound reasonable, calm.

‘What I would like is to share this bottle of wine with you and to talk. We can go somewhere else if you’d prefer.’

Alana looked at him suspiciously, hating this invasion of her space. He was as immoveable as a rock. If they went somewhere else that would involve more time. If they stayed here, he’d be gone sooner. She made her reluctant decision and reached out a hand.

‘We might as well stay here. It’s a Friday night; most places in town would be like cattle markets by now.’

Despite her obvious lack of delight at the prospect, Pascal carefully masked the intense surge of triumph he felt and handed over the wine, even being careful to make sure their hands didn’t touch, knowing that could set him back. Dieu! This woman was like an assault on his every sense. He hadn’t imagined her allure, she was more vivid, more sexy, more everything, in the flesh.

As Alana went into the galley-kitchen, she was aware of him moving into the sitting room, hands in the pockets of his trousers and looking around. She sent him a surreptitious glance. He was dressed smartly—dark trousers and a light shirt, top button open as if he’d discarded a tie somewhere. He must have come straight from work—on a private plane? Somehow she couldn’t imagine him queueing up with lesser mortals for a scheduled flight. He was the kind of man who would stride across the tarmac and climb into a sleek, snazzy jet.

‘You got my flowers, I see.’

Alana’s hand stilled on the bottle opener for a moment. She looked at him. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She cringed inwardly. Had he seen the cards all laid out in a row on the table as he’d come in? ‘You shouldn’t have, though. It caused no amount of speculation at work, and I’d really prefer if you didn’t.’ God, she sounded so uptight. And what was to say he’d ever send her flowers again anyway?

‘As you can see, this house isn’t exactly big enough to take them.’

Pascal looked around and thought privately that this was hardly what she must have been used to, as Ryan O’Connor’s wife. It made her even more enigmatic. She was fast proving that, whatever scene she’d been a part of in the past, that was not who she was now. ‘No, I guess not. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Alana, I merely wanted to show you that I meant what I said, about seeing you again, and I didn’t have your number, so …’

Alana stabbed the cork with the bottle opener. ‘It’s fine; forget it. The old-folks’ home around the corner were delighted, as they got the other half of the flower shop you sent.’

She sent him a small, rueful smile then, unable to help herself. She didn’t like being ungrateful for gifts.

Pascal was looking at her with an arrested expression on his face, his eyes intent on the area of her mouth. Her lips tingled. Alana’s hands stopped on the cork. ‘What is it?’

But then his eyes lifted to hers as if she’d imagined it, and he went back to looking at her books and prints. ‘Nothing.’

Eventually she pulled the cork free with a loud pop and got down two glasses from her open shelves. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, keeping one for herself.

He stood looking at her for a long moment and then held his glass out. Her heart thumped at what he might say, but all he said was, ‘Santé.’

She clinked her glass to his and replied with the Irish, ‘Sláinte.’

They both took a sip. She couldn’t quite believe that he was standing here in front of her. The wine was like liquid velvet, fragrant, round and smooth. Clearly very expensive. Alana indicated for him to sit on her couch. He did, and dwarfed the three-seater. She sat in the armchair opposite. The lighting was soft and low. The space far too intimate. This was her sanctuary, her place of refuge. And yet, having him here wasn’t generating the effect that she would have expected. She was still angry, yes—but more than that was something else, something like excitement.

She thought of something then as her stomach growled quietly. ‘Have you eaten?’

He took another drink from his glass and shook his head. ‘No.’ He just realised then that he’d hardly eaten all day; he’d been so consumed with getting out of Paris and over here. It made him feel uncomfortable now.

Alana put down her glass and stood up. ‘I was going to make myself something to eat … that is, if you want something, too?’

‘That would be great, I’m starving.’ He smiled, and the room seemed to tilt for a second.

Alana picked up her glass and backed into the kitchen, which was just feet away from where he now sat with an arm stretched out over the back of the sofa. At home, as if he dropped in all the time from Paris. She couldn’t think of that now.

‘It’s just fish, lemon sole, nothing too exciting. But I have two …’

He nodded. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’

Alana busied herself turning on the oven and putting potatoes on to boil. When she looked back over to the sitting room, she could see that Pascal was looking through her CDs. She had a moment of clarity. What was she doing? She was meant to be rushing him out of the house, not cooking him dinner! But, she had to concede, it had been easy to ask him. And he had sent her all those amazing flowers. If she was never going to see him after tonight, then what was the harm in a little dinner?

Happy that she’d justified her actions to herself, and not willing to pay attention to the hum of something in her blood, when she heard the strains of her favourite jazz CD coming from the sound system, she found it soothing rather than scary.

‘I hope you don’t mind?’

She looked over to where Pascal was hunched down at the system, the material of his trousers and shirt straining over taut, hard muscles in his thighs and back. She shook her head, her mouth feeling very dry.

‘No … no.’ She took another hasty gulp of wine. Oh God.

By the time Alana was taking his cleared plate from him, and apologising again that their dinner had been on their knees, she was smiling at something he’d just said. As she’d been preparing the dinner, they’d started up an innocuous conversation, and in the course of eating had managed to touch on films, books, French politics, the Six Nations and rugby. She’d found herself telling him about her father’s career playing for Ireland, unable to keep the pride from her voice. And she hadn’t mistaken the gleam of something unfathomable in his eyes. Even though he’d told her he hadn’t wanted to play, had he harboured ambitions?

She came back and sat down, tucking her legs under her. She’d slipped off her shoes. She felt energised, zingy, as if she could stay up all night.

To her surprise, she saw Pascal look at his watch and then he drained his glass of wine. He stood up and Alana felt unaccountably disorientated. She stood too. The space between them was electric.

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’

Alana immediately felt crushed, silly, exposed. She should have been grinning from ear to ear, racing to hand him his coat, saying good riddance—so why did she feel her stomach hollowing out at the thought? The old pain of past misjudgements rose up like a spectre.

‘Oh, well. I can imagine you must have some business here. Somewhere else to be?’

He shook his head and came close. Alana couldn’t back away as the chair was just behind her legs. Her heart was thumping so hard she felt it must be visible under her top.

‘I’ve got important meetings at home all weekend. It’s too boring to go into. But I need to make my flight slot tonight, otherwise I’ll miss my first meeting in the morning.’

Alana’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re going back to Paris? Now?’

He nodded.

The knowledge was having trouble sinking into her brain: he had come all the way to Dublin just to see her for a few hours; it was too much for her to take in.

‘I … I …’

Her shock was obviously transparent.

He pulled a quirky, sexy smile. ‘It was worth it, Alana. Just to see you again. I’ve been thinking about you all week. I can’t seem to get you out of my head.’

‘I …’ Her powers of speech had been rendered null and void. He was coming closer, making speech even more elusive and unlikely.

He was now so close that her head was tipped back to look into those dark, dark eyes. She felt a warm finger come under her chin, stroking the smooth skin, his thumb on her chin. She couldn’t move.

His scent enveloped her in a haze of desire, desire that she’d never felt before. She fancied that she could hear his heartbeat too. Then he spoke and his voice was harsh. ‘I told myself I wouldn’t do this now. But … I can’t not. You’re more intoxicating to me than anything or anyone I’ve ever known. And all week I’ve been imagining what it would be like.’

She swallowed, ‘What what would be like?’ But she knew. And heaven help her but she’d been imagining it too. She knew she had; she’d just been denying it.

He said the words and something awful like relief flowed through her.

‘To kiss you.’

With his finger still under her chin, no other parts of their bodies touching, he bent his head to hers. Past, present and future collided in the moment that her eyelids fluttered closed, and she felt his mouth touch hers. It was a brief press of his lips to hers, a testing, tasting. But it ignited a flame of raw desire along every one of Alana’s veins.

When he drew back slightly, she made a treacherous sound in her throat. She wanted more than that brief all-too-chaste kiss. And so did he evidently.

This time it wasn’t chaste and benedictory, this time it was forceful, both their mouths pressing together, tasting, experiencing. The finger at her chin was gone. His hand slid round to the back of her head, flicked away the band tying her hair in a ponytail and threaded through the soft, silky strands to cradle her skull in his hand. His other arm slid around her slim waist and pulled her into him. Her arms automatically went to his shoulders and clung for support.

The feel of his body pressed up close to hers was short-circuiting her system. He was hard all over, and so strong. She could feel his chest muscles flex against her soft curves when his arm tightened around her, pulling her even closer.

While their bodies melded together, their mouths remained fused. Pascal pulled back briefly and Alana looked up into those amazing eyes that were burning, reflecting a fire she felt deep in her belly, where a very hard part of him was making her want to move restlessly. She was stunned by everything. She felt confused; she could feel herself tremble with reaction. She frowned slightly, her mouth opened.

Pascal pressed a finger to her mouth. The softness of her lips and her warm breath made him harder, and he almost groaned out loud with the need to take her now, to sink into her yielding, silky warmth. But he knew that she wasn’t far from letting her head take over, from possibly pushing him away. ‘Don’t think. Don’t speak. Just feel.’

This time when his mouth touched hers it was slightly open. Breaths mingled and wove together, and for one split second neither of them breathed. And then Pascal slid his tongue between her lips and Alana’s hands clutched at his shoulders. She’d been kissed like this before; of course she had. But whenever Ryan had kissed her, it had always been rough and with no finesse.

But this was in another league. Pascal’s tongue danced erotically with hers, advanced and retreated, inviting her to follow him. And she did. Winding her arms tight around his neck, pressing even closer, she slid her tongue into his mouth and was rewarded with a low guttural moan. It was the sexiest feeling, and she was controlling the pace, the movements. She savoured his full lower lip, felt it with her tongue, let it glide across the surface before allowing their tongues to duel again.

When she felt him snake a hand under her top, to feel the skin above her trousers, the curve of her waist, her legs trembled in earnest. Their kisses stilled for a second, as if he was waiting to see what signal she would give. She nipped his lower lip gently and she could feel him half-smile against her mouth.

His hand slid higher over her smooth back, to just below the clasp of her bra. His hand was so big she imagined it could span her entire back. With a practised flick of his wrist and fingers, he opened the clasp. Alana felt her bra loosen, but she was lost in a maelstrom of lust so strong that she wanted nothing more than for him take the weight and fullness of her breast into his palm—which he promptly did, sliding his whole hand around her ribs as if loath not to caress every part of her. The sensation was so shockingly electric that she gasped and wrenched her mouth from his, breathing jerkily.

His other hand still cradled her head; their bodies were still fused at every conceivable point. She was on her tiptoes to try and keep his hardness there, at the apex of her thighs where a loud, heavy beat of blood called to her. She couldn’t do anything but look up into his glittering, aroused gaze as his hand cupped her heavy flesh and his thumb moved back and forth over the tingling, tight peak of her nipple.

She bit her lip, and he bent his head to whisper hotly in her ear, ‘I want to take it into my mouth until you come apart in my arms … until you’re so wet that sliding into you will be the easiest thing in the world.’

A million things were hurtling into Alana’s head. Past experiences, warnings, wants and confusion reigned. What was happening to her? She should be shocked, but she wasn’t. She’d never thought in a million years she could respond like this, and yet they had done little more here and now than she’d already experienced at teen discos years ago. Or during her marriage.

Pascal could see the way her eyes were clearing, the way those green depths were starting to swirl. He had to pull back, even if it was going to kill him. Gently he closed her bra again and stepped back slightly to pull down her top. He’d been right; her body with its gentle curves was infinitely more alluring than he’d ever expected it to be, her breasts fuller. It was a crime that she hid under those structured tops and dark colours.

He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped back completely, and tried to ignore the inferno raging in his pants.

‘I have to go. I wish I didn’t, but I do. You could come with me?’ he asked then, but already he could see her start to tense, stiffen.

‘No,’ he answered for her. ‘It’s too soon.’ He castigated himself for his lack of control.

He walked over to get his coat which was draped on the back of a chair, and pulled it on. He saw the cards that had accompanied the flowers neatly lined up to show the sentence they’d spelt out. Something forceful struck him then. He’d never gone to such trouble before. Women always said yes; it was always easy. But recently his experiences with women had always proved somewhat unsatisfactory. And now merely kissing Alana was making him feel like a randy teenager again.

Alana welcomed the distance as she watched him put his coat on, accentuating his shoulders, his broad back. His shoulders that she’d just been clutching with complete abandon, because if she hadn’t, she’d have dissolved at his feet. What had he done to her? What the hell did he think he was doing, waltzing in here for just a few hours only to mess up her carefully controlled world? She crossed her arms over still tight and sensitive breasts.

He turned around and saw her look immediately. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

Alana’s jaw tensed so hard she felt it might break. ‘I don’t want this. I don’t want you.’

He covered the paltry distance between them in a couple of steps, floorboards creaking under his weight.

‘I think I’ve just proven that you do want me. And I want you. Badly.’

In a shocking move he took her hand and brought it down to where she could feel his agony for herself. Hectic colour flooded her cheeks.

‘There’s something rare and powerful between us, Alana, and I won’t let you shut me out just because you’re scared.’

She snatched her hand back from where the hard evidence of his arousal was threatening to overheat her brain again. ‘I am not scared.’ Liar. ‘I just don’t want this. I really don’t want this.’

His stance was strong, legs planted wide, face implacable. ‘It’s already happening. We can’t go back now. You could have sent back the flowers, or thrown them out.’ He flung out a hand. ‘But you didn’t. You could have refused to let me come into your house tonight, but you didn’t.’

Humiliation coursed through her. He was right. She’d put up absolutely no fight whatsoever. What was she doing? Had she learnt nothing?

‘You’re covering the match in Italy next weekend in Stadio Flaminio?’

His abrupt change of subject caught her unawares. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘I have an apartment in Rome. Come over on Friday night and stay with me for the weekend. I have to go to the match, too, and my bank is sponsoring a charity ball on Saturday night—you could come with me.’

Alana automatically shook her head and quailed slightly under the harsh light in his eyes.

‘My flight on Saturday morning is booked already. I’m going with colleagues. And I’m due back on Sunday morning. It’s all organised.’

‘And do you always do what you’re told?’ he asked softly, softly enough to disarm her for a second. It made a poignant memory rise up. She hadn’t always been so conventional, so careful to stick to the rules. There had been a time when she’d been very much a free spirit. That was how she’d met Ryan; she’d fallen for the passionate free spirit she’d seen in him. But she’d had it all wrong. His passion had never been for her or even life. It had been for money, fame and adulation. And then he’d slowly killed any such impulse in her, reducing her to a shadow of her former self.

Alana looked up. Caught between two worlds and painful memories, she found herself instinctively clinging on to something in Pascal’s eyes.

‘I will have my plane at your disposal.’

‘But that’s crazy.’

He shushed her. ‘At your disposal. It will be at Dublin airport on Friday evening, ready to take you to Rome to meet me. I would like you to use it, Alana. I would like you to stay with me. I won’t force you into anything you’re not comfortable with. Or ready for.’

She would have laughed, but the intensity in his face stopped her. He was holding out a card. She took it warily.

‘Those are all my numbers, and my assistant’s numbers. If you’re going to come on Friday, just call her and give her your passport details and she’ll give you all the information and arrange for a pick-up to deliver you to the plane.’

To deliver her to him like a gift-wrapped parcel.

Everything in Alana rebelled at the thought of being so easy, so compliant. But another part of her was beating hard at the thought of how easy it would be to just … do this. Had she really envisaged living her entire life celibate? While she knew well that Pascal took women for just a finite amount of time, perhaps that was what she needed—a no-strings affair. He was already smashing the awful, soul-destroying belief that somehow she’d been frigid. But then, if Pascal discovered the extent of her lack of experience, would he be turned off? Doubts crowded her mind again. How could she even be seriously contemplating this?

And now he really was leaving, opening the small hall door, ducking his head to go out through the front door.

She forced her stricken limbs to move, and followed him. When he turned round, she was on her step. Before she could move, he’d pulled her into him and pressed his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue between her lips, making her heart beat fast and her blood turn to treacle in seconds. She could already feel herself melting. And then he pulled away and set her back.

‘See?’ was all he said, was all he had to say. He backed away and then turned to walk down the square. As if by magic a sleek, dark car pulled up at the bottom of the square and then he was getting into the back and was gone. Alana’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her emotions and hormones in chaotic turmoil. Every carefully erected piece of defence was crashing and burning. There was no way she would take him up on his offer. No way.

Those very words came back to mock Alana as she sat in the back of a very familiar, luxurious Lexus which was speeding through the usual tangled Dublin Friday-night rush hour like a hot knife through butter, almost as if Pascal had decreed it. Not even the traffic was giving her a chance to stop and think, to change her mind. Her small weekend-bag was in the boot. And she couldn’t even reassure herself that it had been a last-minute decision; she’d packed her bag last night as if on autopilot, as if somehow it hadn’t really been her doing it.

And then she’d brought it to work that morning, and had coolly informed her boss that she’d made alternative arrangements for getting to Rome. And then she’d rung Pascal’s assistant, and told her that she’d be on the plane that evening. His assistant had been brisk and efficient, ringing back within ten minutes with the details of who would be picking her up, leaving her no time to think about backing out.

And now here she was.

On the way to becoming Pascal Lévêque’s newest lover.

And her only reaction was one of intense anticipation. She’d finally had to give into it. She’d vacillated each torturous day that week, from vowing absolutely that she would do no such thing, to staring into space, remembering what it had been like to have him kiss her, and wanting him with a hunger that shocked her.

He’d called to speak to her every evening, too, having made sure to take her number, but had never mentioned Rome. He’d ask her about her day, and tell her a little about his. He was a master tactician, slowly but surely wearing down her defences. She’d found herself looking forward to speaking to him. It was when she’d woken in the middle of the previous night, to find herself in tangled sheets damp with sweat after an intensely erotic dream, that she’d got up and packed. It was only after she’d done that, she’d been able to go back to sleep.

Another dark, sleek car with tinted windows was waiting on the tarmac at the airport in Rome. She’d seen it out of the window as they’d landed. Now she took a deep breath, her case in a white-knuckle grip as the air steward waited for the door to open. Alana straightened her short jacket over her dress. She hadn’t changed from her work clothes, her armour. A black pinafore dress, complete with shirt and tie, stockings and high-heeled shoes.

The clunking noise of the steps being wheeled to the aircraft made her jump, and she smiled nervously at the steward, wondering in a fleeting, scary moment how many women he’d escorted to meet Pascal like this. All of a sudden she wanted to go, leave. She’d made a huge mistake.

But then the door opened and there was nowhere to go but forward.

And there he was. It was too late to turn back now.

It was dark and slightly chilly as she walked down the steps. Pascal was waiting at the bottom, dressed casually in jeans, looking relaxed, vibrant and beautiful. He didn’t move to touch her, and he didn’t look triumphant. And she was grateful, because if he had she might have scuttled back up the steps and ordered the pilot to take her back home.

‘Here, let me.’ He took her case and the driver transferred it to the boot of the car. Pascal indicated for her to get in. And then he shut the door and walked round to the other side. The door closed and they were moving.

Enclosed in the intimate space, Alana felt as if she were on fire. Suddenly her shirt and tie were ridiculously restrictive. She couldn’t look at Pascal. Silence thickened, but it wasn’t awkward. As they approached the city, Pascal started pointing out landmarks in a neutral, deep voice. Just that alone had an effect on her body, the fine hairs standing up all over her skin. Yet it was also calming, as if he were trying to soothe her. She still hadn’t looked directly at him, but then she felt his hand, warm and very real on her chin and jaw, turning her head towards him.

Did she have any idea how beautiful she looked? Did she have any idea what her effect on him was in those clothes? That damn shirt and tie had featured in every fantasy that had kept him awake, tossing and turning, all week. Her eyes were huge, staring at him with a mixture of fear and trepidation.

‘Thank you,’ he said huskily.

She swallowed, and he could feel the small movement. He couldn’t take his hand from her chin. He wanted to smooth and caress the silky skin all over her body.

‘I’m still … not sure that I’m doing the right thing.’ She looked for a second as if she were gearing herself up for something, and then she said in a rush, ‘How many women have you had delivered to you by plane like that?’

Her honesty hit him between the eyes. He knew this was important. This could determine the weekend—them. He didn’t have to lie. ‘No one. I have travelled on that plane with women, but I’ve never sent it especially for someone before. Alana, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think this was right. Don’t you trust your own judgement?’

The minute he’d said the words he could feel her tense, could see her withdraw mentally and physically. What had he said?

She reached up and took his hand down. ‘That’s just the problem,’ she said with a sterile voice. ‘My track record when it comes to judgement leaves a lot to be desired.’

Her husband—she had to be referring to her marriage. It made him want to quiz her, ask her what she meant. But he wasn’t in the habit of wanting to know extraneous personal details of his lovers’ past experiences, and he rejected the desire now. Pascal wanted her attention back with him with an urgency that bordered on the painful. He found her hand and wound his fingers through hers, not letting her pull away.

‘Alana, this thing between us is too important to ignore. Trust that, if nothing else.’

She knew that it would have been the height of naïvety to assume that Pascal had never taken another lover on his plane. She gave up trying to pull her hand away and let it rest in his. She also gave up trying to avoid his eyes. They glowed with dark embers of sensual promise.

A hum of electricity flowed between them. He wasn’t exaggerating; she’d never ever thought anyone would make her feel this way. She’d once foolishly and romantically thought that this was the way she’d feel with her husband.

But she hadn’t.

And she’d blamed herself for that—but for the first time she could see more clearly that it had been just as much Ryan’s fault as her own.

Perhaps this was her chance to start living again, to stop closing herself off to the world in some kind of misplaced penance she felt she owed. Her husband had taken enough of her life and soul. It was time to take some back for herself.

‘We’re here.’

Alana’s hand tightened reflexively in Pascal’s. He didn’t rush her. He let her take a look outside the car. They were on a quiet street. Old stone steps led up to a foliage-covered walkway through which Alana could see a massive, ornate door.

When the driver had taken out her case and walked round to open her door, Pascal finally released her hand and she got out. The Rome night air was cool and fragrant. Pascal picked up her case and took her hand, leading her up the garden path; she wasn’t unaware of the metaphor. He let go of her to open the door. All was darkness when they walked in at first, but then Pascal flicked a switch nearby and lights came on, low and intimate. Alana gasped. It was stunning.

A huge, lofty high-ceilinged room with massive windows led in one direction into a large kitchen, and the other direction into a huge open-plan living area. It was all decorated in white, prints on the walls and dramatic cushions on the couches adding splashes of colour. Inexplicably, this heartened Alana. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she knew that if Pascal had shown her into some kind of sterile bachelor-pad all her misgivings would have returned with a vengeance.

‘Come; I’ll show you upstairs.’

Wordlessly, she followed him up a wide staircase to the side of the living area. Upstairs were huge windows. He showed her into a big bedroom. The feel of deep, luxurious carpet underfoot made her instinctively bend to take off her shoes. She saw him look and grimaced slightly, holding her shoes in her hands. ‘I hope you don’t mind. My feet are killing me.’

He shook his head. ‘Not at all.’ He put her case down at the bottom of the king-sized bed that was dressed in Egyptian cotton. ‘This is your room, Alana.’

He walked to the door and gestured across the hall to where she could see in through an open door to another dimly lit large room, dressed in more masculine tones. ‘That’s my room.’ He turned then and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Obviously I would prefer you to share my room with me, but it’ll be your move to make.’

Alana bit her lip. He couldn’t know how important it was to her that he wasn’t pushing her. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

He held out a hand. ‘Leave your things there. You must be hungry; I’ll prepare us something to eat downstairs.’

Alana shrugged off her jacket to lay it over the back of a chair, and felt the energy zip up her arm when she took his hand.

‘You can cook?’ she asked a little breathlessly as he led her out in her stockinged feet.

He glanced back with a smile. ‘I can just about manage to burn some pasta and tomato sauce. Are you hungry?’

Just then her stomach rumbled. She smiled too. ‘Starving.’

With a full stomach and a languorous feeling snaking through her bones, Alana walked around the downstairs living-area with a glass of wine in her hand, looking at Pascal’s prints and sculptures. She was transfixed by one photograph; something about it was very familiar. It was black and white, an old man’s face, gnarled and lined, very dark, even a hint of some other exotic lineage. His eyes were remarkable, deep set and black, holding such a wealth of emotion that Alana could feel it reach out and envelop her. There was everything in that expression: regret, pain, love, passion, disappointment, hope.

‘That’s my grandfather.’

She turned round. Pascal was a few feet behind her, looking at the photograph. She could see the resemblance now, except Pascal’s eyes were unreadable.

‘Did you take it?’

He shook his head. In an instant Pascal knew instinctively that Alana had seen the same things he saw whenever he looked at the picture. No one else had ever stood transfixed by it before. It made something feel weak in his chest. He avoided her eye, his voice gruff. ‘No; my talents lie solely in facts and figures. This was taken by an American photographer who was travelling around the south of France. After my grandfather died, I tracked him down and got a print.’

‘You must have been very close; you mentioned that you spent time with him.’

Pascal just nodded. She didn’t probe any more. She understood the need to keep things back. She knew he was watching her as she continued to walk around, taking sips of wine, feeling the surface of a smooth Roman bust beneath her fingers.

Every one of Pascal’s senses was pulled as taut as a bow string as he watched her hand smooth over the head of the bust, wanting her hand to be smoothing over him. He had to wonder if perhaps her air of vulnerability, her apparent lack of experience, was all an act, designed to entice, tease, seduce. She’d let her hair down, and it was slightly tousled from where she’d run her hands through it, but it wasn’t tousled enough for him yet.

She turned then, and he could see that her glass of wine was empty. He made as if to get the bottle and top her up, but she shook her head jerkily. She was going to make him wait; he knew it. She wasn’t ready. His desire, already at boiling point, would have to settle to a simmer for now.

Alana had turned with every intention of asking for some more wine, but she could already feel the effects. Desire hung between them, heavy and potent. Too much too soon. Pascal stood just feet away, but when he moved as if to give her some more she shook her head. She couldn’t do this now. She wasn’t ready, and she could see that he’d already read that in her expression before she’d known it herself. That disconcerted her. She wasn’t used to people intuiting her intentions.

‘You must be tired.’

She forced a smile. She was anything but. ‘I was up early. Would you mind if I went to bed?’ ‘Alone’ hung between them along with the desire, but it seemed to make it even heavier, denser. Was she doing the right thing? Her body told her no, her head said yes.

He shook his head, jaw rigid, eyes black. ‘Of course not. What time do you have to be in work tomorrow?’

Such banalities.

Alana glanced at her watch, but didn’t even register the time. ‘I have to meet the crew in Stadio Flaminio at midday; the kick-off is at 3:00 p.m.’

He nodded. ‘My car will take you in and come back for me.’

‘If you’re sure? I could get a taxi.’

He shook his head almost violently, and Alana knew the sudden urge to leave, get away now. It was as if his control was barely leashed.

He took the glass from her hand. ‘Dors bien, Alana.’