Читать книгу A Passionate Surrender - Helen Bianchin - Страница 9

HOW long would it take Luc to consult a lawyer and have the requested paperwork completed? With his influence and connections, she doubted he’d have a problem.

The shop was busy, there were several phone orders, and people walked in off the street to select purchases. Single roses, bouquets, cut flowers for a special hospital visit…the requests were numerous and varied.

She was in the middle of assembling decorative Cellophane and gathering baby’s breath when the door buzzer sounded for the umpteenth time. She automatically glanced up from her task to greet the new customer, and saw Luc observing her actions.

There was an element of formidability existent, a sense of purpose that was daunting, and Ana was conscious of an elevated sense of nervous tension.

Her hands paused as her gaze locked with his, then she bent her head and focused on fashioning pink and white carnations into an elaborate spray.

Ribbon completed the bouquet, and she attached the completed card, the instruction slip, then transferred it to the delivery table.

‘Are you done?’ Luc queried silkily, his gaze caught by a tendril of hair that had worked its way loose from her pony-tail, and he restrained the urge to sweep it back behind her ear.

She shot him a cool glance. ‘I finish at six.’

The atmosphere in the room seemed suddenly charged, and she could almost feel the latent electricity apparent.

His eyes narrowed with a chilling bleakness. ‘You can do better than that.’

‘We’re busy.’ Hot damn, she was so polite it was almost comical. She made a thing of checking the time. ‘I’m sure you can manage to fill in a few hours.’

He could, easily. However, he didn’t feel inclined to pander to her deliberate manipulation. ‘One hour, Ana,’ he warned in a voice that was deadly soft.

‘Are you mad?’ the older woman queried the instant Luc left the shop.

‘Certifiably,’ Ana agreed imperturbably.

‘Gutsy, too. I admire that in a woman.’

She was a fool to think she could best him. Except she was damned if she’d allow him to set down terms and expect her to abide by every one of them without a fight.

‘I’m going to be sorry to lose you, honey. We were just beginning to get along.’

‘I could be back,’ Ana said with humour, and heard the other woman’s laughter.

‘I doubt he’ll let you get away again. Now, why don’t you go finish up? I can manage the rest.’ Her eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Besides, I’m not averse to a woman stirring a man up a bit.’

Leave, and not be here when Luc returned? ‘You’re wicked.’

‘Good luck, honey. If you’re ever back up this way again, call in and say hello.’ She withdrew an envelope from her pocket. ‘Your pay.’

‘Keep it in lieu of notice.’

‘Some would. I won’t. Now go.’

It took five minutes to walk to her apartment, and once inside she headed straight for the kitchen, extracted bottled water from the refrigerator, uncapped the lid and drank until her thirst was quenched, then she made for the bedroom, stripped off her clothes and hit the shower.

She washed her hair, then dressed in jeans and a singlet top, opted to forgo make-up and piled her damp hair into a loose knot atop her head.

Packing would probably be a good move, but somehow achieving it indicated her imminent return to Sydney, and sheer stubbornness ensured she put off such a task for as long as possible. Besides, how long did it take to empty a few clothes and possessions into a travel-bag?

It was five when the intercom buzzed, and Ana’s stomach did a quick somersault at the sound. It had to be Luc. No one else knew her address.

She cleared him through security into the main lobby, and then waited for the lift to reach her designated floor.

Her doorbell rang all too soon, and she took a calming breath as she crossed the lounge.

He stood looming large in the aperture, dark and vaguely threatening. He’d removed his jacket and hooked it over one shoulder, his tie was missing, he’d loosened the top few buttons of his shirt and folded the cuffs back from each wrist. It lent him a casual air that was belied by his deliberately enigmatic expression.

Ana met his gaze with fearless disregard, and ignored the increased thud of her heartbeat. ‘I refuse to be treated like a runaway child on the verge of being dragged home by its parent.’

He didn’t move so much as a muscle. ‘Whatever happened to hello?’

She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘You want polite?’

One eyebrow assumed a mocking slant. ‘Shall we start over?’ Luc countered coolly.

‘Not in this lifetime.’

He let his gaze rove slowly over her slim form, then pinned her blue eyes with his own. ‘For the record, my relationship with you is hardly paternal.’

His drawling tone caused her resentment to resurface. ‘You’re setting down rules, taking away my freedom of choice,’ she retaliated, watching as he remained in the doorway.

‘I’ve given you an option,’ Luc corrected silkily.

‘Sure, you have.’ She speared him with an icy blue glare. ‘With only one possible answer!’

He stepped into the lounge and shut the door. ‘Did you imagine I’d have it any other way?’

Ana closed her eyes, then quickly opened them again. ‘You’ve made it quite clear the child I carry is the main issue.’

She watched as he withdrew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and extended it towards her. ‘The legalities you requested.’

Stark legalese held an awful clarity she was loath to accept. Yet what other course did she have?

She lifted her head and met his steady gaze. There was a glimpse of something faintly dangerous in those dark depths she didn’t care to define, and she returned her attention to the printed pages.

There were further clauses outlining conditions that covered every eventuality…and then some.

‘You expect me to sign this?’

‘A legal agreement was your idea.’ Luc’s tone was silk-smooth.

He was right. But that didn’t make it any easier to attach her signature beneath his.

Luc took the document from her outstretched hand and tucked it into his jacket pocket. ‘Do you want to eat out, or order in?’

Food? ‘I thought you’d want to head back—’ She paused, unable for the life of her to say home. ‘To Sydney.’

‘We,’ Luc corrected, adding quietly, ‘And you need to eat.’

‘Such solicitousness is touching.’

‘Don’t be facetious.’

She spared him a long, thoughtful look, assessing the latent power, his innate sensual chemistry and its degree of sexual energy.

For the past nine days he’d filled her mind, invading it in a manner that was tortuous as she reflected on his long strong body, the feel of sinew and muscle, skin on skin, as his lovemaking transcended the physicality of mere sexual coupling.

It was there in his arms where she lost herself to any rational thought, and became a witching wanton eager to gift and receive each sensual delight.

For then she could qualify a one-sided love, content that it was enough not to have love returned in kind. She could even accept his heart remained locked in the memory of Emma, his first wife, hopeful that with time affection might become something deeper, more meaningful.

At no stage had she envisaged the existence or presence of a mistress.

And now there was to be a child…

She desperately wanted the marriage to survive. But there had to be trust, and honesty.

Was Luc’s word, verbally and noted in legalese, sufficient?

After all, words were only an expression of intention, and easily disregarded or broken without honour.

‘Are you done?’

The silkily voiced query held a slight edge which snapped her back to the present, and her chin tilted in silent defiance. ‘No.’

As long as she lived, she’d never be done with him. The trick was never to allow him that edge of knowledge.

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘How long will it take you to pack?’

She’d brought few clothes with her, bought less, and the little personal touches she’d added to the apartment would have no place in Luc’s elegant Vaucluse mansion.

‘I can be ready in fifteen minutes.’ She could do cool. At least for now.

Without a further word she crossed into the bedroom, placed the empty bag onto a chair, and began the task of transferring her belongings.

Luc moved to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and extracted bottled water, filled a glass and swallowed the chilled liquid.

Then he retrieved his cellphone, keyed in a series of digits and instructed his pilot to be on standby for the return flight.

There was, he decided grimly, no point in delaying the inevitable.

Don’t look back, Ana bade silently as she walked at Luc’s side to the car. He stowed her bag in the boot as she slid into the passenger seat, then within minutes he fired the engine and eased the car out from its parking bay.

Luc chose a restaurant at one of the upmarket hotels, and confirmation of their reservation indicated he’d phoned in ahead.

Her appetite seemed to have fled, and she picked at the starter, nibbled a few morsels from the artistically presented main, and chose fresh fruit in lieu of dessert.

‘Not hungry?’

Ana spared him a level glance. ‘No.’ If he suggested she should eat more, she’d be hard pressed not to tip the contents of her plate into his lap.

Luc deferred to her preference for tea and ordered coffee for himself from the hovering waitress.

She watched as he spooned sugar into the dark brew, noting the shape of his hand, the skin texture and the tensile strength evident.

He had the touch, the skill, to drive her mindless with a tactile slide of his fingers, and she hated herself for the sudden increase in the beat of her heart.

Sexual chemistry. It had a power of its own. Damning, lethal.

It took considerable resolve to sip her tea with a semblance of calm, and she felt a sense of relief when he signalled the waitress for their bill.

Three quarters of an hour later they crossed the Tarmac and stepped aboard the luxurious Gulf-stream jet, whose gently whining engines increased in pitch the instant the outer door closed.

Smooth, very smooth, Ana conceded minutes later as the jet wheeled its way out onto the runway, then cleared for take-off, gathered speed and rose like a silver bird into the sky.

The light was fading as dusk approached, and there was an opalescent glow as the sun slipped beneath the horizon in a brilliant flare of orange tinged with pink.

Darkness descended quickly, and all too soon there was nothing to see except an inky blackness and the occasional pinprick of lights as the jet followed the coastline south.

Ana made no attempt at conversation and simply leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, successfully shutting out the sight of the man seated at her side.

It didn’t, however, shut out her chaotic thoughts.

A return to Sydney meant the re-emergence of the lifestyle she’d sought to briefly escape. There was her father, Rebekah, the florist shop.

Worst of all, there was Celine Moore. Her nemesis and her enemy.

Absenting herself for more than a week hadn’t solved a thing. The problems remained. A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat. All that had been achieved was a metaphorical stay of execution.

Who would win? The wife or the mistress?