Читать книгу By Request Collection April-June 2016 - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 48

THE Ritz was the perfect antidote to an ordeal. The beauty, the food, the luscious notes of a string ensemble wafting on the air … Even the silk-festooned windows in their own lavish way declared the hotel’s sincere desire to swaddle the emotionally gouged woman in loving and soul-restoring luxury.

There was a placard in the reception area announcing that the hotel was soon to close its doors for a major renovation and refurbishment. Shari prayed fervently they wouldn’t change a thing.

The bathroom alone was an oasis of tranquillity, though she nearly freaked when she saw herself in the mirrors. Her face was blotchy, the tip of her nose red from all the bawling, and her mascara reminiscent of a bad Hallowe’en hangover. She looked a fright. How could Luc have wanted to kiss her?

She repaired the damage with the emergency kit at the bottom of her bag. Then, refreshed and reconstituted, she floated to join him in the restaurant. After all the emotion, she’d arrived on a tremulous smiley plateau where everything looked hazily beautiful. Especially the dark-eyed man drinking coffee and texting someone on his mobile.

Kill that thought. After all she’d gone through over him, was she to just fall into his arms? Was it always to be the same old thing? Shari Lacey, unable to resist a handsome Frenchman? Another one she knew little about and would be insane to trust?

He glanced up as she approached and his eyes shimmered, inciting an excited clench in her insides. Then, just to mess with her defences, he rose and pulled out a chair for her.

She sat down, that car kiss still tingling through her nerve sockets. Somehow she would have to take a stand. Lay her position on the line before events rocketed out of control. Before she did.

He resumed his chair, his long lanky posture so relaxed and unbothered by anything he’d done to her in that limo it was a damned disgrace.

She steeled herself not to be affected, weakened or seduced.

‘It’s very good of you to bring me here, Luc. Very generous, but …’ His brows twitched up. ‘I—I—I think I should make it clear to you that anything of a-a sexual nature that may have happened between us in Sydney was a one-off. We agreed then it was a mistake, and … Well, so much has happened, and … As far as I’m concerned the whole thing should be wiped from our minds.’

He nodded along with her words as she spoke, though she noticed a certain tension infuse his gorgeous limbs. Then he lifted one quizzical brow. ‘Ah. You think I should forget about meeting you at Emilie’s?’

‘I do. We should both forget it.’

‘So then …’ His black lashes flicked tauntingly downwards. A silky note entered his voice. ‘You wish me to forget Emilie’s garden?’

She eyed him carefully. What in particular might he be remembering about the garden? The last thing she needed to be reminded of was how easily she’d succumbed to that dark stroll into the shrubbery. ‘I’m—surprised you even remember the garden.’

His eyes gleamed in reminiscence. ‘Are you? But it was so pleasant, d’accord? In the dark, with all the fragrances and the moonlight.’ His long fingers toyed idly with his spoon. The same fingers that had recently toyed with parts of her. ‘You must remember the moonlight.’ Her nerve jumped. ‘The harbour lights.’

‘Where are we going with this?’ Although she knew where he was headed with it, all right.

He leaned forward, a lazy smile playing on his sexy mouth. ‘I think you know where. Where else but to the boathouse? You’re not expecting me to forget the boathouse, chérie, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Well, I’ve forgotten it. As far as I’m concerned, nothing about it was very memorable.’

He threw back his head and laughed. He looked so handsome, with amusement illuminating his face and the light dancing in his eyes, a wave of hot and bitter frustration swept her. He had no right to be so attractive and to mock her. He was the one who’d found the magic moments shameful and made her feel like a disgrace to womanhood.

Luckily the waiter arrived just then, or she might have snatched up the coffee pot and whacked Luc over the head with it.

Controlling her annoyance, she turned her full attention to the menu, consulting earnestly with the waiter, feeling Luc’s lazy glance scorch her face, throat and hands.

Everything enshrined on the list sounded delicious, but in the end she confined herself to ordering a spoonful of gentle, soothing yoghurt, along with some strawberries claimed to have been washed in morning dew. To follow she requested the buttery scrambled eggs, waiving both the caviar garnish and the champagne to wash them down.

Well, she had to show some respect for her stomach. It felt fine now, but who knew when it might rear up again in revolt?

While she enjoyed her yoghurt, Luc reflected on the effect their encounter had left on him. He still thought of it. No wonder he’d followed her home like a madman. Nom de Dieu, he was only flesh and blood. Would he ever forget holding her in his arms in that dark, sea-salty place? Her throaty little cries as he buried himself in her moist heat?

As he watched her soft lips close over a strawberry his blood stirred unbearably.

His underclothes tightened and he had to exert careful control over his voice. ‘How—long do you plan to stay?’

‘A couple of days. Tomorrow I thought I might visit the Musée D’Orsay. I fly home the day after that.’

Every sinew in his body tensed in utter rejection of that ludicrous plan. But outwardly he controlled the reaction. ‘But how will you see Paris?’

‘Well, I—I haven’t come for a sightseeing tour, have I?’

She raised her glass to her lips. As she swallowed he noticed the muscles contract in her satin throat. Without warning a rush of hot turgid blood raced to his groin. He forced himself to shift his agonised gaze to the wall, the window, the orchid in its vase. Everywhere, anywhere until he could trust his voice.

‘That’s—a very brief visit. Surely … you can transfer your flight to a future date?’

She shot him a glance. ‘I’m not sure why I would do that.’ He waited for the next flash of green, his breath on hold. ‘I suppose … if I had a reason …’

He could think of a damned good one, but not one that was sayable. Surely she could feel the pulse as strongly as he? Why did things have to be so complicated with women?

‘A reason to stay in Paris,’ he mused aloud. ‘Not many people in the world would find that a challenge.’

The sensual note in his voice registered in Shari’s hearing. With his lashes at half mast she was reminded of a devious, smouldering wolf. Why should she find that so scarily thrilling? The dangerous little tongue of flame threatening to undo her licked deep.

Her scrambled eggs were set before her, moist, speckled with parsely, and accompanied by pale golden toast. The eggs melted on her tongue, while the hot chocolate might well have been the most divine ever to pass human lips.

Unusually for her, however, she didn’t manage to clean up every last scrap. It was hard to concentrate her attention on even food when such a man was distracting her.

When the waiter returned to clear her dishes, she noticed Luc listening to her flowery praise of the chef, a smile lurking in his eyes.

‘You were very kind,’ he observed after the man had gone.

‘Artists ought to be appreciated.’

‘Artists like you?’

‘Now who’s being kind?’

He met her gaze, smiling in return, making her helpless heart somersault. ‘I believe I have seen your book.’

She widened her eyes. ‘Here? Honestly? Here?’

‘Oui. In a bookshop. I happened to wander in and—there it was. I thought it was—’ every nerve in her body held its breath in trembling hope ‘—so—beautiful.’

Oh, the relief. Her fearful heart glowed so fiercely she could have danced, sung and cried all at the same time. It didn’t matter if he was sincere. Just that he was being kind. Just for that moment she loved him. Loved Luc Valentin with all her heart.

‘Thanks.’ Her smile burst through. ‘It’s always lovely not to be crushed.’

He grinned, then his face grew rather grave and he cleared his throat. ‘Alors, Shari, I do wish to express how … I—I—regret the way it ended in Sydney.’

‘I’m glad you brought it up,’ she said tensely, thinking of all those sleepless nights of futile yearning, knowing he thought so badly of her. The injustice of the things he said. Her mortification when he caught her at her most naked. Her anger and misery, and … Oh, God. Maddening, unsatisfiable desire. ‘I—I don’t think you know how those things you said—hurt me. I …’

He blinked, then concealed his eyes behind his lashes. He said stiffly, ‘Perhaps you took it all too much to heart.’

She sat back and smiled coolly. ‘Which part?’ She could feel herself start to tremble. ‘The part where you didn’t believe me? Where you accused me of being a dishonourable slag? Or the bit when you followed me home like a stalker?’ She kept on smiling, though her heart was suddenly working like a piston.

A tinge of colour darkened his bronzed cheek. ‘Perhaps it seemed that way. But you must see that at the time …’

‘No.’ She disciplined herself to keep her voice low. ‘At the time, Luc, I was not a liar. If I committed any crime it was a crime against myself. My own code of behaviour—and—and—safety in offering the pleasure of my body to a man I didn’t know and couldn’t trust.’

‘Trust?’ He spoke so sharply she jumped. ‘Vraiment, this was a matter of honour. I was afraid you—might still be involved with my cousin.’

Startled by his vehemence, she compressed her lips, but, unable to hold in some defence of herself, she burst into a fierce whisper. ‘If I had been do you think I’d have betrayed him? Are you still thinking of me like that? As a—a whore? Oh, it’s too much. Too much.’ She threw down her napkin and rose to her feet, emotion rising faster in her than high tide at Bondi.

‘Shari, no, no, I don’t think that. Please.’ He sprang up and took her arms, his eyes earnest and intent. ‘I have never said that. I thought you were a very passionate and beautiful woman in the midst of a—a complex situation. I could see we needed to discuss it and—analyse it like rational adults. Why do you think I followed you home?’

‘Oh, why? Obvious. You thought you could sweet-talk your way into my bed. And is that why you’ve brought me here to the Ritz? You’re hoping to try your luck again?’

He looked shocked. His handsome face assumed such a gravely wounded expression she wondered if she’d been unjust.

‘That is a—disappointing suggestion.’

It was a suggestion that had only just surfaced in her mind, but once it did, it took root.

He was shaking his head in austere denial of the charge when her glance fell on his mouth. Paradoxically, against all reason and logic, in total betrayal of herself and the sisterhood of women, she was seized with an irresistible impulse to ravage that stirring mouth, to tease those sternly compressed lips apart with her tongue and drink in every last masculine drop of Luc Valentin.

At the same time her nipples, the tender vibrant tissues between her legs tingled and flamed with a violent, feminine yearning impossible to repress.

As though he were divining her lustful state a piercing gleam lit Luc’s eyes. He lifted his brows. A subtle change came over his demeanour. ‘Shh, shh, chérie.’ His voice became silky smooth. ‘It has been a stressful morning. Sit down again for a minute. Come, now.’

She glanced about. Naturally, there were a few interested parties straining to catch every word—a couple of princes, several duchesses with their beaux and a sheikh—though none of them seemed to be goggling with as much curiosity as they would have if this scene had been taking place in a Sydney restaurant.

In a fever of confusion, she resumed her place. How could she desire someone who’d caused her such distress? How could she want to bite his bronzed neck, drink his blood and eat him alive?

He leaned forward, his lean face stern, his eyes searing her with an urgent intent. ‘We need to talk. Settle this somewhere private, where we can be alone.’ Suddenly he was radiating energy, like a ship’s captain taking charge of a serious aquatic catastrophe. He grasped her hand and squeezed. ‘Give me two minutes—I’ll arrange a quiet corner.’ He stood up. ‘Will you be OK here? Oui? Now, don’t leave.’

He gave her a firm look to hold her there, then strode away.

Shari closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? She’d been angry with him for so long, now as soon as she met him again, she felt— Oh, face it. Thrilled to be with him. Everything he said—even the bits that outraged her—every small nuance was etching itself on her heart.

He was devastating her again. The last time a Frenchman made her feel this way … Look what happened! She should have walked out. Summoned a taxi and flown back to the Hôtel du Louvre. Taken off her hat, crawled into bed and eased her mad and insatiable desires as best she could in the time-honoured way.

But his electrifying squeeze was still burning her hand. And she needed to hear what he had to say. Maybe he would apologise so sincerely she could honourably forgive him.

Forgive him and …

Anyway, it would be a shame to take off the hat before it was absolutely necessary.

To evade more vulgar curiosity, she swanned to the bathroom and, armed with her toothkit from the plane, managed to give her teeth a good minty scrub.

She emerged in time to see Luc return from the direction of the reception area. He walked with such confident masculine authority, such athletic energy in his long limbs, she felt a flame of longing sear deep inside her.

He caught sight of her and changed course, strolling across to smoothly, possessively take her arm. ‘Come.’

Slipping her bag onto her shoulder, she savoured the erotic graze of his suit fabric on her skin. ‘Have you—found a place where we can talk?’

‘No problem.’ His dark gaze dwelled smoulderingly on her face. ‘They assure me it will be very, very quiet.’

He ushered her into a lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

‘Have you …?’ She turned to gaze at him. ‘Have you ever read The Pursuit of Love?’

He glanced keenly at her, eyes gleaming. ‘The Pursuit of …?’

She tried not to show it, but she was breathing so fast her breasts were rising and falling like twin peaks during a major quake. ‘Love. The heroine finds herself stranded at the Gare du Nord without any money. This Frenchman strolls by …’

His eyes sharpened. ‘A Frenchman?’

‘Yes. A tall, very sexy, very wicked duke. He persuades her to go home with him and he …’

He lifted his brows. ‘Oui? What does he do?’

‘Oh. Well, er …’ She stared at his mouth and said breathlessly, ‘I may need to revisit that part of the story to remind myself.’

His eyes burned. The air crackled with a tension that singed her very nerve endings.

The doors slid open and he guided her along a hushed corridor until they came to a door numbered 514. He slipped the card into the lock.

The door opened to a light, elegant foyer.

Shari blinked. ‘But—this is a room.’

He shrugged. ‘Bien sûr.’

She walked in, tingling with a primitive anticipation. The room was spacious, with beautiful panelled walls and moulded ceilings at least four metres high. The carpet under her feet felt as deep and soft as a cloud. The further in she walked, the more there was to steal her breath.

A fine antique tapestry. Paintings, sparingly placed. Silken panels in shades of carmine and duck-egg blue, reflecting the gorgeous colours in the Persian rugs. Then there were the double windows with their long sensuous drapes, the moulded fireplace and heartbreakingly exquisite Louis Quinze furnishings.

What was most significant to her eye, though, and zinged through her like an ocean wave, was beckoning through an open door. A magnificent king-sized bed, arrayed with plump, inviting pillows set atop a charming counterpane.

‘Oh,’ she said faintly. ‘It’s a suite.’

‘As private as we could wish for, surely.’ He strolled across to the windows and gazed down into the street. She noted a sudden tension in the set of his wide shoulders. A suspenseful tension that communicated itself to her and electrified the very room.

He turned to her, and her lungs seized. Beneath his heavy brows his dark eyes shimmered with a molten, lascivious intent.

He said softly, ‘Would you care to take off your hat?’

She tingled all over. Her heart was thundering. Her feet started to move, and as he strode swiftly across to her she practically flung herself at his hard body. She threw her arms around his neck and met his fierce, thirsty impassioned kisses with reckless disregard for any moral or overruling principle.

Her hat landed on the sofa, and while she tore at his shirt and unbuckled his belt to open his trousers he dropped her suit on the rug, unclipped her bra and stripped her bare.

The lithe beauty of his lean, muscular body, never seen, only felt, was as thrilling as her most fevered imaginings.

She gasped as his powerful erection rose in proud and gorgeous majesty. But her questing hands barely had time to stroke, squeeze and relish the prime virile beauty before he fell upon her nakedness like a hungry beast.

He kissed her breasts, licked her engorged nipples, blazed a trail of greedy kisses down to her navel and below.

Then he dropped to his knees. Embracing her thighs, he ravaged her curls with his mouth, then pushed her to the sofa. She trembled with sheer excitement. Parting her thighs, he paused a moment to feast his eyes, then, while she whimpered for blissful joy, bent his dark head between her legs and licked the tickly velvet. Tingles of erotic pleasure radiated through her in dark liquid waves.

When he took her clit between his gorgeous lips and sucked—heaven on earth—her panting moans turned to sobs of pure ecstasy.

With an actual blossoming orgasm, she cried out in disbelief when he drew away, leaving her hanging on an edge. ‘Don’t stop now. Please, please, keep …’

But, ignoring her complaints, he stood up to draw a small package from his jacket pocket. Swiftly he sheathed himself, then, taking her hands, pulled her off the sofa and into his arms. In the stumbling rush to the bedroom, she hooked her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips.

There was a thrilling urgency to his haste. Devouring her mouth with what could only be called passionate savagery, he plunged inside her even before she hit the mattress.

Once on it, she gave herself up to the heavenly friction. And he was a master. He filled her so full her body exploded with light with his every sinuous movement. Rocking her into an urgent pulsing rhythm, he ignited rivers of magic in her flesh. Fireworks infused her every capillary.

And just like the first time, the fierce and hungry fervour in his eyes and the athletic synchronicity of their bodies rocketed her passion to an explosive and fantastic climax.

Long after her wild, appreciative cries subsided, she floated, eyes closed for seconds, minutes, maybe even hours on a cloud of blissful contemplation.

Vindicated. Vindicated as a woman.

When her heartbeat was back to near normal Luc lay on his back, lashes half the way down to reveal only slits of eyes, like a slumberous lion after a killing.

She smiled. ‘That was fantastic.’

‘Likewise,’ he said gravely. ‘You are formidable. So passionate.’

‘Thanks.’ She blushed. Her heart glowed at the recognition. Positively beamed through her chest wall. ‘And you know, it felt amazing. It’s rare for me to ever feel so—hot. It was truly liberating. It must have been the reaction to all the stress.’

‘I’m so happy the stress worked for you,’ he said smoothly, his eyes glinting.

She guessed Frenchwomen, being so mysterious and sophisticated, didn’t confess their feelings after sex.

‘Well, there was that other time too, of course. My first actual …’ She screeched to a halt in the bare nick of time.

His lifted an eyebrow. ‘Your first …?’

‘Boathouse. I recall feeling pretty well piping hot there.’

Heavens, time to shut the heck up. She’d brushed pretty close to giving away her fatal flaw. Knowing she was back in the orgasmic hot zone though, so to speak, was fantastically motivating. After her rocky start this morning, she could hardly believe she’d achieved this marvellous and formidable feeling of heavenly freedom and pleasantness.

After a moment he said, ‘But you must have known many other occasions when you felt so piping hot, having been engaged?’

‘Oh, sure. Of course, of course.’ She gave her hand an airy wave. ‘Although …’ She hesitated, and added with a self-conscious flutter, ‘Well … The conditions can’t always be perfect, can they?’

‘They can’t?’

‘Well, I don’t know how a man feels, but I guess a woman needs to feel—admired.’

He drew his brows in a frown. ‘But Rémy admired you, d’accord? He asked you to marry him.’

‘Not marry, exactly. Just—to get engaged. Marriage was to be in the distant future. He wanted to establish D’Avion in Australia properly first.’

He laughed softly. ‘Tiens.’

‘I think what he really meant was he wanted to romance every woman in Sydney first.’ She laughed sadly, though it was a rueful sadness now, not the broken-hearted one it had once been. Rueful, she supposed, for her part in everything that had gone wrong. Sad, because Rémy, having hurt so many people, would now never even have the chance to redeem himself.

Luc leaned over and kissed her. ‘He was a fool. He didn’t know what he had.’

‘You’re not wrong.’ She smiled.

He took her in his arms and kissed her again, more deeply this time. Quite emotionally in fact. It was really very stirring and beautiful. And the graze of his chest hair against her breasts was so erotic, she felt as if she was in the most perfect location on the planet.

When the kiss ended they drew apart, then laughed a little embarrassedly at their intensity. ‘Who’d have thought we’d have ended up here?’ she said, grinning.

‘Not me. When I saw you this morning I thought I was hallucinating.’

‘I thought I was going to faint.’

‘I have that effect,’ he said modestly, laughing when she gave him a playful punch. He stacked the pillows up behind his head. ‘But I can’t understand why you agreed to be engaged to him? What was it about him?’

‘Dunno. I was a fool. Naive, I s’pose. He seemed—charming. Exciting. Romantic.’

‘Romantic?’ His face expressed Gallic disbelief.

She hardly wanted to admit she was a Georgette-Heyer-style Regency heroine with deep-held fantasies about marrying a sexy earl. Not that Rémy was in any way an earl, though he’d claimed to have one in his family.

‘Well, he was my first Frenchman. All my girlfriends thought he was really, really hot. I felt so lucky … I was sort of swept along, I guess. For a while.’ She compressed her lips. ‘I s’pose in fairness he was too. And Em was so thrilled. I think she was relieved he’d finally decided to settle down.’ She grimaced. ‘The irony of that. He was about as settled down as Casanova. I’ve sure learnt my lesson. Settling down is highly overrated.’

‘Be careful who you settle down with next time.’

She squeezed his pleasingly hard bicep. ‘Haven’t you been listening, monsieur? There won’t be a next time.’

‘How can you say so? There’ll be some good solid guy searching the world for you even now.’

She felt a sharp pang. He wasn’t thinking of himself in that regard, then. She said rather tartly, ‘Tsk, tsk. Poor him. He can wash his own socks and cook his own dinners. From now on I intend to be a woman of affairs, living for the good times.’

Luc appraised her face. She was smiling, but there were shadows in her eyes. As on that night in Paddington, that impulse seized him. That desire to drive away those shadows and wipe the darkness from her life.

He’d have laughed at himself if it hadn’t been for a flash of his return to his hotel that night. Blindly negotiating the city streets, scored with longing and regret. Guilt. One of the most rugged journeys of his life.

At the time he’d burned to snatch her out of harm’s way. But, of course, the cold light of morning had reminded him of his reasons to board the plane, Rémy’s theft from the company being foremost.

He frowned. ‘Was it—so bad?’

She glanced quickly at him. ‘Not at first. But—gradually. As the gloss wore off. I think you’ve guessed …’ She dropped her eyes. ‘He wasn’t always—very nice.’

‘He was—violent?’

There was a tiny tremor at the corner of her mouth, and he felt something inside him tighten.

‘Not with his fists, no, except that one time at the end when he was desperate to find his passport. He was just cruel—in little careless ways. Things he said. About me, about Neil. Sometimes he’d touch me, pull my hair in a joke, though always a little bit too hard. Not like a person who loved you.’

Luc lay frowning, his pulse beating hard with the increase in his blood pressure. His fists had bunched involuntarily. It was a good thing Rémy was where he was now, or he’d have felt this fierce need to go after him and teach him something about civility and decency. Not that more violence would ever be the answer.

He glanced at her downcast face. ‘I had heard—Rémy’s papa wasn’t very kind. There were rumours in the family …’

‘I know. Emilie mentioned it once. But I never expected—that.’

‘Of course not.’

Perhaps unlucky Rémy had been poorly conditioned as a child, but … Luc burned to think of a man treating any woman this way. To enjoy hurting Shari … How could the guy have? Examining the fragile lines of her face, he guessed there was more she could have told. Far more.

Caution sounded a warning note in his brain. Perhaps it was better he didn’t know those things. His rational mind told him the more a man learned about a woman, the more he saw into her, the deeper he sank into the emotional quicksand. Already his responses to her were out of all proportion. Way out. Just one morning with her and he was dangerously close to relaxing his guard completely.

Had he forgotten where it could all end?

Shari felt a tension in the lengthening silence. Maybe she’d said too much. She could almost hear his brain analysing the evidence, weighing it all up.

‘Anyway, enough about my little case,’ she said lightly. ‘Everyone’s break-up is painful, is it not? C’est la vie, hey, monsieur?’ With a rueful smile she reached up and rubbed her knuckle over his cheek. ‘Haven’t we all loved and lost?’

His expression lightened almost at once. ‘You are right. My last lover preferred a famous movie star to me. Can you imagine?’ He made a comical face, and she joined him in a laugh.

As the room grew silent again she wondered if there was a certain brooding flavour to the atmosphere. ‘She must be insane,’ she murmured.

He grimaced, then his face lightened to a smile. ‘I thought of you every day, after we parted.’

‘About the bruise?’

He frowned. ‘Not that. About you. How beautiful you are. How—original.’ She hardly believed it. Even so, her mouse heart thrilled to its little rodent core. ‘Every hour … of every day.’

‘And I thought of you every day. I wanted to murder you. I wanted to make you sorry. I wanted to put my hands around your strong, beautiful neck and …’

A flame lit his dark eyes. ‘Come here.’ He reached for her. He whispered the words against her mouth. ‘I was sorry. I am sorry. Now I want you to forget—everything.’

This time his passion was darker, more fervent, more tender. A fierce and ardent light glowed in his eyes as he rocked her, filled her and pleasured her until she was blazing with light and higher than the moon.

And she did forget. She forgot everything in existence except the world of his arms, his passionate mouth, his beautiful, hard, thrusting body, the fierce heat in his eyes.

While Paris ticked over outside and the day drew on, their lips grew raw with kissing, their bodies sated. With exhaustion in view, Luc dragged up the sheet to cover them. Shari lay face to face with him, languorous eyes to eyes.

Gently, he pushed her hair from her face. ‘Two days is too short. You should stay longer.’

‘What for?’ She traced the outline of his mouth with her finger.

‘For this.’

Her heart skipped a heavy beat. What was this? This mad, uncontrollable need to hold him to her and never let him go. When had she ever known this intense mutual tenderness and passion? She wanted to run outside and shout it to the world. Luc Valentin wanted her. He was asking her to stay in Paris. In his apartment.

She said carefully, ‘I only have my hotel room for the three nights. They mightn’t be able to let me keep it longer.’ She held her breath.

‘Bien sûr, stay here.’

‘Here?’ A pang of disappointment, so intense it was scary, cut through her. She dragged up an empty laugh while inwardly she cringed. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

Oh, how she’d misinterpreted.

‘I can’t tempt you? A week at the Ritz? You can do your sightseeing while I’m at work, then in the evenings … More sightseeing.’ He lifted his brows suggestively.

She concealed her gaze from him. ‘You can tempt me to some more of those scrambled eggs. I’m hungry enough to eat everything in this room.’ What a fool she must be. What a needy, susceptible fool. A few sweet words and she was ready to believe anything.

Imagine if she did stay the week. In no time she’d be dreaming of a future. Deluding herself, listening for clues of his intentions. Laying herself open to disappointment.

Hello, heartbreak, her old BFF.

She showered with him while waiting for the food, then, wrapped in a peach towelling bathrobe, shared the feast Luc had ordered.

‘I’ll have to put some clothes on soon,’ he said, sighing. ‘We’ll need more protection if I am to keep you happy. Mustn’t risk anything going wrong.’

She stared down at her scramble. A paralysing thought surfaced in her mind. Perhaps it had always been there, just below her consciousness. Since the boathouse. Since the PMT that hadn’t eventuated into anything. The nausea on the plane. No, there’d been more even before that.

With too much to think about—Luc, Rémy, Emilie, the twins, booking her journey, the dread and excitement at seeing Luc again—she’d allowed her body no room in her thoughts.

Too frightening to acknowledge, too catastrophic, the vague and extreme possibility crystallised in her brain with ruthless digital clarity.

‘No,’ she said hollowly. ‘It would be awful if anything went wrong.’

Her heart plunged in freefall.