Читать книгу By Request Collection April-June 2016 - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 54

‘YOU’RE very quiet.’ They were crossing the Seine en route to chez Laraine. ‘Was it all too much? Are you feeling well?’

‘Sure. I’m feeling great. Just—thinking, is all.’

Thinking about what an idiot she was. Why had she done it? She’d set up a trap and walked straight into herself. She didn’t want that ghastly test unless the doctor specifically recommended it.

It only served her right for angling for reassurance. And how useless that had been. If a man wasn’t in love, he wasn’t, and nothing would ever make it happen.

At least he wasn’t lying to her. She supposed she should respect his implacable resistance to swearing undying love he didn’t mean.

With a sick feeling she realised that if she didn’t take the test, Luc would assume she was scared of the outcome.

‘This may not be the best time for you to go to lunch when you have had such a strenuous morning,’ he said apologetically, ‘but on any normal day I’ll be at work. I’m not sure you’re ready to visit Maman on your own. What do you think?’

Shari glanced quickly at him. Her? Visit Maman on her own? Had he been eating the wrong mushrooms?

‘You may be right,’ was all she said. But her mental cogs were whirring like crazy. Was this to be her lot from now on? Regular visits into the jaws of hell? Not that they were unkind to her there. It was just that her status with them was so uncertain. She wasn’t quite a cousin, nor yet a fiancée. Perhaps she was a girlfriend, although surely Frenchmen loved their girlfriends.

‘What am I?’ she said.

He looked sharply at her. ‘Comment?’

‘How do I explain myself to your family? I mean … it’s hard to know where I stand there. Am I a friend of the family?’

‘Of course you are a friend. You are—my …’ Seemed he too had trouble finding the word. ‘It will be easier for you when you learn more French,’ he said suavely. ‘Everything will be easier.’

After twice making an exhibition of herself before his entire family, she seriously doubted that. It would take some magnificent achievement, like saving France from invasion, or reconstituting Napoleon, to correct the impression she’d made.

‘Exactly how much does your mother know?’ she said lightly as he backed the Merc into an impossibly tight space in the vicinity of the building.

‘She knows nothing. Or …’ He lifted his hands from the wheel. ‘She is Maman. She could know everything.’ He flashed her a grin.

Great.

‘Think of it this way,’ he said smoothly, urging her up his mother’s garden path. ‘Now you are staying in Paris you will need to know some people. When I am at my office all day, you might need a friend to talk to. Here are some people who are willing to know you.’

Shari broke into a laugh. Her heart warmed with love for the sweet man. At least he was thoughtful about her loneliness. And his excitement about the baby was a fantastic relief.

Fortunately, this visit was less nerve-wracking than the first. She’d done everything humanly possibly here to dispel the notion she was Rémy’s woman on her first visit, and today it paid off. No urns were on display, and the assembly around the lunch table treated her with kid gloves.

She guessed that those who hadn’t been present the first time she visited had been apprised of her dive into the twilight zone.

Strolling in with Luc, she tried to look reassuringly normal and joyous. Certainly, after the visit to the doctor, some joy must have still been hanging about her because it kept trilling through her spirit. Nothing too terrible could touch her with Luc’s enthusiasm for their shared secret wrapped around her heart like a shield.

‘Alors, Shari, how are you today?’ people said after the exchange of kissing. ‘Are you well, ma chérie? Are you eating your food?’

Laraine herself, dressed in a lovely linen suit, was very attentive to Shari’s comfort. Shari wondered if it was an accident the decanter of mineral water had been positioned near her place setting. How was a woman able to be so charming, so intelligent, so pleasant and discreet all at the same time, and still be so formidable?

At least Shari felt more confident about her clothes. She was wearing her floral dress, heels, and had wound her hair into a chignon to show off some aquamarine earrings Luc had surprised her with in honour of their first consultation.

She’d drawn a caterpillar on her collarbone, but felt pretty sure it would only be visible if she leaned forward, or had to twist about.

Laraine’s cast of characters had expanded. There was a new couple, Raoul and Lucette. Lucette had a baby in a high chair she was feeding while attempting to eat her own food. Every so often Raoul interrupted his conversation to amuse the baby or assist in the production of shovelling food into his little rosebud mouth. Whenever Raoul looked on them a softness touched his eyes.

He loves him, Shari thought, trying not to stare. Really loves him. And he loves her.

Tante Marise was late to arrive, and after she’d kissed and been kissed by everyone she exclaimed to Luc, ‘Again, Luc, and so soon. We are honoured, hein?’ Then she turned to Shari, her blue eyes so genuinely kind Shari felt warmed. ‘I am so happy you are here, Shari. When do you return to Australia?’

Shari felt Luc’s quick glance. ‘Not yet. Not for a while.’

‘Oh, là, but where are you staying? Not in an ‘otel?’

‘Shari is staying with me,’ Luc said, taking up a ladle and turning to Shari. ‘Tagine, chérie?’

All eyes sparkled and flitted between Luc and Shari. After a polite nodded ‘Ah’ from Tante Marise, conversations about half a dozen random subjects broke out while the family digested the information with their tagine à l’orange.

Chickpeas and lentils in a mildly aromatic sauce.

Delicious.

Shari felt a pleased glow. She could have kissed the man right there. A public acknowledgement of their relationship, however discreet, was a breakthrough.

Laraine seemed to take the news in her stride. She merely nodded, as if her son was confirming something she’d suspected all along. Her glance at Shari continued warm, curious, a little amused, and Shari felt it often.

She supposed mothers worried about who was birthing their sons’ babies. By some feat of witchcraft, Laraine had already guessed she was in the family way. How soon would be tactful to fill the matriarch in officially? Not understanding how things worked between mother and son made the territory chancy.

Until Luc was ready to declare his paternity to the world, Shari couldn’t feel any real security. And how likely was he to announce it loud and clear unless he knew for certain he was the father?

By the time they were through the salad course, Rochefort and were embarking on the mousse aux framboises, Rémy’s name hadn’t been mentioned once. The family were making an effort.

Maybe a day would come when she would feel relaxed with them all and stop worrying about every little thing. But after she and Luc had said their farewells, kissed and been kissed, the burning question had crystallised in her mind.

When would she return home? Would she ever?

‘It wasn’t quite so scary this time,’ she said to Luc afterwards.

‘It was good you remained conscious,’ he agreed, smiling.

‘And the earrings helped.’

‘Tu étais belle. Soon they will love you.’

Her heart panged. Would they?

Would he?

She twisted her hands in her lap. ‘It feels strange not to know for certain where I’ll be in a year’s time. Or if I’ll be seeing Neil at Christmas.’

He looked sharply at her. ‘You’ll be here at Christmas. With me. On the very brink of giving birth, if not in the hospital.’

‘If we can arrange the visa.’

‘Don’t worry about that, chérie. You worry far too much. I’m meeting with someone tomorrow, and we will discuss it.’

‘Someone in the government?’

His eyes veiled and he waggled his hand. ‘A friend.’ After a long silence he observed casually, ‘You and Neil must be—very close.’

‘Well, naturally. He practically brought me up, you know.’

He was silent so long, she turned to examine him. He was far away, a curious twist to his mouth.

‘Now who’s looking worried,’ she teased. ‘Lighten up. I’m the one giving birth.’

Eager to fit in, she enrolled in intensive French lessons. Five mornings a week she caught the métro to Saint-Placide where she brushed up on her vocabulary and grammar. It didn’t seem to help when she was on the train eavesdropping on people’s conversations, but at least she was learning things about French manners and customs that hadn’t been included at high school.

Luc was pleased. And she began to notice that, more and more, he reverted to his own language when they were conversing.

Gradually, words and expressions must have been seeping into her understanding, because often she caught his meaning. Not that she understood him any the better, except in the matter of passion, where understanding flowed between them like a tumultuous river.

The first ultrasound scan was an unforgettable experience. The indistinct and everchanging images of a tiny burgeoning person, the brave little rhythm of another heart beating within her had a deeply emotional effect on them both. During the event Luc seemed to lose all power of speech. Shari naturally cried, but glancing at Luc at one point she caught an awed shimmer in his eyes too, though he quickly concealed them from her.

The news was good. The baby was developing well, and growing at the normal rate. The doctor offered to tell them the gender, but seeing a doubt in Luc’s shining eyes, Shari said softly, ‘I think we’d like to be surprised.’

Before they left, the doctor paused. ‘Everything is looking very strong. Your next ultrasound will be in July.’ She produced a schedule with all Shari’s future consultations listed. The amniocentesis test hadn’t been included, to Shari’s relief.

Maybe she could just quietly forget about it. Pretend the subject had never come up. But her relief was shortlived when the doctor added, ‘I see no need for the amnio test you inquired about. Your risk level is very low. Unless you have some concerns you wish to settle?’

Shari tensed. ‘No, no. I just …’ She glanced at Luc, who’d frowned. She could feel a blush creep up her neck and into her hair. Admitting to the doctor that the father of her child had ever had the slightest question about his paternity, rightly or wrongly, was harder than she’d even imagined. ‘Can we make the decision later?’

Luc scoured Shari’s troubled face. He said gently, ‘We don’t need to have the test, you know.’

The doctor looked from one to the other, her intelligent glance veiled.

‘We’ll discuss it again,’ Shari told her, cheeks blazing. ‘I’ll let you know.’

‘Bien sûr,’ the doctor said easily. ‘I will write it in and we can always eliminate it if we decide to.’

They would decide to, Luc thought, pierced by Shari’s blush. Somehow he would persuade her out of it. He thought guiltily back to the day he’d snapped at her in the café. He’d planted that seed of insecurity in her himself with his own careless tongue. Added to the Rémy effect …

Was it any wonder she believed he didn’t trust her?

It was a delicate balancing act, keeping a woman happy and secure without making her feel as pinned as a butterfly. How did guys achieve it? With a cold anxious burr it occurred to him that if he wasn’t careful she’d be on the next plane to Australia.

And then what?

A flash of his life before she came into it chilled his soul like a sudden arctic breeze. He wouldn’t let her go. Not without a fight.

‘I wish I didn’t have to return to work,’ he said thickly out in the street, pausing to shower her face in kisses. ‘I want to be with you. I could have you right here against this lamppost.’

‘Flattering, but would it be wise, monsieur? I’d rather not be arrested.’

He laughed, but, surrendering to her protest, escorted her to the car with his arm around her waist, brimming with positive energy that communicated itself to Shari.

‘Now we know we are safe we can begin to tell our friends, n’est-ce pas?’

Shari nodded excitedly. ‘Good. I can’t wait to tell Neil. He and Em’ll be over the moon. But …’ She shot him a glance. ‘I think it might be best for your mother to hear it from us first.’

His dark eyes shimmered with some mysterious knowledge. ‘Ah, oui. Maman will like you to tell her. And we must start some serious planning. We need to research the schools. And you’ve never said … Do we want a nanny? And I’m wondering if we need to hire a dietician to prepare your meals from now on. What do you think?’

She stared incredulously at him.

‘No?’ He burst into an amused laugh. ‘But I am thinking of hiring a car with a driver for you. You shouldn’t be travelling on the métro. It’s too much of a risk. Anything could happen.’

‘Now just hold on there. I like catching the …’

Luc stiffened momentarily and the words died on Shari’s lips.

A taxi had drawn in behind their car and a woman got out to help another alight. When the second one straightened up Shari saw she was heavily pregnant, moving with the changed gait brought about by the redistribution of body weight. She was in jeans and heels, her enormous bump lovingly outlined by a tightly fitted shirred top. Her hair had been cut in a short, sleek, very chic bob, and she wore minimal jewellery, apart from some bangles and hoops in her ears.

Noticing Luc, she teetered backwards on her heels for an instant, and Luc lunged forward to steady her. He barely had time to touch her elbow before her companion stepped in and took a firm steadying grip of her other arm.

With a sharp pang Shari recognised that face. Who else at her advanced stage of pregnancy could manage to be so elegant? And she was, Shari acknowledged. Truly elegant. With a glowing, luminous beauty.

Luc smiled, though there was a hard glint in his narrowed eyes.

‘Ah. Manon. What a magnificent surprise,’ he said in French.

The beauty inclined her head. ‘Luc.’

‘Imagine meeting you here, of all places.’ How could such suave and graceful words be so punishing? ‘And looking so—robust. Not bored with America, I trust?’

Manon glanced quickly at her friend, then pushed back her sunglasses. Her gorgeous amber eyes were defiant. ‘I could never be bored with America. But where else does one go at this beautiful time of life?’

Her glance flicked sideways to Shari for a bare instant, then back to him.

There was a screechingly silent abyss when no one said anything, then the other woman tugged at Manon and hustled her into the clinic.

On the trip home, the atmosphere in the Merc had a certain explosive fragility. It crept in upon Shari that her situation was really very precarious. It was terrifying to think, but there was a horrible possibility about the man she loved she needed to take into account.

If he was still fixated on Manon, how long would he be likely to stay with her? Until the birth? Until the babe was a week old? Three months? And if he left her, would he be content to leave his baby behind?

A familiar claw caught her entrails in a death grip. She knew nothing of French law in the matter of child custody. But how likely was it that a mother—who wasn’t even a citizen—would take precedence over the father who was?

In one swoop the excitement of the fantastic visit to the clinic was wiped.

‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said, fluttering her lashes to draw his attention to the fact that hers were at least as long as Manon’s. ‘More beautiful than her pictures.’ He made no answer, but she persevered. ‘Did you know she was pregnant?’

His dark eyes were cool and veiled. ‘I may have heard.’

‘It’s—quite a coincidence.’

‘How is it a coincidence?’

‘Well … you and she were together. Now she’s pregnant, and here you and I are …’

‘Life goes on. And …’ He turned his head, and said softly, ‘You are beautiful.’

Really? If he hadn’t been so angry with Manon, she might have let herself believe him. ‘Was that her sister with her—some relative?’

‘I can’t say. I barely looked to see.’ He glanced at her, his dark eyes softening. ‘Chérie, don’t allow this accident of timing to bother you.’

She smiled. ‘It’s not. Why would it? I wish you had introduced me, though.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

‘You could have said, “Allow me to present my pregnant friend, Shari.”’

He flushed. ‘Yes, I should have, but it was a shock, you know, coming upon her so—unexpectedly.’

‘Mmm. I sensed that.’ She compressed her lips.

‘This is the first time I’ve seen her in seventeen, eighteen months. The last time I saw her we were … she and I were engaged in mortal combat.’

She could just imagine it. The drama and the passion. Especially the passion. ‘Who was the victor?’

‘Oh, Manon, bien sûr. A man has no chance against a woman with claws extended.’

Her heart pained. How he must have loved the beautiful woman, to feel so bitter. She wished she’d never asked.

‘You must miss her,’ she observed coldly.

‘Shari.’ His gentle chiding tone made her feel ashamed. Advertising her neediness was hardly the way to inspire a man to love her. She felt her throat thicken, but held back the tears for all she was worth.

The rest of the journey seethed with an unbearable silence. When they drew up in the street before their apartment building, he turned to her, his intelligent eyes alert and at the same time grave.

He hesitated, then took her hand and said firmly, ‘I don’t miss her, mon amour. I’m with you now. I’ve moved on. We all have.’

‘Sure. Sure we have.’

‘Hold the irony, please, Mlle Lacey.’ His dark eyes scrutinised her face with tender concern. ‘We—Manon and I were over long before our affair ended.’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Affair? Oh, that’s cool. After seven years …’

He shrugged. ‘That was what she wanted our relationship to be. No promises, no certainties. More than anything in the world she didn’t want to belong to anyone.’ His mouth made a sardonic curl. ‘So she said. That was what caused the final crash. She wanted our relationship to stay the same. But …’ He opened his palms and said simply, ‘I changed. I wanted—more. I understand now she saw that as a betrayal. At the time I was—angry. Disillusioned. You might say a little bitter. I said some things that were unkind, and she—stormed off to the airport in a fury, never to return.’

‘Oh.’ So it wasn’t just the Jackson Kerr affair that had broken their relationship. Shari hardly dared ask, but the question was burning on her tongue. ‘What was it you wanted?’

He flicked down his lashes and made a rueful grimace. ‘Not a Russian wolfhound. No. I … er … suffered a brainstorm on my way home one evening and thought I wanted to have a child. Imagine that.’ He shot her a veiled glance.

Her heart started thumping with a dawning realisation, but she struggled on to extract more of this astounding confession. ‘You and Manon? You wanted a—a—baby?’

He inclined his head.

‘Oh. Right. Well. Well. So … Did you—propose to her?’

He shrugged. ‘The roses, the ring, the carpet of rose petals, the private room in the restaurant, kneeling like a fool—the whole bloody farce.’

‘Oh-h-h.’ She winced in sympathy. ‘And she said no?’

He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Manon was a little like you in some of her ideas. She accused me of being a selfish chauvinist determined to cruelly subjugate her to domestic slavery and prevent her from realising her full potential by weighing her down with children.’ From the harsh intake of breath through his nostrils, some lingering outrage was apparent. ‘That was what she said to the media, among other things.’

She could imagine how bitterly such a rejection had hurt. Then to see Manon allowing herself to be subjugated by the next man in so precisely the manner she’d sneered at …

Shari’s heart positively ached for him. No wonder he’d been so cold to the beauty when they’d met. ‘That really wasn’t fair,’ she said earnestly. ‘You may not be perfect, but you aren’t cruel.’

He laughed and kissed her lips. ‘Thank you, chérie. I am trying very hard not to be. And the fates must have forgiven me, because now I have an adorable …’

‘Friend.’

His dark eyes gleamed. ‘And a child to look forward to. I am the happiest father-to-be in Paris. Do you believe that?’

Meeting his glowing gaze, she did. If there was one thing she was certain about, it was that. He was definitely in love with the baby.

‘And I’m not really like her at all, by the way,’ she said, getting out of the car.

But the concierge called to him at that moment, and Shari doubted he even heard.

Darkness was approaching when Luc strolled into a bar in a sidestreet tucked around the corner from the Ministry for the Interior. His elderly friend was already ensconced at a table, perusing Le Figaro.

‘Henri.’

‘Ah, Luc.’ He folded the news sheet and rose to brush cheeks. ‘Good to see you, my young friend. What are we drinking?’

Henri already had a cognac before him, so Luc signalled the bartender for the same. Once the courtesies had been observed, enquiries made about health, family and the stock market, the real reason for their meeting was subtly addressed.

‘I’m afraid the news is not good for your friend with the fiancée.’

Luc’s heart lurched. ‘No?’

‘There are some laws made of steel. They cannot be bent in the slightest. I’m sorry, my friend, but what can one do? This is the new world. The law is implacable on immigration matters. However …’ Henri contemplated his cognac. ‘Might I suggest a possible solution?’

Luc listened, and his spirits sank. Henri was assuming that this situation was straightforward, the woman like any other.

He endeavoured to explain. ‘She is not—I believe from what my friend says—she is not the sort of woman who wishes to be pinned down. Forever is not a phrase in her vocabulary. My friend is concerned that if he sets a foot wrong she’ll be fleeing to the airport in a snap.’

Henri arched his brows and laughed with frank amusement. ‘Ah, Luc. Tell your friend he is an idiot. He just needs to find the right inducement.’ He made a suggestive, masculine gesture. ‘In the end they all want to be pinned down.’

Luc grimaced ruefully. ‘Not all.’ He rose, thanking Henri before leaving and walking slowly back to the métro, a heavy weight constricting his heart. ‘No. Not all.’

Shari spent some of her afternoon engaged in research. It was a risk, it could have been self-defeating, but knowledge was power.

Unsurprisingly, there was little of recent date to find out about Manon. The grand passion seemed to have dropped altogether from public sight. As Shari had noticed as far back as Sydney, it seemed that once the scandal had been milked for every last drop the media circus had moved on. The tabloid sites were no longer swamped with sightings of Jackson Kerr and his new woman.

Just a view here or there of Manon spotted in Beverly Hills, always shying away from the camera. Manon sunning herself on Jackson’s private beach with a friend.

Was it possible they’d split up? Was this why Manon was back in France to have her baby? Shari was ready to bet LA was dotted with fabulous clinics for celebrities. Surely the American ones would compete with the best in the world.

She studied some of the old images from the time Manon had worked for the glossy. How could Manon have even dreamed of exchanging Luc for a butterfly like Jackson Kerr?

Scrolling back to the Malibu image, she enlarged it so she could get a clearer view of the friend. She could have been the same woman who’d been with Manon at the clinic.

Jackson might have been off on location somewhere. Shari hoped he wasn’t seducing another leading lady. He already had a few notches on his belt in that direction, if the celeb spotters were to be believed.

That would certainly explain why Manon had come back. Maybe she needed to call on friends and family for support.

When Luc arrived home Shari noticed a change in his mood. He tried to conceal it, but she sensed there was something on his mind. As if that over-the-moon excited guy in the street outside the clinic had plummeted to earth and it had gone hard with him.

She examined him carefully. ‘Is everything fine? At work? Your family?’

Anxiously she contemplated the meal she’d cooked. Her salad—she was leaving the vinaigrette dressing to him—the lamb cutlets with the Shari Lacey version of ratatouille instead of a sauce. It was Luc’s turn to make the dessert.

His handsome face lightened. ‘Everything is good. No need to worry.’ He smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering. And worrying.

He partook of the meal she’d partly prepared with apparent appreciation, but, as she’d noted before, he was a courteous guy. She made the resolution to take some lessons in French cuisine just as soon as she had the chance. Definitely.

Over the next week or so he often seemed deep in meditation. Once or twice she caught him looking at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret.

Well, she was starting to show. Her waist had thickened a little, and there were definite signs of a bump. To compensate she started making sure she looked beautilicious when he arrived home. Pretty clothes, underwear. She even had her hair cut and foiled and bought a straightener. At one point she succumbed to ironing a tee shirt.

In the bedroom she felt driven to experiment in ways that surprised even her normally inventive self. Was it hormones, rivalry or sheer insanity? Every time he looked gloomy, she felt challenged to distract him in some new and sensuous way.

She was at risk of turning herself into a femme fatale.

Luc came home early one afternoon when she was working on her book. The dining room’s light with its romantic view of the rooftops and chimney pots of Paris had made it the obvious choice for her workplace. To spare the furniture, she’d spread a sheet over the table for her paints and paraphernalia, and pinned up some paper to protect the silken walls from splashes.

‘Ça va.’ He kissed her, tasting of coffee, the city, man and desire.

‘You’re early.’

‘Oui.’ He noticed her painting and bent to examine it, exclaiming, ‘Aha. The carousel in the Luxembourg. You know, my papa used to take me there when I was a little kid.’

‘Oh, did he? It’s so beautiful there. It must be the best gig in the world for a juggler.’

‘But I don’t see your owl,’ he said, searching the picture.

‘Ah. No. I’ve abandoned him until I’m in Australia again.’

He frowned, as he often did when she mentioned Australia. She guessed the reminder of Rémy’s business shenanigans there still stung like crazy.

‘See?’ Shyly, she showed him her initial sketch, and some beautiful old posters she’d unearthed from the famous Cirque d’hiver. ‘I’m still working on the face. It’s not so easy to do the juggler.’

He compared them with her painting, exclaiming about the little telltale signs she’d used to make the setting obvious to Parisian children. ‘It’s so good. It’s … exceptional. Magnifique. You are a great talent.’ Glancing about at her protective measures, he indicated the room with a sweep of his hand.

‘Maybe you’d like to change all this. Find a new look for the apartment. Make this a proper studio.’

‘But that would be so much trouble, wouldn’t it, when we don’t even know how long-term my stay here will be? I’d hate to cause you all that expense for something that might well turn out to be temporary.’

‘Shari …’

She looked enquiringly at him. He looked almost pained, then his jaw hardened. He threw out his hands. ‘Chérie— There is something— I have something I must discuss with you.’

Clunk. For some reason her heart hit a pothole. She picked up a cloth and wiped her hands.

He took her shoulders and looked gravely at her. ‘I have had news. Your visa can’t be changed from within France. I’m sorry, chérie, but the laws here are very strict. If you wish to apply to be a resident, you must do it from Australia.’

‘Oh.’ It was a shock. ‘You mean—go home? Already?’ Disappointment, and a zillion obstacles flashed through her mind. Being with him. Their life. Her hopes and dreams. Her French lessons, her clinic appointments. Leaving him. Leaving him.

He lifted his hands. ‘The immigration and visa laws have tightened here as everywhere. This is why …’ his dark lashes screened his eyes ‘—I am suggesting—to spare you the trip—we should get married.’

Her brain spun for a giddy minute or so. When it slowed down she noticed a certain rigidity in him. A waiting stillness. Then the full implications of the words hit.

Pain sliced her heart like a knife. ‘Oh. Oh. Married. Heavens, has it come to that?’

His eyes glinted. ‘It may look like an extreme solution, but in your condition … Surely a long flight wouldn’t be advisable?’

‘Oh, that’s just …’ She smiled bitterly and shook her head. ‘Pregnant women can fly right up until the thirty-sixth week.’

‘Are you sure? How do you know?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Have you been checking?’

‘Emilie. She wanted to come for the … Anyway … Anyway …’ She laid her palm on her forehead. She felt flummoxed and prickly, as if all her fur had been horribly ruffled and she might just burst into tears. ‘If I go home, who knows how long I’ll have to wait for a residential visa? I’ll just have the baby there, I guess.’

‘No. No, Shari …’ He made a sharp movement but she turned away from him. ‘Don’t think of leaving, chérie. No need to give up. The marriage ceremony is nothing. Just a formality. A banal, bureaucratic formality.’

‘Look, I just need to think for a while. Excuse me while I go for a walk.’

She grabbed her bag and almost flew out of the apartment. Down on the ground floor she rushed blindly past the concierge’s office, then headed to the nearest métro. The closest station to the Luxembourg was only one stop further on from Saint-Placide where she travelled for her lessons. Several times already she’d walked from there to the gardens to help her story cook.

Naturally, like the thoroughly emotional woman she was, she cried on the train. Then she cried on the way to the gardens, which was silly because she bumped into people and some of them were quite rude.

Then she walked past the children’s garden, past the carousel, all the way to the fountain where she’d first told Luc she was expecting. As a coincidence, it was late afternoon again, not many people about.

She sank into a green chair and sat with her head in her hands. These last few weeks she’d been living in a bubble, she realised, and now it had burst.

But if you loved someone, what did it matter? A marriage proposal was a marriage proposal. She probably didn’t deserve roses and pretty words and kneeling on the ground. The alternative was to leave him and fly home. Leave him without his baby? How could she even contemplate such a thing?

If she did make that long journey, would she ever come back? Would he even want her back?

So he wasn’t ‘in love’. He was a decent man. Straight, honourable and good. Gentle. What was she quibbling about? There were women who would give their eye teeth to be where she was. He’d be good to her, she supposed, since she was the mother of his child. His first child.

She waited for the ache in her heart to ease. Eventually the peace and beauty of the place soothed her enough that she could pull herself together. Then she hauled herself up and caught another train home.

When she walked in she noticed with surprise Luc holding a whiskey in his hand. She’d never known him to drink alcohol, other than with a meal.

He scrutinised her carefully, his eyes burning strangely in his taut face. ‘Did you walk far?’

‘I—went for a stroll in the Luxembourg. Thought I might as well check on something while I was in the mood for roaming. Oh, and about that other thing. Okay. I’ll marry you, if you insist. But let’s not make a fuss about it, eh? No white dresses and all that palaver. Just regular old clothes.’

Frowning, he looked at her uncertainly. ‘Are you sure?’

She half turned away. ‘Well, it’s just a formality, isn’t it? Let’s do it without a fuss.’

‘Chérie …’

Whatever he’d been going to say, he thought better of it.

They avoided each other’s eyes after that, and there was a strain during dinner.

In their bed that night, she lay with her back to him, her heart aching too much for sleep. While Luc’s breathing was steady and regular, a certain tension in him made her aware he was awake.

She tried to cry silently, until she felt his touch on her thigh and a burning, treacherous tingle ignited her blood. Desire and resistance warred in her flesh, until with a groan he reached for her and pulled her into his arms, murmuring, ‘Chérie, don’t be sad. Everything will be all right.’

And once again he was the most virile, passionate and demanding of lovers. He rode her, he owned her, he possessed her like a king. Then he changed tack and became the warmest, the tenderest, the most considerate.

In his powerful arms she melted, she surrendered, she showed him all the love blazing in her soul. And from the tenderness in his embrace, anyone would have thought the man truly loved her.