Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress
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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.’
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN Alana reached her room, she was breathing hard. She went straight into her en suite bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes over-bright. Her body was too sensitive, and an ache throbbed down low in her belly and between her legs. She dropped her head, hands gripping the edge of the sink.
She went back out into the bedroom and fooled herself into believing that she was doing what she wanted by unpacking her clothes and taking out her toiletries. A silk dress slithered out of her trembling hands to the ground. She picked it up. She’d pulled it out of her wardrobe on a whim. It was one of the very few dresses she’d kept from her days with Ryan, and she hadn’t worn it since her marriage had ended. Ryan had derided her when she’d worn it first, as it hadn’t been revealing enough for him … or, more accurately, for the press, who he’d constantly wanted to impress. But in actual fact it was plenty revealing, and way more than Alana had been comfortable with. Up to now.
She hung it up abruptly, refusing to think about why she’d brought it.
As she was about to start undressing, she stopped and sat on the edge of the bed. Her heart was thumping slow, heavy beats. She was shaking. Adrenaline washed through her system. Her body already knew what was inevitable. She couldn’t deny it to herself. It was as if the centre of her being had become magnetised and could only go in one direction.
She walked back over to the door and opened it. The only light came from downstairs. She paused at the top of the stairs. He was still down there, sitting on the couch, long legs splayed in front of him, in bare feet, the dregs of a glass of wine in his hands into which he was staring broodily. Fear assailed Alana again, and she almost fled, but then he looked up.
Tension snaked up from him to her and an unspoken plea: don’t go. She realised that she couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to. She came down the stairs, clinging onto the rail as she went. She was melting inside as she came closer and closer. Her clothes felt restrictive.
She got to the bottom. Without taking his eyes off hers, he carefully placed his glass on the small table at his feet and stood up. She concentrated on his eyes—dark, molten.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
He didn’t smile, but she heard the smile in his voice. ‘You were only gone ten minutes.’
‘I know I won’t be able to sleep.’
‘What do you want, Alana?’
She shook her head. ‘I want … I want …’ Her face flamed. ‘You know what I want. Don’t make me say it, please.’
‘Show me what you want.’ His voice was soft, silky, heavy with erotic promise.
He was making her come to him all the way. Making sure.
Alana stepped forward jerkily until she was standing right in front of him. She could barely breathe. They hardly touched, and now she lifted her hands to his shoulders. They were so much wider and higher than she remembered. She took another couple of awkward steps. He was making no move to help her.
She looked up at him, a hint of desperation on her face; she could feel sweat on her brow. ‘Can’t you just …?’
‘You want me to take you? To take the decision out of your hands—so on some level you don’t have to actually make it clear what you want?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I need to know that you really want this. I won’t indulge regrets and recriminations in the morning.’
Damn him. Since when had he become a psychoanalyst? But Alana’s need was too great.
She moved even closer and wound her arms around his neck, bringing her whole body flush against his, leaning into him. Her breasts were crushed into his chest, and she felt him suck in a deep breath. It made her exultant. He might be displaying control, but she guessed it was shaky.
She pulled his head down to hers, her fingers threading through dark, silky hair. She lifted her face to his and angled it to try and kiss him. She felt so awkward. She aimed for his mouth, but ended up bumping his nose, his chin. She pulled back, letting him go. This was ridiculous. No doubt he’d expected her to sashay up to him, throw him down on the sofa and seduce him into mindless ecstasy. Well, he’d be waiting.
Her voice was stiff with humiliation. This was exactly what she’d feared. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t … done this in a while. I think you expect me to be something … more than I am.’
She turned to go but he caught her wrist and pulled her back. She fell against him, caught off-balance. With the practised ease which she lacked and so envied, he immediately cradled the back of her head with a big hand, the other holding her close against him.
‘Not at all. I just wanted to be sure you were ready for this.’
‘Maybe I’m not, after all,’ she breathed up, mesmerised by his eyes.
‘I think you are.’ And then he bent his head and kissed her, exactly how she’d been aching to be kissed since the last time. Both hands now threaded through her hair, messing it up, cradling her head. Her hands rested on his chest and wound higher until they were tight around his neck. They barely paused for breath; there was no awkwardness now. First their kiss was slow, sensual, a tentative touching of tongues, tasting. Then it developed into full-on passion, igniting an inferno between them.
Somehow, Alana didn’t know how, Pascal had manoeuvered them and now her back was against a wall. He lifted his head. One hand was high on the wall behind her, the other resting on her hip. She felt as boneless as a rag doll. She looked up, her eyes glazed, her lips plump and tingling.
His index-finger traced around her jaw and down to the top button of her shirt. Her heart stopped and kick-started again. Faster.
‘Do you have any idea what this outfit has been doing to me since I saw you arrive in it?’
She shook her head. All she knew was that she wanted to be out of it. As soon as possible.
He started to undo her tie. ‘As much as this turns me on,’ he said gruffly, ‘I think I’m going to have to burn it.’
‘I have ten more at home,’ Alana said matter of factly, distractedly.
He threw it aside and it landed in a sliver of dark colour on the wooden floor. ‘Then it’ll be a bonfire.’
His fingers were at her buttons now. She tipped her head back to give him access, and she felt him drop his head and press a kiss to the exposed, delicate skin of her throat. Alana moaned softly. She was in a sensual land that she’d never thought she’d experience. She’d heard other women talk of lust and chemical attraction, and had always secretly disbelieved them or thought it was overrated. Now … she knew.
She could sense Pascal’s growing impatience when he couldn’t undo any more buttons as the dress got in the way. He growled, ‘How do you get this thing off?’
Alana stood and turned around to face the wall. ‘The zip. At the back.’
She could feel it whisper down, and then he turned her round again. Bending to take her mouth with his, she could feel his hands go to the shoulders of her dress and push it down; it snagged on her hips, and then his hands were there and pushing it off completely until it fell at her feet, a pool of pleated black.
She brought her hands to the bottom of his sweater to pull it up. He lifted his arms and pulled it off the whole way, and then he stood in front of her, bare chested. She could feel her eyes widening as she took in the bronzed magnificence. Whorls of dark hair dusted his pectorals and then met in a silky line that descended down and into the waist of his low-slung jeans which barely clung to lean hips.
Heat. All Alana could think of was heat.
He pulled her into him and she gloried in the sensation of his bare chest, running her hands round his back, feeling the satin-smooth olive skin, warm beneath her fingers. He gathered her close and his mouth closed over the beating, throbbing pulse at her neck; his hands travelled down to her bottom and caressed it before searching further and finding the bare skin at the top of her thighs over her stockings. He jerked back and looked down, eyes glittering, breath coming harshly.
‘Mon Dieu.’
‘What?’ she asked uncertainly, feeling exposed.
He just shook his head and a huge grin split his face. ‘Stockings. Proper stockings. And suspenders.’ What was turning him on even more was the suspicion that she dressed like this all the time, that it hadn’t been just for him.
He looked at her then. ‘I knew that underneath all that starch was someone earthy, sensual …’
He kissed her, and she felt his hands undoing the rest of the buttons on her shirt, the slightly cooler air hitting her torso as he pulled it apart. He looked at her for a long moment before pushing it off, down her arms, until it too joined her dress on the floor.
The carnal appreciation in his gaze made her throb in response. She was glad now that bizarrely she’d always had an instinctive desire for nice underwear, although she hadn’t indulged it while married, as Ryan had mocked her for trying to be sexy whenever she did. Her breasts were straining against the satin cups of her bra, peaks tingling painfully. Pascal pushed one strap down over her shoulder and dragged down the cup, baring one pale breast to his gaze … and mouth.
He whispered in her ear, ‘Remember what I said before?’
She nodded jerkily, anticipation lasering through her veins.
Then he bent his head and blew softly and enticed, before flicking out his tongue to taste and then drawing that tight, extended peak into his mouth. Alana’s head fell back. She couldn’t stop the moan, and wondered at this woman she didn’t recognise.
As Pascal suckled, a tight spiral of intense sensation connected directly with Alana’s groin. She found herself pressing closer, seeking, wanting more, arching her back. He had taken down the other cup, so now both her breasts were bared, upthrust and framed by the satin black material.
He was torturing her with his mouth. She couldn’t breathe. He reached down, lifted one leg and hooked it around his thigh. His other hand was on the leg that was barely able to keep her standing. His fingers danced over the suspenders; she felt him snap open the ties, then smooth around to cup the cheek of her bottom before slipping his hand between her legs.
She stopped breathing entirely for a long moment as he pushed her panties aside and slid his finger into her, into a caress so intimate that she would have closed her legs if she’d been able to. He was relentless, his mouth on her breasts, his finger sliding in and out, until finally, as if he’d been teasing her, he found the centre of where she throbbed unmercifully and, with one flick of his thumb, she came violently. She could only cling to him as the sensation ripped through her body in case she’d be swept away too.
Her leg that was lifted fell. She couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. A bit like chemical attraction; she’d read about it, heard about it. But amazingly …
‘Alana, was that your first orgasm?’ He sounded slightly stunned, and Alana cringed inwardly at how gauche she must seem.
He stood upright and let her settle against him, cradling her with a disconcerting level of tenderness. As if he could sense her turmoil, he tipped her head back. ‘No, don’t do that. You’re amazingly responsive, but it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a compliment.’
She looked at him shyly, mortified. ‘I’m—’
‘Don’t say it.’ He shook his head. His expression was enigmatic. ‘You were married; did you never …?’
She shook her head quickly, her body still pulsing in the aftermath, making her feel a little out of this world. Spaced out. ‘My husband never … made me feel like that. We didn’t sleep together for the last three years of our marriage.’
‘And you were married for …’
‘Five years.’ Unwelcome reality was trickling back in. Alana resented the questions now; she didn’t want to think of Ryan. This was her new start for herself. Ryan was in the past.
‘Alana—’
She pressed a finger to Pascal’s mouth and could feel his breath feather there, could feel a delicious tightening in her belly. ‘Please. I don’t want to talk about it, OK?’ He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then finally he nodded.
Alana gave a huge sigh of relief, and then yelped as Pascal lifted her into his arms against his chest.
‘Time to go somewhere more comfortable, I think. Much as I could take you standing against that wall right now, I’ll resist the temptation.’
She buried her head in his shoulder as he climbed the stairs and shouldered his way into his room.
A part of her wanted nothing more than that carnality, but another part of her was grateful that he was being so considerate.
He looked down at her briefly, his face tight with need. ‘Is this OK?’
She nodded. She knew one thing for sure for the first time in ages. ‘Yes.’
Alana woke to a delicious sensation of someone running a finger up and down her bare spine in a tingling caress. Pascal. Warmth flooded her even as she registered aches and pleasurable pains all over her body. She opened one eye to see him smiling at her, looking clean, vital and very awake. He smelt fresh, delicious. And sexy. Heat flooded her belly.