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Thierry pulled up abruptly. It wasn’t the reaction he got from women. Ever.
‘Thierry.’ She nodded, the movement curt, almost dismissive. And her eyes—they didn’t glow as he remembered. They looked...haunted as they stared at his tie. Yet there was defiance in the set of her chin. Belligerence in her clamped lips.
What had happened? He’d seen her ecstatic, curious, enthralled. He’d seen her in the throes of passion. His lower body tensed. Those memories had kept him from sleep too many nights since she’d left. He’d even seen her in pain, with tears spiking those ebony lashes. But he’d never seen her look like this.
He grabbed a chair, yanked it around to face her and sank onto it, his knees all but touching her thighs.
She shifted, pulling her legs away, as if he made her nervous. Or as if his touch contaminated.
Something jabbed his gut. Deliberately, he leaned back, gaze bland, his mind buzzing with questions.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Is it? That’s not the impression I got.’ Her chin lifted infinitesimally and colour swept her too-pale face. That was better. The woman he knew had sass and vibrancy.
‘You’ve just walked in the door.’ He gave her the smile he knew melted female hearts. Despite her tension it was good to see her. He’d missed her more than he’d expected and—
‘I suppose I should be grateful you found time out of your busy schedule to see me.’
* * *
Imogen bit her lip. This wasn’t going right. She’d let fear and anger get the best of her. Anger at how long it had taken to see him, only then to be kept waiting for an hour. And fear. Fear that even with his help, assuming he would help her, the new life growing inside her was likely in danger.
She threaded her fingers together, trying to hide their tremor.
It didn’t help that one glance was all she’d needed to fall under Thierry’s spell again. He looked wonderful. Strong and fit, so utterly masculine that just sitting beside him was a test of endurance. She wanted to touch him, feel that strong life-force, remind herself there was some hope in this bleak situation.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait. I didn’t know you were there.’
Imogen waved a dismissive hand, her gaze skating across the huge office with its expansive, and expensive, views over one of Paris’s most prestigious neighbourhoods.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She drew a breath, trying to slow her racing heart, only to discover she’d inhaled his distinctive scent—warm male flesh and clear mountain air. It teased her nostrils and set up a trembling deep inside.
For one self-indulgent instant she let herself remember how glorious it had been between them. How perfect.
But that was over. He’d moved on and she, well, she had more important things to worry about than her attraction to a heartbreaker of a Frenchman.
‘I thought you’d be in Australia now. Wasn’t it Venice, Reykjavik, London and then home to Sydney?’
He remembered. A tiny curl of delight swirled inside. ‘That was the plan.’ Her voice emerged husky, not like the firm tone she’d aimed for. ‘But things have changed.’
‘I’m glad.’ His voice caressed. ‘I’ve been thinking of you.’
Surprised, she jerked her head up, their eyes meeting. Instantly, sultry heat unfurled in her belly like coiling tendrils. Her skin drew taut.
She didn’t know how Thierry did that. She didn’t know whether to be shocked, stoic or despairing that absence hadn’t lessened his impact. Even with so much on her mind, that low voice, that slurred ripple of accented sound, made her body hum.
He leaned close, and she sat back, seeing the moment he registered her withdrawal. A frown puckered his brow.
‘I came because I had some news.’
He stilled, and she sensed a watchfulness that belied his air of unconcern.
When they’d been together all that powerful energy had been focused on pleasure. Now, in this vast office that screamed authority, with those unblinking eyes trained on her, she saw how formidable Thierry was. Not just as the sexiest, most charismatic man she’d ever met, but because of the power he wielded with such ease.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched.
‘News?’ The word was sharp.
‘Yes.’ She swiped her top lip with her tongue and a flicker of something crossed his proud features. ‘Yes, I...’
Spit it out! How hard is it to say? You’ve had a week of waiting to get used to it.
‘You...?’ He leaned forward, and she knew an urge to slide onto his lap and burrow close.
As if Thierry’s embrace would make everything right! Nothing could make this right.
Again she licked her lips. ‘I’m pregnant.’
For what seemed a full minute he said nothing, merely looked at her with a face frozen into harsh lines that emphasised the chiselled hauteur of those superb features.
‘You say the baby is mine?’
* * *
Mistake number one, Thierry realised when Imogen snapped back in her seat as if yanked by a bungee cord.
Ice formed in her hazel eyes, turning them from warm and a little lost to frozen wasteland. Then there was the taut line of her mouth, the hurt in the way she bit her lip.
He hated it when she did that. He always wanted to reach out and stop her. And she...
Belatedly, he yanked back his thoughts. Pregnant. With his child?
His breath disintegrated and a sense of unreality engulfed him. Like the day, as a kid, when he’d learned his parents had died in a crash outside Lyon. Or four years ago, when his indomitable grand-père had had a stroke.
Was it possible?
Of course it was possible. He and Imogen had spent every night for almost two weeks together, insatiable for each other.
He’d never known any woman to test his control the way Imogen had. He’d plan some outing to tick off her bucket list—a visit to a dance club, or a moonlight picnic—and all the time she was beaming at him, laughing and thrilled at the novelty of new experiences, he was calculating how long before he could get her naked and horizontal. Or just naked enough for sex. As for horizontal...the missionary position was overrated.
Molten heat coiled in his belly.
‘There’s been no one else. Just you.’
Stupid to feel that punch of pleasure. Thierry forced himself to focus. This was too important.
‘Since when?’
‘That’s not relevant. I—’
‘Since when, Imogen?’ Stranger things had happened than a woman trying to pin an unexpected pregnancy on some gullible man.
Her chin rose and the expression in her eyes could have scored flesh. ‘Seven months.’
So long between lovers? Did that make him special, or a convenient way of ending the drought? Or maybe a target?
‘That’s very precise.’
‘I don’t make a habit of sleeping around.’
He’d worked it out. He vividly recalled her charmingly unpractised loving, the shock in her eyes at the ecstasy they’d shared.
‘Pregnant.’ He paused, frustrated that his brain wouldn’t function. Now it had side-tracked into imagining Imogen swollen with his child, her hands splayed over her ripe belly. He’d never lusted after a pregnant woman yet the image in his head filled him with all sorts of inappropriate thoughts.
Diable! He should be concentrating, not mentally undressing her.
He dragged his attention back to her face. ‘We used condoms.’
Jerkily she nodded. ‘It turns out they’re not a hundred percent effective.’
‘You’re sure about this?’ He searched her features. She looked different—drawn and tired. And...was that fear?
‘I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t. I took the test in London. That’s why I came to Paris, to find you.’
Thierry stared into those haunted eyes and told himself the sensible thing would be to insist on a paternity test. He had only her word the child was his.
Yet, crazy as it was, he was on the verge of believing her. He’d been with her just two weeks, but he felt he knew her better than any of the women he’d dated.
Even better than Sandrine.
The thought sideswiped him. He’d grown up with Sandrine and had loved her with all his youthful heart.
The memory served its purpose, like being doused in a cold mountain stream. He needed to think critically. He straightened.
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