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‘Patience, Imogen.’ She barely comprehended. His accent was so thick and her ears so full of her pulse pounding like the thud of a hammer on metal.
‘Yes, now.’ Was that reedy, desperate voice hers?
His eyes looked smoky, on the edge of focus, as he forced her arm wide, imprisoning her hand. When she shifted and brought her other hand down to touch him he pulled that arm wide too, so she lay spread-eagled.
The action pressed his groin against her pelvis, and her eyelids fluttered. Circling her hips, she moved against him, and to her amazement almost tipped over the edge into ecstasy. How could pleasure be so intense? So instantaneous? With Scott...
Thought died as Thierry murmured something in that lush, deep voice and lowered his head again. His breath feathered the sensitive flesh of her neck and then warm lips pressed just there and... Oh, yes, just there.
Again that powerful pulse through her pelvis, making every muscle clench and every erogenous zone shiver in anticipation.
‘No. Don’t!’ It was a gurgle of sound, a hoarse whisper scraped from the back of her throat, but he heard it. Stilled.
She felt him draw a deep breath, his chest expanding. His hands tightened as if in spasm before loosing their hold. Then he pulled back, lifting his head.
Gone was the urbane sophisticate. Gone was the man in control. The glittering eyes that met hers held an unfamiliar wildness. His lips were a twist of what looked like raw pain.
Imogen watched him open his mouth. He shut his eyes and swallowed. Fascinated, she followed the jerky movement of his throat. Then blazing, dark eyes met hers again. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ Even his voice was unfamiliar.
‘Of course not.’ How could he even think it? ‘But I can’t wait. I need you now.’ Already she was running her hands over him, revelling in the heat of ridged muscle beneath his fine shirt. One hand dipped to his belt buckle and her fingers fumbled in their haste.
Thierry’s eyes widened, his body rigid, as if he couldn’t trust her words. Hadn’t he ever met a woman so eager for him? Impossible!
What was impossible was that she, Imogen Holgate, was so desperate she didn’t think she’d survive another minute of his seduction.
He was going to kiss and caress her, taking his time, and she’d self-combust at any moment. She’d never known anything like this spike of arousal.
‘Please, Thierry.’ Finally, she got his buckle undone and slid the belt free with clumsy hands. ‘You can seduce me later. Whatever you like. But I need you inside me now.’
Fire washed from her throat to her hairline. But she didn’t care about embarrassment or appearing unsophisticated. Desire was too tame a word for this urgent, visceral need. Nothing mattered but being one with this man.
Imogen bit her lip as her fingers slipped on his zip. She tried again and heard his sharp inhale. Hard fingers closed around hers.
He wasn’t going to stop her, was he? Not now. She almost sobbed with frustration, her whole body burning like a single, vibrant flame that would at any minute consume her.
‘Let me, ma chérie.’
* * *
Thierry kept his eyes on her face as he shucked his shoes and grabbed one of the condoms he’d brought.
She was glorious, her skin flushed with sexual arousal. Her eyes were bright as stars, veiled by long black lashes. Her reddened lips were plump and inviting, but not as inviting as the rest of her. His movements quickened, sheathing himself as his gaze dropped to proud breasts straining against that tight bodice. A surge of hunger hit and he drew an uneven breath. Despite what she said he needed to rein himself in, not surrender to hunger and take her with no preliminaries. He needed to...
Thierry’s thoughts spun away as she reefed up the hem of her dress. Long, pale, toned thighs. Skimpy, emerald-green lace panties. The subtle, enticing scent of vanilla sugar and feminine arousal.
Slender fingers hooked the green lace and she arched her hips up, wriggling, to pull it away.
His hands tangled with hers, stripping the lace off. Then his hands were on her, skimming satin-soft flesh, stroking the dark silk, already damp, at her core.
He didn’t register moving closer. But an instant later he was there, pressing against her softness, his hands planted beside her on the bed. Her skirt was up around her waist and her hair had come down on one side, dark tresses curling to her breasts.
A shudder ripped through him. He wanted to feast on her, take his time to build their pleasure, but he couldn’t.
It wasn’t the tug of her fingers digging into his shoulders that shattered his control, or the tiny, throaty purring sound she made. It was simply that he’d never wanted a woman so urgently.
His hand shook as he lifted her to him. Then in one sure, glorious stroke he surged home, high and hard, till he felt nothing but her, knew nothing but her liquid heat, sweet scent and indescribable pleasure.
Tawny green eyes snared his. Her head pressed back, baring that delectable throat. He heard his name in a throaty, broken gasp. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, and to his amazement was all it took for him to lose the last of his control.
She quivered, jerking and shaking around him, drawing him into the most mind-blowing climax he’d ever experienced.
It was a long, long time before his brain functioned again. Imogen shifted drowsily, and he found himself quickening into arousal again. His immediate thought was to wonder if he’d brought enough condoms.
His second, when her eyes fluttered open and her tentative smile hit him square in the chest, was to congratulate himself on finding her. He’d never known a woman so unstinting in her passion.
Two weeks would barely be enough to enjoy all she had to offer. Yet that was all they had. She’d be gone in a fortnight.
Thierry felt a flicker of something almost like regret. But it would dissipate. A temporary lover was all he wanted. A couple of months and he’d be free of the shackles that had tied him down for four years. Then he’d leave, ready for adventure and the physical and mental challenges he missed. Which was why Imogen, who could only ever be temporary in his life, was absolutely perfect.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c6c9b5e1-b268-54e0-be6b-2cc90a20a7e3)
IMOGEN STARED FROM her hotel window at the London square with its communal garden and neat Georgian buildings. A couple strolled by hand in hand and her stomach did a little somersault. She looked away, lifting her peppermint tea to her lips.
She’d developed a taste for herbal tea since that night in Paris when Thierry had ordered it for her.
Turning, she found her gaze following the couple and felt a pang of regret. They were in their seventies, she’d guess, yet they held hands, heads turned towards each other as if in conversation.
What would it be like to grow old with the man you loved? The question wormed into her brain and she had to slam down a protective portcullis before her thoughts went too far.
Thierry Girard had been a revelation. Any woman would have been in heaven experiencing Paris with him, even if she hadn’t spent years buried in a half-life of tedium, hemmed in by caution. Was it any wonder Venice, Reykjavik and London hadn’t seemed quite as fabulous as Paris? He’d brought the city alive.
He’d brought her alive.
But she couldn’t give in to romantic fantasy.
What they’d had had been wonderful and she’d lingered over each memory, loving the hazy sense of wellbeing they brought. But their passion, the romance and sense of connection had been illusory, the product of an affair that could only be short-lived.
She sipped her tea then grimaced as her taste buds did that strange thing again, turning a flavour she enjoyed into a dull, metallic tang. She put the cup down then realised she’d turned too fast, for the nausea rose again. Imogen gripped the table, taking slow breaths.
Her mother hadn’t had these symptoms. Did it mean Imogen’s condition was different after all? If anything the headaches had eased a little and were less frequent. But the nausea worried her. It was so persistent.
Reluctantly, she turned towards the bathroom. It was silly to consider the possibility of it being anything else. There was no chance a woman in her condition...
She shook her head then regretted it as the movement stirred that sick feeling again.
Clamping her lips, she headed to the bathroom. Of course it was absurd. This must be a new symptom of her deteriorating condition. Though, with the exception of the nausea, she felt better than she had in ages.
What was the point of second-guessing? She needed to see the specialist back in Sydney. He’d explain what was happening. How long she had.
Imogen drew a slow breath, deliberately pushing her shoulders down as tension inched them higher. Whatever the future held, she’d meet it head on.
She crossed the bathroom and reached for the test kit she’d left there. She hadn’t had the nerve to look at the result before, telling herself it was nonsense and she’d be better having tea and biscuits to settle her stomach.
Now, reluctantly, she looked down at the indicator.
The world wobbled and she grabbed the counter.
Had her illness affected her eyes? But the indicator was clear. It was only her brain that felt blurry.
Pregnant.
She was expecting Thierry’s child.
* * *
It was harder, this time, to contact him. He had a new PA who seemed dauntingly efficient and not eager to help.
No, Monsieur Girard wasn’t in Paris. No, she couldn’t say where he was. Her tone implied Imogen had no right to renew his acquaintance. Had she been placed on some blacklist of importunate ex-lovers? Imogen imagined a throng of women trailing after him, trying to recapture his attention.
Was she to be so easily dismissed? Embarrassment and anger warred, and her grip tightened on the phone.
‘When will he be back? It’s urgent I speak with him.’ She’d taken the first train from London to Paris, checking into a tiny hotel with the last of her travel money.
‘Perhaps you’d like to leave a message, mademoiselle? He’s very busy.’ The cool tone implied he’d never find time for her again. Was that an overprotective assistant or a woman acting on orders?
Her crisp efficiency and Imogen’s realisation she could only contact him via this dragon brought home the glaring differences between them. Thierry was powerful, mixing in elite social circles and living a privileged life. Employees protected him from unsolicited contact. She was working class and unsophisticated, more at home with a spreadsheet of numbers than at a glittering social event. Only the bright passion between them had made them equals.
Imogen set her chin.
‘I need to speak with him in person. It’s imperative.’
‘As I said, I can take a message...’
But would it be delivered?
Imogen gritted her teeth, staring over the slate-grey roof of the building across the lane. It seemed close enough to touch in this cheap back street. A far cry from the magnificent hotel she’d splurged on during her first stay in Paris.
‘Please tell him I need to see him. Five minutes will do.’ She bit down grim laughter. How long did it take to break such news? ‘I have...important information for him. Something he needs to hear as soon as possible.’
‘Very well, mademoiselle.’ The phone clicked in her ear.
* * *
‘That’s all now.’ Thierry looked at his watch. ‘Finish those in the morning.’
Mademoiselle Janvier primmed her mouth. ‘I find it more efficient to complete my work before leaving and start fresh tomorrow.’
Thierry forbore from comment. His temporary PA took efficiency to a new level. At least these notes would take no more than half an hour.
He should be grateful. When there’d been that recent glitch in his plans to take over a rival business, her hard work had been invaluable. She’d even tried to match his eighteen-hour work days till he’d put a stop to it. Dedication he appreciated, but sometimes she seemed almost proprietorial.
If only she’d smile occasionally.
His lips twitched. That was his unregenerate, unbusinesslike side. The side that preferred being outdoors on a clear evening like this, rather than cooped up with a sour-faced assistant.
That part of him would far rather share a champagne picnic with an intriguing dark-haired beauty whose enthusiasm, sensuality and unexpected flashes of naïveté intrigued.
That couldn’t be regret he felt? There’d be excitement enough in his life once he cleared this final hurdle. He’d given up four years of his life and wrought a small miracle, wresting the family business from the brink of disaster. Soon...
He rolled his shoulders. Soon he could take up his real life again. The one that defined him, no matter how irresponsible his grand-père branded it. But his grand-père had never understood it was the rush of adrenalin, the thrill of pitting himself physically against the toughest challenges, that made him feel real. These past years he’d been condemned to a half life.
Adventure beckoned. What would it be first? Heli-skiing or hot-air ballooning? Or white-water rafting? Orsino had mentioned a place in Colorado...
‘By the way, there’s a woman waiting to see you.’
‘A woman?’ Thierry checked his diary. He had no appointments.
‘A Mademoiselle Holgate.’
‘Holgate?’ Something inside his chest jerked hard. ‘How long has she been waiting?’
His PA’s eyes widened as he shot to his feet. ‘I warned her she’d have to wait. You had a lot—’
‘Invite her in. Immediately!’
Mademoiselle Janvier scurried out, shock on her thin features. It was the first time she’d seen him anything but polite and calm, even when it had looked like his expansion plans, so vital to the solidity of the company, had unravelled.
The door opened and his breathing quickened. He stepped around the desk, elation pulsing.
Elation? He halted, a prickle of warning skating through him.
He and Imogen had enjoyed themselves but Thierry wasn’t in the habit of feeling more than casual pleasure at the thought of any woman. Not since Sandrine, a lifetime ago.
He’d learned his lesson then. Women added spice and pleasure, especially now his chance for serious adventure had been curtailed. But none lasted. He made sure of it. Women fitted into the category of rest and recreation.
Thierry frowned as a trim, dark-haired figure stepped into the room and an unfamiliar sensation clamped his belly.
He almost wouldn’t have recognised her. Those glorious dark tresses were scraped into a bun that reminded him of Mademoiselle Janvier with her rigid self-control. Imogen wore jeans and a shirt that leached the colour from her face. He’d never seen her in anything but bright colours. And there were shadows under her eyes, hollows beneath her cheekbones.
Again that inexplicable thump to his chest, as if an unseen hand had punched him.
‘Imogen!’ He started forward but before he reached her she slipped into a visitor’s chair.
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.
