A Vow to Secure His Legacy Page 14

  Her hands slid down the sleek curve of his back and around the impressive, taut curve of his buttocks. They flexed at her touch, and she tightened her grip, hearing Thierry’s breath hiss. She turned her head, stretching higher to touch her lips to his ear. Then she whispered to him, confiding exactly what she wanted him to do to her.

  She’d barely begun when he lost his slow rhythm and a burst of hoarse French filled her ears. A large hand clamped her breast, kneading, as Thierry’s hips jerked powerfully, rocking into her, filling her faster and faster.

  Imogen held tight, revelling in his urgency. She nipped at his earlobe and suddenly there was a roar of sound, a fierce, undulating wave of delight as he powered into her, no longer in control, as vulnerable to ecstasy as she’d been.

  Heat pumped into her, an unfettered liquid throb that she’d never before experienced.

  Dazedly, Imogen realised it was the first time they hadn’t used protection. Maybe that was why this felt so momentous. So starkly real as she held Thierry’s shuddering body protectively close. Not just satisfying, but as if together they’d discovered some primeval secret that would bind them for ever.

  Finally, he slumped in her arms, his mouth at her neck, his weight pressing her down as exhaustion and satiation claimed them.

  Imogen’s last thought was a hope that, whatever they’d just experienced, it would change everything between them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘ARE YOU HUNGRY?’ The warm rumble of Thierry’s voice made Imogen stir and stretch. She’d been lying in a haze of wellbeing, her mind drifting.

  She opened her eyes and discovered soft lamplight filled the room. ‘How long did I sleep?’ She rolled over to find him propped against the headboard beside her. He looked scrumptious with his rumpled hair, the dark shadow on his jaw, and a casual shirt and jeans.

  ‘You got dressed!’

  His chuckle was like honey, rich and enticing, and her insides curled. Delight feathered her spine and between her thighs she felt a pulse flutter into life.

  Responding again to the sensual promise in Thierry’s voice should have been impossible after all they’d just shared. Yet when her eyes met his the impact of that connection jolted through her. She watched his smile fade.

  ‘I had to get dressed or shock the staff when I went to get us a snack. You might prefer me naked but they wouldn’t.’

  Imogen wouldn’t bet on it. No woman in her right mind would object to seeing a man like Thierry in all his glory—beautifully proportioned, every muscle honed and full of lean power. Watching him walk naked across a room was one of the treats she’d most missed when they’d said their goodbyes in Paris. He was built like an athlete in his prime, moving with effortless masculine grace.

  ‘What time is it?’ Surely it had been early afternoon when he’d confronted her in the bathroom? After her long walk in the sun, grappling with her options for the future, she’d felt weary and hot, ready for a cool shower.

  He shrugged. ‘Late. I cancelled dinner while you slept but Jeanne insisted I bring a tray to you.’

  Imogen rose on her elbows. ‘You should have woken me.’

  Thierry didn’t answer. His gaze was on her breasts, uncovered now by the sheet that someone had pulled over her. Heat suffused Imogen. Because she was so exhausted by their love-making she didn’t even remember covering herself? Or because of the jangle of excitement when he looked at her that way—as if she were some delicacy for his enjoyment? She was so weak where he was concerned. Look how she’d gone up in flames in his arms!

  Imogen grabbed the sheet and pulled it higher.

  ‘Don’t.’ His arm shot out, fingers circling her wrist. ‘Please.’ His deep voice grated.

  She swallowed, a delicate shiver rippling through her as he let go her wrist to touch her breast with gentle fingers. Was it his touch or the pleading tone that made her hesitate?

  A gasp caught in her throat as pleasure cascaded through her. Her nipple beaded to an aching pout as he circled her breast.

  ‘Thierry.’ It was half groan, half plea, and she didn’t have time to feel self-conscious about it because in another second he was there, his breath warm on her flesh, his eyes glittering greedily.

  One arm pulled her close while the other cupped her breast as he lowered his mouth. Her skin tingled as he blew over her nipple, creating delicious quivers of reaction that spread across her back, down her belly and straight to her womb. Then his mouth was on her, drawing her in, offering bone-melting delight.

  Imogen cradled his dark head in her hands, holding him to her while her hips turned towards him, pressing close through the bedclothes. She loved the softness of his hair in her hands, such a contrast to the hard muscle and bone of his powerful body.

  When finally he dragged his head up her breathing was ragged and needy and she had trouble focusing on his expression.

  ‘I came here to talk,’ he murmured. ‘But that can wait.’ Already, he was peeling the sheet lower, his big, warm hand smoothing down her ribs.

  She covered his fingers with hers, stopping his progress.

  ‘You want to talk?’

  ‘Later will do.’ A hungry smile curled the corner of Thierry’s mouth, and Imogen knew a compelling temptation simply to lie back and enjoy his attentions. Nothing in all her life made her feel so good as when he made love to her.

  Except ever since the doctor’s news, she’d wanted to talk with Thierry. Not the casual chatter that he’d used to fill her ‘celebration’ lunch, but to sort out things between them.

  Lustrous dark eyes surveyed her. Oh, the promise in that heated look! ‘It can wait.’

  How she’d craved that from him all this time when he’d been punctiliously polite, like a courteous stranger.

  Nerves stabbed her. He’d said he still desired her, had already proved it, yet maybe she wouldn’t like what he’d say. They needed to clear the air and decide where they went from here. It took all her courage to do what she knew she must.

  ‘No, it can’t.’ She put her hand on his shoulder, stopping him when he would have bent again to her breast. She felt the bunch and flex of muscle beneath her hand and knew she didn’t have the power to hold him off. Instead, he chose to respect her wishes.

  Finally, she felt some of his urgency abate a fraction as he eased back, resignation on his face. ‘You choose the damnedest times to chat.’

  A bubble of laughter rose to her lips but she smothered it, realising it was generated by nerves, not amusement. ‘You were the one who suggested we talk.’

  ‘That was before.’ He moved his hand to tweak her nipple. She gasped as a chord of erotic energy drew tight and alive to the core of her being. Slowly, Thierry smiled. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk later?’

  Of course she wasn’t sure. She was only human.

  Too human when it came to Thierry. For a woman who had no trouble resisting men, she found herself totally unstuck with this gorgeous hunk of a Frenchman. Even the lazy satisfaction of her well-used body didn’t prevent a quiver of anticipation at the look in his eyes.

  ‘We need to talk now.’ Her voice, throaty and full, gave her away but finally, after close scrutiny, he nodded and rolled away from her to sit up.

  Imogen gnawed at her lip rather than howl her frustration at the distance between them.

  This is what you wanted, remember!

  Physically, she was besotted with the man. She yanked up the sheet, determined to cover herself, and almost groaned out loud at the sensual torture of crisp cotton against her aroused nipples.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him watching. Was that a smirk?

  Did he know how turned on she was after the way he’d fondled her? Of course he knew! He was enjoying her reaction.

  Setting her mouth, Imogen let go of the sheet and wriggl
ed up into a sitting position, propping a second pillow behind her. Warm air caressed her breasts but it was the heat of Thierry’s gaze that she felt like a touch.

  He wasn’t smiling now. He was focused on every sway and jiggle of her bare breasts with an intensity that almost stopped her breath.

  Good! Served him right.

  Casually, she reached for the sheet, drawing it slowly over her chest and tucking it tight under her arms.

  She turned to him. ‘You’re ready to talk?’

  ‘Witch.’ But there was amusement in his eyes despite the tension in his features.

  If she was, then it was because of him. Thierry Girard had turned a cautious mouse of a woman into one more than happy to flaunt herself before her lover. One with more confidence in her body than she’d had before. One ready to take on the challenge of living instead of dying.

  Imogen felt an answering smile tug her mouth. She loved it when he was like this—charming, fun and oh-so-sexy. Far better than when he’d been politely distant. Or when he’d looked grim and implacable.

  ‘Thierry? We’ve got things to discuss.’

  Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers and once more she felt that sensation of melding, of connection. It warmed her in places that had been too long cold.

  ‘Let’s eat first.’ He swung away and lifted a tray from the bedside table, busying himself ensuring it was stable.

  In any other man those quick, restless movements would have made her wonder if he was nervous.

  But this was Thierry, über-confident and competent, literally the lord of all he surveyed from his ancient château. What reason could he have to be nervous?

  She was the outsider, the unwanted complication in his world.

  Thick, dark hair fell across his brow, giving him a casual, boyish look that tugged at her heart.

  Imogen’s breath caught as she remembered his grandmother’s words. Did she really look at him with love in her eyes? Was that why she was so desperate for more than his polite goodwill? Why she craved his smiles and this precious sense of them sharing not just their bodies, but some other intimate connection?

  The idea made her simultaneously ecstatic and horrified. Trepidation and tentative hope danced along her nerves. But she couldn’t bring herself to believe it was true. It was far too dangerous a thought.

  ‘Fruit, quiche or trout?’

  Imogen made herself focus on the lavish spread between them. Jeanne had done them proud. She could barely see the tray for the luscious food piled upon it.

  Suddenly she realised she was ravenous. ‘Everything.’ She plucked a gleaming strawberry from a bowl. Her eyes closed as she bit into it. It tasted of sunlight and sweetness. She’d never known food to taste as good as here at Thierry’s château. Because it was locally grown and fresh, or because her new lease of life made her appreciate small delights even more?

  When she opened her eyes it was to find Thierry staring at her mouth, his expression taut and hungry. She gulped down the rest of the fruit, her throat constricting.

  They had so much to sort out, but at least on a purely physical level the connection was as strong as ever. The intensity of Thierry’s love-making earlier had given her hope and relief after these lonely days when he’d been away. Ever since her doctor’s appointment she’d felt strangely alone, even when he was with her. He’d withdrawn mentally.

  Not even the fact her headaches were fading had made her feel better. The last one, the first night Thierry had been away climbing, had been a mere shadow of the previous piercing agony.

  ‘You’re sure you want to talk?’ His voice was pure temptation and the look in his eyes told her she’d enjoy every moment of not talking. But they needed to clear the air.

  ‘Why were you so angry earlier?’ Imogen had never seen him in a temper and riding that lashing storm had been shocking. Yet on some level she’d thrilled to the vibrancy in him, excited by it.

  Because he cared enough to be angry?

  That sounded masochistic and she wasn’t fool enough to want a man who took out his frustrations on her. Yet she sensed Thierry’s anger was rare. After all, he’d taken in his stride all the complications she’d presented him with, never once blaming her or losing his cool. It was more that his flash of temper had broken down the wall between them, the wall she hadn’t seen him build till it was too late.

  ‘I apologise for that.’ A pulse ticked in his jaw as he helped himself to cheese and home-made crackers. ‘I overreacted. I see now you were trying to make a point.’ Suddenly, he looked up, his eyes, dark as bitter coffee, snaring hers. ‘But there was no need to prove yourself.’

  Imogen spread her hands. ‘It was important to make it clear I didn’t want any more from you. You’ve done so much, acted so...honourably.’ That old-fashioned word seemed apt. For surely that was what Thierry’s grave concern, his gentleness and the efforts he’d gone to on her behalf, amounted to?

  ‘It’s done now. I suggest we forget it.’ Yet he hadn’t. There was an edge to his voice.

  ‘But there’s something bothering you.’

  He dropped his gaze to her breasts, and her nipples peaked against the crisp cotton. ‘From here everything looks perfect.’

  Heat crept from her breasts to her throat and face. She still hadn’t grown used to such blatantly carnal looks. They threatened to turn her brain as well as her bones to mush. After all, she’d spent twenty-five years avoiding risk, playing safe.

  Thierry and her—this connection between them—had been easier to cope with when she’d been able to write it off as a flare of passing attraction, a desperate fling of a dying woman. But she had a full life before her now. She had to come to grips with what was happening.

  Her whole being lit up when he looked at her that way. Focusing was almost impossible.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re changing the subject?’

  Thierry blinked and for an instant she read tension in that powerful frame.

  ‘Things have changed,’ he said finally. ‘You were right about that.’

  Imogen’s frustration levels rose when he didn’t continue. If he wouldn’t confront the elephant in the room, she would.

  ‘I’m not dying. Which means we’ve saddled ourselves with marriage when we needn’t have.’ The words tasted bitter.

  ‘Saddled?’ His nostrils flared as if in distaste.

  ‘Come on, Thierry. Don’t tell me you wanted a permanent wife. Marriage made sense when I thought I was dying and it meant you could claim our baby. But now—’

  ‘Now you want to back out of it?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of backing out. It’s a matter of being sensible.’ The thought of leaving him tore at something vital inside her. But she owed him. That knowledge threatened to shatter every certainty she’d once harboured.

  All her life she’d been risk-averse, carefully building security for herself, keeping herself independent of any man, she realised. No wonder Scott had found it so easy to walk away from her, using the time she’d devoted to her mother as an excuse. Now it seemed her happiness was bound up with a man she’d met just months ago.

  Yet she couldn’t hold Thierry to this marriage, not unless they were both committed to it. ‘You were kind to me when I most needed it. I don’t want to repay you with a complication you never wanted.’

  No matter how she yearned for him.

  Sexual attraction alone was not a sound basis for a relationship. As far as she knew, that was all he felt for her, plus responsibility for their baby.

  ‘You think of our child as a complication?’

  She struggled to read his inflection.

  ‘It was unexpected, but I can’t regret it. I was referring to me being a complication in your life.’ Why was he so obtuse? His quick understanding was one of the things she loved about hi
m.

  Loved.

  Something clenched in the deepest recesses of her soul.

  It was true. It was really true.

  Here she was, trying to convince him he didn’t need a spouse, when all the time...

  Imogen sucked in a deep breath, dizzy with the implications of the one crucial fact she’d been avoiding for weeks.

  ‘Imogen?’ Thierry’s frown grew, lines ploughing his forehead and carving around his mouth.

  Helplessly, she stared at him. She was in far too deep when the sight of his concern threatened to undo her resolve. She tried to tell herself that it was natural she’d grown fond of him when he’d been so wonderful.

  But fond didn’t go anywhere near describing her visceral need for Thierry. A need that was far more than physical.

  Imogen crossed her arms as if to hide the tumultuous throb of her heart hurling itself against her ribs.

  ‘I could be on a flight in a day or two.’ She dragged the words out. ‘There’s no need for...’ She waved her hand across the bed as words dissolved.

  ‘You want to leave?’ He leaned close, his finger stroking her cheek, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. It was all she could do not to turn into his touch and nestle her cheek against his palm.

  She wanted so much. Thierry. This closeness. His passion—definitely his passion—but far more. She swallowed hard over a knot of pain.

  Against the odds she’d shared a wonderful affair with a man who in every way the world counted was far out of her league. Now, when it should be over and they should be saying their goodbyes, it tore her apart.

  Because it was true.

  She’d fallen in love with Thierry Girard.

  She wanted to be with him, not just now, sharing pleasure, but always, growing old together. Being a part of him just as he’d become a vital part of her.

  ‘I’m trying to do what’s right.’ And it had never been so hard. To her horror her mouth crumpled with the effort of holding in so much welling emotion.