A Vow to Secure His Legacy Page 5

  ‘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.

  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 he
r 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.

  ‘What sort of test was it? One from a pharmacy?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Thierry stood, relieved to have a purpose. He strode around the desk and reached for a phone. ‘Then the first thing to do is get this confirmed by a doctor.’

  The flare of relief in Imogen’s eyes intrigued him. She didn’t look like a woman trying to catch a man by getting pregnant.

  She looked scared rigid.

  * * *

  ‘Well, that settles that.’ Thierry’s voice was as delicious as ever, the silky burr a ribbon of warmth threading Imogen’s ice-cold body as they left the doctor’s rooms.

  She’d felt chilled and resentful all through the consultation. Perhaps because Thierry had insisted he remain, as if he didn’t trust her. Perhaps from embarrassment, because she couldn’t shake the idea the doctor, for all his professionalism, was quietly judging her and sympathising with Thierry. He’d continually addressed Thierry rather than her. As if she didn’t have the wit to comprehend her condition.

  Or as if she was an inconvenient problem.

  ‘What does it settle?’

  Thierry didn’t answer. She darted him a sideways stare and guessed he was brooding over his own thoughts. That wide brow was furrowed, his eyes focused on the glistening cobblestones as they walked.

  Yet, distracted as he was, his hand was reassuring in the small of her back. It felt...protective.

  Imogen was needy enough right now to appreciate that.

  Since the realisation of her fatal condition, she’d felt separated from the world by a wall of glass. Only her brief time with Thierry had seemed real. But the news she was pregnant... She’d never felt so frighteningly alone in all her life. Being responsible for another life as she faced the end of her own—how was she going to manage it?

  She stumbled, and Thierry’s arm slid around her waist, holding her upright and safe. She stopped, her heart hammering high in her throat.

  What if she’d fallen? Would such a simple tumble be enough to dislodge that tiny life? Surely not? Yet Imogen’s palm crept to her abdomen as fear spiked.

  Her baby. She’d never get to see it grow. Never have the opportunity to be a real mother to him or her. But she knew with a sudden fierce certainty that she’d do anything to protect it. Anything to ensure her baby had a good chance at life.

  ‘Here. It’s okay. We’re at the car.’ Thierry clicked open the lock and ushered her into the gleaming sports car that looked like something out of a glossy magazine and which she knew rode like a growling beast eager for the open road.

  Suppressing a sigh of relief, she sank into the moulded leather and shut her eyes. The car dipped as he got in then he started it and swung out into the traffic.

  Minutes later she opened her eyes and stared glassily at the congested traffic.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To your hotel. You look like you need rest, and we have to talk.’

  Imogen frowned as she recognised a landmark. ‘I’m not staying in the centre of the city this time.’

  ‘Then where?’

  She told him and his ebony eyebrows slashed down in a frown. ‘What on earth are you doing there?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’d spent all my holiday money. I was due to go home, remember?’ She didn’t add that she’d been loath to dip into the last of her savings. She’d kept some in the bank in Australia, figuring she’d need something to cover her last months.

  ‘Money didn’t seem to be a problem before.’

  Was that accusation in his voice? ‘Believe it or not, I didn’t stay in a five-star hotel to catch myself a rich man—’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ The wrinkle on his brow became a scowl and it hit her that Thierry wasn’t used to having his intentions questioned.

  ‘I told you before.’ She struggled for an even tone, though she felt like shouting or maybe smashing something. It was hard enough to deal with the impossible hand fate had dealt her without coping with his doubt, however reasonable. Imogen dragged in a sharp breath and tried to ignore the twin scents of luxury leather and earthy male that filled her nostrils. ‘The trip was a once in a lifetime experience. I splurged on things I’d never normally afford.’ She laced her fingers together in her lap. ‘Now it’s back to reality.’

  She pursed her lips to restrain the burst of hollow laughter that threatened. If she gave in to it she feared she’d never stop but hysteria wouldn’t help.

  They finished the rest of the trip in silence. It continued as he unlocked the door to an apartment in a prestigious old building looking out over the Seine. One glance at the spacious living room with its view of central Paris glittering in the twilight told her she’d stepped into another world. One where wealth was figured in numbers with far more zeroes than she’d ever see.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Imogen settled onto a vibrant red lounger that toned with the slash of grey, red and yellow abstract art over the fireplace. A moment later Thierry passed her a tall glass. ‘Sparkling water, but I can make tea or coffee if you prefer.’

  ‘This is fine.’ Gratefully, she sipped, watching as he strode to the bar in one corner, downed a shot of something then poured himself another before turning towards her.

  ‘Ar
e you all right?’ As soon as the words escaped, she firmed her lips. What a stupid thing to say. Of course he wasn’t okay. She was still in shock and she’d had seven days to get used to her pregnancy.

  Yet his eyebrows rose in surprise. Because he hadn’t expected her to notice he wasn’t utterly in control?

  Looking at him now, at those broad shoulders that seemed capable of withstanding any weight, at the glinting dark eyes and firm jaw, she realised that, no matter how surprising her news, Thierry Girard was more than capable of handling it.

  Exactly the sort of man she needed. For the first time today she felt herself begin to relax, just a little.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure it’s mine?’

  Imogen stiffened, her fingers gripping so hard the water in her glass threatened to slop over the side.

  She met searing eyes that probed her very depths. ‘For all I know there could have been a man in Venice, one in Reykjavik and one in London too.’

  Imogen swallowed hard, tasting indignation. ‘You think that was on my must-do list? A lover at every stop?’ Despite the harshness she heard in her voice, she couldn’t quite keep the wobble from it. Maybe if she was the sort of woman to fall into bed with a stranger so easily she wouldn’t have expected so much from Thierry.

  She gnawed her lip and dragged her gaze from his. Was she stupid, hoping he’d help? They’d had fun together but she’d been what—a diversion? An easy lay? Certainly something different from the women he was used to in his rarefied world of wealth and privilege.

  With careful precision she put her glass on a nearby table and scooted to the edge of her seat, grabbing her bag from where she’d dropped it.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Imogen blinked, sanity returning.

  She didn’t have the luxury of pride. This wasn’t just about her. She had a baby to consider.

  ‘Stop it.’ He crossed the space between them in a couple of long strides, making her crane her neck to look up at him.

  ‘What?’ Even as she said it his thumb brushed her bottom lip, making her register the salt tang of blood in her mouth. And more, the heady taste of his skin. Imogen had to fight not to dart out her tongue for a better taste.