A Vow to Secure His Legacy Page 6

  ‘Stop torturing that lovely mouth of yours.’

  The unexpectedness of that made her blink and sit back. Lovely mouth?

  ‘I don’t...’ She shook her head.

  Abruptly he dropped his hand and nodded, and Imogen was horrified at her sense of loss. Surely she was stronger than this?

  Her mouth trembled, and she grabbed her glass, taking a long draught of the sparkling water, telling herself the sting of it where her teeth had grazed her skin was a timely reminder that she needed focus.

  She straightened her shoulders and looked at a point near his perfectly knotted tie.

  ‘I’m happy to take a paternity test if you like.’ She paused, letting that sink in. ‘Then, when you believe me, I need your help.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HELP?

  In the form of money, he assumed.

  Thierry hadn’t missed her wide-eyed appraisal of his apartment, the way her hand lingered on the plush fabric of the designer-original lounger and her eyes on the masterpiece of Modernism over the fireplace.

  But, if she carried his child, why shouldn’t she expect support?

  He could afford it. He’d worked like the devil to turn around the family company, not just for his ageing grandparents and cousins, but for himself too. Duty had driven him, but he’d benefited. It had stunned him to discover the wealth he’d always taken for granted was in danger of slipping away while he travelled the world, following his own pursuits. Years of poor management as his grandfather’s health deteriorated had taken its toll on the family fortune.

  But it was safe now.

  Unlike Imogen. The sudden thought disturbed him.

  Pregnancy wasn’t an illness. It was surely the most natural thing in the world. Yet the sight of her tension, the dark circles beneath her eyes and her pallor drew at something inside him, making him tense and restless.

  He turned to stand by the windows. But it wasn’t the lights of early evening that he saw. It was her wan reflection. Her shoulders hunched again and she seemed to crumple. Not at all like the vivacious Imogen he’d known.

  ‘What sort of help do you want? To arrange an abortion?’ Alone in a foreign country, she could well ask for that sort of assistance. Especially if, as she’d said, her money had run out.

  Thierry knocked back a slug of cognac, surprised to discover its taste had unaccountably turned sour.

  He scowled at the glass, slamming it down onto a nearby table. He still reeled from the idea of her being pregnant. He hadn’t had time to begin imagining an actual child. Yet out of nowhere anger hit him. Anger that she could consider disposing of her baby. His baby, if his instincts were correct.

  Her equanimity at the thought of a DNA test was convincing, as was his memory of her untutored loving. Imogen wasn’t a woman who flitted from man to man, no matter how easily she’d fallen into his arms.

  He spun around. ‘Is that it? You want to get rid of the baby?’

  It would solve his problems, remove any inconvenience. Yet his stomach twisted at the thought. He found himself looming over her, watching the convulsive movement of her pale throat.

  ‘I suppose that would be a solution,’ she whispered, looking down at her twisting hands. ‘Maybe it’s selfish to try...’

  ‘Try what?’ He hunkered before her, confused by his desire to take her in his arms even as he wanted to shake her for even considering destroying their baby.

  Their baby! Was he really so easily convinced?

  Perhaps he was. Adrenalin made his heart pound, just like it used to as he’d waited for the starter’s signal at the beginning of a downhill race, his eyes fixed on the treacherous snowy slope before him.

  He sensed, with a marrow-deep instinct he didn’t even begin to fathom, that the child was his.

  Imogen lifted her head and his pulse tripped. Her eyes, more green than brown, glistened over-bright and huge in her taut face.

  ‘I’d hoped...’ She shrugged. ‘I want to give my baby a chance to live. Is that so wrong?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Her hands were cool and slight in his. He chafed them gently, telling himself relief was a natural response. ‘So you want to keep the child.’ He made it a statement.

  ‘Yes. I do.’ Her hands gripped his, and he was surprised at her strength. ‘I want to keep it.’

  ‘Good. That’s one thing sorted.’ He made his voice businesslike, as if dealing with unexpected pregnancies was no more difficult than the business challenges he handled daily.

  Thierry disengaged his hands and stood. It was hard to think when Imogen clung to him, her eyes devouring him as if he were her last hope. That muddled his brain and he needed his wits.

  He sank into a nearby armchair and surveyed her, wondering what it was about this woman that evoked such strong protective instincts in a man who’d spent his life avoiding any form of commitment. He’d perfected the art of being unencumbered until his grand-père’s illness and the realisation he couldn’t avoid the yoke of duty any longer.

  ‘You want my help.’

  ‘Yes. Please.’ But instead of meeting his gaze she focused on sipping from the glass of water he’d given her. Suspicion feathered through him, an inkling she was trying to hide something.

  ‘And what form would this assistance take?’ Now would come the appeal for money. It was only natural.

  She studied the glass in her hand, one finger stroking the condensation on the outside as if it fascinated her. ‘I want your help if anything goes wrong.’

  Thierry straightened, his hands gripping the plush arms of his chair. ‘Wrong? What could go wrong?’

  She shrugged, an uneven little movement. ‘Things do.’

  ‘Not often. Not with good medical care.’ He frowned. Was she scared by pregnancy?

  The idea confused him. Where was the woman who’d planned to skydive, climb a glacier and see volcanoes in Iceland? Who’d shown not one hint of fear as he’d taken her hot-air ballooning outside Paris?

  Still she stared at the tall glass in her hands.

  ‘Do you need money for health care? Is that it?’ He’d assumed she was well-off, given where they’d met and where she’d stayed on her first visit to Paris. Now she seemed skint.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I should be all right once I’m back in Australia. There’s comprehensive health care, plus I have some savings I haven’t touched.’

  Once she returned to Australia.

  So, she didn’t intend to stay here through her pregnancy. Thierry ignored the unfamiliar hollow sensation in his gut. It couldn’t be disappointment. His lifestyle, and especially the lifestyle he was about to return to—never in one place longer than it took to conquer the next challenge—left no room for a baby. Besides, children were better off with their mothers; everyone said so. If he really wanted he could visit after it was born.

  Yet discontent niggled.

  And surprise. She didn’t want to be with him. She didn’t want his money. She only wanted his help if things went wrong.

  Common sense told him he was getting out of this lightly. Most men would jump at the chance to divest themselves of such responsibilities.

  But Thierry couldn’t feel relief. He felt curiously deprived.

  ‘What, exactly, do you want from me, Imogen?’ At her name, she looked up, meeting his eyes squarely, and he felt a curious little thump in his chest, as if his heart had thudded too hard against his ribs.

  Again that uneven little shrug. Her gaze swerved away, fixing on the view as if it fascinated her. ‘I want to know you’ll be there wh— if—something happens to me. I want to know you’ll take care of him or her.’

  She shifted in her seat, skewering him suddenly with a look he could only describe as desperate. Thierry felt the slow crawl of an icy finger up his nape, each in
dividual hair on his neck and arms rising in response.

  Not just desperation but fear. What was going on?

  ‘I’m alone, you see. My mother and sister are dead. So if anything were to happen to me...’ She swiped her bottom lip with her tongue. ‘I know there are some wonderful foster parents out there, but I can’t bear the thought of my baby being put into care.’

  ‘It won’t come to that. You and the child will be fine.’ Thierry leaned towards her, willing her to think logically, despite the panic edging her husky voice.

  He hated hearing her so desperate and fearful.

  Then the full implication of her words sank in. ‘You’ve got no one back in Australia? No family?’

  ‘No. But I’m used to looking out for myself.’ This time her jaw angled higher, as if daring him to feel sorry for her.

  Thierry frowned. He might not be accustomed to taking responsibility for others—he might have spent years perfecting what Grand-père called his ‘damned selfish bachelor lifestyle’—but the idea of Imogen, pregnant and alone, disturbed him. More than disturbed. It sent a shock wave tingling through him as if he’d touched an electric current.

  ‘What about your father?’ She’d said her mother and sister were dead but she hadn’t mentioned him.

  Her lips pulled taut in a grimace. ‘I don’t know where he is. He used to move around a lot, working in outback mines. And even if I did know how to contact him I wouldn’t expect him to raise his grandchild. Not when he walked out on Mum the day he found out she was expecting twins.’

  Diable! Thierry’s hands closed into fists as he read the careful blankness on Imogen’s face. It was the sort of blankness that hid pain, despite her matter-of-fact tone.

  What sort of man deserted a woman pregnant with his children?

  Then he remembered that moment of relief when he’d entertained the possibility this wasn’t his baby. Or that Imogen might get rid of it and make things easier for them both. A shudder of revulsion ripped through him at the idea he had anything in common with a man like her father, even if only for a split second.

  ‘You needn’t worry about that.’ His voice sounded harsh and he saw a hint of surprise on her features. ‘I won’t run scared.’

  It was one of the things he’d always prided himself on—his ability to face fear. In his youth he’d stared it down on neck-breaking black ski-runs while the hopes of a nation weighed down his shoulders. Later there’d been adventure sports and his treks into inhospitable territory with his friend Orsino Chatsfield. More recently he’d confronted the ultimate horror: a desk job, hemmed in by solid walls while he came to grips with the ailing Girard business interests.

  ‘You’ll take care of our child if I die?’

  Thierry surged to his feet. ‘You’re not going to die.’ Years ago he’d been first on the scene in a desert car rally after a crash. The other driver had died in his arms while they’d waited for an airlift and Thierry had never felt so helpless. He refused to countenance such talk from Imogen. ‘You’re going to have an uneventful pregnancy, a healthy baby and a long, happy life as a mother.’

  And, most probably, as someone’s wife.

  The realisation sent a twang of discontent through his gut.

  ‘You sound so sure.’ This time the curve of her lovely mouth, though tiny, was a real smile.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Thank you, Thierry.’ She looked away, but not before he saw her blink back what looked like a glimmer of moisture. Her lashes clumped as if wet, and the sight filled him with unfamiliar feelings.

  ‘Don’t.’ He leaned down, taking the glass from her hand and putting it aside. Then he tugged her up till she stood before him, shorter than he remembered in her flat shoes. The scent of sweetness and vanilla filled his nostrils as he leaned close. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’

  Her mouth twisted in a crumpled sort of smile and her palm grazed his cheek. ‘You’re a good man, Thierry Girard.’

  He blinked, transfixed by the mix of emotions flitting across her features. Or perhaps by the strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he’d gone into freefall.

  A good man? Focused, yes. Selfish, yes. With a taste for adventure and good-looking women. And an astute business sense that had surprised everyone, himself included.

  Her hand began to slide away and he grabbed it, clamping it against his jaw. He liked its soft warmth against his skin.

  ‘What’s going on, Imogen?’ She was hiding something. He’d read that in her refusal to hold his gaze. The way she kept looking away, as if scared he’d see too much. But what could it be? He was ready to accept the child was his, even if his lawyers would probably advise a paternity test.

  ‘Nothing.’ Her laugh sounded forced. ‘Apart from an unexpected pregnancy.’

  ‘Imogen.’ He captured the back of her head in his free hand, delving his fingers into the soft luxury of her hair.

  Memory hit—of those dark, silky waves slithering over them both as they’d lain naked in bed. Of him tugging gently on her hair so she arched her neck back, exposing her creamy throat to his mouth. Of the taste of her, sweet and addictive.

  Fire ignited in his groin and his fingers tightened.

  She could break his hold. All she had to do was step back, or tell him to let go.

  The voice of reason urged him to do just that. Not to complicate an already fraught situation.

  But he didn’t.

  He stood, looking down, watching a delicate flush steal across her cheeks, turning pallor to peaches-and-cream loveliness. And still she stood, watching him through narrowed eyes, her long dark lashes veiling her expression. She was a contradiction, a conundrum. Vulnerable yet unwavering, alluring and intriguing, a mystery to be solved.

  Her lips parted, and he leaned closer, needing to taste. It had been too long.

  His lips touched hers, and he realised he’d made a serious error of judgement when sensation exploded, tightening his limbs, his belly, his grip on her. His mouth moved with purpose now. Not for a whisper-soft taste, but with a ravening hunger that hadn’t been assuaged since the day Imogen had left Paris.

  She tasted so sweet. Lush, feminine and delicious. The scent of her intoxicated him and he bowed her back, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, shocked at how the familiar taste of her blasted at his control. A tremor passed through him, a huge, curling wave of hunger and exultation as she kissed him back, just as ravenous as he.

  Her free hand slid up his chest to cup the back of his neck, fingers tight as if defying him to break away. He felt another detonation inside him, her touch, her need, triggering his to even greater heights.

  Imogen made a low humming sound in the back of her throat that sent him crazy. From the first he’d lusted after her enthusiasm, her passion. He needed it now. How had he gone so long without it? She was sweet rain after drought, ambrosia after starvation.

  Thierry released her hand and wrapped an arm around her, hauling her in to him so she cushioned his burgeoning arousal with her soft belly.

  Her belly.

  His baby.

  Realisation slammed into him. Tension crawled along his limbs to grab his neck and shoulders. A new sort of tension that had nothing to do with sex.

  He dragged his mouth free, hauling in air.

  Hectic colour scored her cheeks and throat, and her lips were red from his kisses. Her eyelids fluttered as if reluctant to open.

  He wanted to grind himself against her, strip her clothes away and lose himself in her welcoming body.

  The body that cradled a fragile new life.

  The body of a woman who for some reason feared this pregnancy like a physical threat.

  What was he thinking?

  He wasn’t thinking. He was doing what he’d always done—indulging in whatever pleasure beckone
d.

  Abruptly, he straightened, his hands dropping, engulfed in horror at his lack of control. You’d think that in his thirties he’d have conquered the impulse to act rashly.

  But one touch, one taste of Imogen, and thought fled.

  He stared into dazed eyes that glowed green and honey-brown and knew he teetered on the edge of control.

  Deliberately, he stepped back, his movements stiff and reluctant, forcing his brain to function. There was more he needed to understand. Much more.

  ‘Are you going to tell me the truth now?’

  * * *

  ‘The truth?’ The words sounded like a foreign language. Imogen stared at that firm mouth, the sensuous bottom lip, the taut line it formed when he stopped speaking. ‘What do you mean?’

  It was all she could do not to sway as she stood, bereft of his touch, still feeling his body imprinted on hers. She bit her lip, silencing the futile plea that he gather her close again.

  She wanted Thierry. Wanted the comfort of him holding her, the taste of him—cognac and that bitter-chocolate tang that was unique to Thierry. She wanted to be naked with him, losing herself to ecstasy.

  But he looked distant, even standing so near. His eyes were unreadable, his face taut, prouder, harder than she remembered it. Suspicious.

  ‘What don’t you want me to know? You’re not telling me the truth.’

  Imogen jerked back an unsteady step. Her heart thumped harder. ‘I know the pregnancy is a surprise, but it’s real. You heard the doctor.’ Pride came to her aid, stiffening her backbone. ‘Or is it the idea you’re the father that you doubt?’

  Had she really believed he’d take her word it was his? She pulled her arms across her chest, holding in the welling hurt.

  Slowly, he shook his head, his piercing gaze never leaving her face. ‘It’s not that. There’s something more. Something you’re hiding. I won’t do anything until I know what it is.’

  That powerful jaw took on an obstinate cast as he crossed his arms across his chest, reinforcing that aura of tough, masculine strength despite his suavely tailored jacket. His lips thinned and his nostrils flared.