Thierry put his glass down and leaned close. Too close. But she couldn’t seem to pull back. ‘There’s something I want you to do.’

‘There is?’ Imogen couldn’t imagine what. Unless, of course, it was a DNA test to prove paternity. She’d heard there were risks involved with those during pregnancy, but if it meant giving her child a secure future …

‘Yes.’ He paused so long that tension tightened the bare skin of her shoulders. ‘I want you to marry me.’

‘What did you say?’ Her voice was a croak from constricted muscles.

‘I want us to marry. This week.’

He looked so relaxed—as if he’d merely commented on the quality of the meal they’d shared, or on the beautiful old buildings floodlit along the banks of the Seine.

Her pulse fluttered like a mad thing. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Never more so.’

That was when she saw it: the glint of determination in those espresso-dark eyes.

One Night With Consequences

When one night … leads to pregnancy!

When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire it’s impossible to think past the morning after!

But, with the sheets barely settled, that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test and it doesn’t take long to realise that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!

Only one question remains:

How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?

Find out in:

Nine Months to Redeem Him by Jennie Lucas January 2015

Prince Nadir’s Secret Heir by Michelle Conder March 2015

Carrying the Greek’s Heir by Sharon Kendrick April 2015

Married for Amari’s Heir by Maisey Yates July 2015

Bound by the Billionaire’s Baby by Cathy Williams July 2015

From One Night to Wife by Rachael Thomas September 2015

Her Nine Month Confession by Kim Lawrence September 2015

An Heir Fit for a King by Abby Green October 2015

Larenzo’s Christmas Baby by Kate Hewitt November 2015

An Illicit Night with the Greek by Susanna Carr February 2016

Look for more One Night With Consequences coming soon!

If you missed any of these fabulous stories, they can be found at millsandboon.co.uk

A Vow

to Secure

His Legacy

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Growing up near the beach, ANNIE WEST spent lots of time observing tall, burnished lifeguards—early research! Now she spends her days fantasising about gorgeous men and their love lives. Annie has been a reader all her life. She also loves travel, long walks, good company and great food. You can contact her at annie@annie-west.com or via PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

Dedicated to those who work with the sick and frail:

medical staff, technicians, administrative staff, care workers, paramedics and volunteers.

Your skills and above all your kindness make such a difference!

Thanks, too, to the lovely Fabiola Chenet for your advice. Any errors are all mine!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

One Night With Consequences

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

‘IMOGEN! WHAT A lovely surprise.’ The receptionist looked up from her desk. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’ She paused, her smile fading. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your mother.’

Her voice held a note of sympathy that stirred grief, even after four months. It was like pressure applied to a bruise that hadn’t faded. The pain was more intense today because coming here, doing this, was so difficult. Imogen laced her fingers together to stop them trembling.

‘Thanks, Krissy.’ The staff here at the specialist’s consulting rooms had been terrific with her mum and her.

Imogen swept her gaze around the familiar space. The soothing sea-green furnishings, the vase of bright gerberas on the counter and the waiting room of people apparently engrossed in their magazines. She recognised their alert stillness—a desperate attempt to pretend everything would be all right. That they’d receive good news from the doctor, despite the fact he had a reputation for dealing with the most difficult cases.

Her stomach swooped in a nauseating loop-the-loop. A chill skated up her spine to clamp her neck.

Swiftly, she turned back to the desk.

‘What brings you here?’ Krissy leaned in. ‘You just can’t stay away, is that it? You love our company so much?’

Imogen opened her mouth but her throat constricted. No words came out.

‘Krissy! That’s enough.’ It was Ruby, the older receptionist, bustling in from a back room. She wore an expression of careful serenity. Only the sympathetic look in those piercing eyes gave anything away. ‘Ms Holgate is here for an appointment.’

There was a hiss of indrawn breath and a clatter as Krissy dropped the stapler she’d been holding.

‘Please take a seat, Ms Holgate. The doctor is running a little late. There was a delay in surgery this morning, but he’ll see you shortly.’

‘Thanks,’ Imogen croaked and turned away with a vague smile in Krissy’s direction. She couldn’t meet the other woman’s eyes. They’d be round with shock. Perhaps even with the horror she’d seen in her own mirror.

For weeks she’d told herself she was imagining things...that the symptoms would pass. Until her GP had looked at her gravely, barely concealing concern, and said he was sending her for tests. Then he’d referred her to the very man who’d tried to save her mother when she’d suffered exactly the same symptoms.

Imogen had had the tests last week and all this week she’d waited for a message from her GP saying there was no need to see the specialist, that everything was clear.

There’d been no message. No reprieve. No good news.

She swallowed hard and made herself cross the room, taking a seat where she could look out at the bright Sydney sunshine rather than at the reception desk.

Pride dictated she play the game, hiding her fear behind a façade of calm. She took a magazine, not looking at the cover. She wouldn’t take it in. Her brain was too busy cataloguing all the reasons this couldn’t end well.

A year ago she’d have believed everything would be okay.

But too much had happened in her twenty-fifth year for her to be complacent ever again. The world had shifted on its axis, proving once more, as it had in childhood, that nothing was safe, nothing sure.

Nine months ago had come the news that her twin sister—flamboyant, full-of-life Isabelle—was dead. She’d survived paragliding, white-water rafting and backpacking through Africa, only to be knocked over by a driver in Paris as she crossed the street on her way to work.

Imogen swallowed down a knot of grief. Isabelle had accused her of being in a rut, of playing safe when there was a wide world out there to be explored and enjoyed.

Her twin had followed her dream, even knowing the odds of her succeeding were a million to one. Yet she had succeeded. She’d moved to France and through talent, perseverance plus sheer luck had snaffled a job with a top fashion designer. She’d had everything to look forward to. Then suddenly her life was snuffed out.

Soon after had come their mother’s diagnosis—a brain tumour. Massive, risky to operate on, lethal.

Blindly, Imogen flipped open the magazine on her lap.

When the news had come from Paris she’d protested that there must have been a mistake—Isabelle couldn’t possibly be dead. It had taken weeks to accept the truth. Then, as her mother’s headaches and blurry vision had worsened and the doctors looked more and more grim, Imogen had been convinced there would be a cure. Fatal brain tumours just didn’t happen in her world. The diagnosis was impossible.

Until the impossible had happened and she was left alone, bereft of the only two people in the world who’d loved her.

The past nine months had shown her how possible the impossible actually was.

And now there was her own illness. No mistaking this for anything other than the disease that had struck down her mother. She’d been with her mum as her illness had progressed. She knew every stage, every symptom.

How much longer did she have? Seven months? Nine? Or would the tumour be more aggressive in a younger woman?

Imogen turned a page and lifted her eyes, scanning the room. Was this her destiny? To become a regular here until they admitted there was nothing they could do for her? To become another statistic in the health-care system?

Isabelle’s voice sounded in her head.

You need to get out and live, Imogen. Try something new, take a risk, enjoy yourself. Life is for living!

Imogen snorted. What chance would she have for living now?

She thought of the dreams she’d nurtured, planning and carefully executing every step. Working her way through university. Getting a job. Building professional success. Saving for a flat. Finding a nice, reliable, loving man who’d stick by her as their father hadn’t. A man who’d want a lifetime with her. They’d see all the things Isabelle had raved about. The northern lights in Iceland. Venice’s Grand Canal. And Paris. Paris with the man she loved.

Imogen blinked and looked down. Open on her lap was a double-page photo of Paris at sunset. Her breath hitched, a frisson of obscure excitement stirring her blood.

The panorama was as spectacular as Isabelle had said.

Imogen’s throat burned as she remembered how she’d turned down her sister’s invitation, saying she’d visit when she had a deposit saved for a flat and had helped their mum finish that long-overdue kitchen renovation.

Isabelle had ribbed her about planning her life to the nth degree. But Imogen had always needed security. She couldn’t drop everything and gallivant off to Paris.

Fat lot of good that will do you now you’re dying. What will you do, spend your money on a great coffin?

Imogen gazed at the Seine, copper-bright in the afternoon light. Her stare shifted to the Eiffel Tower, a glittering invitation. You’d love it, Ginny—gorgeous and gaudy by night but just so...Paris!

She’d spent her life playing safe. Avoiding risk, working hard, denying herself the adventures Isabelle revelled in, because she planned to do that later.

There’d be no later. There was only now.

Imogen wasn’t aware of getting up, but she found herself striding across the room and out into the sunlight. A voice called but she didn’t look back.

She didn’t have much time. She refused to spend it in hospitals and waiting rooms until she absolutely had to.

For once she’d forget being sensible. Forget caution. She intended to live.

CHAPTER ONE

‘TELL ME, MA CHÉRIE, will you be at the resort when we visit? It would be so much more convenient having the owner on the premises when we do the promotional photo shoot.’ Her voice was intimately pitched, reaching him easily despite the chatter of the crowd in the hotel’s grand reception room.

Thierry looked down into the publicist’s face, reading the invitation in her eyes.

She was beautiful, sophisticated and, he guessed by the way she licked her bottom lip and pressed her slim frame closer, ready to be very accommodating. Yet he felt no flicker of excitement.

Excitement! He’d left that behind four years ago. Would he even recognise it after all this time?

Bitterness filled his mouth. He’d been living a half-life, hemmed in by conference-room walls and duty, forcing himself to care about minutiae that held no intrinsic interest. Except those details had meant the difference between salvaging the family’s foundering business portfolio and losing it.

‘I haven’t decided. There are things I need to sort out here in Paris.’

But soon... A few months and he’d hand over the business to his cousin Henri and, more importantly, the managers Thierry had hand-picked. They’d guide Henri and maintain all Thierry had achieved, securing the Girard family fortune and leaving him free at last.

‘Think about it, Thierry.’ Her lips formed a glossy pout as she swayed close. ‘It would be very...agreeable.’

‘Of course I will. The idea is very tempting.’

But not enough, he realised with abrupt clarity, to drag him from Paris. These meetings would bring him closer to divesting himself of his burdens. That held far more allure than the prospect of sex with a svelte blonde.

Hell! He was turning into a cold-blooded corporate type. Since when had his libido taken second place to business?

Except his libido wasn’t involved. That was the shocking thing. At thirty-four Thierry was in his prime. He enjoyed sex and his success with women showed he had a talent, even a reputation, for it. Yet he felt nothing when this gorgeous woman invited him into her bed.

Hadn’t he known taking on the family business would destroy him? It was sucking the life out of him. It was...

His gaze locked on a figure on the far side of the room, and his thoughts blurred. His pulse accelerated and his chest expanded as he hefted a startled breath.

His companion murmured something and stretched up to kiss his cheek. Automatically, Thierry returned the salutation, responding to her farewell as she joined a group who’d just entered the hotel ballroom.

Instantly, his gaze swung back to the far side of the room. The woman who’d caught his eye stood poised, her weight on one foot, as if about to leave.

He was already pushing his way through the crowd when she straightened and drew back her shoulders. Delectable, creamy shoulders they were, completely bared by that strapless dress. The white material was lustrous in the light of the chandeliers, drawing a man’s eyes to the way it fitted her breasts and small waist like a glove before flaring in an ultra-feminine swirl to the floor.

Thierry swallowed, his throat dry despite the champagne he’d drunk. A familiar tightness in his groin assured him that his libido was alive and kicking after all. Yet he barely registered relief. He was too busy drinking her in.

In a room packed with little black dresses and sleek, glittery outfits, this woman stood out like grand cru from cheap table wine.

She turned her head, presenting him with an engaging profile, and Thierry realised she was speaking. He halted, surprised that his walk had lengthened to an urgent stride.

Her companion was a gamine-faced woman, pointing out people to the woman in white. The woman in white and scarlet, he amended, taking in the pattern of red flowers cascading around her as she moved. There was white and scarlet on her arms too. She wore long gloves to her elbows, reminding him of photos he’d seen of his grand-mère at balls and parties decades ago.

Thierry’s gut clenched as the woman lifted one gloved hand to her throat in a curiously nervous gesture. Who knew gloves could be erotic? But there was no mistaking the weighted feeling in his lower body. He imagined stripping the glove down her arm, centimetre by slow centimetre, kissing his way to her fingers before divesting her of that dress and starting on her body.

Why was she nervous? A shy woman wouldn’t wear such a glorious, blatantly sexy concoction.

Heat sparked. His gaze roved her dark, glossy hair swept up from a slim neck. She had full red lips, a retroussé nose and heart-shaped face. Curves that made him ache to touch.

She wasn’t just pretty; she was sexy on a level he couldn’t resist.

The old Thierry Girard wasn’t dead after all.

* * *

‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ Saskia sounded doubtful.

Imogen smiled. ‘Of course not. I appreciate all you’ve done these past few days but I’m fine. I’ll drink champagne and meet interesting people and enjoy myself.’ If she said it enough she might stop being daunted by the glittering crowd long enough to believe it. ‘Now go.’ She made a shooing gesture, nodding towards the knot of fashion buyers Saskia had pointed out. ‘Make the most of this opportunity.’

‘Well, for half an hour. I’ll look for you then.’

Imogen blinked, overwhelmed anew by the kindness of her sister Isabelle’s best friend. Saskia had not only shown her where Izzy had worked and lived, but shared stories about their time together, filling the black well of Imogen’s grief with tales that had made Imogen smile for the first time in months.

Saskia had even presented her with the dresses Izzy had made for herself, eye-catching outfits Imogen would never have considered wearing. But here, in Paris, it felt right, a homage to her talented sister. Imogen smoothed her hand down the fabulous satin dress.

‘Don’t be silly. Go and mingle, Saskia. I don’t expect to see you again tonight.’ She smiled, making a fair attempt at Izzy’s bantering tone, even tilting her head to mimic her sister. ‘Since you snaffled me an invitation, I intend to make the most of my only society event. I don’t need you cramping my style.’

‘Isabelle said you weren’t good with lots of new people but obviously you’ve changed.’ Saskia’s lips twitched. ‘Okay. But join me if you want. I’ll be around.’

Imogen kept her smile in place as Saskia left, ignoring the trepidation that rose at being alone, adrift in this sea of beautiful people.

Stupid. This isn’t alone. Alone is discovering you’re dying and there’s no one left in the world who loves you enough to feel more than pity.

Imogen shoved aside the thought. She refused to retreat into self-pity. She was in Paris. She’d make the most of every moment of the next six weeks—Paris, Venice, London, even Reykjavik. She’d wring every drop of joy from each experience before she returned home to face the inevitable.

She swung around, her full-length skirt swishing around her legs, and refused to feel out of place because other women were in cocktail dresses. Isabelle’s dress was too wonderful not to wear.

‘Puis-je vous offrir du champagne?’ The deep, alluring voice sent heat straight to the pit of her stomach, as if she’d inadvertently taken a gulp of whisky.

French was a delicious language. But surely it had been designed for a voice like this? A voice that sent shivers of sensual pleasure across her skin.

She jerked her head around and then up.

Something she couldn’t identify slammed into her. Shock? Awareness? Recognition?

How had she not seen him before? He stood out from the crowd. Not just because of his height but because of his sheer presence. Her skin prickled as if she’d walked into a force field.

She met eyes the colour of rich coffee, dark and inviting, and her pulse pounded high in her throat as if her heart had dislodged and tried to escape. Deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners, fanning tiny lines in a tanned face. A man more at home outdoors than at a fashionable party?

Except his tall frame was relaxed, as if he wore a perfect dinner jacket every night to mingle with a who’s who of French society. His mouth curled up in a tantalising almost-smile that invited her to smile back. Was that why her lips tingled?

Dark hair, long enough to hint at tousled thickness. A determined chin. Strong cheekbones that made her think of princes, balls and half-forgotten nonsense.

Imogen swallowed, the muscles in her throat responding jerkily. She cleared her throat.

‘Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas français.’ It was one of her few textbook phrases.

‘You don’t speak French? Shall we try English?’ His voice was just as attractive when he spoke English with that sensuous blurring accent. Pleasure tickled Imogen’s backbone, and her stomach clenched.

‘How did you guess? Am I that obvious?’

‘Not at all.’ His gaze did a quick, comprehensive sweep from her head to her hem that ignited a slow burn deep inside. A burn that transferred to her cheeks as his eyes met hers and something passed between them, as tangible as the beat of her heart. ‘You are utterly delightful and feminine but not obvious.’

Imogen felt the corners of her mouth lift. Flirting with a Frenchman. There was one to cross off her bucket list. Back home she hadn’t been good at flirtation, but here it seemed she didn’t have to do anything at all.

‘Who are you?’ Funny the way dying helped you overcome a lifetime’s reserve. Once she’d have been too over-awed to speak to a man who looked so stunningly male. He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met and despite that aura of latent power he was definitely the most suave. Even that prominent nose looked perfect in his proud face. Just as well his eyes danced or he’d be too daunting.

‘My apologies.’ He inclined his head in a half-bow that was wholly European and totally charming. ‘My name is Thierry Girard.’

‘Thierry.’ She tried it on her tongue. It didn’t sound the same as when he said it. She couldn’t quite get the little breath of air after the T, but she liked it.

‘And you are?’ He stepped closer, his gaze intent. She caught a scent that made her think of mountains—of clear air and pine trees.

‘I’m Imogen Holgate.’

‘Imogen.’ He nodded. ‘A pretty name. It suits you.’

Pretty? She hadn’t been called that in ages. The last person to do so had been her mum, trying to persuade her into bright colours, saying she hid behind the dark suits she wore for work.

‘And now, Imogen, would you like some champagne?’ He lifted a glass.

‘I can get my own.’ She turned to look for a waiter.

‘But I brought it especially for you.’ She looked down and realised he was holding two glasses, not one. This stranger had singled her out in a room of elegant women and brought her champagne? For a moment she just stared. It was so different from her world, where she paid her way and never had to field compliments from men about anything other than her work.

He raised the other glass, giving her a choice of either. His eyes turned serious. ‘Whichever you prefer.’

Her cheeks flushed. He thought she was stalling because she didn’t trust him. In case he’d slipped something into one of the glasses.

It was the sort of thing that would have occurred to her once, for in her real life she was always cautious. But right now she was struggling to absorb the fact she was with the most charming, attractive man she’d ever met. The fact that he offered both reassured her.

She took a glass, meeting his eyes, ignoring the tingly sensation where their fingers brushed. ‘Is it champagne from the Champagne region?’

‘Of course. That’s the only wine that can use the name. You like champagne?’

‘I’ve never tried it.’

He blinked, astonishment on his face. ‘Vraiment?’

‘Really.’ Imogen smiled at his shock. ‘I’m from Australia.’

‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I happen to know the Australians import French wine as well as exporting theirs. Champagne travels the world.’

She shrugged, enjoying his disbelief. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ve drunk it.’ She eyed the wine with excitement. What better place to taste her first champagne than Paris?

‘In that case, the occasion deserves a toast. To new friends.’ His smile transformed his face from fascinating to magnetic. Imogen inhaled sharply, her lungs pushing at her ribcage. Her fingers tightened on the glass. That smile, this man, made her feel acutely aware of herself as a woman with desires she’d all but forgotten.

Stop it! You’ve seen men smile before.

Not like this. This was like standing in a shaft of sunshine. And it was an amazing antidote to the chill weight of despair. How could she dwell on despair when he looked at her that way?

She lifted her glass. ‘And to new experiences.’

She sipped, feeling the effervescence on the roof of her mouth. ‘I like that it’s not too sweet. I can taste...pears, is it?’

He drank too, and she was riveted by the sight of his strong throat and the ripple of movement as he swallowed.

Imogen frowned. There was nothing sexy about a man’s throat. Was there? There never had been before and she worked surrounded by men.

But none of them were Thierry Girard.

‘You’re right. Definitely pears.’ He watched her over the rim of the glass. ‘To new experiences? You have some planned?’

Imogen shrugged. ‘A few.’

‘Tell me.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Please. I’d like to know.’

‘Why?’ The word shot out, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Typical of her to sound gauche rather than sophisticated. She just wasn’t used to male attention. She was the serious, reserved sister, not the gregarious one with a flock of admirers.

‘Because I’m interested in you.’

‘Seriously?’ As soon as the word escaped heat scalded her throat and face. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Tell me I didn’t say that.’

A rich chuckle snagged at her senses, making her eyes pop open. If his smile was gorgeous, his laugh was... She couldn’t think of a word to describe the molten-chocolate swirl enveloping her.

‘Why don’t you tell me about these new experiences instead?’

Imogen opened her mouth to ask if he was really interested in hearing about them then snapped it shut.

Here was a wonderful new adventure, flirting with a gorgeous French hunk over champagne. She wasn’t going to spoil it by being herself. She was going to go with the flow. This trip was about stepping out of her shell, tasting life’s excitement.

Chatting with Thierry Girard was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages.

‘I’ve got a list. Things I want to do.’

‘In Paris?’ She loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled.

‘Not just here. I’m away from home for a month and a half but I’m only in Paris a fortnight.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m already realising my plans were too ambitious. I won’t fit everything in.’

‘That gives you a reason to return. You can do more on your next visit.’

His eyes were almost warm enough to dispel the wintry chill that descended at his words. There’d be no return visit, no second chance.

She had one shot at living to the max. She’d make the most of it, even if it meant stepping out of her comfort zone. She tossed back another mouthful of champagne, relishing the little starbursts on her tongue.

‘This is delicious wine.’

He nodded. ‘It’s not bad. Now, tell me about this list. I’m intrigued.’

She shrugged. ‘Tourist things, mainly.’ But she refused to feel self-conscious. ‘See those Impressionist masterpieces at the Musée d’Orsay, visit Versailles, go for a boat ride on the Seine.’

‘You’ll have time to fit those in if you have two weeks.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s only the beginning. I want to attend a gourmet cooking class. I’ve always wanted to know how they make those melt-in-the-mouth chocolate truffles.’ The ones that were exactly the colour of his eyes.

Her breath gave a curious little hitch and she hurried on. ‘I’d hoped to eat at the Eiffel Tower restaurant but I didn’t realise I needed to book in advance. Plus I’d love a champagne picnic in the country and to go hot-air ballooning and drive a red convertible around the Arc de Triomphe and... Well, so many things.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Visitors are usually scared of driving there. Traffic is thick and there aren’t lane markings.’

Imogen shrugged. She was scared too. But that was good. She’d feel she was really living.

‘I like a challenge.’

‘So I gather.’ Was that approval in his expression? ‘Have you been hot-air ballooning before?’

‘Never.’ She took another sip of champagne. ‘This is a trip of firsts.’

‘Like the champagne?’ There was that delicious crinkle around his eyes. It almost lured her into believing Thierry Girard was as harmless as her work colleagues. Yet every feminine fibre screamed she was out of her depth even looking at the ultra-sexy Frenchman. Everything about him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the intriguing dark shadow across his jaw, signalled he was a virile, powerful man. ‘Imogen?’

‘Sorry, I was distracted.’ Her voice was ridiculously husky. The way he said her name turned it into something lilting and special. She lifted her gloved fingers to her throat, as if that could ease her hammering pulse.

The glint in his eyes warned that he understood her distraction. But she refused to be embarrassed. He must be used to women going weak at the knees.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said. ‘Do you live in Paris?’

He shook his head. ‘Occasionally. I’m here for business meetings over the next week or two.’

‘So while I’m out enjoying myself you’ll be in meetings? I hope they’re not too tedious.’

Nonchalantly, he lifted those impressive shoulders, and a wave of yearning washed through her. She wanted to put her hands on them, feel the strength in his tall body and lean in to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.

Imogen blinked, stunned at the force of her desire. She didn’t do instant attraction. She didn’t fall in a heap in front of any man. But her knees were suspiciously shaky and her instincts urged her to behave in ways that were completely out of character.

Was it champagne or the man? Or maybe the heady excitement of Paris and wearing Isabelle’s gorgeous gown. Whatever it was, she approved. She wanted to feel, and from the moment her eyes had locked on Thierry’s she’d felt vibrantly alive.

‘You sound like you have experience of boring meetings.’

Imogen sipped more wine, enjoying the zing on her palate. ‘Definitely.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Our firm specialises in them. I’d bet my meetings are more boring than yours.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

Thierry took her arm and guided her away from an influx of newcomers. Even through the satin gloves his hands felt hard, capable and incredibly sexy. Trickles of fire coursed from the point of contact then splintered into incendiary darts that trailed through her body to pool down low.

How sad that she could be so turned on by that simple courteous gesture. But that wasn’t surprising, given the state of her love life. Or her lack of one.

‘Believe it.’ She dragged herself back into the conversation. ‘I’m an accountant.’ She waited for his eyes to glaze over. ‘A tax accountant. I know tedious.’

His lips twitched but he didn’t look in the least fazed. If anything there was a spark in his gaze as it swept her from head to toe. Did it linger here and there on the way? Imogen’s stomach tightened and her breasts swelled against the satin bodice as she drew a sharp breath. Strange how the lace of her strapless bra suddenly scratched at her nipples when it had been perfectly comfortable before.

‘You’re not acquainted with French property and commercial law, are you? The phrase “red tape” was invented to describe them. And the meetings...’ He shook his head.

‘You’re a lawyer?’ He didn’t look like any lawyer she’d seen, except in some high-budget courtroom film with a smoulderingly gorgeous hero.

Thierry laughed, that rich-as-chocolate sound doing strange things to her insides. ‘Me, a lawyer? That would be a match made in hell. It’s bad enough being a client. My first meeting tomorrow will go all morning. I’d much rather be out of the city.’

‘Really? You look like right at home here.’ Her gaze skated over his hard body in that made-to-measure dinner jacket. When she lifted her eyes she found him watching her, his quirk of a smile disarming.

‘This?’ One casual hand gestured to his impeccable tailoring. ‘This is camouflage.’

‘You’re saying you don’t belong?’ Her pulse raced at the idea of finding another outsider. For, try as she might, she couldn’t feel at home in this sophisticated crowd, despite her sister’s clothes.

He shrugged, and Imogen watched those wide, straight shoulders with something like hunger. She’d never felt needy for a man. Not even Scott. Was it this man or the unfamiliar setting that pulled her off-balance?

‘I’ve been forced to adapt. Business means I need to be in the city. But I prefer being outdoors. There’s nothing like pitting yourself against nature. It beats meetings hands-down.’

That explained those eyes. Not just the creases from sun exposure, but his deceptively lazy regard that seemed at the same time sharp and perceptive. As if from surveying distant views?

‘Each hour behind a desk is pure torture.’

‘You poor thing.’ Impulsively, she placed her hand on his arm, then regretted it as she felt the tense and flex of sinew and impressive muscle. There it was again, that little jolt, like an electric shock. Imogen jerked her hand back, frowning, and looked at her glass. Surely she hadn’t drunk enough to imagine it? Just enough to make her do something out of character, like touch a stranger.

Yet she couldn’t regret it. That fierce flick of heat made her feel more alive than...

‘You’d like another?’ Thierry gave their glasses to a waiter and snagged two more.

She took the glass he offered, carefully avoiding contact with his tanned fingers.

‘To red convertibles and champagne picnics and balloon rides.’ His eyes snared hers and her heart thumped. When he looked at her, the way she imagined men looked at truly beautiful women, she almost forgot what had brought her to Paris. She could lose herself in the moment.

Imogen raised her glass. ‘And to meetings that end quickly.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Thierry touched his glass to hers, watching her sip her wine. She took time to taste it. Her lips, a glossy bow, pouted delectably. Her dark eyelashes quivered, and he knew she was cataloguing the prickle of bubbles on the roof of her mouth. She gave a delicate shiver of appreciation, and he found himself leaning closer.

She was so avid. So tactile. Touching her through those long gloves had made his hand tingle! From anticipation and excitement, something he usually experienced while risking his neck outdoors.

Imogen Holgate was an intriguing mix of sensuality and guilelessness.

And he wanted her.

‘I can help with the ballooning.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes widened and he saw flecks of velvety green within the warm sherry-brown of her irises. It must be a trick of the light but her gaze seemed to glow brighter. ‘That would be marvellous.’

She took a half step closer, and his breathing hitched. He inhaled the scent of vanilla sugar and warm female flesh. His taste buds tingled and his gaze dropped to her lips, then to the faint, fast pulse at her creamy throat.

He wanted to taste her, right here, now, and discover if she was as delicious as he expected. He wanted to sweep her to some place where he could learn her secrets.

Hazel eyes and vanilla sugar as an aphrodisiac?

His tastes had changed. She was completely different from Sandrine and all the women since her. Yet sexual hunger honed his senses to a keen edge. He searched out the nearest exit, the part of his brain that was pure hunter planning how to cut her from the crowd when the time was ripe.

‘I’d appreciate it if you could.’ Her words interrupted his thoughts, or maybe it was that excited smile making her face glow. ‘I should have researched it earlier but this trip was on the spur of the moment. Can you recommend a company I could contact?’

It took longer than it should have to remember what they were talking about. ‘Better than that. A friend runs a balloon company outside Paris. We used to make balloon treks together.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes widened and there again was that trick of the light, for they seemed almost pure green now. How would they look when ecstasy took her? The tension in his lower body ratcheted up too many notches for comfort. ‘You’ve been ballooning? Tell me all about it. Please?’

She clutched his arm and that shimmer of sensation rippled up it.

Over the next twenty minutes she peppered him with questions. Not the usual What’s it like up there? and Aren’t you afraid of falling? but everything from safety procedures to the amount of fuel required, from measuring height to landing procedure. All the while her expression kept shifting. He didn’t know whether he preferred her serious, poutingly curious or dreamy-eyed excited.

She was enchanting. Refreshingly straightforward, yet complex and intriguing. And passionate.

He watched her lips as she spoke and desire exploded.

How long since he’d felt like this?

How long since he’d met a woman fascinated by him and his interest in adventure rather than money, social status or his reputation as a lover?

Plus she was passing through. She’d have no aspirations to tie him down.

Imogen was the perfect short-term diversion.

CHAPTER TWO

THE LIGHTS DIMMED and at the far end of the room a band struck up. The swell of the bass was incongruous in this ornate setting, but no one seemed surprised, even when beams of purple, blue and white light shot across the crowd.

A spotlight caught Imogen’s eyes and she flinched, moving closer to Thierry. Instantly, his arm curved protectively around her. She liked that too much, but she had no desire to pull away. Not when every nerve screamed at her to lean into him.

His arm was hard and reassuring as the band’s volume rose to a pounding beat. Imogen relished the unfamiliar thrill of being close to all that imposing masculinity. For, despite his perfectly tailored suit, there was no disguising that Thierry was all hard-muscled man.

His hands were a giveaway too. Neat, clean nails, but there were tiny, pale scars across his tanned skin, hinting he did more than wield a pen.

Imogen wondered how they’d feel on her bare flesh.

He said something she didn’t hear over a crescendo of music. At the same time the light show became more frenetic, a staccato pulse in time with the drums. Imogen felt it all swirl and coalesce like a living thing. Light stabbed her eyes.

Not now. Please not now!

Just a little more time. Was that too much to ask?

Her stomach cramped and her breathing jammed. She blinked. It wasn’t the light from the stage blinding her, it was the white-hot knife jabbing inside her skull. Her vision blurred, pain sawing through her.

‘Imogen?’ That arm at her back tightened. She caught a drift of something in her nostrils, some essence that reminded her of the outdoors, before the metallic taste of pain obliterated everything. Sheer willpower kept her on her feet, knees desperately locked.

‘I...’ It came out as a whisper. She tried again. ‘I’d like to leave.’

‘Of course.’ He took the glass from her unresisting hand. ‘This way.’ He turned her towards the exit but she stumbled, her legs not obeying.

Music shuddered through her, a screaming beat, and in her head the jab, jab, jab of that unseen knife.

Warmth engulfed her and it took a moment to realise it was from Thierry’s powerful body as he wrapped his arm around her waist and half carried her from the room.

Imagine what he could do with two arms.

And those hands. You’ve always had a thing for great hands.

That was her last coherent thought till they were in the peace of an anteroom. She couldn’t recall exactly how he’d got her there but the lean strength of his body made her feel anchored and safe, despite the lancing pain.

‘Imogen? What is it? Talk to me.’ His accent was more pronounced, slurring the words sexily. Even in her dazed state she heard his concern.

‘Headache. Sorry.’ She tilted her head up, trying to bring him into focus through slitted yes.

‘A migraine?’ Gently, he pulled her to him, resting her head on his shoulder and palming her hair in a rhythmic touch that amazingly seemed to make the pain recede a little.

She wanted never to move, just sink into his calm strength. The realisation she’d never be held like this again by anyone brought a sob rushing to her throat. She stifled it. Pity wouldn’t help.

‘Sorry.’ She sucked air through clenched teeth as she straightened. ‘Enjoy the rest of the party. It’s been—’

‘Where are you staying?’ His voice was low, soothing.

‘Here. Three-hundred and five.’ She fumbled in her purse, dragging out her key card. All she had to do was get to her room.

Had he read her befuddled mind? One minute she stood on trembling legs, the next she was swept up in his embrace. She felt bone and muscle, the tickle of his breath on her face. She should have objected. Breathing through excruciating pain, she merely slumped against him, grateful that for once she didn’t have to manage alone.

This past year she’d had to be strong, for her mother and more recently for herself. Leaning against Thierry, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath his jacket, she felt a little of the tightness racking her body ease. Was it her imagination or did the pain pull back a fraction? She shut her eyes, focusing on his iron-hard arms beneath her, the comfort of his embrace.

Another first. Being swept off your feet by a man.

Warm fingers touched hers as he shifted his hold and took the card from her hand.

‘Here we are.’ His deep voice wrapped around her. ‘Not long now.’ A door snicked closed and soon she was lowered onto a mattress. Smoothly, without hesitation, his hands withdrew and Imogen knew a moment’s craziness when she had to bite back a plea that he not let her go. There’d been such comfort in being held.

Her eyes shot open and she winced, even in the soft glow from a single bedside lamp. Thierry towered above her, concern lining his brow.

‘What do you need? Painkillers? Water?’

Gingerly, she moved, the smallest of nods. ‘Water, please.’ While he got it she fumbled open her bedside drawer and took out her medication with a shaking hand.

‘Let me.’ He squatted, popped the tablet and handed it to her. Then he raised her head while she swallowed it and sipped the water, his touch sure but gentle. Stupidly, tears clung to her lashes. Tears for this stranger’s tenderness. Tears for the extravagant fantasy she’d dared harbour, of ending the night in Thierry’s arms, making love with this sexy, fascinating, gorgeous man.

Fantasy wasn’t for her. Her reality was too stark for that. She’d have to make do with scraping whatever small pleasures she could from life before it was too late.

Defeated, she slumped against the pillow, forcing herself to meet his concerned gaze.

‘You’re very kind. Thank you, Thierry. I can manage from here.’

* * *

Kind be damned. He looked into drowning eyes shimmering green and golden-brown and his belly twisted. This woman had hooked him with her vibrancy, humour and enthusiasm, not to mention her flagrant sexiness. Even her slight hesitancy over his name appealed ridiculously. Her vulnerability was a punch to the gut, and not just because he’d aimed to spend the night with her.

‘Shut your eyes and relax.’

‘I will.’

As soon as you leave. The unspoken words hung between them and who could blame her? He was a virtual stranger. Except he felt curiously like he’d known her half his life or, more correctly, had waited that long to meet her.

A frisson of warning ripped through him but he ignored it. She was no threat. With her tear-spiked lashes and too-pale face, she was the picture of vulnerability. There were shadows beneath her eyes too that he hadn’t seen before.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was husky, doing dangerous things to his body. Thierry had to remind himself it was from pain, not arousal.

He put the house phone to his ear, dialling room service. ‘Getting you peppermint tea. My grand-mère suffers from migraines and that helps.’

‘That’s kind but...’ Her words petered out as he ordered the tea then replaced the phone.

‘Just try it, okay? If it doesn’t work you can leave it.’ He straightened and stepped back, putting distance between them. ‘I’ll stay till it’s delivered so you don’t have to get up.’

She opened her mouth then shut it, surveying him with pain-clouded eyes. Again that stab to his gut. He frowned and turned towards the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder. ‘You’re safe with me, Imogen. I have no ulterior motives.’ Not now, at any rate. ‘Trust me. I was a Boy Scout, did I tell you?’

When he returned with a damp flannel, he caught the wry twist of her lips.

‘I’m to trust you because you were a Boy Scout?’ Her voice was pain-roughened but there was that note of almost-laughter he’d found so attractive earlier.

‘Of course. Ready to serve and always prepared.’ He brushed back a few escaped locks of hair and placed the flannel on her forehead.

She sighed, and he made himself retreat rather than trace that glossy, silk-soft hair again. He pulled up a chair and sat a couple of metres from the bed.

Shimmering, half-lidded eyes met his. ‘Are all Frenchmen so take-charge?’

‘Are all Australian women so obstinate?’

A tiny smile curved her lips, and she shut her eyes. Ridiculously that smile felt like a victory.

* * *

The musical chimes of a mobile phone grew louder, drawing the attention of other café patrons. It was only then that Imogen realised it was her phone chirping away in her bag. In a fit of out-with-the-old-Imogen energy, she’d decided the old, plain ring tone was boring, swapping it for a bright pop tune.

‘Hello?’

‘Imogen?’ His voice was smooth and warm, deep enough to make her shiver.

‘Thierry?’ The word was a croak of surprise. She’d berated herself all morning for wishing last night hadn’t ended the way it had.

The fact Thierry had stayed so long only showed how dreadful she must have looked. And that he was what her mum would have called ‘a true gentleman’.

‘How are you today? Are you feeling better?’

‘Good, thank you. I’m fit as a fiddle.’ An exaggeration—those headaches always left her wrung out. But she was perking up by the moment. ‘How are you?’

There was a crack of laughter, and Imogen’s hand tightened on the phone. Even from a distance his laugh melted something inside. She sank back in her chair, noticing for the first time a blue patch of sky through the grey cloud.

‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

She blinked, registering his deep, seductive tone. Her blood pumped faster and she tried to tell herself she imagined it. Nothing, she knew, put men off as much as illness. Even illness by proxy. For a moment Scott’s face swam in her vision till she banished it.

‘How did you get my number?’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Your mobile was on the bedside table last night.’

‘You took the number down?’

‘You’re annoyed?’

Annoyed? ‘No. Not at all.’ Surprised. Delighted. Excited! A little buzz of pleasure zoomed through her.

As she watched, the blue patch of sky grew and a beam of sunlight glanced down on the wet cobblestones, making them gleam. The café door opened behind her and the delicious aroma of fresh coffee drifted out.

‘What’s on your agenda this evening? Night-time bungee jumping? Motorcycle lessons? Or maybe that ghost tour?’

She smiled, enjoying his teasing. ‘I’m still deciding between a couple of options.’ Like a long bubble bath, painting her nails scarlet or gathering her courage and finding the dance venue Saskia had mentioned.

‘How would you like dinner at the Eiffel Tower? There’s an unexpected vacancy.’

‘There is?’ She sat up. ‘But I couldn’t get a reservation when I tried.’

‘There’s one for you now if you want it.’

‘Of course I want it!’ She squashed a howl of disappointment at the idea of dining in such a romantic setting alone. But she was a pragmatist. She’d learned to face hard truths. Thierry felt sorry for her after last night and had arranged this treat. ‘It was kind of you to do that, Thierry. Thank you.’

‘Excellent. I’ll collect you at eight.’

‘Eight?’ She blinked, dazed. He was collecting her? He was taking her to dinner?

‘Yes. See you then.’

He ended the call, and Imogen stared at the phone. Thierry Girard, the most drool-worthy, fascinating, charming man she’d ever met, was taking her to dinner? She didn’t know whether to be stunned or nervous.

She settled for thrilled.

* * *

Imogen felt like she floated on air as they drove back to her hotel. The evening had been perfect. The food, the wine, the company, the weight of Thierry’s gaze on her like a touch.

When he surveyed the dress of green and bronze her sister Izzy had created, his eyes lingered appreciatively. But when his attention roved again and again to Imogen’s bare throat and shoulders, and especially her lips, heat coiled inside, like a clock wound too tight.

It made her laughter at his outrageous stories die, replaced by a hunger that no food could remedy. Was it possible to explode with sheer longing for a man’s touch?

Did she have the nerve to follow through? Casual sex wasn’t in her repertoire. Yet there was nothing casual about how Thierry made her feel.

The question was, what did he feel? Was tonight a random kindness to a stranger or something else? Imogen wished she knew. She had absolutely no experience of high-octane, sophisticated men like Thierry Girard.

He stopped the car before her hotel and she turned towards him, only to find he was already out the door, striding around the car. A moment later her door swung open and he was helping her out.

Now. Ask him now before he says goodnight.

But her throat jammed as he hooked her hand over his arm and led her into the grand hotel—her big splurge on this end-of-a-lifetime trip. His heat, his scent, fresh as the outdoors, and the feel of his body against hers, made her light-headed. He led her through the luxurious foyer, past staff who stopped to greet them, to the bank of lifts.

‘I—’ Her words died as he stepped into the lift with her and hit the button for her floor.

So, he was seeing her to her room. She shot him a sideways look, discovering that in profile his features were taut, as if his earlier good humour had faded.

Abruptly, her anticipation drained away.

Had she misread him? Perhaps he didn’t feel that hum of sexual arousal, that edge-of-seat excitement. Maybe he’d used up all his charm entertaining the unsophisticated tourist over dinner. She’d known last night she was out of place at that glamorous party, despite the wonderful dress she wore. Maybe after hours in her company he’d realised it too. Did he regret asking her out?

‘You...?’ Eyes of ebony locked with hers, and she sagged in Izzy’s green stilettos.

Izzy would have known what to say. How to entertain and attract him and, above all, follow through. Imogen’s only intimate experience had been with Scott, cautious Scott, who never acted on impulse, never broke rules or took a chance. He’d never made her feel the way Thierry did.

But, cataloguing the tension in her companion’s shoulders and the pronounced angle of his strong jaw, she realised her mistake. Thierry’s was a casual charm. Of course he didn’t want more from her. He was French. He was being polite. And those heavy-lidded looks that stopped her breath? They probably came naturally to him and didn’t mean anything.

‘It’s kind of you to see me to my room.’

The doors slid open, and he ushered her down the hall to her room, her arm clamped to his side.

Probably afraid you’ll collapse like you did last night.

‘That’s the second time you’ve accused me of being kind.’ His voice sounded tight, but she didn’t look at him, delving instead into her purse for her key card.

‘You’ve been wonderful, and I appreciate it. I—’ She frowned as he took the card and opened the door.

Did he have to be so eager to say goodnight?

But, instead of saying goodbye, Thierry stepped over the threshold, drawing her in. The door closed behind them and, stunned, Imogen turned. His tanned features looked chiselled, uncompromising, and those liquid, dark eyes...

‘I’m not good at “kind”.’ He stroked a finger down her cheek in a barely there touch that rocketed to the centre of her being. ‘In fact, I excel at doing exactly what pleases me most.’ His head dipped, and Imogen’s breath stalled as his breath caressed her lips. ‘And what pleases me most is to be with you, Imogen.’

Imogen swallowed hard. It was what she wanted, what she’d steeled herself to ask. Yet part of her, the cautious, reserved part that had kept her safe for twenty-five years, froze her tongue.

Safe? There was no safe, not any more. Not when she could count the future in months, not decades.

‘Or am I wrong?’ His hand dropped, and still she felt his touch like a sense memory. ‘Do you not want...?’

‘Yes!’ Her purse tumbled to the floor as her hand shot out. She clutched his fingers, threading hers through them. The flash of heat from the contact point was like an electric charge. ‘I want.’

How badly she wanted. Need was a shimmering wave, engulfing her.

He didn’t smile. If anything his features grew harder, flesh pulling taut across those magnificent bones. His fingers tightened around hers.

‘I can offer you short-term pleasure, Imogen. That’s all.’ His eyes narrowed as if he tried to read her thoughts. ‘If that’s not what you want—’

Her finger on his mouth stopped his words and sent another ripple of sensual awareness through her. Despite his honed, masculine features his lips were surprisingly soft. She felt light-headed just thinking about them on her mouth.

‘That sounds perfect.’ She drew a breath shaky with grim amusement. ‘I’m not in the market for long term.’

The words were barely out when his head swooped and his mouth met hers. Firmly, implacably, no teasing, just the sure, sensual demand of a man who knew what he wanted and, Imogen realised as her lips parted, who knew how to please a woman. The swipe of his tongue, the angle of his mouth, the possessive clasp of his hand around her skull were so right; she wondered how she’d gone her whole life without experiencing anything like it.

Whatever she and Scott had shared, it was nothing like this.

Thierry circled an arm around her, pulling her against his hard frame. Everywhere they touched, from her breasts to her thighs, exploded into tingling awareness, as if she’d brushed a live wire. Darts of fire shot to her nipples, her pelvis, even up the back of her neck as he massaged her scalp, and she heard herself moan into his mouth.

He tasted better than chocolate, rich, strong and addictive. She slid her arms around his neck and hung on tight as her knees gave way.

Instantly, the arm at her back tightened. He swung her off the ground, high in his arms, making her feel precious and feminine against his imposing masculinity. His mouth devoured hers, seeking, demanding, yet giving so much pleasure that exultation filled her.

This was a kiss. This was desire.

She was greedy for him, hungry for the passion he’d stoked so easily. She pushed her fingers through his hair, its soft thickness enticing.

‘More,’ she mumbled against his lips.

For answer she felt movement. Then she was on the bed and he over her, his weight pressing her down, his long legs imprisoning hers. She’d never felt anything as erotic as his hard length pinioning her, his breath hot on her neck as he grazed her with his teeth, making her jolt and squirm.

‘Thierry!’ That scraping little nip at the spot where her neck met her shoulders had her shuddering as great looping waves of delight coursed through her. They swamped her body, arrowing in to concentrate at the sensitive point between her legs.

He shifted his weight, settling low in the cradle of her hips, and she throbbed deep inside.

Urgently, Imogen arched, feeling the strong column of his arousal between her legs, and her brain shorted. She slid her hand down, wrapping around the solid weight of him, needing that contact. Desperate for more.

His breath hissed as he lifted his head. One large hand covered hers, holding her palm against him for a moment then dragging it away.

‘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

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.

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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