The Night That Started It All (11 page)

With too much to think about—Luc, Rémy, Emilie, the twins, booking her journey, the dread and excitement at seeing Luc again—she’d allowed her body no room in her thoughts.

Too frightening to acknowledge, too catastrophic, the vague
and extreme possibility crystallised in her brain with ruthless digital clarity.

‘No,’ she said hollowly. ‘It would be awful if anything went wrong.’

Her heart plunged in freefall.

L
UC
was on the move early, needing to attend to his office. Shari stayed in bed, waving away any suggestion of breakfast. ‘I want to sleep a little more,’ she said weakly from her pillow, knowing what would happen if she tried to sit up.

‘Are you sure? Not even some
chocolat
?’

She only just repressed a shudder.

‘Ah … if you are still wishing to visit the d’Orsay, I could collect you here at eleven.’

‘Oh, right. The d’Orsay.’ Though at that exact moment, pictures were not the first thing on her mind. ‘Oh, so you—want to come too?’

His eyes veiled and he said carelessly, ‘Unless you prefer to be alone when you look at pictures.’

She hated to hurt his feelings. ‘No, no, not at all. I’d love you to come.’ She should be able to fix herself up before then, one way or another. ‘How about I meet you there? I’ll enjoy finding my own way.’

He looked more closely at her, his brows drawing together. ‘Are you feeling quite well?’

‘Oh, heck yeah. Just tired. What would you expect?’ She conjured up a grin.

‘
Très bon
.’ Smiling, he wrote down his mobile number for her, dropped a kiss on her forehead and left.

The second the door closed behind him, Shari dragged herself up and lunged for the bathroom. There was another ghastly
attack, though she seemed to deal with it more briskly this time. Maybe she’d even get used to it. Panting, she screwed up her face. How fun to be a woman. The likely diagnosis loomed with a hopeless inevitability.

After showering and washing her hair, she felt slightly more human, if no braver. She dressed and took the lift down to the lobby.

The concierge directed her to a nearby pharmacy. Outside, in cruel mockery of her situation, the sun was daring to shine weakly, the sky having the crass insensitivity to glow with a pale, hopeful blue.

With a pregnancy testing kit burning a hole in her bag, Shari hurried back to the hotel and requested a taxi. Her own room at the Louvre felt more the place to face the moment of truth.

An hour later she sat on the smooth coverlet of her bed, hot and cold by turns. An initial bout of sheer panic and desperation had given way to something like bleak acceptance, though her brain was in a jumble. Did she
want
to be pregnant? Without a relationship to depend on?

Of course not. She couldn’t do it. She was in no position to. Her mother had been left to raise her on her own, and look how hard their life had been. Never two cents to scrape together. Shoes that wore through the soles before they were replaced. Her mother working two jobs. If Neil hadn’t been there as a support she didn’t know how they’d have held together.

She supposed she’d always assumed she would have a child some day, but not until she had the man. Never, never without the man. She just didn’t have that sort of courage and she was hardly in any financial position, with her career still in its shaky infancy.

One book published, and a tiny little advance for the next?

Another attack of panic gripped her as her conscience chimed in to taunt her. Too late, Shari. A child has started now.
Your …

She broke out in a sweat. She needed to think. Focus on immediate practicalities. Like how to inform Luc.

Oh, God.

Whether
to inform him.

A man who invited a woman to stay for a week—
in a hotel—
wasn’t contemplating an ongoing relationship. She doubted if even his offer of the Ritz would stand once she told him. Everything would be over. He’d get rid of her fast.

Nothing like the prospect of a responsibility to cool a man’s ardour.

Although … Although … Try to think straight, Shari. Luc was a man of the world. He would be sophisticated about it. Suggest the logical solution. Surely that would be for the best.

If only she hadn’t been so ignorant about France. Knowing Rémy and Emilie had given her some insights, but Rémy was hardly likely to have been typical of Frenchmen.

Surely the French were very religious,
Notre Dame de Paris
and all that. If she told Luc, maybe he would insist she go through with it.

And what? Leave her stuck with a child and send her money every month?

The alternative was no less confronting. Her thoughts skittered towards movie images of the clinic waiting room and shied away again.

If only she had a friend she could talk to, right here, right now—Neil. If only she had her brother. He was on her side, no matter what, and at least in Australia she knew the rules. With such huge scary decisions to make, a strange country was not the place to be.

She considered phoning Em, but what was the point? She knew what Em would say. Anyway, Australia would be asleep now.

Whatever, she’d better be on that plane tomorrow.

Luc arrived at the Musée d’Orsay a few minutes before the appointed time. He strolled about before the entrance, enjoying
the brisk air, avoiding tour groups and keeping his eye on the taxis that drew up to disgorge visitors.

He felt no concern about taking another day away from the office.
Zut
, he might even take a few more.

He glanced at his watch. A minute or two past the hour. Then some extra-sensory instinct alerted him and he glanced up. That dizzying swoosh as the breath caught in his lungs. She was on foot, strolling from the direction of the Pont Royal that crossed the river from the Tuileries.

She looked as casual and unFrench as any of the tourists queuing up for entry to the museum, wearing a trench over jeans and sneakers. Scarf carelessly knotted around her neck, her blonde hair rippling free. When she drew near a smile touched her mouth, fleetingly, then she grew serious again.

He narrowed his eyes. How pale she seemed.

When he kissed her, her cheeks felt cold against his lips. He slipped his hands inside her trench and drew her close, inhaling the sweet fragrance that enveloped her from head to toe. Desire quickened his blood. His mouth watered with the yearning to kiss her properly.

‘Are you tired from walking? Or did I wear you out?’

Drawing back after a few blood-stirring seconds, her heart still thumping, Shari met his warmly sensual gaze. Like her, he’d changed clothes. He was clean-shaven and sexy in dark trousers and a black polo-neck with a dark brown leather jacket.

That electric current was tugging her, making her want him. Astonishing she could still feel that way when her tender places were in need of some respite from the action. And with
this …
How could she even
want
to feel like this now?

Madly though, like an addict, she did.

‘It wasn’t that far. I love to walk.’ She showed him the map given her by the concierge at the Hôtel du Louvre. ‘See? I wanted to see as much as I could before I fly away.’ And maybe the exercise would do her good.

‘But you aren’t flying yet. You’re staying a week. Two weeks.’

Two
now? She lowered her gaze. ‘We’ll see.’

See how keen he would be when he knew. When she told him what was growing inside her and taking over her body, her life, the
world
. How would he handle such news? That moment in Sydney when he’d heard Rémy spoken of as her fiancé flashed into her mind. His reaction had been severe enough then, but that had been nothing like
this
.

Would he blame her? A bolt of pure panic made her hands and armpits moisten, and for a second she nearly reeled. Oh, God in heaven, she should get a grip. Luc wasn’t the violent type. After yesterday and last night, how could she even think of comparing him with Rémy?

Examining her face, Luc felt the slightest twinge of anxiety. Surely she wasn’t still thinking of boarding that flight? A petite woman shouldn’t undertake such a harrowing journey again so soon. She still hadn’t recovered from the first. Why else would she be so pale?

For the next two hours Shari wandered through the gallery in a turmoil of unreality. Staring blindly at work after exquisite work, she was unable to think of anything except—
it
. It was a mere embryo now, she supposed. Not much more than a few tiny little cells. With a face, already? How long would it take eyes, nose and lips to develop?

She wished she could dash somewhere private to look it up on the Internet. Maybe when she got back to the hotel. Find out the developmental stages. Despite everything, she was curious to at least see what it looked like.

She felt Luc send her a couple of searching glances, and realised she’d hardly said a word. She needed to clean up her act. This was no way for a grown woman to take charge of what was, after all, a perfectly normal though terrifying situation.

‘What do you think?’ he said, paused before a
Starry Night Over the Rhone
.

She tried to focus. The painting shimmered before her gaze, ablaze with passion and aspiration, hope and the purest joy in simple things. How could such a treasure have been created by someone in a far worse life predicament than she could ever contemplate?

Oh, she was such a coward. Tears swam into her eyes. ‘It’s—a dream. Magic. The
vibrancy
of it. You imagine you know about something, but when you’re up close to it, in real life, and it’s connected to
you
your entire perception changes. You suddenly realise fate has you in its sights, and you’re helpless against nature. You’re nothing. You thought you had power to control your life but …’ Suddenly sensing his keen scrutiny, she stemmed the wild flow with a lurch of dismay.

What on earth had she been babbling?

‘That’s how
I
feel,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s as if Vincent knew exactly what was in my heart when he painted this picture. I am so pleased you feel the power of it too. But not surprised,’ he added warmly. ‘Not at all surprised.’

He put his arm around her and hugged her to him as if she was a precious thing. She smiled, relieved, so pleased to still be in accord with him, but underneath her glow her anxiety only intensified. He was warm
now
, so admiring, appreciative of her charms. Liking her. How would he feel when she told him? Would she see a swift and deadly turnaround?

Just imagining him turning cold and distant made her heart pang with dread.

‘Are you feeling very well?’ He was looking closely at her.

‘Sure. Fine. Do you—do you visit here often?’

He continued to scrutinise her. ‘Not so often now. Though I know it well, of course. If I’m in Paris at the weekends I like to visit the smaller galleries—ones out of the usual way of the tourists.’

‘I’m a tourist,’ she reminded him.

But she was thinking how little she knew of him. This tiny little minuscule face was unfurling, maybe resembling
his …
She squashed that hysterical thought. Ridiculous when she knew zilch about the whole development thing, and anyway she had no idea what she was planning to do about it.

‘What do you do at weekends when you aren’t in Paris?’

He lifted his shoulders. ‘Different things. My family have a little farm in the country. I visit there sometimes.’

‘A farm? Is that where your mother lives?’

He smiled. ‘Sometimes she goes there. Sometimes the Alps, or the beach, especially when Paris is too hot. But in winter she prefers her apartment.’

‘And your father?’

‘He lives in Venice.’

‘Why Venice?’

He lifted quizzical brows at her. ‘His lover lives there.’

She flushed. ‘Forgive me for asking so many questions.’ How crass she must have sounded. ‘I feel as if you know everything about me and I know so little about you.’

He looked amused. ‘Ask what you like.’

He looked relaxed enough, but all at once she felt shy. She knew she was bound to make a mess of framing the right questions. What were they, even? Where to start? There should be a manual available for the woman who was knocked up in a one-night stand.

She hesitated. ‘Well, do you …? You mentioned your ex-fiancée. Manon—is it? Emilie told me a little bit about her.’

She sensed a sudden stillness in him. Then he said smoothly, ‘She was not my
fiancée
.’ He gave an insouciant shrug. ‘We—had a looser arrangement than that.’

‘Oh?’

She paused before a painting of a village church. Heavenly blue and the most glorious, joyous yellow she’d ever imagined possible. Honestly, all this beauty was playing so excruciatingly on her emotions, her eyes kept pricking. It was probably one of the symptoms. As if she needed any more.

She glanced at him. ‘What of now? As of this moment. Do you have someone?’

Though he was amused, his eyes glinted. ‘As of this moment I am here with you.’

She moistened her lips. ‘Were you and she together—a long time? You and Manon?’

‘Some years. Six. Seven.’ His lashes swept down.

‘Oh. That is a long time.’ She felt surprised. She hadn’t realised the relationship had been quite so—established. For a loose arrangement it seemed long. Whatever ‘loose’ meant.

A man who’d been in a seven-year relationship didn’t seem like a man who fooled around, at any rate. She glanced speculatively at him. Would he have …?

Frowning, she moved on to the next picture. Pretended to examine it. ‘I saw a picture of her. She’s very beautiful. Emilie said she’s renowned for her elegance and
chic
.’

‘Did she?’ His lip made a sardonic curl. ‘I must thank Emilie for informing you so well. No doubt she told you about the dog.’

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘No. She never mentioned a dog.’

‘Tiens
. I am grateful.’

Though if there was a dog, it was sounding far more domestic than she had imagined from her understanding of loose arrangements.