The Night That Started It All (16 page)

It didn’t feel right kissing him in there.

The guest room was charming, though not in the same class of opulence. While there was no boudoir attached, Shari thought the capacious armoir more than sufficient for her belongings. As well there was a chest of drawers and a small bathroom.

‘This’ll be fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m probably not the courtesan type.’

With a flush darkening his tan, he took her arms. ‘Shari,’ he said stiffly. ‘Please accept my apologies. I should have thought before I— I don’t spend any time here now, so I never look at the rooms. I can’t imagine why I haven’t thought of changing things. It’s purely an oversight.’

‘It’s okay, really. It’s not as if you had any advance warning. I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

‘It won’t be so terrible in here for an hour or two,
n’est-ce pas
? I believe the bed is soft. Would you like to unpack?’ He stared hungrily from her to the bed. ‘Or—to rest?’ His eyes grew searingly wolfish.

‘I wouldn’t mind going for a walk, actually.’ She definitely needed a breather. Time out to reflect. ‘Stretch my legs.’

He looked worried, but then he shrugged.
‘D’accord.’

It was a relief to be out in the air. Shari sensed Luc feeling more relaxed too. Conversation was easier without the ghostly presence of his ex. And there was so much to see around her, every boulevard and every narrow alluring lane, she tried not to dwell on the glimpse she might or might not have caught into the inner guy.

Did a man keep his old lover’s belongings intact simply because he forgot to remove them? Or because he couldn’t bear to part with them?

Or was the maid entirely to blame? Could she have been a Mrs Danvers, by any chance?

Anyway, this wasn’t a Gothic novel and she was probably reading too much into a small thing. And it was pleasant strolling with a gorgeous guy who took her hand from time to time and seemed to regard her as a fragile vessel.

It was an impression she was eager not to correct before she’d at least had a good wallow in it. Just supposing she stayed the whole week. It was comforting to remember she still had options.

Although she’d managed by the skin of her teeth to postpone her flight home for another week, the day of departure could be changed again, depending on available seats. Nothing was set in concrete.

It wasn’t as if she were dreaming of moving in. But a week’s holiday with him could be very acceptable.
Could
be. Though he wasn’t just talking a week, was he? Underneath it all, she sensed he wasn’t kidding about wanting her to stay longer.

She chewed her lip.

Even if he was still in love with Manon, what difference did it make? Did a woman need to be loved by the father of her child? She could still have a good time with him, couldn’t she?

Anyway, what was she angsting over? The elegant woman was long gone.

Surely.

She gave Luc’s bicep a friendly squeeze through the cashmere. Finding it so satisfyingly hard she couldn’t even make a dent, she grinned. ‘How I love a hard man. What do you do in the evenings, monsieur?’

He shrugged. ‘Until this moment I—work, or I attend dinner meetings,
soirées. D’Avion
is quite important to the French economy, so sometimes I’m invited to attend receptions with people in the government. Concerts, the opera, the cinema … What does anyone do?’

She had visions of him in evening dress, whirling around the sophisticated Parisian social scene. No doubt since he didn’t have Manon to accompany him he’d found other women to
escort. Maybe he held a different beauty in his arms every night of the week.

Though not in his apartment, clearly.

‘Don’t you ever feel like a night in?’

‘I think I might feel like one tonight.’ Though he spoke gravely, his eyes gleamed and she felt a tingle of excitement. It could be all right. If she gave it a chance.

At least he was patient to walk with. He didn’t seem to mind or try to chivvy her along when she stopped to gaze into shop windows. Even when she ventured inside for a closer look he hung around outside, talking on his mobile. Probably chatting to government ministers or giving instructions to people in his office. Or maybe he was warning his girlfriends not to expect him for a night or two.

After a few fascinating blocks they turned into the Rue Montorgueil, which was a market crowded with shoppers patronising the dozens of cafés and patisseries, food and wine shops.

Charmed to her socks, she forgot all her misgivings and oohed and ahhed like a tourist. The rue was a Monet come to life.

‘Do you cook?’ he enquired, pausing by a cheese emporium.

‘Not in France. Do you?’

He laughed at her quick response. ‘I don’t have to. I have a hundred restaurants on my doorstep. But for you I’ll turn the leaf.’

He purchased several varieties of cheese, some sausage slices, a crusty loaf and fruit, olives and some salad vegetables from a market stall brimming with fresh produce. Then, apparently exhausted by such heavy domestic activity, he suggested lunch, steering her towards a café with red geraniums spilling from planters on its window ledges.

Relieved not to be returning to the apartment straight away, Shari sank down gratefully at the table the waiter had directed them to, while Luc piled his purchases on an empty chair. So
much had happened in the last twenty-four hours she felt close to a reality overload.

She gave her order, then listened while Luc discussed his choice with the waiter. When the guy bustled away, Luc excused himself and drew out his phone.

‘Are they needing you at your office?’

‘Not at all. I’m conducting some research.’

After a while she said gingerly, ‘Did … Was Manon a good cook?’

He kept his eyes lowered to the phone. ‘She could barely cook an egg.’

It was pretty clear what he’d seen in the Parisian paragon. ‘Did you and she dine out every night?’

He frowned. ‘Most nights. Though our work commitments often meant not with each other.’

‘When did you ever talk?’

He said drily, ‘There was nothing to talk about.’

She studied him covertly. His face was as close to expressionless as a frowning man could achieve.

‘I can see your point about keeping a large dog in your beautiful apartment.’ She filled her water glass and took a sip.

He looked up sharply then, his eyes so cool she nearly jumped back in her chair. ‘Have you noticed we have had nearly two full days now without rain?’

‘Sorry.’ She winced. ‘Too forward?’

He took up his phone to deal with an incoming text. ‘There are so many other things worth discussing.’

The waiter arrived with their meals. Shari welcomed the diversion. She felt a bit shaken, actually. She certainly hadn’t intended to strike any major nerves.

She murmured to the waiter, ‘Could you please bring my salad now?’

The waiter’s brows elevated. ‘Now? Both? At the one time?’

‘
Oui, s’il vous plaît
.’

He threw up his hands, then hurried away to comply, shaking his head at her unfathomable foreignness.

Shari contemplated her
croque Mediterranéen
, conscious of a jagged sensation. Though Luc continued courteous, there was something forbidding in his expression. She accepted it was her own fault. She’d pushed the boundaries and now he’d vanished behind a steel barrier.

All at once she felt adrift in an arctic sea. The Luc who had begged her to stay and kissed her in the car had become a stranger. She’d never been good at coping with angry people. If he didn’t smile soon she didn’t know what to do. ‘Look, I—I apologise if I intruded. I know it can take a long time to forget.’

He looked up at her, his dark eyes glinting and alert. ‘That depends on what there is to forget.’

‘Of course, of course. Sorry. What do I know?’

She tasted her salad. Oh,
God
. Divine. The dressing was to die for. Exactly what she’d anticipated.

It was just as Rémy had declared. Every French person expected
—demanded—
their salad be dressed with just such a superb vinaigrette. She’d never managed to get it exactly right for him. What was she doing here? How could she possibly contemplate a whole week with another Frenchman? What did she know of Luc anyway? He dined with people in the government. He attended soirées. He was in love with a beautiful woman she could never compete with.

Glancing about her, she had the panicked realisation she’d never make it here. She just didn’t fit. In his apartment. In his life. She started as Luc’s voice cut through her musings.

‘You’re not losing your nerve?’

She glanced up guiltily. Was she so transparent? But what was there to say? She should have boarded that plane and be headed for the Antipodes right now.

His dark eyes searched hers, questioning, bemused. ‘Seriously, Shari … Because of a few bottles?’

‘No, no. It’s—a matter of common sense. Of—of—self-preservation.’

He stared at her, shaking his head, then, leaning forward, said earnestly, ‘It’s a matter of trust,
chérie
. And of courage. The risk is no greater for you than it is for me.’

‘But yes it
is
. You are safe and secure in your country, your culture, while
I
am …’

He grabbed her knife hand to stop its flailing. ‘Do you think I haven’t considered all of this? But what do
I
know of
you
? I’ve known you five minutes and you have a child inside you—my child, so you
say
—and unless I’m a perfect saint of a guy you are threatening to run away with it either to abort it without my knowledge or let it be born without me.’

Some of those words sliced her like knives. All her hopeful instincts, fragile as they’d been, shrivelled. She laid down her knife and fork, breathing hard, and met his blazing eyes.

‘Yep. That’s about the size of it.’

She got up and walked out. Once in the street, she ran.

I
T WAS
as well Luc’s strides were longer than Shari’s because she could run amazingly fast for a pregnant person.

When had a woman been more difficult to pin down? It was absurd how hard this—this
conquest
was proving. An unwelcome flash of déjà vu rocked through him just then and nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Zut
, it was his recurring nightmare. The last time he tried to pin down a woman she’d left him. Abandoned her home and her world.

Surely this wasn’t the same though. It was in no way the same.

Dodging people and traffic, he cursed himself fiercely for the fiasco of the day. Everything had gone wrong. He’d
known
Shari was in a volatile frame of mind. Of course she was, in her condition. Why hadn’t he noticed the state of the apartment? This was no way to bring a woman home.

But why couldn’t women understand that forcing a man into this ridiculous pursuit procedure only roused him to more lust? The more he ran, the more his blood seethed in his veins with a single red-hot intent.

As if he hadn’t done enough to her already, he was conscious of a primitive need to catch her and take her down. On the pavement. On the street. Or at least rush her to his bed and plunge himself into her until she surrendered herself to him in screaming ecstasy.

At the same time he felt constrained by an opposing instinct to handle her as if she were made of the most delicate porcelain. The woman had him tied up in knots.

His heart muscle was working overtime by the time he caught up with her. When he saw how her eyes hardened to see him, his gut clenched. The impulse to grab her and kiss her, plunge his tongue into her mouth until her knees buckled was overwhelming, but he restricted himself to gently touching her arm.

‘Shari. Please, will you calm down?’

She slowed her pace to a very fast walk, her face set against him.

‘What are you doing? Where are you running?’ He knew his voice sounded too harsh, courtesy of his pounding blood pressure. ‘
Should
you be running?’

‘I’m going back …’

‘Mais pourquoi? Bien sûr, je suis un bâtard, Shari, mais j’ai …’
In the stress of the moment he didn’t hear everything she’d said, then realised it was the apartment she was returning to. For the moment, anyway.

‘… my things.’

‘But why?’ He’d just launched into an emphatic and just defence of his behaviour when a series of shouts that had been in the corner of his ear all along finally captured his attention. Turning, he recognised Louis, the waiter from the café, jogging along behind him with the shopping bags.

With emotion running higher than the Eiffel, he was hardly in the mood to smile, but there might have something comical in the scene. The red-faced guy puffing to catch up with them acted as a circuit breaker. He was obliged to stop and was relieved to see that at least Shari paused too, looking on with a polite smile while he showered Louis with thanks and euros.

With passions under tighter controls, they resumed walking, Luc racking his brains for something he could say to minimise
the damage and manoeuvre events into a situation he could control.

‘Perhaps I need to explain,’ he said, as calmly as he was able with his adrenaline ready to burst the levees. ‘What I said in the café was not intended the way it may have sounded. I didn’t mean you to think I don’t accept your word.’

‘No?’ She cast him the sort of glance usually reserved for snakes.

He felt stirred to defend himself.
‘Chérie
. What I said burst from my heart in the heat of the moment.’

‘Exactly.’

‘
Mais non
. You misunderstand. I was trying to demonstrate how we must trust each other.’ He waved the salad bag.
‘Vraiment
, we are in similar boats, you and I.’

‘You think?’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘I doubt if you’d like the view from this canoe,
monsieur.’

Anyone would have thought he was a selfish animal, without a vestige of humanity. But since they were approaching his building, he restrained his impassioned defence.

‘
Mademoiselle
,’ he said with restrained dignity, ‘we are nearly there. Let us not argue before
Madame la concierge
.’