By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ