By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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      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.

      ‘Did you …?’ She drew a breath. ‘Did you never think of marrying her?’

      His eyes veiled, then slid away. Suddenly he leaned forward to study a scene where some fully clothed men were picnicking by a stream with a naked woman. ‘Do you not admire the artist’s use of the light here? If I could only achieve this effect I believe I might be content for all time.’

      Shari took a moment to digest the stunning snub. Maybe she should have expected it. Clearly, the intimacy of the bed did not translate to the museum. There were lines she must not cross.

      Why, oh, why had she even asked him? It wasn’t as if she expected him to marry her. But that was what he would assume when she broke the news. He’d think she was looking to trap him in playing happy families.

      Breaking into a sweat, she edged away from him.

      Face it, it was clear he was still pretty raw about losing the beautiful woman. Well, it was only natural. Any guy’s ego was bound to feel trashed if his girlfriend ran off with a movie idol.

      Especially if the guy was still madly in love with her.

      ‘Why are you wrinkling up your face and looking as if you tasted a lemon?’ She started. Luc slipped his arms around her and kissed her ear. ‘Is Renoir such a disappointment?’

      She flashed him a rueful smile. ‘Never. How could he be? To be honest I—I was feeling guilty. I think I’ve intruded, asking you things you don’t care to discuss. I guess you’re thinking those things some French people say about Australians.’

      ‘What do they say?’

      ‘Oh, you know. We’re too open. Too—forward.’

      He laughed easily. ‘Who says that? Come, we will eat déjeuner. My mother wants to meet you properly. The family will be there.’

      Shari’s heart sank. ‘Lovely.’

      There was no sign of the limo. Luc ushered her to a neat little Merc parked in a nearby street. As soon as they were in the car, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a steamy, highly explorational clinch that sucked all the breath from her lungs and shut down her brain entirely. Responding to the sexual cue, her wanton body was instantly aroused, then disappointed when he drew back.

      With a husky laugh, he murmured, ‘Not here, ma chérie. Soon, soon.’

      Soon? How likely was that, once he heard the news? But after the outcome of her recent tactful inquiry, it felt impossible to break it just then. She’d have to wait until he’d forgotten it.

      She hoped the lunch wouldn’t take long. What if it went on for ever and she lost the chance to be private with him? Though, was it best to be completely private with him? For this sort of news, maybe it would be as well to have witnesses. A public place would be preferable, perhaps a café.

      ‘You’re too quiet,’ he observed on the way, paused for some lights. ‘What’s going on inside that head?’

      She met his slanting glance. ‘I was just—wondering about your dog.’

      ‘Comment?’

      ‘You know. You mentioned a dog.’

      He said sharply, ‘There is no dog.’ Then, flushing a little, he broke into a reluctant laugh. ‘Manon—my ex-girlfriend—had a passion to acquire a Russian wolfhound. The Borzoi. You know the one? We discussed it and—decided it would not be practical. I preferred something else.’ His hands lifted from the wheel in agitation. ‘After the—split, someone in the press heard about it, suggesting that our partnership ended because I would not allow Manon to have the pet she craved. You can imagine, in France … I was crucified in the tabloids. You see?’ He smiled ruefully.

      ‘Oh.’ She swallowed. ‘Yes, yes. I see.’

      Staring out at the Seine, she kept her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She could see all right.

      ‘What was it you preferred?’ СКАЧАТЬ