By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘This—needs serious thought.’ He walked, halted, walked again, like a man riven by terrible conflicts. After a few minutes he paused before her. ‘What do you want to do? Whatever you choose, I will help you.’

      Her heart trembled. ‘I don’t know. I’m still coming to terms with it.’

      She crossed her fingers. This was the point where the hero would take her in his arms and tell her it was the most beautiful news he’d ever received.

      He was silent for a moment. ‘Bien sûr, this is not the ideal way for a—a child to be conceived.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You live in Sydney. I live here. We are separated by a great distance.’

      She closed her eyes. He was a man, she was a woman. Different planets of origin. He hardly needed words to describe the status quo. The separation factors. His hands did the talking for him. Crushed her wayward little hope and put it back in its box.

      ‘You have a career. You are an independent person. Naturally, you value your autonomy.’

      ‘Well, yes.’

      He added carefully, ‘In France, of course, there are options. I’m not sure how the law exists in Australia …’

      She lowered her eyes. ‘There are options.’

      ‘Here … I believe it can be as simple as taking a pill.’

      She nodded.

      He stared at her a while, his eyes glittering, his face tense. ‘This is not something—either of us would have planned.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘This—this changes lives. I would not have afflicted you with this problem.’

      ‘Of course not.’

      He lowered his lashes, frowning and breathing rather hard. ‘So …’ A grim tension tautened his lean face. ‘Perhaps the obvious thing to do then would be to—take action. N’est-ce pas?’ His gaze scoured her face, questioning, searching.

      The sun went out, or maybe a cloud doused the world. Her limbs suddenly felt chilled. Shivering, she pulled her trench closer. ‘Do you mind if I go back to my hotel now? I’m feeling very tired all at once.’

      ‘Of course, of course.’ He helped her up, so courteously, so concerned for her comfort, she had the feeling he’d have carried her to the car if she’d requested it.

      The drive to the Hôtel du Louvre was even more tense, if possible, than the drive to the Luxembourg Gardens. But it was a different sort of silence. More like Hiroshima, in those minutes after the bomb.

      Before all the agony set in.

      When they drew up at the hotel, he paused before turning off the ignition, frowning at the hotel entrance. ‘Will you be okay here?’

      ‘Of course. It’s a lovely hotel. It’s very comfortable.’

      His frown deepened. ‘I—I’ve never heard anything against it. I’m sure it’s of a reasonable standard. Clean.’

      She nodded.

      ‘And safe? You feel safe here?’

      ‘Yep. Safe.’

      ‘The staff. They are respectful?’

      ‘Very.’

      ‘And the facilities are—très bon?’

      He was so concerned that despite her internal suffocation she nearly laughed. ‘Mais oui. Très, très bon.’

      He got out and strode around to open the door for her, then ushered her in through the revolving door.

      He glanced around the small lobby, then faced her, the lines of his face even more taut. When he spoke his words sounded suddenly jerky. ‘So—so what will you do now? Will you sleep?’

      ‘Hope so.’

      His eyes strayed in the direction of the restaurant, which to her eyes looked warm and charming, with its banquettes bright with red regency stripes. ‘What about your dinner? Do you feel you can eat in this place? You hardly ate a bite at lunch.’

      ‘Oh, yes, yes, I did.’ She hoped her appetite problems hadn’t wounded his feelings. ‘The lunch was delicious. Your mother’s a wonderful cook. Anyway, I’ll—I might have something sent up later.’

      He took both of her hands. ‘Are you sure this is what you want? To be here now?’

      ‘Where else? I’m not really in the mood for the Ritz.’

      He turned sharply away, but not before she saw the flush darken his cheekbones.

      She said earnestly, ‘Look, you don’t need to worry. I just need to think on my own for a bit. I’m sure we both do.’

      He kissed her cheeks, then walked to the door, hesitated, then strode back and kissed her on the lips. ‘I’ll call you later. D’accord?’

      ‘Fine.’ She nodded. Smiled brightly. ‘Thanks.’

      Luc drove towards his apartment but not there directly, because he unbelievably took a wrong turn in the streets he’d known since childhood and was forced to backtrack.

      Upstairs, he poured whiskey and stood at his window, gazing out over the rooftops, thinking. No, attempting to grasp onto a thought and hold it still.

      Of all the women on earth for him to have accidentally impregnated … To think he’d been condemning his cousin’s abuse of her, when now he himself had caused her—this.

      He hunched as hot shame rocked through him. Shame on Luc Valentin. Shame, shame, shame.

      The ironies weren’t lost on him.

      His ex-lover choosing to have a baby with another man. His new lover—would she even agree to being called that?—reluctantly pregnant with his child.

      If it was his.

      He tried to think through all the things she’d ever told him about Rémy and the break-up. The time in the boathouse, that moment of exultation when she’d produced the battered package from her purse.

      He knew what some guys would think. Had she really just taken the test today? Was it possible she’d come to Paris to snare him, knowing all along she was pregnant? With his cousin’s child?

      For money?

      The image of her face, her gentle womanly dignity when he’d questioned her in the Gardens resurfaced. Shamed him afresh. Scathed him. Mon Dieu, what was he doing? Attempting to escape responsibility?

      Needing to escape himself, he locked the apartment behind him, took the creaking old lift down and plunged into the streets.

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