A Vow To Secure His Legacy. Annie West

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СКАЧАТЬ he returned with a damp flannel, he caught the wry twist of her lips.

      ‘I’m to trust you because you were a Boy Scout?’ Her voice was pain-roughened but there was that note of almost-laughter he’d found so attractive earlier.

      ‘Of course. Ready to serve and always prepared.’ He brushed back a few escaped locks of hair and placed the flannel on her forehead.

      She sighed, and he made himself retreat rather than trace that glossy, silk-soft hair again. He pulled up a chair and sat a couple of metres from the bed.

      Shimmering, half-lidded eyes met his. ‘Are all Frenchmen so take-charge?’

      ‘Are all Australian women so obstinate?’

      A tiny smile curved her lips, and she shut her eyes. Ridiculously that smile felt like a victory.

      * * *

      The musical chimes of a mobile phone grew louder, drawing the attention of other café patrons. It was only then that Imogen realised it was her phone chirping away in her bag. In a fit of out-with-the-old-Imogen energy, she’d decided the old, plain ring tone was boring, swapping it for a bright pop tune.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Imogen?’ His voice was smooth and warm, deep enough to make her shiver.

      ‘Thierry?’ The word was a croak of surprise. She’d berated herself all morning for wishing last night hadn’t ended the way it had.

      The fact Thierry had stayed so long only showed how dreadful she must have looked. And that he was what her mum would have called ‘a true gentleman’.

      ‘How are you today? Are you feeling better?’

      ‘Good, thank you. I’m fit as a fiddle.’ An exaggeration—those headaches always left her wrung out. But she was perking up by the moment. ‘How are you?’

      There was a crack of laughter, and Imogen’s hand tightened on the phone. Even from a distance his laugh melted something inside. She sank back in her chair, noticing for the first time a blue patch of sky through the grey cloud.

      ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

      She blinked, registering his deep, seductive tone. Her blood pumped faster and she tried to tell herself she imagined it. Nothing, she knew, put men off as much as illness. Even illness by proxy. For a moment Scott’s face swam in her vision till she banished it.

      ‘How did you get my number?’

      There was a moment’s silence. ‘Your mobile was on the bedside table last night.’

      ‘You took the number down?’

      ‘You’re annoyed?’

      Annoyed? ‘No. Not at all.’ Surprised. Delighted. Excited! A little buzz of pleasure zoomed through her.

      As she watched, the blue patch of sky grew and a beam of sunlight glanced down on the wet cobblestones, making them gleam. The café door opened behind her and the delicious aroma of fresh coffee drifted out.

      ‘What’s on your agenda this evening? Night-time bungee jumping? Motorcycle lessons? Or maybe that ghost tour?’

      She smiled, enjoying his teasing. ‘I’m still deciding between a couple of options.’ Like a long bubble bath, painting her nails scarlet or gathering her courage and finding the dance venue Saskia had mentioned.

      ‘How would you like dinner at the Eiffel Tower? There’s an unexpected vacancy.’

      ‘There is?’ She sat up. ‘But I couldn’t get a reservation when I tried.’

      ‘There’s one for you now if you want it.’

      ‘Of course I want it!’ She squashed a howl of disappointment at the idea of dining in such a romantic setting alone. But she was a pragmatist. She’d learned to face hard truths. Thierry felt sorry for her after last night and had arranged this treat. ‘It was kind of you to do that, Thierry. Thank you.’

      ‘Excellent. I’ll collect you at eight.’

      ‘Eight?’ She blinked, dazed. He was collecting her? He was taking her to dinner?

      ‘Yes. See you then.’

      He ended the call, and Imogen stared at the phone. Thierry Girard, the most drool-worthy, fascinating, charming man she’d ever met, was taking her to dinner? She didn’t know whether to be stunned or nervous.

      She settled for thrilled.

      * * *

      Imogen felt like she floated on air as they drove back to her hotel. The evening had been perfect. The food, the wine, the company, the weight of Thierry’s gaze on her like a touch.

      When he surveyed the dress of green and bronze her sister Izzy had created, his eyes lingered appreciatively. But when his attention roved again and again to Imogen’s bare throat and shoulders, and especially her lips, heat coiled inside, like a clock wound too tight.

      It made her laughter at his outrageous stories die, replaced by a hunger that no food could remedy. Was it possible to explode with sheer longing for a man’s touch?

      Did she have the nerve to follow through? Casual sex wasn’t in her repertoire. Yet there was nothing casual about how Thierry made her feel.

      The question was, what did he feel? Was tonight a random kindness to a stranger or something else? Imogen wished she knew. She had absolutely no experience of high-octane, sophisticated men like Thierry Girard.

      He stopped the car before her hotel and she turned towards him, only to find he was already out the door, striding around the car. A moment later her door swung open and he was helping her out.

      Now. Ask him now before he says goodnight.

      But her throat jammed as he hooked her hand over his arm and led her into the grand hotel—her big splurge on this end-of-a-lifetime trip. His heat, his scent, fresh as the outdoors, and the feel of his body against hers, made her light-headed. He led her through the luxurious foyer, past staff who stopped to greet them, to the bank of lifts.

      ‘I—’ Her words died as he stepped into the lift with her and hit the button for her floor.

      So, he was seeing her to her room. She shot him a sideways look, discovering that in profile his features were taut, as if his earlier good humour had faded.

      Abruptly, her anticipation drained away.

      Had she misread him? Perhaps he didn’t feel that hum of sexual arousal, that edge-of-seat excitement. Maybe he’d used up all his charm entertaining the unsophisticated tourist over dinner. She’d known last night she was out of place at that glamorous party, despite the wonderful dress she wore. Maybe after hours in her company he’d realised it too. Did he regret asking her out?

      ‘You...?’ Eyes of ebony locked with hers, and she sagged in Izzy’s green stilettos.

      Izzy would have known СКАЧАТЬ