by Annie West
‘Well, for half an hour. I’ll look for you then.’
Imogen blinked, overwhelmed anew by the kindness of her sister Isabelle’s best friend. Saskia had not only shown her where Izzy had worked and lived, but shared stories about their time together, filling the black well of Imogen’s grief with tales that had made Imogen smile for the first time in months.
Saskia had even presented her with the dresses Izzy had made for herself, eye-catching outfits Imogen would never have considered wearing. But here, in Paris, it felt right, a homage to her talented sister. Imogen smoothed her hand down the fabulous satin dress.
‘Don’t be silly. Go and mingle, Saskia. I don’t expect to see you again tonight.’ She smiled, making a fair attempt at Izzy’s bantering tone, even tilting her head to mimic her sister. ‘Since you snaffled me an invitation, I intend to make the most of my only society event. I don’t need you cramping my style.’
‘Isabelle said you weren’t good with lots of new people but obviously you’ve changed.’ Saskia’s lips twitched. ‘Okay. But join me if you want. I’ll be around.’
Imogen kept her smile in place as Saskia left, ignoring the trepidation that rose at being alone, adrift in this sea of beautiful people.
Stupid. This isn’t alone. Alone is discovering you’re dying and there’s no one left in the world who loves you enough to feel more than pity.
Imogen shoved aside the thought. She refused to retreat into self-pity. She was in Paris. She’d make the most of every moment of the next six weeks—Paris, Venice, London, even Reykjavik. She’d wring every drop of joy from each experience before she returned home to face the inevitable.
She swung around, her full-length skirt swishing around her legs, and refused to feel out of place because other women were in cocktail dresses. Isabelle’s dress was too wonderful not to wear.
‘Puis-je vous offrir du champagne?’ The deep, alluring voice sent heat straight to the pit of her stomach, as if she’d inadvertently taken a gulp of whisky.
French was a delicious language. But surely it had been designed for a voice like this? A voice that sent shivers of sensual pleasure across her skin.
She jerked her head around and then up.
Something she couldn’t identify slammed into her. Shock? Awareness? Recognition?
How had she not seen him before? He stood out from the crowd. Not just because of his height but because of his sheer presence. Her skin prickled as if she’d walked into a force field.
She met eyes the colour of rich coffee, dark and inviting, and her pulse pounded high in her throat as if her heart had dislodged and tried to escape. Deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners, fanning tiny lines in a tanned face. A man more at home outdoors than at a fashionable party?
Except his tall frame was relaxed, as if he wore a perfect dinner jacket every night to mingle with a who’s who of French society. His mouth curled up in a tantalising almost-smile that invited her to smile back. Was that why her lips tingled?
Dark hair, long enough to hint at tousled thickness. A determined chin. Strong cheekbones that made her think of princes, balls and half-forgotten nonsense.
Imogen swallowed, the muscles in her throat responding jerkily. She cleared her throat.
‘Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas français.’ It was one of her few textbook phrases.
‘You don’t speak French? Shall we try English?’ His voice was just as attractive when he spoke English with that sensuous blurring accent. Pleasure tickled Imogen’s backbone, and her stomach clenched.
‘How did you guess? Am I that obvious?’
‘Not at all.’ His gaze did a quick, comprehensive sweep from her head to her hem that ignited a slow burn deep inside. A burn that transferred to her cheeks as his eyes met hers and something passed between them, as tangible as the beat of her heart. ‘You are utterly delightful and feminine but not obvious.’
Imogen felt the corners of her mouth lift. Flirting with a Frenchman. There was one to cross off her bucket list. Back home she hadn’t been good at flirtation, but here it seemed she didn’t have to do anything at all.
‘Who are you?’ Funny the way dying helped you overcome a lifetime’s reserve. Once she’d have been too over-awed to speak to a man who looked so stunningly male. He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met and despite that aura of latent power he was definitely the most suave. Even that prominent nose looked perfect in his proud face. Just as well his eyes danced or he’d be too daunting.
‘My apologies.’ He inclined his head in a half-bow that was wholly European and totally charming. ‘My name is Thierry Girard.’
‘Thierry.’ She tried it on her tongue. It didn’t sound the same as when he said it. She couldn’t quite get the little breath of air after the T, but she liked it.
‘And you are?’ He stepped closer, his gaze intent. She caught a scent that made her think of mountains—of clear air and pine trees.
‘I’m Imogen Holgate.’
‘Imogen.’ He nodded. ‘A pretty name. It suits you.’
Pretty? She hadn’t been called that in ages. The last person to do so had been her mum, trying to persuade her into bright colours, saying she hid behind the dark suits she wore for work.
‘And now, Imogen, would you like some champagne?’ He lifted a glass.
‘I can get my own.’ She turned to look for a waiter.
‘But I brought it especially for you.’ She looked down and realised he was holding two glasses, not one. This stranger had singled her out in a room of elegant women and brought her champagne? For a moment she just stared. It was so different from her world, where she paid her way and never had to field compliments from men about anything other than her work.
He raised the other glass, giving her a choice of either. His eyes turned serious. ‘Whichever you prefer.’
Her cheeks flushed. He thought she was stalling because she didn’t trust him. In case he’d slipped something into one of the glasses.
It was the sort of thing that would have occurred to her once, for in her real life she was always cautious. But right now she was struggling to absorb the fact she was with the most charming, attractive man she’d ever met. The fact that he offered both reassured her.
She took a glass, meeting his eyes, ignoring the tingly sensation where their fingers brushed. ‘Is it champagne from the Champagne region?’
‘Of course. That’s the only wine that can use the name. You like champagne?’
‘I’ve never tried it.’
He blinked, astonishment on his face. ‘Vraiment?’
‘Really.’ Imogen smiled at his shock. ‘I’m from Australia.’
‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I happen to know the Australians import French wine as well as exporting theirs. Champagne travels the world.’
She shrugged, enjoying his disbelief. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ve drunk it.’ She eyed the wine with excitement. What better place to taste her first champagne than Paris?
‘In that case, the occasion deserves a toast. To new friends.’ His smile transformed his face from fascinating to magnetic. Imogen inhaled sharply, her lungs pushing at her ribcage. Her fingers tightened on the glass. That smile, this man, made her feel acutely aware of herself as a woman with desires she’d all but forgotten.
Stop it! You’ve seen men smile before.
Not like this. This was like standing in a shaft of sunshine. And it was an amazing antidote to the chill weight of despair. How could she dwell on despair when he looked at her that way?
She lifted her glass. ‘And to new experiences.’
She sipped, feeling the effervescence on the roof of her mouth. ‘I like that it’s not too sweet. I can taste...pears, is it?’
He drank too, and she was riveted by the sight of his strong throat and the ripple
of movement as he swallowed.
Imogen frowned. There was nothing sexy about a man’s throat. Was there? There never had been before and she worked surrounded by men.
But none of them were Thierry Girard.
‘You’re right. Definitely pears.’ He watched her over the rim of the glass. ‘To new experiences? You have some planned?’
Imogen shrugged. ‘A few.’
‘Tell me.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Please. I’d like to know.’
‘Why?’ The word shot out, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Typical of her to sound gauche rather than sophisticated. She just wasn’t used to male attention. She was the serious, reserved sister, not the gregarious one with a flock of admirers.
‘Because I’m interested in you.’
‘Seriously?’ As soon as the word escaped heat scalded her throat and face. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Tell me I didn’t say that.’
A rich chuckle snagged at her senses, making her eyes pop open. If his smile was gorgeous, his laugh was... She couldn’t think of a word to describe the molten-chocolate swirl enveloping her.
‘Why don’t you tell me about these new experiences instead?’
Imogen opened her mouth to ask if he was really interested in hearing about them then snapped it shut.
Here was a wonderful new adventure, flirting with a gorgeous French hunk over champagne. She wasn’t going to spoil it by being herself. She was going to go with the flow. This trip was about stepping out of her shell, tasting life’s excitement.
Chatting with Thierry Girard was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages.
‘I’ve got a list. Things I want to do.’
‘In Paris?’ She loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled.
‘Not just here. I’m away from home for a month and a half but I’m only in Paris a fortnight.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m already realising my plans were too ambitious. I won’t fit everything in.’
‘That gives you a reason to return. You can do more on your next visit.’
His eyes were almost warm enough to dispel the wintry chill that descended at his words. There’d be no return visit, no second chance.
She had one shot at living to the max. She’d make the most of it, even if it meant stepping out of her comfort zone. She tossed back another mouthful of champagne, relishing the little starbursts on her tongue.
‘This is delicious wine.’
He nodded. ‘It’s not bad. Now, tell me about this list. I’m intrigued.’
She shrugged. ‘Tourist things, mainly.’ But she refused to feel self-conscious. ‘See those Impressionist masterpieces at the Musée d’Orsay, visit Versailles, go for a boat ride on the Seine.’
‘You’ll have time to fit those in if you have two weeks.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s only the beginning. I want to attend a gourmet cooking class. I’ve always wanted to know how they make those melt-in-the-mouth chocolate truffles.’ The ones that were exactly the colour of his eyes.
Her breath gave a curious little hitch and she hurried on. ‘I’d hoped to eat at the Eiffel Tower restaurant but I didn’t realise I needed to book in advance. Plus I’d love a champagne picnic in the country and to go hot-air ballooning and drive a red convertible around the Arc de Triomphe and... Well, so many things.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Visitors are usually scared of driving there. Traffic is thick and there aren’t lane markings.’
Imogen shrugged. She was scared too. But that was good. She’d feel she was really living.
‘I like a challenge.’
‘So I gather.’ Was that approval in his expression? ‘Have you been hot-air ballooning before?’
‘Never.’ She took another sip of champagne. ‘This is a trip of firsts.’
‘Like the champagne?’ There was that delicious crinkle around his eyes. It almost lured her into believing Thierry Girard was as harmless as her work colleagues. Yet every feminine fibre screamed she was out of her depth even looking at the ultra-sexy Frenchman. Everything about him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the intriguing dark shadow across his jaw, signalled he was a virile, powerful man. ‘Imogen?’
‘Sorry, I was distracted.’ Her voice was ridiculously husky. The way he said her name turned it into something lilting and special. She lifted her gloved fingers to her throat, as if that could ease her hammering pulse.
The glint in his eyes warned that he understood her distraction. But she refused to be embarrassed. He must be used to women going weak at the knees.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said. ‘Do you live in Paris?’
He shook his head. ‘Occasionally. I’m here for business meetings over the next week or two.’
‘So while I’m out enjoying myself you’ll be in meetings? I hope they’re not too tedious.’
Nonchalantly, he lifted those impressive shoulders, and a wave of yearning washed through her. She wanted to put her hands on them, feel the strength in his tall body and lean in to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.
Imogen blinked, stunned at the force of her desire. She didn’t do instant attraction. She didn’t fall in a heap in front of any man. But her knees were suspiciously shaky and her instincts urged her to behave in ways that were completely out of character.
Was it champagne or the man? Or maybe the heady excitement of Paris and wearing Isabelle’s gorgeous gown. Whatever it was, she approved. She wanted to feel, and from the moment her eyes had locked on Thierry’s she’d felt vibrantly alive.
‘You sound like you have experience of boring meetings.’
Imogen sipped more wine, enjoying the zing on her palate. ‘Definitely.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Our firm specialises in them. I’d bet my meetings are more boring than yours.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
Thierry took her arm and guided her away from an influx of newcomers. Even through the satin gloves his hands felt hard, capable and incredibly sexy. Trickles of fire coursed from the point of contact then splintered into incendiary darts that trailed through her body to pool down low.
How sad that she could be so turned on by that simple courteous gesture. But that wasn’t surprising, given the state of her love life. Or her lack of one.
‘Believe it.’ She dragged herself back into the conversation. ‘I’m an accountant.’ She waited for his eyes to glaze over. ‘A tax accountant. I know tedious.’
His lips twitched but he didn’t look in the least fazed. If anything there was a spark in his gaze as it swept her from head to toe. Did it linger here and there on the way? Imogen’s stomach tightened and her breasts swelled against the satin bodice as she drew a sharp breath. Strange how the lace of her strapless bra suddenly scratched at her nipples when it had been perfectly comfortable before.
‘You’re not acquainted with French property and commercial law, are you? The phrase “red tape” was invented to describe them. And the meetings...’ He shook his head.
‘You’re a lawyer?’ He didn’t look like any lawyer she’d seen, except in some high-budget courtroom film with a smoulderingly gorgeous hero.
Thierry laughed, that rich-as-chocolate sound doing strange things to her insides. ‘Me, a lawyer? That would be a match made in hell. It’s bad enough being a client. My first meeting tomorrow will go all morning. I’d much rather be out of the city.’
‘Really? You look like right at home here.’ Her gaze skated over his hard body in that made-to-measure dinner jacket. When she lifted her eyes she found him watching her, his quirk of a smile disarming.
‘This?’ One casual hand gestured to his impeccable tailoring. ‘This is camouflage.’
‘You’re saying you don’t belong?’ Her pulse raced at the idea of finding another outsider. For, tr
y as she might, she couldn’t feel at home in this sophisticated crowd, despite her sister’s clothes.
He shrugged, and Imogen watched those wide, straight shoulders with something like hunger. She’d never felt needy for a man. Not even Scott. Was it this man or the unfamiliar setting that pulled her off-balance?
‘I’ve been forced to adapt. Business means I need to be in the city. But I prefer being outdoors. There’s nothing like pitting yourself against nature. It beats meetings hands-down.’
That explained those eyes. Not just the creases from sun exposure, but his deceptively lazy regard that seemed at the same time sharp and perceptive. As if from surveying distant views?
‘Each hour behind a desk is pure torture.’
‘You poor thing.’ Impulsively, she placed her hand on his arm, then regretted it as she felt the tense and flex of sinew and impressive muscle. There it was again, that little jolt, like an electric shock. Imogen jerked her hand back, frowning, and looked at her glass. Surely she hadn’t drunk enough to imagine it? Just enough to make her do something out of character, like touch a stranger.
Yet she couldn’t regret it. That fierce flick of heat made her feel more alive than...
‘You’d like another?’ Thierry gave their glasses to a waiter and snagged two more.
She took the glass he offered, carefully avoiding contact with his tanned fingers.
‘To red convertibles and champagne picnics and balloon rides.’ His eyes snared hers and her heart thumped. When he looked at her, the way she imagined men looked at truly beautiful women, she almost forgot what had brought her to Paris. She could lose herself in the moment.
Imogen raised her glass. ‘And to meetings that end quickly.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Thierry touched his glass to hers, watching her sip her wine. She took time to taste it. Her lips, a glossy bow, pouted delectably. Her dark eyelashes quivered, and he knew she was cataloguing the prickle of bubbles on the roof of her mouth. She gave a delicate shiver of appreciation, and he found himself leaning closer.
