A Vow to Secure His Legacy

by Annie West

  He looked intimidating. Not like the easy lover she remembered, or the passionate man of seconds ago. There was passion still, but something formidable too.

  ‘You’re reneging on what you said? You won’t step in if something...happens to me?’ Fear clutched. She wasn’t even sure if she could carry this child to term but she had to believe she could. And she had to believe there’d be someone to care for it when she was gone.

  ‘Hey.’ His voice was soothing, his fleeting touch on her arm gentle. ‘Don’t get worked up. All I want is the truth. Surely I’m entitled to that?’

  ‘You have the truth. The baby is yours.’

  He stood silent, his scrutiny like a weight pushing her down.

  She spun away, turning to the windows, vaguely aware of the lights of Paris beyond. Once, a few weeks ago, she’d have revelled in being here, seeing this. Now she felt terrified, scared not so much for herself as for her baby. Despair hovered in the shadows at the corner of her vision, ready to pounce if she let her guard down.

  ‘I can’t help unless you tell me what’s troubling you.’

  She pivoted towards him. ‘Help?’ She’d wondered if he was looking for an excuse to wriggle out of that.

  ‘I said I would and I’m a man of my word.’ He spoke with such authority she couldn’t help but believe him.

  Imogen hadn’t wanted to tell him too soon, scared the knowledge he’d definitely be responsible for their child might frighten him off. Yet surely he deserved to know? The sooner he came to grips with what was to come, the better.

  ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be okay.’

  A laugh ripped from Imogen’s throat. The sound scared her—so raw and guttural. It betrayed the fact she clung to calm by the skin of her teeth.

  Thierry’s dark eyebrows shot up, his gaze interrogative.

  ‘It won’t be okay, that’s the problem.’ Her voice was harsh and raspy. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m not going to be a mother and I’m not going to know my child.’ Pain settled like a lump of cold metal in her stomach, its chill paralysing. ‘I’m dying.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NEXT HOUR passed in a haze, for which Imogen was grateful. She’d had enough of pain and grief and though both still threatened like bullies hovering at the edge of a playground, Thierry’s presence kept them at bay.

  Two things stood out. First, the way he’d gone stark white beneath the bronze of his tanned olive skin when he heard her news. Even the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes had morphed into creases that betrayed shock rather than humour. Second, his gentle solicitude as he’d ushered her back to a chair and pressed a hot drink into her hands.

  His touch had been impersonal, as far from his earlier passionate grip as it was possible to be. Dying did that—it distanced you from people, putting up an unseen but unbreakable barrier no one wanted to broach. She’d seen it with her mother—people keeping their distance, as if they feared her brain tumour might be catching.

  In Thierry’s case, the fire died out of his eyes as she told him about her condition, and that her mother had died of the same illness just months before. He hadn’t protested in disbelief but his face had grown grimmer and grimmer as she’d spelled out what was in store.

  ‘We need to get you to a specialist.’ Even his voice had changed, the timbre hollow instead of smooth and rich.

  She leaned her head against the back of her chair. ‘I have another appointment in Sydney in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘So far away?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not in a hurry, Thierry. I’ve been through it all with my mother and I know what to expect. Except...’ She pressed a hand to her stomach, terror swooping through her as she thought of the danger to her baby.

  ‘Don’t.’ He hunkered beside her, his hand on hers firm and strong, callused, as if he did more with his time than attend meetings. Heat seeped from his touch. She imagined it as warm tendrils shooting and unfurling, spreading through her chilled body. Was it imagination or did the tightness around her hunched shoulders ease?

  Then he said something that threatened to undo her.

  ‘You’re not alone now, Imogen.’

  He made no ridiculous promises to find a cure when there was none, to snatch her from the jaws of death. That would have meant nothing, just the bluster of someone unwilling to accept the inevitable.

  Instead, his words pierced the shaky wall she’d built around her heart. They made her feel less desperate.

  She opened her mouth to tell him how precious a gift he’d given her but found she couldn’t speak. She gulped down a knot of emotion.

  She’d known this man a few short weeks and yet for the first time since she’d lost her mother—in fact since Isabelle had died—she felt something like whole.

  ‘You need to rest. You’re exhausted.’

  It was true. Sleep had eluded her this week. As if on cue, a mighty yawn rose.

  ‘You’re right. I’d better get back to the hotel.’

  For answer Thierry slid his arms beneath her and hoisted her up in one smooth movement as he stood. His darkening jaw was just centimetres away and beneath the hand she pressed to his chest came the steady thud of his heartbeat.

  Safe, it seemed to say.

  For once Imogen let herself ignore the tiny voice of reality that sneered nothing could keep her safe now. Instead, she let her head sink against his shoulder. Just for a moment it was nice to be cared for. It was a novelty she could get used to.

  Except she wouldn’t have the chance to get used to it, would she?

  He must have heard her hiccup of laughter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

  ‘Which is why you’re going to bed.’ He turned and carried her from the room. To her amazement they didn’t head towards the foyer but down a wide corridor.

  ‘Thierry? I need to get back to my hotel.’

  He stopped. ‘Why? Have you got medicine there that you need?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Good. You can sleep here. I’ll lend you something to wear and bring you supper once you’re in bed.’

  Imogen knew she should move, knew she couldn’t afford to get used to being cosseted. It would only make things more difficult later. But what woman would willingly give up the pleasure of being in Thierry’s powerful arms, even for a short time?

  The beautiful bedroom with its high ceilings, elegant doors and honey-coloured wood flooring spoke of the elegance of another age, even if the en suite bathroom she glimpsed was all modern luxury. One quick survey told her this was a guest room. No sign of Thierry’s personal belongings. Nor could she imagine him choosing the delicate pale blue and cream bed linens for himself.

  He lowered her onto a bed that her weary bones protested was just too comfortable to leave.

  Would it be so wrong to stay the night? Independence warred with exhaustion as she sat, swaying.

  ‘Here. You can use this tonight.’ She hadn’t even noticed Thierry leave but he was entering the room again. He pressed something soft into her hands, and she looked down, seeing a black T-shirt that she knew would look fantastic clinging to his hard chest. Her pulse did the funny little jig that had become familiar during her time in Paris. He did that to her.

  She looked up into burning dark eyes. Concern etched his face. She wanted to assure him everything would be okay, erase the pain that turned his mouth into a sombre line, but she couldn’t find any words to make this right.

  Instead, she conjured a half-smile. ‘Thank you, Thierry.’ She paused, letting herself enjoy the sound of his name on her tongue. Soon she’d have no reason to use it, once she was back home. She shifted, forcing her heavy eyelids up, squaring her shoulders. ‘It’s thoughtful of you. I’d very much like to stay the ni
ght.’

  Her hands tightened on the T-shirt. So what if a night of being cared for made the solitude she faced later harder to bear? She’d rather experience these past couple of hours with him, even if only in his apartment, not sharing his bed, than the emptiness of that soulless hotel room.

  * * *

  But it was more than a couple of hours. When the sun rose so did Imogen, staggering a little, groping along the wall as she made her way to the bathroom.

  The headache was back. Amazingly, it was the first in weeks, but it clawed at her skull as if some giant bird of prey dug hot talons into her brain.

  She was back in bed when the bedroom door opened. Thierry’s hair was damp and gleaming black. Tailored charcoal trousers clung to solid thighs and his crisp white shirt revealed a V of tanned flesh where the buttons hadn’t all been done up. Despite the miasma of pain, Imogen felt a twinge of pleasure at the sight of him. She regretted now that she had no photo of him. Taking holiday snaps to pore over later hadn’t occurred to her. She’d spent her time trying not to think about the future.

  ‘How are you doing?’ He sat on the bed and even through the light blanket she felt his warmth. She wanted to snuggle into him and hold him tight, never let go.

  She snared a breath. She had to be stronger than that. She couldn’t rely on him or anyone else.

  Imogen looked up through slitted eyes and read worry on his broad brow.

  ‘Fine,’ she lied, loath to make that worry worse. ‘Just tired.’ That, at least, was true. A week of little sleep had left her on the edge of exhaustion.

  A hand brushed the hair from her face, and her eyes fluttered closed. His touch was so soothing, so gentle. Yearning rose in a welling tide.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all? Do you need a doctor?’

  Her eyes sprang open to find him leaning closer, the spicy fresh scent of his skin making her nostrils flare.

  ‘No doctor. I’ve had enough of them for now.’ Sydney would be soon enough. ‘I’m fine, really, just tired.’

  ‘I’ve brought croissants and juice if you’re hungry.’ She shook her head, and he frowned. ‘I have appointments all morning. I could put them off.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She tried to sound firm and strong but she suspected her voice was too hoarse. ‘I’ll get up now and head back to my hotel.’

  ‘You really think I’d let you?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Was the ache in her head making her hear things?

  ‘What sort of man do you take me for?’ Anger sparked in that gleaming gaze. ‘You’ll stay here while you’re in Paris. I’m just trying to work out whether I can leave you this morning.’

  ‘Of course you can leave me. I’m not your responsibility.’ Her brain told her to move, not loll here basking in his concern. But her aching head and tired body didn’t want to move. She forced herself to pluck at the blanket, lifting it, ready to get up.

  A hard hand clasped her wrist, forcing it and the blanket back down.

  ‘Don’t.’ His voice caressed rather than ordered, and to her shock, awareness, acute and devastating, jagged through her. ‘We’ll argue about it later, when you have more energy.’ He stroked her hair again and there was magic in his touch. She felt the tension rolling away in little waves. ‘For now you need sleep. Promise me you’ll stay here till I come back.’

  It was pure weakness, she knew, but Imogen was barely surprised to hear the whisper emerge from her lips. ‘Just for a while, then.’

  When she finally woke, late in a golden afternoon, she was surprised to find herself refreshed, without that horrible hangover feeling after too much pain. Thankful for small mercies, she headed to the bathroom, only to discover her toiletries bag sitting there, and her hair brush. Dazed, she swivelled, looking back through the door to the bedroom. Her suitcase lay, unzipped, on the other side of the room.

  He’d gone to her hotel and collected her belongings?

  How had he done it? Surely there were rules about not giving strangers access to other people’s hotel rooms?

  Imogen’s brow pleated as she tried to work out how Thierry had done it. And why. It was high-handed, and she should be annoyed, but right now the thought of getting into fresh clothes was just too appealing.

  Shaking her head, she stripped off, stepping into the marble-lined shower and a stream of blissfully warm water. She’d work it all out when she was fully awake. But she’d bet Thierry’s ability to access her things had something to do with that combination of innate authority and his bone-melting smile. No doubt the hotel employee he’d approached was female.

  The thought stirred unwelcome feelings. A jab of what felt like jealousy.

  Imogen caught herself up sharply. She had no right to jealousy. Thierry had never been hers in any real sense. Anyway, she wouldn’t be with him long enough to worry about other women.

  Emerging from the bathroom, she automatically reached for jeans, then paused as she noticed the gorgeous light of late afternoon slanting in the big windows.

  She’d been too exhausted yesterday to worry about anything but confronting Thierry and breaking her news. Now she needed to book a flight to Sydney since she had Thierry’s word he’d care for their baby.

  Which meant this could be her last evening in Paris.

  Firming her lips, she put the jeans down and delved into the big suitcase. If this was her last night here...

  Fifteen minutes later she stared at herself in the mirror. Izzy’s dress in uncrushable scarlet lace clung more than Imogen had anticipated. And it was more suited to evening than late afternoon.

  But she didn’t care. Red would give her energy and the bravado she needed. Besides, she’d always loved the colour, even though back home she would never consider it. It was so attention-grabbing. So not her.

  She loved it. Her last night in Paris; she refused to spend it looking like some quaking little mouse.

  * * *

  Thierry looked up at the sound of footsteps. Not merely footsteps but the tap of high heels, if he was any judge, which he was. His lovers all wore heels. Except Imogen, he realised. She’d been just as likely to turn up wearing flats or tennis shoes, because she was as interested in hot-air ballooning and picnicking as she was in dancing and dining.

  No tennis shoes now. His heart revved to a thundering roar as a vision in red appeared in the doorway. Voluptuous, glorious, sexy as hell. The colour was a perfect contrast to the creamy swell of her breasts above the low, square-cut neckline.

  She’d left her hair down. It rippled in ebony silk waves around her shoulders.

  Thierry’s groin tightened. Imogen only wore her hair loose in bed. That had been his secret pleasure, inhaling its indefinable sweet fragrance, rubbing it between his fingers, feeling its caress on his bare skin as they made love.

  His gaze dropped to the hemline above her knees and her long, shapely legs. To scarlet stilettos.

  His breath rushed out like air from a punctured balloon. Arousal vied with disbelief.

  How could she look this way when she was dying? The word hung like a dark stain on his consciousness, tearing at his innards, making his gut writhe in denial.

  All night and day he’d fought to come to grips with her news. Even now part of him rejected the prognosis as impossible. Not Imogen.

  ‘You look stunning.’ The words jerked out hoarsely.

  She stopped, eyes rounding. ‘I do?’ Something that might have been pleasure flitted across her face. ‘Thank you. I needed something to give me courage for my last night in Paris. I wanted to look...’ she shrugged ‘...well.’

  Instantly, guilt rose. Because he was busy lusting after a fatally ill woman. Because he couldn’t get up from the seat where he was working on a report for fear she’d see just how well he thought she looked. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, trying to reorient him
self.

  ‘You look more than well. You look blooming.’ The red brought colour to her cheeks and the long sleep had lessened the shadows beneath her fine eyes. Savagely he squashed the temptation to stride across and haul her to him, to claim those lips he knew would be soft and inviting, to explore that glorious body.

  Because she was dying. The word scourged his brain.

  ‘Sorry? I missed that.’ He knew she’d spoken but the rush of blood in his ears had deafened him.

  ‘I asked if you have wi-fi. I need to book my flight home.’ She lifted one hand and rubbed her bare arm, as if to counteract a chill. ‘I should argue about the fact you collected my luggage without permission. And I should move back to the hotel.’ She paused, turning towards the window. ‘But I don’t want to waste time. This will probably be my last night in France and I’ve got other things to do.’

  ‘Other things?’ Dressed like that? He shot to his feet, his papers sliding to the floor. ‘Like what?’ The way she looked, she’d have men clustered around her the moment she stepped out the door.

  A tiny, self-conscious smile lit her face, and Thierry felt as if someone had reached in and grabbed his innards. How much longer would she be able to smile like that?

  ‘I was so busy when I was here last time, I never took one of those dinner cruises on the Seine, even though it was on my list of things to do.’

  Was that a hint of a blush? Was she too thinking of all the things they’d done instead of cruising the river?

  It was on the tip of Thierry’s tongue to say those cruises were crowded with tourists, and the loudspeaker commentary would detract from the ambience of the evening, but he firmed his lips. He wasn’t going to spoil it for her.

  ‘So, wi-fi?’ She moved farther into the room and Thierry had to force his gaze up to her face instead of on the undulating curves outlined in the tight red dress.

  He dragged open his collar as heat rose. She looked so sultry and alluring it was hard to believe she carried a new life inside. Or that she was gravely ill.