by Annie West
‘Now’s not the time, Imogen. It’s late.’ He watched her stiffen and silently cursed his harsh tone.
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. As if that made it easier to resist the temptation to touch! An ache started in his jaw from clenching his teeth too tight.
‘What’s bothering you? Is it Grand-mère? I know she can be overwhelming at first but she likes you.’
‘You can tell that?’
He nodded. ‘I think she liked the way you spoke your mind. She isn’t one for prevarication.’
‘So I gathered.’ Imogen gnawed the corner of her bottom lip, and he wanted to reach out and stop her.
‘She offended you?’
‘No. I rather liked her too, though she made me feel like a fashion disaster.’
‘No one expects you to dress up all the time.’ Imogen in high heels and that red, clingy dress was branded too clearly on his brain for anything like comfort. It had kept him awake too many nights. Besides, he liked her in jeans; liked the way they shaped her long legs and...
‘Just as well.’ Something like hurt glowed in her hazel eyes. ‘I feel like a fraud going along with her plans to improve me.’
‘She means well. And a tutor to help you with French is an excellent idea. I should have thought of it myself.’
‘It’s not that. I’d like to learn French.’ Her gaze slid from his then back. The impact of those eyes on his should have knocked him back on his feet. There was so much feeling there. It was like looking into her soul. ‘I just don’t feel right, pretending I’m your wife for real.’
‘You are my wife. Believe me, the ceremony was legally binding, even if it was brief.’
‘But I’m not the woman who’s going to be with you for the rest of your days. This is a temporary arrangement for my benefit.’
Thierry had never wanted a woman to be with him for the rest of his days. Not since Sandrine. But he couldn’t say that to a woman whose life was measured in months rather than years. The truth was he’d do whatever it took to make her remaining time as easy as possible.
He didn’t just lust after Imogen. He didn’t just see her as a responsibility. He cared about her.
Which meant he had to keep his focus on her well-being.
‘Don’t forget the child is mine too. We’re in this together, Imogen.’
A little of the tension eased from her features, and he was stunned at how good it felt that he’d been able to do that for her.
‘You don’t have to worry about anything.’ He kept his voice soothing. ‘I’ll take care of everything.’ He paused, wondering whether to tell her his news.
‘What is it?’ She moved away from the door, her nightgown drifting around her like temptation.
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s something you’re not saying.’
Thierry frowned. Since when had she been able to read him? He prided himself on his ability to keep his thoughts to himself.
‘Nothing to worry about.’ But he saw she didn’t believe him. Perhaps she’d had so much bad news she now expected the worst. ‘Just that I’ve managed to get you an appointment with one of the country’s finest specialists. They’re sending to Australia for your medical records.’
‘I see.’ Her mouth twisted, and he wanted to reach out and smooth those plump lips with his thumb, stroke her hair and tell her everything would be all right. But the hell of it was he couldn’t.
‘That’s very good of you. Thanks.’ The huskiness had gone from her voice, leaving it flat.
Thierry’s muscles bunched as he fought the urge to reach for her. His embrace might soothe her temporarily but at the risk of him taking things too far. And her fragility was for once obvious in her delicate features.
‘Was there anything else you wanted to talk about? My grand-mère, perhaps?’
‘No. I just...’ She paused so long he began to wonder what was wrong.
In a flurry of lace and cotton she crossed the floor, planting her hands on his tense shoulders. She was so close he felt her like the earth felt the sun, drawn to her magnetic warmth. Her lashes lifted to reveal eyes of sherry-brown spangled with green that made him think of mountain streams and ecstasy. She cupped the back of his head, narrow fingers sliding through his hair, sending rivers of molten energy straight to his groin.
‘I needed to thank you.’ She opened her mouth as if to say more then shut it again, her gaze zeroing on his mouth.
An instant later she’d risen on her toes, leaning in so her breasts pushed, soft and enticing, against him. Her lips were hot and sweet on his, seeking, torturing with the promise of delight.
A quake rocked him to the soles of his feet. His hands fisted in his pockets so hard he thought they might never loosen again. He breathed in her scent, tasting her on his lips, and almost lost his resolve. He wanted this so badly. He wanted so much more than he should if he was to look after her as she deserved.
A lifetime’s experience in giving in to temptation had him dragging his hands out of his pockets, anchoring them at her sides where he felt the supple shift of toned muscle and the mind-destroying seduction of her in-curving waist.
Something like a growl erupted from the back of his throat and her tiny, answering moan just about undid him. All he had to do was open his mouth and...
With a surge of inexplicable strength he put her from him, stepping back so he held her at arm’s length. His arms were shaking and his heart galloped out of control, but he’d done it. By the skin of his teeth he’d actually done what he should have done all along. She didn’t have to thank him with the gift of her body. A better man wouldn’t have countenanced it even for a second.
‘There’s no need to thank me, Imogen.’ He barely recognised his voice as finally he managed to drag his hands away. ‘Not like this.’
Something flashed in her eyes. Something swift and raw that he felt like a smack to the face. But it was gone in a second. Her flushed features set in an expression he couldn’t read. Her lips were slightly parted as she dragged in air, and her hazel eyes looked past him as if the far wall fascinated her.
‘Truly, Imogen, there’s no need for that sort of thanks.’
Slowly, she nodded, then before he realised what she was about she was walking out the door, leaving his hands empty. ‘I understand. Goodnight, Thierry.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
IMOGEN SAT STRAIGHT in her seat, braced for bad news. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst, wasn’t that the adage? Right now she was hoping the doctor would confirm her child would be safe. The alternative...
A callused hand enclosed hers, long fingers gripping gently.
Startled, she looked around to Thierry beside her. He was watching the doctor pore over her scan results, yet he’d sensed her fear as if attuned to her.
He’d done that before, she remembered, the day his grandmother had arrived. His gentle touch on her cheek then had calmed her, made her feel he was on her side.
Imogen released a shivery breath, trying to find a place of calm amongst her whirling emotions.
Thierry’s touch was a two-edged sword. Unashamedly she clung to his hand, grateful for the reminder she wasn’t alone. Yet the poignancy of his touch lacerated something fragile inside. He hadn’t touched her willingly since that day with his grandmother in the garden. The night she’d gone to him, eager to show how much she needed him, he’d stood aloof.
The memory of his beautiful, big body, so still and unresponsive when she’d offered herself to him, gouged at far more than her self-respect. It felt as if she’d swallowed a razor blade that cut her every time she breathed. The pain of his rejection rivalled even her blinding headaches at their worst.
Had she really invested so much in this man?
Imogen looked away to the framed diplomas on the w
all.
Thierry hadn’t even bothered to take his hands out of his pockets that night she’d kissed him! So much for rekindling the passion they’d shared. He’d stood there, enduring her touch, till finally he’d grabbed her and put her aside. No words could have made it clearer that for him the physical side of their relationship was dead.
She really had been a temporary fling.
‘Imogen?’ His low voice curled around her, beckoning, but she refused to turn. She had to hold herself together.
‘Madame Girard.’ At last the doctor spoke. Imogen squared her shoulders in preparation for the inevitable.
Yet, instead of the grave expression doctors usually reserved for delivering bad news, this man looked animated. Pleased. Her breath caught. Did that mean her baby would be okay? Involuntarily, her fingers clenched around Thierry’s.
‘You’re something of a puzzle, Madame Girard.’ The doctor shook his head slowly but there was no mistaking the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘I am?’ Her voice was a husk of sound.
‘Your symptoms fit a classic pattern and, combined with your family history...’ He spread his hands as if to say there was nothing he could do for her.
Her heart dived and she bit down a gasp of distress.
A chair scraped and Thierry roped a long arm around her shoulders. Warmth enveloped her, the woodsy scent of the outdoors and something more, something beyond mere physical comfort. She leaned into him. No matter that she could do this alone if she had to. She’d never been more grateful for company in her life, even if it came from the man who saw her solely as a form of duty.
‘Despite that, I’m pleased to tell you the headaches and vision problems aren’t what you think.’
‘Pardon?’
The doctor smiled, his eyes alight. ‘Contrary to expectations, you’re not suffering the same disease as your mother.’
The air rushed from her lungs as if from a punctured balloon. ‘I’m not?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, I can tell you there is no tumour, malignant or otherwise.’ His smile became a beam.
Dazed, Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘There was never a tumour, though it seems your general practitioner, like you, feared the worst.’ He spoke slowly, glancing again at the test results. ‘I’ve consulted with both your family doctor and my specialist colleague in Australia. The one you were supposed to see but didn’t.’
She didn’t miss the questioning inflection in his voice, or the tightening of Thierry’s grip on her shoulder.
‘There didn’t seem much point. I knew what he was going to say. I just...’ She looked up into surprisingly sympathetic grey eyes and found the words tumbling out. ‘I couldn’t bear facing the diagnosis so soon after losing my mother. I felt trapped.’ She hefted a deep breath into too-tight lungs. ‘I decided to get away, just for a while, before I had to face all that.’ She waved a hand at the reports on his desk. ‘But you’re saying it’s not a tumour? What is it, then?’
‘I understand from your family doctor that you also lost your sister recently?’
Imogen could have howled with impatience. Why didn’t he just tell her what was wrong with her?
Thierry’s warm hand caressed her shoulder in a gesture of support that helped her gather her scattered wits.
‘That’s right. She died suddenly in an accident.’
‘And then your mother became ill?’
Imogen nodded. ‘Very soon afterwards. But I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
Sympathetic grey eyes held hers. ‘Stress and grief can do amazing things, Madame Girard.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She leaned forward, dislodging Thierry’s grip. ‘Please, just tell me what’s going on.’
‘I’m pleased to say that, on the basis of these very extensive tests, there’s nothing physically wrong with you.’
‘But that can’t be! I’m not imagining those headaches. They’re so bad they even affect my vision.’
The doctor nodded. ‘I’m sure they are. Tell me, are they still as frequent?’
Imogen hesitated, calculating. ‘No, not as often as before.’ She spoke slowly. ‘I haven’t had one since Paris.’ She couldn’t remember the exact date and darted a sideways glance at Thierry but he wasn’t looking at her. His attention was fixed on the doctor.
‘So you’re saying all this is the result of stress?’ Thierry’s voice held a note of disbelief that matched her own. ‘There’s no physical cause?’
‘That doesn’t make the pain any less real. I have no doubt the symptoms your wife has experienced were every bit as disturbing as ones caused by a tumour.’ He looked down at his notes then up at Imogen. ‘It seems to me that you’ve been through a very traumatic time, Madame Girard. The best remedy is rest, and...’ a small smile played at his mouth ‘...something positive in your life. Like a baby to look forward to.’
‘You’re serious?’ Imogen couldn’t take it in.
‘Absolutely. The symptoms you’re experiencing will pass with time.’
A great hiccupping sob rose in her throat, and she crossed her arms around her middle, folding in on herself as shock detonated at her core. Through a blur of emotion she heard the doctor reassure her, telling her he’d be happy to see her again if she had any questions later, and more that she didn’t really take in.
All she registered was that she was okay. She and her baby were going to live. Everything would be all right.
And one other detail. The fact that Thierry hadn’t touched her again. She missed the warmth of his large, reassuring hand.
* * *
‘I feel like such a fool,’ she said again, watching the streets pass by as Thierry drove them out of the city. ‘I just can’t believe it. It seems so incredible.’
Thierry didn’t say anything. When she turned to look, his profile was set in lines of concentration, his brow furrowed and his mouth firm.
The traffic was heavy, she told herself. Of course he needed to focus on that. Even to her own ears she sounded like a broken record, replaying the same phrases again and again. But she needed to talk about this to make it real. It was so unexpected, so much the miracle she’d never dared hope for, that she couldn’t quite believe it.
Her palm covered her belly and gratitude overcame her. Her baby would be all right. She felt the weight of every anxious night ease from her shoulders as tears pricked her eyes. She let her head sink back against the headrest, relief vying with so many other emotions she couldn’t get a grip on.
Just as well it was Thierry driving. She wouldn’t have trusted herself.
‘I still don’t believe it,’ she murmured. ‘The one and only time I act on impulse.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘All my life I’ve been cautious, the one who never acted rashly, always considering the pros and cons before making a decision. Yet that one time I acted on the spur of the moment...’
That day in the Sydney waiting room, defeat had pressed down so hard, there’d seemed no room for doubt. She’d known she had the same fatal illness as her mother. ‘I should have stayed for that appointment instead of haring off to the other side of the globe.’
But if you had, you’d never have met Thierry. You wouldn’t be expecting this child.
Shocking as it was to find herself pregnant, Imogen couldn’t wish that undone.
She turned and peeked at Thierry through her lashes. His jaw was hard-set, emphasising the strong thrust of his nose and the slashing lines of his cheekbones.
She dragged in a rough breath that didn’t fill her lungs. ‘All of this...us...’ she waved her hand ‘...is because I acted impulsively. I should have waited and checked my facts.’
Still he said nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Thierry. Truly sorry. You must be
upset.’
‘You think I’d prefer if the doctor had confirmed today that you’re dying?’ A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘What sort of man do you think I am? You think I’m upset that you’re going to live?’ Finally, he looked her way, his gaze piercing. ‘What have I done to give you such an opinion of me?’
‘You know what I mean. If I hadn’t jumped to conclusions all this wouldn’t have happened. We wouldn’t be married. Because of that mistake, we’re stuck with each other.’
Unless, of course, they divorced. But for the life of her she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. Not yet. Not till she’d had time to absorb everything.
‘What’s done is done, Imogen. There’s nothing to be gained in lashing yourself over it.’
‘You think not?’ Imogen stared. He seemed far too calm, though now she looked properly, the chiselled stillness of his profile hinted at fierce control. What was he holding back?
‘I didn’t do it deliberately.’ She reached out and placed her palm on his thigh. Instantly, she felt the long muscle beneath her hand bunch tight and solid.
It was the first time she’d reached for him since that night in her room. Imogen looked at her pale hand against the taut, dark fabric of his trousers and wondered with a catch in her chest whether it would be the last time. ‘You have to believe me. I wasn’t lying or trying to trick you. I truly believed—’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Again, Thierry’s gaze captured hers, shooting fire along veins turned frosty with shock.
‘I don’t know what you believe.’ Thierry had been so good to her, so supportive, but she’d never been able to read him fully except when they shared pleasure. Right now he was giving a good imitation of a graven image. She felt none of the closeness she’d experienced before. She lifted her hand, warm from touching him, and tucked it into her lap.
‘Your shock was obvious when the doctor told you the truth. I thought for a moment you might faint.’
Yet he hadn’t wrapped his arm around her and hauled her close as he’d done before.
‘I believe...’ He paused and she could have sworn her heartbeat slowed in expectation. ‘That, instead of apologising, you need to celebrate. It’s not often a dying woman gets such a reprieve.’
