by Annie West
Imogen pressed a hand to her suddenly queasy stomach. She needed to keep moving. She didn’t want to hear the speculation about her marriage.
Before she could move, Sandrine shrugged. ‘I couldn’t agree more. I feel sorry for the poor little thing.’ Her voice dropped and the woman with her leaned closer.
Despite her resolve to move on, Imogen found herself waiting with bated breath.
‘Didn’t you see the photo in that scandal rag a month or so ago? Thierry kissing some blonde in a hotel bar when he was supposed to be on a climbing trip? The way he held her, it was obvious they’d just got out of bed.’
‘Imogen. There you are. I was hoping to find you.’ Startled, Imogen swung round to see Poppy Chatsfield beside her. The tall, red-headed model was another of the sophisticated set but her smile was warm.
Imogen blinked, trying to focus. Her stomach heaved and she almost stumbled as the floor rippled beneath her. A chill clamped her spine, freezing each vertebra in turn.
Thierry kissing another woman.
Thierry holding another woman...
‘Imogen?’ A hand gripped her elbow and she found herself ushered to the side of the room. ‘You need to sit. In your condition you shouldn’t be standing so long.’
A ragged laugh escaped Imogen’s lips as Poppy led her to an antique sofa. ‘Does everyone here know I’m pregnant?’
‘Of course not.’ Poppy sat beside her. ‘But Thierry and Orsino are old friends; he just told us the news. I came to congratulate you.’ She paused, her concerned gaze roving Imogen’s face. ‘Can I get you something? Water? I found sipping it slowly sometimes helped the morning sickness.’
‘No. I’m okay.’ Imogen felt her mouth stretch in a grimace. Okay? How could she be okay? If what Sandrine had said was true... She wrapped her arms around her midriff, holding in the searing hurt.
‘If you’ll take my advice, you won’t pay any attention to Sandrine.’
Imogen’s gaze met Poppy’s and heat washed her face. How many people had heard?
Poppy went on, her voice soft. ‘I don’t know what she said but I have a good idea it’s what made you feel sick.’
Despite the haze of hurt and disappointment, Imogen found herself liking this woman.
‘That’s better. You look less like you’re going to faint.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’ Imogen straightened, drawing breath and putting a hand to her hair. ‘But thank you. I appreciate your concern.’
Poppy nodded. ‘You should know, Sandrine is—’
‘I know. Years ago she and Thierry were an item.’
‘Actually, I was going to say Sandrine isn’t a complete witch, even if she’s not at her best tonight. She’s piqued because you married Thierry.’
‘Why should she be piqued? She rejected him. She’s been married to someone else for years.’
‘Yes, and in all that time she’s had the satisfaction of seeing Thierry go from one woman to another, never settling. As if he couldn’t get over her.’ Poppy nodded. ‘Imagine how she feels after years thinking his heart was hers. Now you come along, stealing him. It’s obvious he’s fallen for you.’
Imogen pressed her hands together, wishing she could take comfort in Poppy’s words.
Thierry hadn’t fallen for her. He’d told her they were well-matched because neither expected hearts and flowers and declarations of love.
Did that explain the other woman? Imogen swallowed convulsively at the thought of them together.
That must have been the weekend after they’d learned there’d been no need for them to marry because she was going to live. Imogen had known Thierry was rocked by the news, as she was, but he’d denied it.
A blonde. Sandrine had said brunettes weren’t his type. Imogen’s stomach churned so hard she thought she’d be ill. His taste ran to blondes like Sandrine and the woman in that bar.
Imogen stared blankly at the chattering crowd. How many had seen that photo? How many knew he’d betrayed her with another woman?
Clearly, Thierry didn’t think it a betrayal—because he didn’t love her, or because such things were accepted here? Did he expect her to put up with his affairs? Was that how he saw their marriage working?
This time the pain was a piercing white-hot blade to the heart.
‘Imogen? You’re worrying me. Shall I find Thierry?’
She jerked her head around to meet Poppy’s stare. ‘No,’ she croaked. She couldn’t face that yet. She needed time to digest this.
‘I’m just...’ Dazed, she searched for words to reassure Poppy. ‘It’s so crowded and close. I just can’t get my breath.’ It was true as far as it went.
Poppy squeezed her hand. ‘You poor thing. I was the same when I was pregnant with Sofia.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll head outside for some fresh air.’ Imogen stood, locking her knees when they wobbled. She wasn’t going to collapse in a pathetic heap, especially amongst Thierry’s friends.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Imogen was about to protest when Poppy whispered in her ear. ‘You won’t get far alone. Everyone wants to talk with you. If you’re with me, you’ve got an excuse not to stop and chat.’
Minutes later Imogen rested her palms on the stone balustrade of the terrace. The buzz of the crowd was a muted hum and the high-riding moon washed the scene silver.
Imogen made herself turn to Poppy. ‘That’s better. Thank you. I’m okay now, so you can go back to Orsino. He’s probably wondering where you are.’ She was desperate to be alone.
Poppy waved a careless hand. ‘No, he won’t. He and Thierry are busy planning their grand trip.’
‘Grand trip?’ Imogen hadn’t heard anything about a trip. But then she was probably the only person here who hadn’t known about his other woman. Her fingers clenched on stone as revulsion welled.
‘Oh, just the usual. For years they’ve been planning their next big adventure—the one they’ll take as soon as Thierry’s free.’
‘Free?’ The word tore from Imogen’s choked throat. Free of her? She frowned. But then why insist they stay married?
‘Free of the business.’ Poppy bent her head, tsking as she disentangled her bracelet from a sequin on her dress.
‘What do you mean, free of the business?’
Poppy looked up, astonishment on her features. ‘You don’t know?’ She paused. ‘Maybe I got it wrong,’ she said quickly. ‘I—’
‘Please, Poppy. I need to know.’
Did Poppy hear the strain in her voice? Finally, she shrugged but she didn’t look comfortable. ‘Only close friends know. Thierry wouldn’t talk about it in public.’
Clearly whatever it was, he hadn’t thought to share it with his wife.
Disappointment hammered at Imogen’s heart. She’d been fooling herself that if she was patient one day things would change between them!
How many secrets did Thierry hide?
‘Thierry was dragged kicking and screaming into the family business when his grandfather became ill.’
Imogen nodded. ‘He had a stroke.’ She knew that, at least.
‘Thierry hates being cooped up behind four walls—says it will send him crazy one day, being tied down. He vowed to set the company on its feet then step aside, find some good managers and take up his old life. He and Orsino used to do a lot of balloon treks together, rally driving too, and climbing.’
She paused, her glance darting to Imogen as if for confirmation she already knew this. Imogen said nothing, just turned to look at the cold, moonlit garden.
‘For ages they’ve talked about a big trek to celebrate his freedom when it comes. Last I heard, it would be white-water rafting somewhere inhospitable. Somewhere you wouldn’t catch me, ever. I’ll stay where there are some creature comforts, thank you very much
.’
Imogen recalled seeing Thierry across the crowd with Orsino Chatsfield. The two handsome, dark-haired men were easy to spot, given their height. But it was the animation on Thierry’s face and the intensity of their conversation that she’d noticed.
Poppy turned towards her. ‘Perhaps we could spend some time together when they’re away? Get to know each other better?’
‘That’s a lovely idea.’ Imogen forced the words out before her throat closed on a ball of wretched emotion. She liked Poppy. In other circumstances she could imagine them as friends. But it wasn’t going to happen.
The pain morphed from a piercing stab to a heavy, slow-grinding ache pressing down, robbing her of air.
What more did she need to convince her this marriage was all wrong? He wasn’t interested in settling down any more than he believed in love. He begrudged the time he spent in one place saving the family firm. How much more would he come to resent the woman and child who tied him down even further?
He’d put a good face on a bad situation. No doubt about it, her husband didn’t shirk from what he believed to be his duty. Having met his grandparents, she realised he’d had responsibility drummed into him from an early age.
Something in her chest tore in an excruciating, slow-motion rip of anguish. Her heart?
‘I’m afraid things are a little up in the air at the moment. A little...complicated.’ She tried for a casual smile but knew it didn’t convince, by the sombre way Poppy surveyed her.
‘Of course. I don’t mean to pressure you. A new marriage can be challenging as well as exciting.’ Her laugh held a jarring note. ‘Orsino and I went through hell before we worked out we loved and trusted each other.’ She touched Imogen briefly on the arm. ‘Just remember, if ever you need to talk, I’m available. I know how hard it can be, married to one of these take-charge men.’
‘Thanks, Poppy. That’s kind of you.’ Imogen gulped, overcome by her empathy and kindness. She struggled for a lighter tone. ‘I suppose we’d better get back inside before we’re missed.’ She couldn’t think of anything worse. But she had her pride. She’d see the evening out then decide what to do.
Except she knew she’d run out of options.
She’d given her heart and soul to a man who didn’t love her. Who could never love her. Who couldn’t even give her his loyalty. He liked her, and he shared himself as much as he could with her, but ultimately she and their child were encumbrances, like the business he’d stepped in to save and couldn’t wait to be rid of.
Her fond dream of him returning her feelings was just that—a dream.
There was only one thing any self-respecting woman could do. It was just a pity she hadn’t done it months ago.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘IMOGEN?’ THIERRY FLICKED on the light switch only to find his bedroom empty.
Where was she? She’d come upstairs when the last of the guests had left. There’d been fine lines of tiredness on her face yet that stubborn streak had seen her determined to play hostess to the end, despite his suggestion she retire early.
Thierry smiled. She’d been magnificent. He’d wondered if such a big function would be too much but she’d sailed through it with ease. Every time he’d looked over she’d been the centre of some eager group.
Afterwards he’d remained chatting with Orsino, who was staying with Poppy in one of the guest suites. It had been too long since they’d caught up. It was only now as work turned from manic to manageable that he realised how little he’d seen of his friends, as opposed to business contacts.
He marched across the room and opened the bathroom door. Empty. Where was she? His belly tightened in a premonition of trouble.
A few strides took him to the dressing room, but it too was empty. He scowled, thinking of her pale features as she’d headed upstairs and cursed himself for not seeing her to their room, despite her protests.
Thierry whipped around and back into the bedroom. Flicking off the light, he stepped towards the sitting room. That was when he noticed the strip of light under the adjoining bedroom door.
His heart slammed his ribs as he stopped mid-stride. What was she doing in her old bedroom? Incoherent thoughts jostled his brain. Was she ill? Was it the baby?
He wrenched open the door. The room looked peaceful in the glow of a bedside lamp and he heard water running in the bathroom.
He was almost at the bathroom door when he noticed the laptop open on the bed. One glance sent a sucker punch to the gut.
Thierry staggered, stared, and felt the world tilt.
Diable! Imogen had seen this? He went hot then cold as wave after wave of prickling remorse hit him.
He didn’t want to, but Thierry took a step closer, then another. The photo was even worse close up. The blonde leaned into him, every line of her body taut and hungry as they kissed. From this angle, and with his hands at her waist, it looked like he’d been utterly lost to passion.
What had Imogen thought when she’d seen it? Flicking down the screen, scanning the snide little magazine commentary, he saw it was dated too. She’d have been in no doubt when this was taken.
His belly turned to lead. It was no good telling himself there’d been nothing in it. That didn’t stop the guilt.
The door opened behind him, and his head flicked around.
‘Hello, Thierry.’ Imogen looked composed but pale.
‘Are you all right?’ He started towards her but stopped at the look on her face. Closed. Shuttered. Distant. He’d never seen her like that and it made something catch hard under his ribs.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She took off her watch and put it on the dressing table.
Thierry frowned. ‘I was worried when you weren’t in our room. What are you doing here?’
She shrugged as she moved things on the dressing table. Avoiding him? He stepped closer.
‘I’m very tired and a bit queasy. I thought it better to sleep here.’
If she was tired, why wasn’t she in bed?
The answer was easy: she’d been checking on him, trawling the media to find that incriminating photo. He tried to whip up indignation but found only regret.
‘About that photo...’ Her head swung round, her gaze meshing with his, and for a split second pure energy blasted through him, like he’d tapped into an electric current. ‘It wasn’t the way it looks.’
She walked past him and turned off the laptop, taking it to the dressing table.
‘Imogen? I said it wasn’t like it seems.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’ His fingers closed around her bare arm. The swish of her silky nightdress against his knuckles reminded him of the hours of pleasure they’d shared in his bed. It made her curious composure all the more disturbing. ‘Why don’t you say anything?’
Her eyes met his, more brown than green now and strangely flat.
‘I’m tired. Can’t we talk in the morning?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ She’d seen that photo and withdrawn as if he were a stranger. Anger stirred. It was more palatable than the guilt lining his belly. ‘We need to talk now.’
Her mouth flattened. ‘I’ve had enough for one night.’
But instinct told him he couldn’t delay. Keeping his hold on her arm, he led her to the bed. Her chin jutted mutinously but she said nothing as he sat beside her.
‘Aren’t you curious about the woman in the photo?’ If he’d seen a picture of her in the arms of another man he’d have been more than curious. He’d want to rip the guy’s arms off.
‘Not particularly.’ Her blank tone didn’t match the fire in her eyes.
‘She kissed me.’ Thierry felt a shudder pass through her. ‘I was drinking in the bar the last night of the climbing trip—’
‘You don’t have to j
ustify yourself.’
But he did. He couldn’t bear for her to believe he’d been with someone else. ‘She asked for a drink then she kissed me.’
‘I’m sure it happens to you all the time.’ The hint of a snarl in her tone stirred tentative hope. Anger he could deal with. It was this...nothing that scared him.
‘Nothing happened, Imogen. Just a kiss. What you saw was me pushing her away.’
Hazel eyes held with his, searching, then Imogen looked away. He felt her sag. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’ How could he convince her? Her listlessness scared him. Where was his vibrant Imogen? Why wasn’t she reacting? Even to hear her yell would be a relief.
‘Right. Now that’s cleared up, I’m going to sleep.’
Thierry stared. ‘What’s going on, chérie?’
‘Don’t!’ She stiffened. ‘Don’t call me that.’ She yanked her arm free and shuffled along the bed, putting distance between them. Her hand came up to cradle the spot where he’d held her, as if he’d hurt her, though his touch had been careful.
‘I’m not your chérie and I never will be.’
‘What are you talking about?’ His pulse hammered a tattoo of fear. ‘Of course you are. You’re my wife.’ He didn’t like where this was going. He’d never seen her act so.
‘A convenient wife—not your dear or your sweetheart, or whatever the translation is.’ She waved her hand dismissively, and Thierry felt a plummeting sensation in his belly. ‘I know it’s just a word, a little nothing that slips out easily, but...’ She turned her profile to him. ‘But I don’t want your casual endearments.’
‘Imogen—’
‘And since you insist on talking now...’ she turned to him ‘...you should know I’ve decided to leave. This isn’t working.’
Thierry shot to his feet, stalking across the thick carpet. ‘Because of one stupid photo? I explained that. Nothing happened! I give you my word.’ He squared his shoulders. A Girard’s word was rock-solid, unquestionable.
She didn’t look impressed. She hugged her arms around her, and he had to work not to let his gaze linger on her breasts, straining against her nightgown. ‘It’s not because of the photo.’
