The Night That Started It All

by Anna Cleary

  ‘I’m so happy the stress worked for you,’ he said smoothly, his eyes glinting.

  She guessed Frenchwomen, being so mysterious and sophisticated, didn’t confess their feelings after sex.

  ‘Well, there was that other time too, of course. My first actual …’ She screeched to a halt in the bare nick of time.

  His lifted an eyebrow. ‘Your first …?’

  ‘Boathouse. I recall feeling pretty well piping hot there.’

  Heavens, time to shut the heck up. She’d brushed pretty close to giving away her fatal flaw. Knowing she was back in the orgasmic hot zone though, so to speak, was fantastically motivating. After her rocky start this morning, she could hardly believe she’d achieved this marvellous and formidable feeling of heavenly freedom and pleasantness.

  After a moment he said, ‘But you must have known many other occasions when you felt so piping hot, having been engaged?’

  ‘Oh, sure. Of course, of course.’ She gave her hand an airy wave. ‘Although …’ She hesitated, and added with a self-conscious flutter, ‘Well … The conditions can’t always be perfect, can they?’

  ‘They can’t?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how a man feels, but I guess a woman needs to feel—admired.’

  He drew his brows in a frown. ‘But Rémy admired you, d’accord? He asked you to marry him.’

  ‘Not marry, exactly. Just—to get engaged. Marriage was to be in the distant future. He wanted to establish D’Avion in Australia properly first.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Tiens.’

  ‘I think what he really meant was he wanted to romance every woman in Sydney first.’ She laughed sadly, though it was a rueful sadness now, not the broken-hearted one it had once been. Rueful, she supposed, for her part in everything that had gone wrong. Sad, because Rémy, having hurt so many people, would now never even have the chance to redeem himself.

  Luc leaned over and kissed her. ‘He was a fool. He didn’t know what he had.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ She smiled.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her again, more deeply this time. Quite emotionally in fact. It was really very stirring and beautiful. And the graze of his chest hair against her breasts was so erotic, she felt as if she was in the most perfect location on the planet.

  When the kiss ended they drew apart, then laughed a little embarrassedly at their intensity. ‘Who’d have thought we’d have ended up here?’ she said, grinning.

  ‘Not me. When I saw you this morning I thought I was hallucinating.’

  ‘I thought I was going to faint.’

  ‘I have that effect,’ he said modestly, laughing when she gave him a playful punch. He stacked the pillows up behind his head. ‘But I can’t understand why you agreed to be engaged to him? What was it about him?’

  ‘Dunno. I was a fool. Naive, I s’pose. He seemed—charming. Exciting. Romantic.’

  ‘Romantic?’ His face expressed Gallic disbelief.

  She hardly wanted to admit she was a Georgette-Heyer-style Regency heroine with deep-held fantasies about marrying a sexy earl. Not that Rémy was in any way an earl, though he’d claimed to have one in his family.

  ‘Well, he was my first Frenchman. All my girlfriends thought he was really, really hot. I felt so lucky … I was sort of swept along, I guess. For a while.’ She compressed her lips. ‘I s’pose in fairness he was too. And Em was so thrilled. I think she was relieved he’d finally decided to settle down.’ She grimaced. ‘The irony of that. He was about as settled down as Casanova. I’ve sure learnt my lesson. Settling down is highly overrated.’

  ‘Be careful who you settle down with next time.’

  She squeezed his pleasingly hard bicep. ‘Haven’t you been listening, monsieur? There won’t be a next time.’

  ‘How can you say so? There’ll be some good solid guy searching the world for you even now.’

  She felt a sharp pang. He wasn’t thinking of himself in that regard, then. She said rather tartly, ‘Tsk, tsk. Poor him. He can wash his own socks and cook his own dinners. From now on I intend to be a woman of affairs, living for the good times.’

  Luc appraised her face. She was smiling, but there were shadows in her eyes. As on that night in Paddington, that impulse seized him. That desire to drive away those shadows and wipe the darkness from her life.

  He’d have laughed at himself if it hadn’t been for a flash of his return to his hotel that night. Blindly negotiating the city streets, scored with longing and regret. Guilt. One of the most rugged journeys of his life.

  At the time he’d burned to snatch her out of harm’s way. But, of course, the cold light of morning had reminded him of his reasons to board the plane, Rémy’s theft from the company being foremost.

  He frowned. ‘Was it—so bad?’

  She glanced quickly at him. ‘Not at first. But—gradually. As the gloss wore off. I think you’ve guessed …’ She dropped her eyes. ‘He wasn’t always—very nice.’

  ‘He was—violent?’

  There was a tiny tremor at the corner of her mouth, and he felt something inside him tighten.

  ‘Not with his fists, no, except that one time at the end when he was desperate to find his passport. He was just cruel—in little careless ways. Things he said. About me, about Neil. Sometimes he’d touch me, pull my hair in a joke, though always a little bit too hard. Not like a person who loved you.’

  Luc lay frowning, his pulse beating hard with the increase in his blood pressure. His fists had bunched involuntarily. It was a good thing Rémy was where he was now, or he’d have felt this fierce need to go after him and teach him something about civility and decency. Not that more violence would ever be the answer.

  He glanced at her downcast face. ‘I had heard—Rémy’s papa wasn’t very kind. There were rumours in the family …’

  ‘I know. Emilie mentioned it once. But I never expected—that.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Perhaps unlucky Rémy had been poorly conditioned as a child, but … Luc burned to think of a man treating any woman this way. To enjoy hurting Shari … How could the guy have? Examining the fragile lines of her face, he guessed there was more she could have told. Far more.

  Caution sounded a warning note in his brain. Perhaps it was better he didn’t know those things. His rational mind told him the more a man learned about a woman, the more he saw into her, the deeper he sank into the emotional quicksand. Already his responses to her were out of all proportion. Way out. Just one morning with her and he was dangerously close to relaxing his guard completely.

  Had he forgotten where it could all end?

  Shari felt a tension in the lengthening silence. Maybe she’d said too much. She could almost hear his brain analysing the evidence, weighing it all up.

  ‘Anyway, enough about my little case,’ she said lightly. ‘Everyone’s break-up is painful, is it not? C’est la vie, hey, monsieur?’ With a rueful smile she reached up and rubbed her knuckle over his cheek. ‘Haven’t we all loved and lost?’

  His expression lightened almost at once. ‘You are right. My last lover preferred a famous movie star to me. Can you imagine?’ He made a comical face, and she joined him in a laugh.

  As the room grew silent again she wondered if there was a certain brooding flavour to the atmosphere. ‘She must be insane,’ she murmured.

  He grimaced, then his face lightened to a smile. ‘I thought of you every day, after we parted.’

  ‘About the bruise?’

  He frowned. ‘Not that. About you. How beautiful you are. How—original.’ She hardly believed it. Even so, her mouse heart thrilled to its little rodent core. ‘Every hour … of every day.’

  ‘And I thought of you every day. I wanted to murder you. I wanted to make you sorry. I wanted to put my hands around your strong, beautiful neck and …’

  A flame lit his dark eyes. ‘Come here.’ He reached for her. He whispered the words against her mouth. ‘I was sorry. I am sorry. Now I want you to
forget—everything.’

  This time his passion was darker, more fervent, more tender. A fierce and ardent light glowed in his eyes as he rocked her, filled her and pleasured her until she was blazing with light and higher than the moon.

  And she did forget. She forgot everything in existence except the world of his arms, his passionate mouth, his beautiful, hard, thrusting body, the fierce heat in his eyes.

  While Paris ticked over outside and the day drew on, their lips grew raw with kissing, their bodies sated. With exhaustion in view, Luc dragged up the sheet to cover them. Shari lay face to face with him, languorous eyes to eyes.

  Gently, he pushed her hair from her face. ‘Two days is too short. You should stay longer.’

  ‘What for?’ She traced the outline of his mouth with her finger.

  ‘For this.’

  Her heart skipped a heavy beat. What was this? This mad, uncontrollable need to hold him to her and never let him go. When had she ever known this intense mutual tenderness and passion? She wanted to run outside and shout it to the world. Luc Valentin wanted her. He was asking her to stay in Paris. In his apartment.

  She said carefully, ‘I only have my hotel room for the three nights. They mightn’t be able to let me keep it longer.’ She held her breath.

  ‘Bien sûr, stay here.’

  ‘Here?’ A pang of disappointment, so intense it was scary, cut through her. She dragged up an empty laugh while inwardly she cringed. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

  Oh, how she’d misinterpreted.

  ‘I can’t tempt you? A week at the Ritz? You can do your sightseeing while I’m at work, then in the evenings … More sightseeing.’ He lifted his brows suggestively.

  She concealed her gaze from him. ‘You can tempt me to some more of those scrambled eggs. I’m hungry enough to eat everything in this room.’ What a fool she must be. What a needy, susceptible fool. A few sweet words and she was ready to believe anything.

  Imagine if she did stay the week. In no time she’d be dreaming of a future. Deluding herself, listening for clues of his intentions. Laying herself open to disappointment.

  Hello, heartbreak, her old BFF.

  She showered with him while waiting for the food, then, wrapped in a peach towelling bathrobe, shared the feast Luc had ordered.

  ‘I’ll have to put some clothes on soon,’ he said, sighing. ‘We’ll need more protection if I am to keep you happy. Mustn’t risk anything going wrong.’

  She stared down at her scramble. A paralysing thought surfaced in her mind. Perhaps it had always been there, just below her consciousness. Since the boathouse. Since the PMT that hadn’t eventuated into anything. The nausea on the plane. No, there’d been more even before that.

  With too much to think about—Luc, Rémy, Emilie, the twins, booking her journey, the dread and excitement at seeing Luc again—she’d allowed her body no room in her thoughts.

  Too frightening to acknowledge, too catastrophic, the vague and extreme possibility crystallised in her brain with ruthless digital clarity.

  ‘No,’ she said hollowly. ‘It would be awful if anything went wrong.’

  Her heart plunged in freefall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LUC was on the move early, needing to attend to his office. Shari stayed in bed, waving away any suggestion of breakfast. ‘I want to sleep a little more,’ she said weakly from her pillow, knowing what would happen if she tried to sit up.

  ‘Are you sure? Not even some chocolat?’

  She only just repressed a shudder.

  ‘Ah … if you are still wishing to visit the d’Orsay, I could collect you here at eleven.’

  ‘Oh, right. The d’Orsay.’ Though at that exact moment, pictures were not the first thing on her mind. ‘Oh, so you—want to come too?’

  His eyes veiled and he said carelessly, ‘Unless you prefer to be alone when you look at pictures.’

  She hated to hurt his feelings. ‘No, no, not at all. I’d love you to come.’ She should be able to fix herself up before then, one way or another. ‘How about I meet you there? I’ll enjoy finding my own way.’

  He looked more closely at her, his brows drawing together. ‘Are you feeling quite well?’

  ‘Oh, heck yeah. Just tired. What would you expect?’ She conjured up a grin.

  ‘Très bon.’ Smiling, he wrote down his mobile number for her, dropped a kiss on her forehead and left.

  The second the door closed behind him, Shari dragged herself up and lunged for the bathroom. There was another ghastly attack, though she seemed to deal with it more briskly this time. Maybe she’d even get used to it. Panting, she screwed up her face. How fun to be a woman. The likely diagnosis loomed with a hopeless inevitability.

  After showering and washing her hair, she felt slightly more human, if no braver. She dressed and took the lift down to the lobby.

  The concierge directed her to a nearby pharmacy. Outside, in cruel mockery of her situation, the sun was daring to shine weakly, the sky having the crass insensitivity to glow with a pale, hopeful blue.

  With a pregnancy testing kit burning a hole in her bag, Shari hurried back to the hotel and requested a taxi. Her own room at the Louvre felt more the place to face the moment of truth.

  An hour later she sat on the smooth coverlet of her bed, hot and cold by turns. An initial bout of sheer panic and desperation had given way to something like bleak acceptance, though her brain was in a jumble. Did she want to be pregnant? Without a relationship to depend on?

  Of course not. She couldn’t do it. She was in no position to. Her mother had been left to raise her on her own, and look how hard their life had been. Never two cents to scrape together. Shoes that wore through the soles before they were replaced. Her mother working two jobs. If Neil hadn’t been there as a support she didn’t know how they’d have held together.

  She supposed she’d always assumed she would have a child some day, but not until she had the man. Never, never without the man. She just didn’t have that sort of courage and she was hardly in any financial position, with her career still in its shaky infancy.

  One book published, and a tiny little advance for the next?

  Another attack of panic gripped her as her conscience chimed in to taunt her. Too late, Shari. A child has started now. Your …

  She broke out in a sweat. She needed to think. Focus on immediate practicalities. Like how to inform Luc.

  Oh, God.

  Whether to inform him.

  A man who invited a woman to stay for a week—in a hotel—wasn’t contemplating an ongoing relationship. She doubted if even his offer of the Ritz would stand once she told him. Everything would be over. He’d get rid of her fast.

  Nothing like the prospect of a responsibility to cool a man’s ardour.

  Although … Although … Try to think straight, Shari. Luc was a man of the world. He would be sophisticated about it. Suggest the logical solution. Surely that would be for the best.

  If only she hadn’t been so ignorant about France. Knowing Rémy and Emilie had given her some insights, but Rémy was hardly likely to have been typical of Frenchmen.

  Surely the French were very religious, Notre Dame de Paris and all that. If she told Luc, maybe he would insist she go through with it.

  And what? Leave her stuck with a child and send her money every month?

  The alternative was no less confronting. Her thoughts skittered towards movie images of the clinic waiting room and shied away again.

  If only she had a friend she could talk to, right here, right now—Neil. If only she had her brother. He was on her side, no matter what, and at least in Australia she knew the rules. With such huge scary decisions to make, a strange country was not the place to be.

  She considered phoning Em, but what was the point? She knew what Em would say. Anyway, Australia would be asleep now.

  Whatever, she’d better be on that plane tomorrow.

  Luc arrived at the Musée d’Orsay a few minutes before the appoin
ted time. He strolled about before the entrance, enjoying the brisk air, avoiding tour groups and keeping his eye on the taxis that drew up to disgorge visitors.

  He felt no concern about taking another day away from the office. Zut, he might even take a few more.

  He glanced at his watch. A minute or two past the hour. Then some extra-sensory instinct alerted him and he glanced up. That dizzying swoosh as the breath caught in his lungs. She was on foot, strolling from the direction of the Pont Royal that crossed the river from the Tuileries.

  She looked as casual and unFrench as any of the tourists queuing up for entry to the museum, wearing a trench over jeans and sneakers. Scarf carelessly knotted around her neck, her blonde hair rippling free. When she drew near a smile touched her mouth, fleetingly, then she grew serious again.

  He narrowed his eyes. How pale she seemed.

  When he kissed her, her cheeks felt cold against his lips. He slipped his hands inside her trench and drew her close, inhaling the sweet fragrance that enveloped her from head to toe. Desire quickened his blood. His mouth watered with the yearning to kiss her properly.

  ‘Are you tired from walking? Or did I wear you out?’

  Drawing back after a few blood-stirring seconds, her heart still thumping, Shari met his warmly sensual gaze. Like her, he’d changed clothes. He was clean-shaven and sexy in dark trousers and a black polo-neck with a dark brown leather jacket.

  That electric current was tugging her, making her want him. Astonishing she could still feel that way when her tender places were in need of some respite from the action. And with this … How could she even want to feel like this now?

  Madly though, like an addict, she did.

  ‘It wasn’t that far. I love to walk.’ She showed him the map given her by the concierge at the Hôtel du Louvre. ‘See? I wanted to see as much as I could before I fly away.’ And maybe the exercise would do her good.

  ‘But you aren’t flying yet. You’re staying a week. Two weeks.’