A Passionate Surrender. HELEN BIANCHIN
wardrobes. A deep-cushioned sofa and a chaise longue completed a room that was designed for comfort and pleasure.
Sensual pleasure.
A feathery sensation scudded the length of her spine, and she cursed beneath her breath as memories of what she’d shared with Luc in this room rose damnably to the surface.
Vivid, sexually electrifying, and shameless.
Dear heaven. How could she slip beneath those covers and pretend everything was the same?
It didn’t bear thinking about. Yet she had to face the situation.
But not tonight, she determined as she crossed to the upholstered stool at the foot of the bed, caught up her bag and retreated to another room, where she unpacked an oversized T-shirt, toiletries, then crossed to the adjoining en suite.
She should phone her father, then her sister to let them know she was home. Although if either opted to call, it would be to her cellphone, and there was time enough tomorrow to apprise them both of her return.
Now all she wanted to do was undress and slip into bed. Although there were too many thoughts chasing through her brain to promote an easy slide into sleep.
She was wrong. The events of the day, the flight, each took their toll, and combined with the effects of pregnancy ensured she was asleep within minutes of her head touching the pillow.
Ana woke slowly, drifting pleasantly towards consciousness, unaware for a few disoriented seconds of her whereabouts.
Then it all came flooding back…the flight, Sydney, Luc.
Her eyes widened as she recognised the master suite, the large bed…and the familiar dark-haired male head resting on the pillow beside her own.
How could she be here when last night…?
‘You were asleep.’ Luc’s voice was an indolent drawl, and her gaze became trapped in his for a few heart-stopping seconds, then he shifted, moving that powerful frame into a sitting position with fluid ease.
Ana closed her eyes, then opened them again. There was too much warm olive-toned flesh moulded into enviable shape by muscle and sinew.
The smattering of chest hair made her fingers itch to tangle there, and she longed to reach up and curl her hands round his nape and drag his mouth down to hers.
Except she did none of those things. Instead anger rose to simmer beneath the surface as she sought to inch away from him.
‘You have no right—’
‘Yes, I do.’ He lifted a hand and brushed back a swathe of hair from her cheek.
She scrambled to the side of the bed, only to have him reach out and halt her flight.
‘Let me go!’
‘No.’
She lashed out at him, and struggled wildly as he pulled her onto his lap. Not a good position, she discovered. She was too close, much too close. And the dictates of her brain were at variance with the demand of her senses.
The thought of succumbing was more than she could bear, and she stilled, aware that fighting him was a futile exercise.
‘Don’t.’ The single negative held a beseeching anguish. ‘Please.’
It was the heartfelt plea that got to him, and he caught her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting it to examine her features.
Her eyes were deep enough to drown in, their emotions stark with a vulnerability that twisted his gut, and his gaze narrowed at the fast-beating pulse drumming at the base of her throat.
Her mouth shook a little, and he watched as she sought control. But it was the shimmering moisture in her eyes, and the single escaping tear running in a slow rivulet down one cheek that tore a husky imprecation from his lips.
With incredible gentleness he smoothed the moisture with his thumb, then he lowered his head and trailed his mouth over her cheek.
He let the palm of one hand slip down her arm and settle against the curve of her waist.
Their child grew there, a tiny embryo that would succour and gain strength. Its existence touched him as nothing else could.
‘Come share my shower.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He couldn’t know just how much it cost her to refuse. Yet to slip back easily into the relationship they’d shared would indicate she condoned his use of emotional blackmail…something she hated him for. And Celine…dear heaven, she didn’t even want to go there!
She slid from his grasp, aware it was only because he let her, and she gathered fresh underwear and retreated into the en suite.
Her stomach felt as if it didn’t belong to her, and she pressed a hand to her navel in an attempt to soothe the disturbance.
Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed in tailored trousers, singlet top and jacket, she felt measurably better, and she caught up her shoulder bag and ran lightly down the stairs to the kitchen where Petros was preparing eggs Benedict and the smell of freshly brewed coffee was ambrosia.
‘Luc is in the dining-room. You will join him there.’ He spared her a warm smile. ‘I have made you tea.’
‘But I prefer—’
‘Tea. Caffeine is not recommended during pregnancy.’
Ana wrinkled her nose at him, feeling her spirits lighten a little. ‘Bossy, aren’t we?’ Hunger assailed her, and she took a slice of toast from the stacked rack Petros had just added to the breakfast trolley, nibbled on it, then filched a fresh strawberry and popped it into her mouth.
She curled both hands over the trolley handle. ‘Want me to take this through?’
‘Really, Ms Dimitriades,’ the man chastised with an aloofness that brought forth a smile. ‘Most definitely not.’
‘Don’t you think you could call me Ana?’ she cajoled, then added teasingly, ‘I’m almost young enough to be your daughter.’
He drew himself up to his full height. ‘You are the wife of my employer. I could not begin to be so familiar.’
A laugh bubbled up in her throat and escaped as a mischievous chuckle. ‘You call him Luc,’ she reminded, and met his level glance.
‘We have known each other a long time.’
‘So how many years do I have to wait before you accord me the honour of using my Christian name?’
‘Five years,’ he responded solemnly, skilfully transferring grilled bacon onto a heated platter and placing it on the trolley together with the eggs. ‘At least.’
‘In that case, I get to wheel the trolley.’
His mouth parted in silent protest, then he pursed his lips as he caught her cheeky grin, watching as she took care of the chore and leaving him to tidy the kitchen.
The informal dining-room was at the back of the house, overlooking the pool, and caught the morning sun.
Ana reached it in seconds and swept through the open door. ‘Breakfast…at your service.’
Luc was seated at the head of the table, the day’s newspaper spread out in front of him, a half-finished cup of coffee to one side.
His jacket hung over the back of his chair, on top of which lay his tie. A briefcase and laptop rested on the floor near by.
He looked up at the sound of her voice, cast the trolley a quizzical glance, then folded the newspaper.
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Feminine wiles and logical rationale.’ She shifted platters onto the table, added fresh coffee, tea, and toast, then she drew out a chair and sat down.
She poured herself tea, added milk, then