Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. Fiona McArthur
… not sure that I’m doing the right thing.’ She looked for a second as if she were gearing herself up for something, and then she said in a rush, ‘How many women have you had delivered to you by plane like that?’
Her honesty hit him between the eyes. He knew this was important. This could determine the weekend—them. He didn’t have to lie. ‘No one. I have travelled on that plane with women, but I’ve never sent it especially for someone before. Alana, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think this was right. Don’t you trust your own judgement?’
The minute he’d said the words he could feel her tense, could see her withdraw mentally and physically. What had he said?
She reached up and took his hand down. ‘That’s just the problem,’ she said with a sterile voice. ‘My track record when it comes to judgement leaves a lot to be desired.’
Her husband—she had to be referring to her marriage. It made him want to quiz her, ask her what she meant. But he wasn’t in the habit of wanting to know extraneous personal details of his lovers’ past experiences, and he rejected the desire now. Pascal wanted her attention back with him with an urgency that bordered on the painful. He found her hand and wound his fingers through hers, not letting her pull away.
‘Alana, this thing between us is too important to ignore. Trust that, if nothing else.’
She knew that it would have been the height of naïvety to assume that Pascal had never taken another lover on his plane. She gave up trying to pull her hand away and let it rest in his. She also gave up trying to avoid his eyes. They glowed with dark embers of sensual promise.
A hum of electricity flowed between them. He wasn’t exaggerating; she’d never ever thought anyone would make her feel this way. She’d once foolishly and romantically thought that this was the way she’d feel with her husband.
But she hadn’t.
And she’d blamed herself for that—but for the first time she could see more clearly that it had been just as much Ryan’s fault as her own.
Perhaps this was her chance to start living again, to stop closing herself off to the world in some kind of misplaced penance she felt she owed. Her husband had taken enough of her life and soul. It was time to take some back for herself.
‘We’re here.’
Alana’s hand tightened reflexively in Pascal’s. He didn’t rush her. He let her take a look outside the car. They were on a quiet street. Old stone steps led up to a foliage-covered walkway through which Alana could see a massive, ornate door.
When the driver had taken out her case and walked round to open her door, Pascal finally released her hand and she got out. The Rome night air was cool and fragrant. Pascal picked up her case and took her hand, leading her up the garden path; she wasn’t unaware of the metaphor. He let go of her to open the door. All was darkness when they walked in at first, but then Pascal flicked a switch nearby and lights came on, low and intimate. Alana gasped. It was stunning.
A huge, lofty high-ceilinged room with massive windows led in one direction into a large kitchen, and the other direction into a huge open-plan living area. It was all decorated in white, prints on the walls and dramatic cushions on the couches adding splashes of colour. Inexplicably, this heartened Alana. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she knew that if Pascal had shown her into some kind of sterile bachelor-pad all her misgivings would have returned with a vengeance.
‘Come; I’ll show you upstairs.’
Wordlessly, she followed him up a wide staircase to the side of the living area. Upstairs were huge windows. He showed her into a big bedroom. The feel of deep, luxurious carpet underfoot made her instinctively bend to take off her shoes. She saw him look and grimaced slightly, holding her shoes in her hands. ‘I hope you don’t mind. My feet are killing me.’
He shook his head. ‘Not at all.’ He put her case down at the bottom of the king-sized bed that was dressed in Egyptian cotton. ‘This is your room, Alana.’
He walked to the door and gestured across the hall to where she could see in through an open door to another dimly lit large room, dressed in more masculine tones. ‘That’s my room.’ He turned then and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Obviously I would prefer you to share my room with me, but it’ll be your move to make.’
Alana bit her lip. He couldn’t know how important it was to her that he wasn’t pushing her. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
He held out a hand. ‘Leave your things there. You must be hungry; I’ll prepare us something to eat downstairs.’
Alana shrugged off her jacket to lay it over the back of a chair, and felt the energy zip up her arm when she took his hand.
‘You can cook?’ she asked a little breathlessly as he led her out in her stockinged feet.
He glanced back with a smile. ‘I can just about manage to burn some pasta and tomato sauce. Are you hungry?’
Just then her stomach rumbled. She smiled too. ‘Starving.’
With a full stomach and a languorous feeling snaking through her bones, Alana walked around the downstairs living-area with a glass of wine in her hand, looking at Pascal’s prints and sculptures. She was transfixed by one photograph; something about it was very familiar. It was black and white, an old man’s face, gnarled and lined, very dark, even a hint of some other exotic lineage. His eyes were remarkable, deep set and black, holding such a wealth of emotion that Alana could feel it reach out and envelop her. There was everything in that expression: regret, pain, love, passion, disappointment, hope.
‘That’s my grandfather.’
She turned round. Pascal was a few feet behind her, looking at the photograph. She could see the resemblance now, except Pascal’s eyes were unreadable.
‘Did you take it?’
He shook his head. In an instant Pascal knew instinctively that Alana had seen the same things he saw whenever he looked at the picture. No one else had ever stood transfixed by it before. It made something feel weak in his chest. He avoided her eye, his voice gruff. ‘No; my talents lie solely in facts and figures. This was taken by an American photographer who was travelling around the south of France. After my grandfather died, I tracked him down and got a print.’
‘You must have been very close; you mentioned that you spent time with him.’
Pascal just nodded. She didn’t probe any more. She understood the need to keep things back. She knew he was watching her as she continued to walk around, taking sips of wine, feeling the surface of a smooth Roman bust beneath her fingers.
Every one of Pascal’s senses was pulled as taut as a bow string as he watched her hand smooth over the head of the bust, wanting her hand to be smoothing over him. He had to wonder if perhaps her air of vulnerability, her apparent lack of experience, was all an act, designed to entice, tease, seduce. She’d let her hair down, and it was slightly tousled from where she’d run her hands through it, but it wasn’t tousled enough for him yet.
She turned then, and he could see that her glass of wine was empty. He made as if to get the bottle and top her up, but she shook her head jerkily. She was going to make him wait; he knew it. She wasn’t ready. His desire, already at boiling point, would have to settle to a simmer for now.
Alana had turned with every intention of asking for some more wine, but she could already feel the effects. Desire hung between them, heavy and potent. Too much too soon. Pascal stood just feet away, but when he moved as if to give her some more she shook her head. She couldn’t do this now. She wasn’t ready, and she could see that he’d already read that in her expression before she’d known it herself. That disconcerted her. She wasn’t used to people intuiting her intentions.
‘You must be tired.’
She forced a smile. She was anything but. ‘I was up early. Would you mind if I went to bed?’ ‘Alone’ hung between