Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. Fiona McArthur
their own ways to be prime examples of that. His father had seen him as nothing but a threat to his own marriage, and had rejected him outright because of it.
Yet Alana was making him question the very bedrock on which he’d built his life. His sluggish brain finally kicked into gear: attraction. That had to be it. A rare form of lust. He just hadn’t met a woman who’d taken possession of his body and mind before, that was all. That had to be all. OK, so she wasn’t into anything permanent—well, neither was he. He just wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of the ultimatum, that was all. He relaxed. Their affair certainly wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.
‘You know we’re just concerned, love.’
‘I know, Mam, I know.’ Alana sank into her couch, still wearing her coat.
‘He seems like a very nice man. He’s awfully important, isn’t he?’
Alana bit back a rueful smile. ‘Nice’ hardly did him justice. ‘Em, yes, he’s quite important. But, Mother, don’t go getting any ideas, now. It’s nothing special.’ Liar.
Her mother trilled a laugh down the phone. ‘I might not quite understand these new relationships, but, love, I know how hard it was for you when Ryan died. It’s OK to move on now, it’s been long enough. No one would expect you to mourn for ever.’
Alana felt a wave of isolation come over her. Her parents had never really acknowledged the fact that she’d been divorcing Ryan; it had simply been too painful for them to admit that one of their children had failed in their marriage that way. So, when Ryan had died so tragically just before the divorce had come through, Alana had known that in some awful way, it had allowed her parents to believe in the myth of her fairy tale. Was it any wonder she hadn’t been able to confide in them?
After a few more words they finished the conversation, and Alana was relieved that her mother hadn’t mentioned Pascal again. She shook her head and then resolutely turned off her phone before she could get another acerbic call from her sister, Ailish, who would no doubt have seen the same gossip rags as her mother. She and Pascal were all over the press; the reporters had been waiting at Dublin airport. She knew she’d been naïve to think for a second that perhaps people wouldn’t be interested.
Why did she have to go and meet someone who made her feel alive again, someone she couldn’t resist? Someone in the public eye on a level that made Ryan O’Connor seem as if he’d been in the Z-list celebrity pile? It was as if she’d had a list of things to avoid and had blithely ignored each and every one of them. Alana just hoped that she could look at Pascal one day soon and not feel that burning desire rip through her entire body like a life-sustaining necessity.
CHAPTER SIX
THREE heady, passion-filled weeks later, that day was eluding Alana spectacularly as she looked down from her position in the press box to the VIP area in Croke Park. Déjà vu washed over her as she caught Pascal’s eye and made a face before turning her attention back to the game between Ireland v England. Her heart was singing, her breath was coming fast, and her blood was zinging through her veins. She put her intermittent feelings of nausea down to that see-sawing feeling and tried to forget that she’d been compelled to buy an over-the-counter pregnancy test that morning on her way to work after Pascal had said goodbye to her from her own modestly sized double bed.
She wouldn’t think about her late period or the pregnancy test now. It couldn’t be possible. And yet, a small voice niggled, it could. But in the years of her marriage to Ryan, while they’d still been sleeping together, she hadn’t had one scare despite not having used contraception. It had been the source of some of their main problems, and, while Alana had got checked out and been told everything was fine, Ryan had refused, clearly unable to deal with the fear that it could be something on his side.
The match picked up in pace just then and Alana let it distract her. At the end, Pascal found her as the usual scramble started.
‘I’ve agreed to go on the post-match analysis panel to give my opinion on how I think the tournament is going to go. They’re doing it in the press centre here.’
‘OK,’ Alana said, feeling slightly breathless and hating herself for it. ‘I’ve some interviews lined up, and then I’ve got to head back to the studio, so I’ll see you later.’
He nodded and bent close to her ear for a moment. ‘I want to kiss you so thoroughly that you’re boneless in my arms, but I don’t think you’d thank me for that in front of the entire pressbox.’
Alana felt boneless already, and fought the rogue urge to let him do exactly that. She just shook her head swiftly, alternately disappointed and relieved when he stepped away with a cool look on his face.
His tall, powerful frame disappeared down through the seats, taking a little piece of her with him. She sighed. She was in so much trouble, and she was potentially in a whole lot more trouble too. The kind of trouble that Pascal Lévêque wouldn’t thank her for. And yet … She placed a hand on her belly. Right at that moment she thought that, if she was pregnant, it was something she’d always have for herself. A baby, a child.
Just then the cameraman signalled that they were ready to go with the first interview, and Alana gathered up her stuff and hurried down to the pitch.
By the time they were onto the last interview with one of the Ireland players, Alana was feeling exhausted. She glanced up and her stomach contracted painfully when she saw who it was—Eoin Donohoe, one of her late husband’s partners in crime. He was a huge, intimidating presence, one of the biggest players on the team. Like Ryan, he, too, was married, but that hadn’t stopped his own hedonism. Waves of old mutual antipathy flowed between them as Alana prepared to ask the questions. Eoin smiled at her, but it held a nasty edge which she ignored.
They were almost done with the live interview when Eoin said quietly, ‘So, we see that you’re moving on with your life. Poor Ryan’s barely cold in the grave.’
The air went very still around them. Alana fancied she could hear a pin drop. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Everyone knew you couldn’t wait to get rid of him and suck him dry so you could move on, but you’ve got the best of both worlds now, don’t you? You’ve got all of Ryan’s money, and now you’ve got one of the richest men in the world eating out of your—’
‘I beg your pardon, Eoin,’ she cut in quickly, having no doubt he’d not stop at saying something unbelievably crude. ‘My husband has been dead for a year and a half, and it’s no business of yours and never has been what I do with my personal life.’ The vitriol in Eoin’s eyes made Alana quail inside, but something else was starting to rise up, too, something she’d held down for a long, long time—the truth.
Eoin continued with ugly menace in his voice and face. ‘Except that it’s your fault he died, your fault the Irish team never recovered from Ryan’s death. If you hadn’t thrown him out when he was so vulnerable—’
It came up from somewhere deep and reflexive. Alana laughed. She actually laughed. And it felt so good that she kept laughing. She knew it was verging on hysteria, but the truth had risen so far now that she couldn’t help it coming out. She’d had enough of being the scapegoat for Ryan O’Connor.
She stepped forward and pushed a finger into Eoin’s massive chest, emboldened by the fact that he looked distinctly nervous now at her reaction.
‘Let’s get a few things straight here and now, shall we?’ She didn’t wait for an answer; everything was forgotten as she was borne aloft on a wave of something like mad euphoria.
‘My husband was a lying, cheating, womanising, gambling, pathetic excuse of a man. And I’m not the only one who knew it. My only sin was that I helped to perpetuate the myth, that I helped the world to see and believe in Saint Ryan. He made my life a misery. And you were part of that. I know all about you, too, Eoin Donohoe; don’t you think people or even your wife would like to hear about your drunken, whoring binges in—’
‘Shut