Escape For Mother's Day. Fiona McArthur
creaking under his weight.
‘I think I’ve just proven that you do want me. And I want you. Badly.’
In a shocking move he took her hand and brought it down to where she could feel his agony for herself. Hectic colour flooded her cheeks.
‘There’s something rare and powerful between us, Alana, and I won’t let you shut me out just because you’re scared.’
She snatched her hand back from where the hard evidence of his arousal was threatening to overheat her brain again. ‘I am not scared.’ Liar. ‘I just don’t want this. I really don’t want this.’
His stance was strong, legs planted wide, face implacable. ‘It’s already happening. We can’t go back now. You could have sent back the flowers, or thrown them out.’ He flung out a hand. ‘But you didn’t. You could have refused to let me come into your house tonight, but you didn’t.’
Humiliation coursed through her. He was right. She’d put up absolutely no fight whatsoever. What was she doing? Had she learnt nothing?
‘You’re covering the match in Italy next weekend in Stadio Flaminio?’
His abrupt change of subject caught her unawares. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘I have an apartment in Rome. Come over on Friday night and stay with me for the weekend. I have to go to the match, too, and my bank is sponsoring a charity ball on Saturday night—you could come with me.’
Alana automatically shook her head and quailed slightly under the harsh light in his eyes.
‘My flight on Saturday morning is booked already. I’m going with colleagues. And I’m due back on Sunday morning. It’s all organised.’
‘And do you always do what you’re told?’ he asked softly, softly enough to disarm her for a second. It made a poignant memory rise up. She hadn’t always been so conventional, so careful to stick to the rules. There had been a time when she’d been very much a free spirit. That was how she’d met Ryan; she’d fallen for the passionate free spirit she’d seen in him. But she’d had it all wrong. His passion had never been for her or even life. It had been for money, fame and adulation. And then he’d slowly killed any such impulse in her, reducing her to a shadow of her former self.
Alana looked up. Caught between two worlds and painful memories, she found herself instinctively clinging on to something in Pascal’s eyes.
‘I will have my plane at your disposal.’
‘But that’s crazy.’
He shushed her. ‘At your disposal. It will be at Dublin airport on Friday evening, ready to take you to Rome to meet me. I would like you to use it, Alana. I would like you to stay with me. I won’t force you into anything you’re not comfortable with. Or ready for.’
She would have laughed, but the intensity in his face stopped her. He was holding out a card. She took it warily.
‘Those are all my numbers, and my assistant’s numbers. If you’re going to come on Friday, just call her and give her your passport details and she’ll give you all the information and arrange for a pick-up to deliver you to the plane.’
To deliver her to him like a gift-wrapped parcel.
Everything in Alana rebelled at the thought of being so easy, so compliant. But another part of her was beating hard at the thought of how easy it would be to just … do this. Had she really envisaged living her entire life celibate? While she knew well that Pascal took women for just a finite amount of time, perhaps that was what she needed—a no-strings affair. He was already smashing the awful, soul-destroying belief that somehow she’d been frigid. But then, if Pascal discovered the extent of her lack of experience, would he be turned off? Doubts crowded her mind again. How could she even be seriously contemplating this?
And now he really was leaving, opening the small hall door, ducking his head to go out through the front door.
She forced her stricken limbs to move, and followed him. When he turned round, she was on her step. Before she could move, he’d pulled her into him and pressed his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue between her lips, making her heart beat fast and her blood turn to treacle in seconds. She could already feel herself melting. And then he pulled away and set her back.
‘See?’ was all he said, was all he had to say. He backed away and then turned to walk down the square. As if by magic a sleek, dark car pulled up at the bottom of the square and then he was getting into the back and was gone. Alana’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her emotions and hormones in chaotic turmoil. Every carefully erected piece of defence was crashing and burning. There was no way she would take him up on his offer. No way.
Those very words came back to mock Alana as she sat in the back of a very familiar, luxurious Lexus which was speeding through the usual tangled Dublin Friday-night rush hour like a hot knife through butter, almost as if Pascal had decreed it. Not even the traffic was giving her a chance to stop and think, to change her mind. Her small weekend-bag was in the boot. And she couldn’t even reassure herself that it had been a last-minute decision; she’d packed her bag last night as if on autopilot, as if somehow it hadn’t really been her doing it.
And then she’d brought it to work that morning, and had coolly informed her boss that she’d made alternative arrangements for getting to Rome. And then she’d rung Pascal’s assistant, and told her that she’d be on the plane that evening. His assistant had been brisk and efficient, ringing back within ten minutes with the details of who would be picking her up, leaving her no time to think about backing out.
And now here she was.
On the way to becoming Pascal Lévêque’s newest lover.
And her only reaction was one of intense anticipation. She’d finally had to give into it. She’d vacillated each torturous day that week, from vowing absolutely that she would do no such thing, to staring into space, remembering what it had been like to have him kiss her, and wanting him with a hunger that shocked her.
He’d called to speak to her every evening, too, having made sure to take her number, but had never mentioned Rome. He’d ask her about her day, and tell her a little about his. He was a master tactician, slowly but surely wearing down her defences. She’d found herself looking forward to speaking to him. It was when she’d woken in the middle of the previous night, to find herself in tangled sheets damp with sweat after an intensely erotic dream, that she’d got up and packed. It was only after she’d done that, she’d been able to go back to sleep.
Another dark, sleek car with tinted windows was waiting on the tarmac at the airport in Rome. She’d seen it out of the window as they’d landed. Now she took a deep breath, her case in a white-knuckle grip as the air steward waited for the door to open. Alana straightened her short jacket over her dress. She hadn’t changed from her work clothes, her armour. A black pinafore dress, complete with shirt and tie, stockings and high-heeled shoes.
The clunking noise of the steps being wheeled to the aircraft made her jump, and she smiled nervously at the steward, wondering in a fleeting, scary moment how many women he’d escorted to meet Pascal like this. All of a sudden she wanted to go, leave. She’d made a huge mistake.
But then the door opened and there was nowhere to go but forward.
And there he was. It was too late to turn back now.
It was dark and slightly chilly as she walked down the steps. Pascal was waiting at the bottom, dressed casually in jeans, looking relaxed, vibrant and beautiful. He didn’t move to touch her, and he didn’t look triumphant. And she was grateful, because if he had she might have scuttled back up the steps and ordered the pilot to take her back home.
‘Here, let me.’ He took her case and the driver transferred it to the boot of the car. Pascal indicated for her to get in. And then he shut the door and walked round to the other side. The door closed and they were moving.
Enclosed