Then he said something that threatened to undo her.
‘You’re not alone now, Imogen.’
He made no ridiculous promises to find a cure when there was none, to snatch her from the jaws of death. That would have meant nothing, just the bluster of someone unwilling to accept the inevitable.
Instead, his words pierced the shaky wall she’d built around her heart. They made her feel less desperate.
She opened her mouth to tell him how precious a gift he’d given her but found she couldn’t speak. She gulped down a knot of emotion.
She’d known this man a few short weeks and yet for the first time since she’d lost her mother—in fact since Isabelle had died—she felt something like whole.
‘You need to rest. You’re exhausted.’
It was true. Sleep had eluded her this week. As if on cue, a mighty yawn rose.
‘You’re right. I’d better get back to the hotel.’
For answer Thierry slid his arms beneath her and hoisted her up in one smooth movement as he stood. His darkening jaw was just centimetres away and beneath the hand she pressed to his chest came the steady thud of his heartbeat.
Safe, it seemed to say.
For once Imogen let herself ignore the tiny voice of reality that sneered nothing could keep her safe now. Instead, she let her head sink against his shoulder. Just for a moment it was nice to be cared for. It was a novelty she could get used to.
Except she wouldn’t have the chance to get used to it, would she?
He must have heard her hiccup of laughter.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’
‘Which is why you’re going to bed.’ He turned and carried her from the room. To her amazement they didn’t head towards the foyer but down a wide corridor.
‘Thierry? I need to get back to my hotel.’
He stopped. ‘Why? Have you got medicine there that you need?’
She shook her head.
‘Good. You can sleep here. I’ll lend you something to wear and bring you supper once you’re in bed.’
Imogen knew she should move, knew she couldn’t afford to get used to being cosseted. It would only make things more difficult later. But what woman would willingly give up the pleasure of being in Thierry’s powerful arms, even for a short time?
The beautiful bedroom with its high ceilings, elegant doors and honey-coloured wood flooring spoke of the elegance of another age, even if the en suite bathroom she glimpsed was all modern luxury. One quick survey told her this was a guest room. No sign of Thierry’s personal belongings. Nor could she imagine him choosing the delicate pale blue and cream bed linens for himself.
He lowered her onto a bed that her weary bones protested was just too comfortable to leave.
Would it be so wrong to stay the night? Independence warred with exhaustion as she sat, swaying.
‘Here. You can use this tonight.’ She hadn’t even noticed Thierry leave but he was entering the room again. He pressed something soft into her hands, and she looked down, seeing a black T-shirt that she knew would look fantastic clinging to his hard chest. Her pulse did the funny little jig that had become familiar during her time in Paris. He did that to her.
She looked up into burning dark eyes. Concern etched his face. She wanted to assure him everything would be okay, erase the pain that turned his mouth into a sombre line, but she couldn’t find any words to make this right.
Instead, she conjured a half-smile. ‘Thank you, Thierry.’ She paused, letting herself enjoy the sound of his name on her tongue. Soon she’d have no reason to use it, once she was back home. She shifted, forcing her heavy eyelids up, squaring her shoulders. ‘It’s thoughtful of you. I’d very much like to stay the night.’
Her hands tightened on the T-shirt. So what if a night of being cared for made the solitude she faced later harder to bear? She’d rather experience these past couple of hours with him, even if only in his apartment, not sharing his bed, than the emptiness of that soulless hotel room.
* * *
But it was more than a couple of hours. When the sun rose so did Imogen, staggering a little, groping along the wall as she made her way to the bathroom.
The headache was back. Amazingly, it was the first in weeks, but it clawed at her skull as if some giant bird of prey dug hot talons into her brain.
She was back in bed when the bedroom door opened. Thierry’s hair was damp and gleaming black. Tailored charcoal trousers clung to solid thighs and his crisp white shirt revealed a V of tanned flesh where the buttons hadn’t all been done up. Despite the miasma of pain, Imogen felt a twinge of pleasure at the sight of him. She regretted now that she had no photo of him. Taking holiday snaps to pore over later hadn’t occurred to her. She’d spent her time trying not to think about the future.