But she didn’t care. Red would give her energy and the bravado she needed. Besides, she’d always loved the colour, even though back home she would never consider it. It was so attention-grabbing. So not her.
She loved it. Her last night in Paris; she refused to spend it looking like some quaking little mouse.
* * *
Thierry looked up at the sound of footsteps. Not merely footsteps but the tap of high heels, if he was any judge, which he was. His lovers all wore heels. Except Imogen, he realised. She’d been just as likely to turn up wearing flats or tennis shoes, because she was as interested in hot-air ballooning and picnicking as she was in dancing and dining.
No tennis shoes now. His heart revved to a thundering roar as a vision in red appeared in the doorway. Voluptuous, glorious, sexy as hell. The colour was a perfect contrast to the creamy swell of her breasts above the low, square-cut neckline.
She’d left her hair down. It rippled in ebony silk waves around her shoulders.
Thierry’s groin tightened. Imogen only wore her hair loose in bed. That had been his secret pleasure, inhaling its indefinable sweet fragrance, rubbing it between his fingers, feeling its caress on his bare skin as they made love.
His gaze dropped to the hemline above her knees and her long, shapely legs. To scarlet stilettos.
His breath rushed out like air from a punctured balloon. Arousal vied with disbelief.
How could she look this way when she was dying? The word hung like a dark stain on his consciousness, tearing at his innards, making his gut writhe in denial.
All night and day he’d fought to come to grips with her news. Even now part of him rejected the prognosis as impossible. Not Imogen.
‘You look stunning.’ The words jerked out hoarsely.
She stopped, eyes rounding. ‘I do?’ Something that might have been pleasure flitted across her face. ‘Thank you. I needed something to give me courage for my last night in Paris. I wanted to look...’ she shrugged ‘...well.’
Instantly, guilt rose. Because he was busy lusting after a fatally ill woman. Because he couldn’t get up from the seat where he was working on a report for fear she’d see just how well he thought she looked. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, trying to reorient himself.
‘You look more than well. You look blooming.’ The red brought colour to her cheeks and the long sleep had lessened the shadows beneath her fine eyes. Savagely he squashed the temptation to stride across and haul her to him, to claim those lips he knew would be soft and inviting, to explore that glorious body.
Because she was dying. The word scourged his brain.
‘Sorry? I missed that.’ He knew she’d spoken but the rush of blood in his ears had deafened him.
‘I asked if you have wi-fi. I need to book my flight home.’ She lifted one hand and rubbed her bare arm, as if to counteract a chill. ‘I should argue about the fact you collected my luggage without permission. And I should move back to the hotel.’ She paused, turning towards the window. ‘But I don’t want to waste time. This will probably be my last night in France and I’ve got other things to do.’
‘Other things?’ Dressed like that? He shot to his feet, his papers sliding to the floor. ‘Like what?’ The way she looked, she’d have men clustered around her the moment she stepped out the door.
A tiny, self-conscious smile lit her face, and Thierry felt as if someone had reached in and grabbed his innards. How much longer would she be able to smile like that?
‘I was so busy when I was here last time, I never took one of those dinner cruises on the Seine, even though it was on my list of things to do.’
Was that a hint of a blush? Was she too thinking of all the things they’d done instead of cruising the river?
It was on the tip of Thierry’s tongue to say those cruises were crowded with tourists, and the loudspeaker commentary would detract from the ambience of the evening, but he firmed his lips. He wasn’t going to spoil it for her.
‘So, wi-fi?’ She moved farther into the room and Thierry had to force his gaze up to her face instead of on the undulating curves outlined in the tight red dress.
He dragged open his collar as heat rose. She looked so sultry and alluring it was hard to believe she carried a new life inside. Or that she was gravely ill.
Even his lawyer’s dire warnings about paternity tests wouldn’t stop him doing what he could for her. He’d been told he had no duty to her legally. But legalities weren’t the issue.
‘I can do better than that.’ He cleared his throat, conscious his voice sounded gruff. ‘I’ll have my PA make the arrangements if you bring me your passport. She can book a dinner cruise too.’