‘She’s still working?’ Imogen glanced at her watch.
‘I usually keep much longer business hours than this.’ He’d cut them back when she’d been in Paris last time, working like a demon all day so he could have his evenings free for her. He stooped to pick up the reports he’d dropped and put them on the table. ‘Mademoiselle Janvier will still be at work, believe me.’
‘As long as I can pay you for the air fare.’
Thierry looked at her, standing proud in her high heels. This woman admitted she needed courage to face her last night in Paris and that she was short of cash, yet she refused to take charity when it would be so easy and reasonable.
His heart dipped and skidded to a halt, only to start up again in an uneven rhythm.
She was a wonder. He’d never known a woman like her. Except perhaps his grand-mère, whose petite size and exquisite manners hid a spine of steel.
Would he exhibit such courage in Imogen’s situation? It was one thing to risk his neck in some dangerous adventure, quite another to be stoic in the face of a steady, fatal decline. The thought of what she faced curdled his blood.
‘I’ll make sure you get the bill for any air fare.’ As if that was going to happen. ‘Now, if you’ll get me your passport, I’ll contact my PA.’
* * *
‘I don’t know which is better, the tarte tatin or the scenery.’ Imogen sat back, replete, looking from her empty plate to the beautiful, floodlit bridge they were about to pass under. A series of pale, carved stone heads stared sightlessly out from its side, intriguing her. ‘I knew the Eiffel Tower looked terrific lit up, and Notre Dame and all the other buildings, but these bridges are amazing.’
Silently she vowed to store the memory of this last night with Thierry to pull out and remember later, when her condition worsened and the shadows closed in.
‘So...’ Beside her Thierry lifted his glass and sipped. ‘It’s not the company you’re enjoying?’
When he looked at her that way, his eyes gleaming and that hint of a cleft grooving his cheek as he smiled, Imogen’s heart leapt. In the subtle light of the lanterns on deck he looked suavely sophisticated. Yet Imogen knew from experience that his rangy frame, which showed off a dinner jacket to perfection, was actually a symphony of lean, hard-packed muscle and bone. He might look indolent but the man beneath the sophisticated exterior had the body of an athlete, and such strength...
Desperately, she dragged her eyes away. Pregnancy, like illness, had no effect on her attraction to him. If anything her response was sharper, more urgent. Because she’d developed a craving for his love-making and, just as importantly, because he made her feel special.
‘Are you after a compliment?’ Imogen forced herself to smile, hiding her tumble of emotions. Desire, gratitude, piercing regret and that undercurrent of fear. Once she left him she’d face her future alone. She squared her shoulders. ‘It’s wonderful of you to make my last night in Paris so memorable. I can’t tell you how much it means.’
‘You already have.’ A casual gesture dismissed what he’d done as negligible. But Imogen was no fool. She’d been about to use the last of her available money to pay for a package tourist-trip. Instead, she’d found herself on a private luxury cruiser where they were the only guests, waited on by superb staff and eating one of the best meals of her life. The cost must have been exorbitant.
She leaned forward, reaching for Thierry’s arm, till she realised what she was doing and grabbed her water glass instead.
‘Don’t brush it off as nothing, Thierry. What you’ve done...’ To her horror she felt her throat thicken. ‘You should at least let me thank you.’
Over the rim of his glass, Thierry’s eyes locked with hers and a tingle of sensation shot through her, spreading to her breasts before arrowing to her womb. Imogen sucked in a stunned breath. Her body’s urgent response to him threatened to unravel her totally.
Even the knowledge her condition had apparently killed his desire for her couldn’t stop that throb of feminine wanting. She’d read his closed expression and understood he saw her as a victim, a figure of pity, not a desirable woman.
‘You want to thank me?’ He put his glass down and leaned close. Too close, but she couldn’t seem to pull back. ‘Good. Because there’s something I want you to do.’
‘There is?’ She couldn’t imagine what. Unless, of course, it was the DNA test to prove paternity. She’d heard there were risks involved with those during pregnancy but if it meant giving her child a secure future...