Imogen kept her smile in place as Saskia left, ignoring the trepidation that rose at being alone, adrift in this sea of beautiful people.
Stupid. This isn’t alone. Alone is discovering you’re dying and there’s no one left in the world who loves you enough to feel more than pity.
Imogen shoved aside the thought. She refused to retreat into self-pity. She was in Paris. She’d make the most of every moment of the next six weeks—Paris, Venice, London, even Reykjavik. She’d wring every drop of joy from each experience before she returned home to face the inevitable.
She swung around, her full-length skirt swishing around her legs, and refused to feel out of place because other women were in cocktail dresses. Isabelle’s dress was too wonderful not to wear.
‘Puis-je vous offrir du champagne?’ The deep, alluring voice sent heat straight to the pit of her stomach, as if she’d inadvertently taken a gulp of whisky.
French was a delicious language. But surely it had been designed for a voice like this? A voice that sent shivers of sensual pleasure across her skin.
She jerked her head around and then up.
Something she couldn’t identify slammed into her. Shock? Awareness? Recognition?
How had she not seen him before? He stood out from the crowd. Not just because of his height but because of his sheer presence. Her skin prickled as if she’d walked into a force field.
She met eyes the colour of rich coffee, dark and inviting, and her pulse pounded high in her throat as if her heart had dislodged and tried to escape. Deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners, fanning tiny lines in a tanned face. A man more at home outdoors than at a fashionable party?
Except his tall frame was relaxed, as if he wore a perfect dinner jacket every night to mingle with a who’s who of French society. His mouth curled up in a tantalising almost-smile that invited her to smile back. Was that why her lips tingled?
Dark hair, long enough to hint at tousled thickness. A determined chin. Strong cheekbones that made her think of princes, balls and half-forgotten nonsense.
Imogen swallowed, the muscles in her throat responding jerkily. She cleared her throat.
‘Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas français.’ It was one of her few textbook phrases.
‘You don’t speak French? Shall we try English?’ His voice was just as attractive when he spoke English with that sensuous blurring accent. Pleasure tickled Imogen’s backbone, and her stomach clenched.
‘How did you guess? Am I that obvious?’
‘Not at all.’ His gaze did a quick, comprehensive sweep from her head to her hem that ignited a slow burn deep inside. A burn that transferred to her cheeks as his eyes met hers and something passed between them, as tangible as the beat of her heart. ‘You are utterly delightful and feminine but not obvious.’
Imogen felt the corners of her mouth lift. Flirting with a Frenchman. There was one to cross off her bucket list. Back home she hadn’t been good at flirtation, but here it seemed she didn’t have to do anything at all.
‘Who are you?’ Funny the way dying helped you overcome a lifetime’s reserve. Once she’d have been too over-awed to speak to a man who looked so stunningly male. He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met and despite that aura of latent power he was definitely the most suave. Even that prominent nose looked perfect in his proud face. Just as well his eyes danced or he’d be too daunting.
‘My apologies.’ He inclined his head in a half-bow that was wholly European and totally charming. ‘My name is Thierry Girard.’
‘Thierry.’ She tried it on her tongue. It didn’t sound the same as when he said it. She couldn’t quite get the little breath of air after the T, but she liked it.
‘And you are?’ He stepped closer, his gaze intent. She caught a scent that made her think of mountains—of clear air and pine trees.
‘I’m Imogen Holgate.’
‘Imogen.’ He nodded. ‘A pretty name. It suits you.’
Pretty? She hadn’t been called that in ages. The last person to do so had been her mum, trying to persuade her into bright colours, saying she hid behind the dark suits she wore for work.
‘And now, Imogen, would you like some champagne?’ He lifted a glass.
‘I can get my own.’ She turned to look for a waiter.
‘But I brought it especially for you.’ She looked down and realised he was holding two glasses, not one. This stranger had singled her out in a room of elegant women and brought her champagne? For a moment she just stared. It was so different from her world, where she paid her way and never had to field compliments from men about anything other than her work.