CHAPTER EIGHT
IMOGEN SAT STRAIGHT in her seat, braced for bad news. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst, wasn’t that the adage? Right now she was hoping the doctor would confirm her child would be safe. The alternative...
A callused hand enclosed hers, long fingers gripping gently.
Startled, she looked around to Thierry beside her. He was watching the doctor pore over her scan results, yet he’d sensed her fear as if attuned to her.
He’d done that before, she remembered, the day his grandmother had arrived. His gentle touch on her cheek then had calmed her, made her feel he was on her side.
Imogen released a shivery breath, trying to find a place of calm amongst her whirling emotions.
Thierry’s touch was a two-edged sword. Unashamedly she clung to his hand, grateful for the reminder she wasn’t alone. Yet the poignancy of his touch lacerated something fragile inside. He hadn’t touched her willingly since that day with his grandmother in the garden. The night she’d gone to him, eager to show how much she needed him, he’d stood aloof.
The memory of his beautiful, big body, so still and unresponsive when she’d offered herself to him, gouged at far more than her self-respect. It felt as if she’d swallowed a razor blade that cut her every time she breathed. The pain of his rejection rivalled even her blinding headaches at their worst.
Had she really invested so much in this man?
Imogen looked away to the framed diplomas on the wall.
Thierry hadn’t even bothered to take his hands out of his pockets that night she’d kissed him! So much for rekindling the passion they’d shared. He’d stood there, enduring her touch, till finally he’d grabbed her and put her aside. No words could have made it clearer that for him the physical side of their relationship was dead.
She really had been a temporary fling.
‘Imogen?’ His low voice curled around her, beckoning, but she refused to turn. She had to hold herself together.
‘Madame Girard.’ At last the doctor spoke. Imogen squared her shoulders in preparation for the inevitable.
Yet, instead of the grave expression doctors usually reserved for delivering bad news, this man looked animated. Pleased. Her breath caught. Did that mean her baby would be okay? Involuntarily, her fingers clenched around Thierry’s.
‘You’re something of a puzzle, Madame Girard.’ The doctor shook his head slowly but there was no mistaking the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘I am?’ Her voice was a husk of sound.
‘Your symptoms fit a classic pattern and, combined with your family history...’ He spread his hands as if to say there was nothing he could do for her.
Her heart dived and she bit down a gasp of distress.
A chair scraped and Thierry roped a long arm around her shoulders. Warmth enveloped her, the woodsy scent of the outdoors and something more, something beyond mere physical comfort. She leaned into him. No matter that she could do this alone if she had to. She’d never been more grateful for company in her life, even if it came from the man who saw her solely as a form of duty.
‘Despite that, I’m pleased to tell you the headaches and vision problems aren’t what you think.’
‘Pardon?’
The doctor smiled, his eyes alight. ‘Contrary to expectations, you’re not suffering the same disease as your mother.’
The air rushed from her lungs as if from a punctured balloon. ‘I’m not?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, I can tell you there is no tumour, malignant or otherwise.’ His smile became a beam.
Dazed, Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘There was never a tumour, though it seems your general practitioner, like you, feared the worst.’ He spoke slowly, glancing again at the test results. ‘I’ve consulted with both your family doctor and my specialist colleague in Australia. The one you were supposed to see but didn’t.’
She didn’t miss the questioning inflection in his voice, or the tightening of Thierry’s grip on her shoulder.
‘There didn’t seem much point. I knew what he was going to say. I just...’ She looked up into surprisingly sympathetic grey eyes and found the words tumbling out. ‘I couldn’t bear facing the diagnosis so soon after losing my mother. I felt trapped.’ She hefted a deep breath into too-tight lungs. ‘I decided to get away, just for a while, before I had to face all that.’ She waved a hand at the reports on his desk. ‘But you’re saying it’s not a tumour? What is it, then?’