The waiter returned, and Thierry gestured for him to leave the bottle. Helping himself, he poured a double. His mouth twisted. He never drank this much. He preferred to keep his wits about him. But that hadn’t done much good lately. Maybe he’d find clarity this way. Something had to break this untenable bind he found himself in.
He’d lost count of his drinks when he heard a husky whisper beside him. ‘Is there enough for me to have a sip?’
He turned and for a second the edges of his vision blurred. But he had no trouble focusing on the woman beside him. Tall, slim, with cornflower-blue eyes and hair the colour of sunlight. Her mouth was wide and her expression aware. Exactly the sort of beautiful woman he’d always preferred. Given her height, he guessed she had long, lissom legs.
Thierry smiled and her pout of enquiry turned into a smile that would have melted the snow off Mont Blanc.
She put a glass on the bar, and he swiped up the cognac bottle, pouring her a measure without spilling a drop. He was congratulating himself on that feat when she leaned in to pick up her drink, pressing against him from breast to knee.
He felt the subtle stretch and arch of her body as she knocked back her drink, her breasts thrusting into his torso. Heat shot through him at that deliberate invitation.
She put her glass down and, holding his eyes, slowly licked her lips. Her bottom lip shimmered, and Thierry felt a pounding in his head—or was it his chest?—as she slid her arms around his neck.
‘How about a private party?’ she whispered, her breath tickling his throat.
Then she reached up, pressing her mouth to his, and he found his hands clamping convulsively around her waist.
CHAPTER NINE
THIERRY DROVE ROUND to the offices at the back of the château.
He wasn’t really in a fit state for work but there’d be crucial matters for his attention after five days away. Two property deals were nearing conclusion and he wanted an update. Plus there’d be the revised schedule for the new ski resort to check.
Besides, he wasn’t ready to face his wife.
Wife. That word had become real in ways he’d never imagined when he and Imogen had married in that swift civil ceremony.
A wife was more than a temporary responsibility, a woman to be cared for in her hour of need.
Imogen had ceased being a responsibility and had again become a woman—with all the complications that entailed. Not a woman for a quick liaison but a woman with whom his life was now inextricably entangled.
Because he’d followed his instinct and decided on marriage. He’d spent his life acting on instinct, even in business, and it rarely let him down.
His mouth set. There was always a first time.
He parked and switched off the ignition. His head beat like a drum, the pounding an insistent, punishing beat reminding him how foolish he’d been last night.
As if alcohol would solve his problems! Not even climbing, one of his favourite sports, had cleared his mind. Instead of enjoying the challenge of the sport, he’d been distracted by thoughts of Imogen and the disturbing emotions she stirred.
As for that debacle in the bar last night!
He leaned back against the headrest, shoving his hand through his hair.
Even drunk, he’d known what the blonde wanted. How could he not? He was the master of the short-term affair.
Too much cognac was a convenient excuse for the fact he’d smiled right back and offered her a drink. As if tangling with one sexy woman would solve the problems he had with another!
He couldn’t remember if he’d felt a sizzle of anticipation as she’d sidled up to him, or what, if anything, had gone through his brain. All he knew was, the moment she’d pressed her mouth to his, revulsion had knifed him. Revulsion at her touch and, more, at himself.
His hands hadn’t been gentle as he’d shoved her away. He had a suspicion she might even bear bruises from his touch, though last night she’d looked too shocked to register pain.
Thierry scrubbed a hand over his face. It had just been a kiss, a split second of a kiss at that, yet for the first time in his life he’d felt guilty about being with a woman.
Guilt and anger, and that sick swirl in his belly he’d like to believe was the result of too much alcohol. Instead, he suspected it was due to something else entirely.
Shoving the car door open, he swung out, letting it slam, and strode to the offices. He needed an afternoon concentrating on reports, plans and the delicate power play of property negotiations. Anything to take his mind off personal matters.