Thierry folded his arms over his chest. Made miserable by a woman. It didn’t seem possible. Never had it happened in all the years since Sandrine had rejected him and his volatile young heart had counted itself broken.
Since then he’d enjoyed women but never wanted or expected anything serious.
Naturally, that had changed with Imogen. She was his wife so they needed a secure, meaningful relationship. One based on respect.
That was what he’d offered her and still she refused to commit to staying.
What more could she want?
He spun around, his gaze driving unerringly through the office’s glass wall to his cousin Henri’s desk. There he was, his head bent towards Imogen’s.
Heat blasted Thierry’s gut as he watched the pair, so at ease, totally absorbed in the accounts Thierry personally found incredibly dull. But Imogen and Henri spoke the same language. The language of numbers.
When Imogen had complained she didn’t have enough to keep her busy—as if she needed to work when he could provide for her!—Thierry had suggested she assist with the accounts. It had been a masterstroke and a disaster. Imogen was happy with the opportunity to work as an accountant again, her smiles becoming more genuine and frequent, at least in the office. More than that, she’d proved a valuable asset, her skills obviously top notch.
But her happiness at work only made him realise how rarely she smiled with him. He missed those lit-from-within smiles, so incandescent they were contagious.
His eyes narrowed as he heard a laugh and watched Imogen and Henri share some joke.
Thierry wanted to stride out and yank her away. Insist she share the joke with him as once she would have.
Except it didn’t work like that. With him she was polite, friendly, as she was with Jeanne or his grandparents when they visited. But never was he treated to those delicious gurgles of pure joy that had entranced him when they’d met. Or those cheeky, teasing grins.
He missed that. Missed Imogen. It was as if the most vital part of her was locked somewhere he couldn’t reach.
Sometimes when they made love he felt he’d almost breached that gap, reached the woman locked behind her reserve. For, despite initial protests, Imogen hadn’t been able to deny the passion between them. They shared a bed and his one solace was that in his arms she went up in flames as surely as the propane that fuelled his balloon flights. She was mesmerising, her passion all he could ask for.
Yet afterwards a curious blankness replaced the smoky flare of rapture. She’d withdraw mentally. For the first time ever Thierry found himself wanting to dig deeper, even discuss her feelings!
She drove him crazy.
He wrapped a palm around the back of his neck. He was too close to the edge.
Thierry glared through the glass. Diable. He wasn’t jealous of his cousin, was he?
Impossible. Yet he found himself striding across the office, only to slam to a halt, his hand on the door.
Think, man! What are you going to do? Go out and drag her off to your bedroom?
The idea appealed, especially when he saw her smile at Henri as the younger man touched her hand then pointed to something on the screen. Waves of heat battered at Thierry, turning his belly into a churning morass.
Okay, he admitted it. He was jealous. He knew there was nothing between them except liking and professional admiration but that didn’t lessen his envy.
Thierry dropped the door handle as if it burned with an electric current. He took a step back.
What was happening to him?
He wasn’t interested in examining his feelings. He wanted action. But abducting his wife and ravishing her till she cried his name in rapture, while perfect in its own way, would leave him disgruntled when she withdrew again.
Sex wasn’t the answer. Not alone. He had to find another way to connect with Imogen.
* * *
‘Imogen.’ She stilled, her heart pattering as that deep voice turned her name into a caress.
Would she ever not respond to it?
Slowly, she turned, willing her breathing to steady as espresso-dark eyes snared hers and she tingled all over. It was hard, sometimes, to remember Thierry saw her as a convenient wife, not the love of his life. That heavy-lidded stare sizzled with a promise she’d almost swear held more than physical desire.
Except she was done with fantasy. She was back into self-protection mode, carefully weighing her options for the future. She owed her baby that.
‘Thierry.’ She stumbled a little over his name. Last time she’d said it had been just hours ago, in that big, luxurious bed of his, and she hadn’t said it: she’d screamed it in pleasure. ‘Did you need this report? We’re almost done.’ Casually, she glanced at Henri, hoping he’d take up the conversation.