‘Sorry.’ She sucked air through clenched teeth as she straightened. ‘Enjoy the rest of the party. It’s been—’
‘Where are you staying?’ His voice was low, soothing.
‘Here. Three-hundred and five.’ She fumbled in her purse, dragging out her key card. All she had to do was get to her room.
Had he read her befuddled mind? One minute she stood on trembling legs, the next she was swept up in his embrace. She felt bone and muscle, the tickle of his breath on her face. She should have objected. Breathing through excruciating pain, she merely slumped against him, grateful that for once she didn’t have to manage alone.
This past year she’d had to be strong, for her mother and more recently for herself. Leaning against Thierry, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath his jacket, she felt a little of the tightness racking her body ease. Was it her imagination or did the pain pull back a fraction? She shut her eyes, focusing on his iron-hard arms beneath her, the comfort of his embrace.
Another first. Being swept off your feet by a man.
Warm fingers touched hers as he shifted his hold and took the card from her hand.
‘Here we are.’ His deep voice wrapped around her. ‘Not long now.’ A door snicked closed and soon she was lowered onto a mattress. Smoothly, without hesitation, his hands withdrew and Imogen knew a moment’s craziness when she had to bite back a plea that he not let her go. There’d been such comfort in being held.
Her eyes shot open and she winced, even in the soft glow from a single bedside lamp. Thierry towered above her, concern lining his brow.
‘What do you need? Painkillers? Water?’
Gingerly, she moved, the smallest of nods. ‘Water, please.’ While he got it she fumbled open her bedside drawer and took out her medication with a shaking hand.
‘Let me.’ He squatted, popped the tablet and handed it to her. Then he raised her head while she swallowed it and sipped the water, his touch sure but gentle. Stupidly, tears clung to her lashes. Tears for this stranger’s tenderness. Tears for the extravagant fantasy she’d dared harbour, of ending the night in Thierry’s arms, making love with this sexy, fascinating, gorgeous man.
Fantasy wasn’t for her. Her reality was too stark for that. She’d have to make do with scraping whatever small pleasures she could from life before it was too late.
Defeated, she slumped against the pillow, forcing herself to meet his concerned gaze.
‘You’re very kind. Thank you, Thierry. I can manage from here.’
* * *
Kind be damned. He looked into drowning eyes shimmering green and golden-brown and his belly twisted. This woman had hooked him with her vibrancy, humour and enthusiasm, not to mention her flagrant sexiness. Even her slight hesitancy over his name appealed ridiculously. Her vulnerability was a punch to the gut, and not just because he’d aimed to spend the night with her.
‘Shut your eyes and relax.’
‘I will.’
As soon as you leave. The unspoken words hung between them and who could blame her? He was a virtual stranger. Except he felt curiously like he’d known her half his life or, more correctly, had waited that long to meet her.
A frisson of warning ripped through him but he ignored it. She was no threat. With her tear-spiked lashes and too-pale face, she was the picture of vulnerability. There were shadows beneath her eyes too that he hadn’t seen before.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was husky, doing dangerous things to his body. Thierry had to remind himself it was from pain, not arousal.
He put the house phone to his ear, dialling room service. ‘Getting you peppermint tea. My grand-mère suffers from migraines and that helps.’
‘That’s kind but...’ Her words petered out as he ordered the tea then replaced the phone.
‘Just try it, okay? If it doesn’t work you can leave it.’ He straightened and stepped back, putting distance between them. ‘I’ll stay till it’s delivered so you don’t have to get up.’
She opened her mouth then shut it, surveying him with pain-clouded eyes. Again that stab to his gut. He frowned and turned towards the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder. ‘You’re safe with me, Imogen. I have no ulterior motives.’ Not now, at any rate. ‘Trust me. I was a Boy Scout, did I tell you?’
When he returned with a damp flannel, he caught the wry twist of her lips.
‘I’m to trust you because you were a Boy Scout?’ Her voice was pain-roughened but there was that note of almost-laughter he’d found so attractive earlier.