A Vow To Secure His Legacy. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
walls and duty, forcing himself to care about minutiae that held no intrinsic interest. Except those details had meant the difference between salvaging the family’s foundering business portfolio and losing it.
‘I haven’t decided. There are things I need to sort out here in Paris.’
But soon... A few months and he’d hand over the business to his cousin Henri and, more importantly, the managers Thierry had hand-picked. They’d guide Henri and maintain all Thierry had achieved, securing the Girard family fortune and leaving him free at last.
‘Think about it, Thierry.’ Her lips formed a glossy pout as she swayed close. ‘It would be very...agreeable.’
‘Of course I will. The idea is very tempting.’
But not enough, he realised with abrupt clarity, to drag him from Paris. These meetings would bring him closer to divesting himself of his burdens. That held far more allure than the prospect of sex with a svelte blonde.
Hell! He was turning into a cold-blooded corporate type. Since when had his libido taken second place to business?
Except his libido wasn’t involved. That was the shocking thing. At thirty-four Thierry was in his prime. He enjoyed sex and his success with women showed he had a talent, even a reputation, for it. Yet he felt nothing when this gorgeous woman invited him into her bed.
Hadn’t he known taking on the family business would destroy him? It was sucking the life out of him. It was...
His gaze locked on a figure on the far side of the room, and his thoughts blurred. His pulse accelerated and his chest expanded as he hefted a startled breath.
His companion murmured something and stretched up to kiss his cheek. Automatically, Thierry returned the salutation, responding to her farewell as she joined a group who’d just entered the hotel ballroom.
Instantly, his gaze swung back to the far side of the room. The woman who’d caught his eye stood poised, her weight on one foot, as if about to leave.
He was already pushing his way through the crowd when she straightened and drew back her shoulders. Delectable, creamy shoulders they were, completely bared by that strapless dress. The white material was lustrous in the light of the chandeliers, drawing a man’s eyes to the way it fitted her breasts and small waist like a glove before flaring in an ultra-feminine swirl to the floor.
Thierry swallowed, his throat dry despite the champagne he’d drunk. A familiar tightness in his groin assured him that his libido was alive and kicking after all. Yet he barely registered relief. He was too busy drinking her in.
In a room packed with little black dresses and sleek, glittery outfits, this woman stood out like grand cru from cheap table wine.
She turned her head, presenting him with an engaging profile, and Thierry realised she was speaking. He halted, surprised that his walk had lengthened to an urgent stride.
Her companion was a gamine-faced woman, pointing out people to the woman in white. The woman in white and scarlet, he amended, taking in the pattern of red flowers cascading around her as she moved. There was white and scarlet on her arms too. She wore long gloves to her elbows, reminding him of photos he’d seen of his grand-mère at balls and parties decades ago.
Thierry’s gut clenched as the woman lifted one gloved hand to her throat in a curiously nervous gesture. Who knew gloves could be erotic? But there was no mistaking the weighted feeling in his lower body. He imagined stripping the glove down her arm, centimetre by slow centimetre, kissing his way to her fingers before divesting her of that dress and starting on her body.
Why was she nervous? A shy woman wouldn’t wear such a glorious, blatantly sexy concoction.
Heat sparked. His gaze roved her dark, glossy hair swept up from a slim neck. She had full red lips, a retroussé nose and heart-shaped face. Curves that made him ache to touch.
She wasn’t just pretty; she was sexy on a level he couldn’t resist.
The old Thierry Girard wasn’t dead after all.
* * *
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ Saskia sounded doubtful.
Imogen smiled. ‘Of course not. I appreciate all you’ve done these past few days but I’m fine. I’ll drink champagne and meet interesting people and enjoy myself.’ If she said it enough she might stop being daunted by the glittering crowd long enough to believe it. ‘Now go.’ She made a shooing gesture, nodding towards the knot of fashion buyers Saskia had pointed out. ‘Make the most of this opportunity.’
‘Well, for half an hour. I’ll look for you then.’
Imogen blinked, overwhelmed anew by the kindness of her sister Isabelle’s best friend. Saskia had not only shown her where Izzy had worked and lived, but shared stories about their time together, filling the black well of Imogen’s grief with tales that had made Imogen smile for the first time in months.
Saskia had even presented her with the dresses Izzy had made for herself, eye-catching outfits Imogen would never have considered wearing. But here, in Paris, it felt right, a homage to her talented sister. Imogen smoothed her hand down the fabulous satin dress.
‘Don’t be silly. Go and mingle, Saskia. I don’t expect to see you again tonight.’ She smiled, making a fair attempt at Izzy’s bantering tone, even tilting her head to mimic her sister. ‘Since you snaffled me an invitation, I intend to make the most of my only society event. I don’t need you cramping my style.’
‘Isabelle said you weren’t good with lots of new people but obviously you’ve changed.’ Saskia’s lips twitched. ‘Okay. But join me if you want. I’ll be around.’
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