A Vow To Secure His Legacy. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
and vanilla sugar as an aphrodisiac?
His tastes had changed. She was completely different from Sandrine and all the women since her. Yet sexual hunger honed his senses to a keen edge. He searched out the nearest exit, the part of his brain that was pure hunter planning how to cut her from the crowd when the time was ripe.
‘I’d appreciate it if you could.’ Her words interrupted his thoughts, or maybe it was that excited smile making her face glow. ‘I should have researched it earlier but this trip was on the spur of the moment. Can you recommend a company I could contact?’
It took longer than it should have to remember what they were talking about. ‘Better than that. A friend runs a balloon company outside Paris. We used to make balloon treks together.’
‘Really?’ Her eyes widened and there again was that trick of the light, for they seemed almost pure green now. How would they look when ecstasy took her? The tension in his lower body ratcheted up too many notches for comfort. ‘You’ve been ballooning? Tell me all about it. Please?’
She clutched his arm and that shimmer of sensation rippled up it.
Over the next twenty minutes she peppered him with questions. Not the usual What’s it like up there? and Aren’t you afraid of falling? but everything from safety procedures to the amount of fuel required, from measuring height to landing procedure. All the while her expression kept shifting. He didn’t know whether he preferred her serious, poutingly curious or dreamy-eyed excited.
She was enchanting. Refreshingly straightforward, yet complex and intriguing. And passionate.
He watched her lips as she spoke and desire exploded.
How long since he’d felt like this?
How long since he’d met a woman fascinated by him and his interest in adventure rather than money, social status or his reputation as a lover?
Plus she was passing through. She’d have no aspirations to tie him down.
Imogen was the perfect short-term diversion.
THE LIGHTS DIMMED and at the far end of the room a band struck up. The swell of the bass was incongruous in this ornate setting, but no one seemed surprised, even when beams of purple, blue and white light shot across the crowd.
A spotlight caught Imogen’s eyes and she flinched, moving closer to Thierry. Instantly, his arm curved protectively around her. She liked that too much, but she had no desire to pull away. Not when every nerve screamed at her to lean into him.
His arm was hard and reassuring as the band’s volume rose to a pounding beat. Imogen relished the unfamiliar thrill of being close to all that imposing masculinity. For, despite his perfectly tailored suit, there was no disguising that Thierry was all hard-muscled man.
His hands were a giveaway too. Neat, clean nails, but there were tiny, pale scars across his tanned skin, hinting he did more than wield a pen.
Imogen wondered how they’d feel on her bare flesh.
He said something she didn’t hear over a crescendo of music. At the same time the light show became more frenetic, a staccato pulse in time with the drums. Imogen felt it all swirl and coalesce like a living thing. Light stabbed her eyes.
Not now. Please not now!
Just a little more time. Was that too much to ask?
Her stomach cramped and her breathing jammed. She blinked. It wasn’t the light from the stage blinding her, it was the white-hot knife jabbing inside her skull. Her vision blurred, pain sawing through her.
‘Imogen?’ That arm at her back tightened. She caught a drift of something in her nostrils, some essence that reminded her of the outdoors, before the metallic taste of pain obliterated everything. Sheer willpower kept her on her feet, knees desperately locked.
‘I...’ It came out as a whisper. She tried again. ‘I’d like to leave.’
‘Of course.’ He took the glass from her unresisting hand. ‘This way.’ He turned her towards the exit but she stumbled, her legs not obeying.
Music shuddered through her, a screaming beat, and in her head the jab, jab, jab of that unseen knife.
Warmth engulfed her and it took a moment to realise it was from Thierry’s powerful body as he wrapped his arm around her waist and half carried her from the room.
Imagine what he could do with two arms.
And those hands. You’ve always had a thing for great hands.
That was her last coherent thought till they were in the peace of an anteroom. She couldn’t recall exactly how he’d got her there but the lean strength of his body made her feel anchored and safe, despite the lancing pain.
‘Imogen? What is it? Talk to me.’ His accent was more pronounced, slurring the words sexily. Even in her dazed state she heard his concern.
‘Headache. Sorry.’ She tilted her head up, trying to bring him into focus through slitted yes.
‘A migraine?’ Gently, he pulled her to him, resting her head on his shoulder and palming her hair in a rhythmic touch that amazingly seemed to make the pain recede a little.
She wanted never to move, just sink into his calm strength. The realisation she’d never be held like this again by anyone brought a sob rushing to her throat. She stifled it. Pity wouldn’t help.
‘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