Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. Fiona McArthurЧитать онлайн книгу.
behind her. Another bunch of flowers. Slightly different, but as extravagant as yesterday’s. Her hands were sweating as she repeated the process of opening the envelope and taking out the card. This one read: ‘will …’
By the end of the week Alana sat at the wooden table in her sitting room and felt a little numb. The smell of flowers was overpowering in the tiny artisan-cottage. A vase sat in the centre of the table abundant with blooms. And also on the table in front of her, neatly lined up in a row, were the five cards that had accompanied a different bunch of flowers every single day of the week.
All together, they now made sense: ‘I will see you tonight’.
But of course she’d known what the full meaning of the cards was when she’d received the fifth one that morning. All day she’d experienced a fizzing in her veins and a sick churning in her belly. She’d vaguely thought of going to the cinema, or seeing if friends wanted to go out, anything to avoid being at home where she was sure he was going to call. An awful sense of inevitability washed over her. She wasn’t ready for this. She would just have to make him see that and send him on his way. But still … the gesture, the flowers, and his obvious intention to fly all the way back to Dublin just to see her, was nothing short of overwhelming.
Her phone rang shrilly in the silence and she jumped violently, her heart immediately hammering. Her mouth was dry. ‘Hello?’
‘What’s this about you and Pascal Lévêque?’
Alana sagged onto the arm of her sofa. ‘Ailish.’ Her oldest and bossiest sister was always guaranteed to raise her hackles. Twenty years separated them, and sometimes Ailish came across as a little overbearing to say the least. She meant well, though, which took the sting out of her harsh manner.
‘So? What’s going on? Apparently one of the world’s most eligible bachelors took you out for dinner last weekend.’
Tension held Alana’s body straight. ‘How did you hear about it?’
‘It was in the tabloids today.’
Alana groaned inwardly, wondering how she’d missed that. Someone at work must have leaked the story. God knew, enough people had heard him ask her. And it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to work out who the flowers had been from, either.
‘Look, I interviewed him and he took me for dinner, that’s all. Nothing is going on.’ The betraying vision of her house full to the roof with flowers made her wince.
Her sister harumphed down the phone. ‘Well, I just hope you’re not going to be gracing the tabloids every day with tales of sexual exploits with a Casanova like that. I mean, can you imagine if Mam and Dad saw that? It was bad enough having to defend you to practically the whole nation after you threw Ryan out—’
Alana stood up, her whole body quivering. The memory of her parents’ lined and worried faces was vivid. And her guilt. ‘Ailish, what I do and who I see is none of your business. Do I comment on your marriage to Tom?’
‘You wouldn’t need to,’ replied her sister waspishly. ‘We’re not the ones being discussed over morning coffee by the nation.’
Alana heard her doorbell ring and she automatically went to answer it. ‘Like I said, what I do is none of your business.’ Her sister’s ‘judge and jury’ act made anger throb through her veins, and she knew her voice was rising. She struggled for a minute with the habitually stiff lock, and tucked the phone between her neck and shoulder to use both hands.
‘I am a fully grown woman and I can see who I want, go where I want, and have sex with who I want whenever I please.’
The door finally opened. Her words hung on the cool evening air as she took in the devastatingly gorgeous sight of Pascal Lévêque just standing there, turning her inner-city enclave into something much more exotic. Her heart-rate soared. She’d forgotten all about him in the space of the last few seconds, and the high emotion her sister had been evoking. In her shock she lifted her head and her phone dropped to the ground with a tinny clatter.
Pascal swiftly bent and picked it up.
An irate voice could be heard: ‘Alana? Alana!’
Alana couldn’t take her eyes off Pascal. She took her phone back, lifted it to her ear and said vaguely, ‘Ailish, someone’s just arrived. I’ll call you back, OK?’
Words resounded in her head: too late to escape now.
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE time Alana had stepped back into her house, followed by a tall, dark and imposing Pascal Lévêque, the shock was rapidly wearing off. She crossed her arms and rounded on him with a scowl on her face. Once again he was demonstrating that ability to suck in the space around him and make everything seem more intense—dwarfed. She tried to block out the fact that he was quite simply the most handsome man who’d ever stood feet away from her and looked at her with an intensity that bordered on being indecent.
‘That phone call was a conversation that shouldn’t have had to happen. And it was all your fault.’
He inclined his head slightly. He looked huge in her tiny sitting room. ‘I apologise, but, as all I heard was the intriguing last sentence, you’ll have to forgive me as I don’t know what I’ve done. And we certainly haven’t had sex yet.’
Alana flushed when she recalled what she’d been saying to her sister as she’d opened the door. ‘Did you know that apparently our dinner date was in the papers today?’ Defensive, angry energy radiated off her in waves. She could almost see them, like a heat haze.
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers, hypnotising her. ‘No. I wasn’t aware of that. But of course, there were people at the restaurant, and I would imagine that one or two people heard me ask you at the studio; perhaps it was leaked.’
Alana laughed out loud. ‘One or two? Try the whole crew standing in the room. It’s recorded on tape, for God’s sake.’
He started to shrug off his big, black overcoat and proceeded to whip out a bottle of wine from somewhere, like a magician. Panic flowed through Alana. She put out her hands as if that might halt him. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Stop taking off your coat right now.’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘No way; you are not coming in here with a bottle of wine, and we are not going to be having a cosy chat.’
For a big man he moved swiftly and gracefully. His coat was already draped over one arm, the bottle of red wine in one hand, long fingers visible. She remembered him holding her hands, entwining those fingers with hers. A pulse throbbed between her legs.
She looked up at him and knew she must look slightly desperate—she felt desperate.
‘I don’t mind where we go, Alana, but I’ve come all this way to see you, so you’re not getting away.’
His voice was like deep velvet over steel. He meant what he said.
She gulped. ‘What do you want?’ she asked weakly. He was threatening and invading every aspect of what had been up till now her impregnable defence.
Pascal restrained himself from telling her exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want to frighten her off. But what he wanted very much involved a lot less clothes and a flat, preferably soft surface. She was dressed all in black, her hair tied back. Not a stiff shirt this time, but a roll-neck top that effectively concealed everything. And yet the material had to be cashmere or something, because it clung to her torso and chest, and for the first time he could see the proper shape of her. The thrust of her breasts against the fabric was sensual torture. They were perfectly formed, high and firm. He could imagine that they would fill his hands like ripe, succulent fruits, their tips hardening against the palm of his hand … He slammed the door on his rampant imaginings. His arousal was springing to life. He forced himself to sound reasonable, calm.
‘What I would like is to share this bottle of wine with you and to talk. We can