A Vow To Secure His Legacy

She took a glass, meeting his eyes, ignoring the tingly sensation where their fingers brushed. ‘Is it champagne from the Champagne region?’

‘Of course. That’s the only wine that can use the name. You like champagne?’

‘I’ve never tried it.’

He blinked, astonishment on his face. ‘Vraiment?’

‘Really.’ Imogen smiled at his shock. ‘I’m from Australia.’

‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I happen to know the Australians import French wine as well as exporting theirs. Champagne travels the world.’

She shrugged, enjoying his disbelief. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ve drunk it.’ She eyed the wine with excitement. What better place to taste her first champagne than Paris?

‘In that case, the occasion deserves a toast. To new friends.’ His smile transformed his face from fascinating to magnetic. Imogen inhaled sharply, her lungs pushing at her ribcage. Her fingers tightened on the glass. That smile, this man, made her feel acutely aware of herself as a woman with desires she’d all but forgotten.

Stop it! You’ve seen men smile before.

Not like this. This was like standing in a shaft of sunshine. And it was an amazing antidote to the chill weight of despair. How could she dwell on despair when he looked at her that way?

She lifted her glass. ‘And to new experiences.’

She sipped, feeling the effervescence on the roof of her mouth. ‘I like that it’s not too sweet. I can taste...pears, is it?’

He drank too, and she was riveted by the sight of his strong throat and the ripple of movement as he swallowed.

Imogen frowned. There was nothing sexy about a man’s throat. Was there? There never had been before and she worked surrounded by men.

But none of them were Thierry Girard.

‘You’re right. Definitely pears.’ He watched her over the rim of the glass. ‘To new experiences? You have some planned?’

Imogen shrugged. ‘A few.’

‘Tell me.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Please. I’d like to know.’

‘Why?’ The word shot out, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Typical of her to sound gauche rather than sophisticated. She just wasn’t used to male attention. She was the serious, reserved sister, not the gregarious one with a flock of admirers.

‘Because I’m interested in you.’

‘Seriously?’ As soon as the word escaped heat scalded her throat and face. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Tell me I didn’t say that.’

A rich chuckle snagged at her senses, making her eyes pop open. If his smile was gorgeous, his laugh was... She couldn’t think of a word to describe the molten-chocolate swirl enveloping her.

‘Why don’t you tell me about these new experiences instead?’

Imogen opened her mouth to ask if he was really interested in hearing about them then snapped it shut.

Here was a wonderful new adventure, flirting with a gorgeous French hunk over champagne. She wasn’t going to spoil it by being herself. She was going to go with the flow. This trip was about stepping out of her shell, tasting life’s excitement.

Chatting with Thierry Girard was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages.

‘I’ve got a list. Things I want to do.’

‘In Paris?’ She loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled.

‘Not just here. I’m away from home for a month and a half but I’m only in Paris a fortnight.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m already realising my plans were too ambitious. I won’t fit everything in.’

‘That gives you a reason to return. You can do more on your next visit.’

His eyes were almost warm enough to dispel the wintry chill that descended at his words. There’d be no return visit, no second chance.

She had one shot at living to the max. She’d make the most of it, even if it meant stepping out of her comfort zone. She tossed back another mouthful of champagne, relishing the little starbursts on her tongue.

‘This is delicious wine.’

He nodded. ‘It’s not bad. Now, tell me about this list. I’m intrigued.’

She shrugged. ‘Tourist things, mainly.’ But she refused to feel self-conscious. ‘See those Impressionist masterpieces at the Musée d’Orsay, visit Versailles, go for a boat ride on the Seine.’

‘You’ll have time to fit those in if you have two weeks.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s only the beginning. I want to attend a gourmet cooking class. I’ve always wanted to know how they make those melt-in-the-mouth chocolate truffles.’ The ones that were exactly the colour of his eyes.

Her breath gave a curious little hitch and she hurried on. ‘I’d hoped to eat at the Eiffel Tower restaurant but I didn’t realise I needed to book in advance. Plus I’d love a champagne picnic in the country and to go hot-air ballooning and drive a red convertible around the Arc de Triomphe and... Well, so many things.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Visitors are usually scared of driving there. Traffic is thick and there aren’t lane markings.’

Imogen shrugged. She was scared too. But that was good. She’d feel she was really living.

‘I like a challenge.’

‘So I gather.’ Was that approval in his expression? ‘Have you been hot-air ballooning before?’

‘Never.’ She took another sip of champagne. ‘This is a trip of firsts.’

‘Like the champagne?’ There was that delicious crinkle around his eyes. It almost lured her into believing Thierry Girard was as harmless as her work colleagues. Yet every feminine fibre screamed she was out of her depth even looking at the ultra-sexy Frenchman. Everything about him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the intriguing dark shadow across his jaw, signalled he was a virile, powerful man. ‘Imogen?’

‘Sorry, I was distracted.’ Her voice was ridiculously husky. The way he said her name turned it into something lilting and special. She lifted her gloved fingers to her throat, as if that could ease her hammering pulse.

The glint in his eyes warned that he understood her distraction. But she refused to be embarrassed. He must be used to women going weak at the knees.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said. ‘Do you live in Paris?’

He shook his head. ‘Occasionally. I’m here for business meetings over the next week or two.’

‘So while I’m out enjoying myself you’ll be in meetings? I hope they’re not too tedious.’

Nonchalantly, he lifted those impressive shoulders, and a wave of yearning washed through her. She wanted to put her hands on them, feel the strength in his tall body and lean in to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.

Imogen blinked, stunned at the force of her desire. She didn’t do instant attraction. She didn’t fall in a heap in front of any man. But her knees were suspiciously shaky and her instincts urged her to behave in ways that were completely out of character.

Was it champagne or the man? Or maybe the heady excitement of Paris and wearing Isabelle’s gorgeous gown. Whatever it was, she approved. She wanted to feel, and from the moment her eyes had locked on Thierry’s she’d felt vibrantly alive.

‘You sound like you have experience of boring meetings.’

Imogen sipped more wine, enjoying the zing on her palate. ‘Definitely.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Our firm specialises in them. I’d bet my meetings are more boring than yours.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

Thierry took her arm and guided her away from an influx of newcomers. Even through the satin gloves his hands felt hard, capable and incredibly sexy. Trickles of fire coursed from the point of contact then splintered into incendiary darts that trailed through her body to pool down low.

How sad that she could be so turned on by that simple courteous gesture. But that wasn’t surprising, given the state of her love life. Or her lack of one.

‘Believe it.’ She dragged herself back into the conversation. ‘I’m an accountant.’ She waited for his eyes to glaze over. ‘A tax accountant. I know tedious.’

His lips twitched but he didn’t look in the least fazed. If anything there was a spark in his gaze as it swept her from head to toe. Did it linger here and there on the way? Imogen’s stomach tightened and her breasts swelled against the satin bodice as she drew a sharp breath. Strange how the lace of her strapless bra suddenly scratched at her nipples when it had been perfectly comfortable before.

‘You’re not acquainted with French property and commercial law, are you? The phrase “red tape” was invented to describe them. And the meetings...’ He shook his head.

‘You’re a lawyer?’ He didn’t look like any lawyer she’d seen, except in some high-budget courtroom film with a smoulderingly gorgeous hero.

Thierry laughed, that rich-as-chocolate sound doing strange things to her insides. ‘Me, a lawyer? That would be a match made in hell. It’s bad enough being a client. My first meeting tomorrow will go all morning. I’d much rather be out of the city.’

‘Really? You look like right at home here.’ Her gaze skated over his hard body in that made-to-measure dinner jacket. When she lifted her eyes she found him watching her, his quirk of a smile disarming.

‘This?’ One casual hand gestured to his impeccable tailoring. ‘This is camouflage.’

‘You’re saying you don’t belong?’ Her pulse raced at the idea of finding another outsider. For, try as she might, she couldn’t feel at home in this sophisticated crowd, despite her sister’s clothes.

He shrugged, and Imogen watched those wide, straight shoulders with something like hunger. She’d never felt needy for a man. Not even Scott. Was it this man or the unfamiliar setting that pulled her off-balance?

‘I’ve been forced to adapt. Business means I need to be in the city. But I prefer being outdoors. There’s nothing like pitting yourself against nature. It beats meetings hands-down.’

That explained those eyes. Not just the creases from sun exposure, but his deceptively lazy regard that seemed at the same time sharp and perceptive. As if from surveying distant views?

‘Each hour behind a desk is pure torture.’

‘You poor thing.’ Impulsively, she placed her hand on his arm, then regretted it as she felt the tense and flex of sinew and impressive muscle. There it was again, that little jolt, like an electric shock. Imogen jerked her hand back, frowning, and looked at her glass. Surely she hadn’t drunk enough to imagine it? Just enough to make her do something out of character, like touch a stranger.

Yet she couldn’t regret it. That fierce flick of heat made her feel more alive than...

‘You’d like another?’ Thierry gave their glasses to a waiter and snagged two more.

She took the glass he offered, carefully avoiding contact with his tanned fingers.

‘To red convertibles and champagne picnics and balloon rides.’ His eyes snared hers and her heart thumped. When he looked at her, the way she imagined men looked at truly beautiful women, she almost forgot what had brought her to Paris. She could lose herself in the moment.

Imogen raised her glass. ‘And to meetings that end quickly.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Thierry touched his glass to hers, watching her sip her wine. She took time to taste it. Her lips, a glossy bow, pouted delectably. Her dark eyelashes quivered, and he knew she was cataloguing the prickle of bubbles on the roof of her mouth. She gave a delicate shiver of appreciation, and he found himself leaning closer.

She was so avid. So tactile. Touching her through those long gloves had made his hand tingle! From anticipation and excitement, something he usually experienced while risking his neck outdoors.

Imogen Holgate was an intriguing mix of sensuality and guilelessness.

And he wanted her.

‘I can help with the ballooning.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes widened and he saw flecks of velvety green within the warm sherry-brown of her irises. It must be a trick of the light but her gaze seemed to glow brighter. ‘That would be marvellous.’

She took a half step closer, and his breathing hitched. He inhaled the scent of vanilla sugar and warm female flesh. His taste buds tingled and his gaze dropped to her lips, then to the faint, fast pulse at her creamy throat.

He wanted to taste her, right here, now, and discover if she was as delicious as he expected. He wanted to sweep her to some place where he could learn her secrets.

Hazel eyes 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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 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.

‘Of course. Ready to serve and always prepared.’ He brushed back a few escaped locks of hair and placed the flannel on her forehead.

She sighed, and he made himself retreat rather than trace that glossy, silk-soft hair again. He pulled up a chair and sat a couple of metres from the bed.

Shimmering, half-lidded eyes met his. ‘Are all Frenchmen so take-charge?’

‘Are all Australian women so obstinate?’

A tiny smile curved her lips, and she shut her eyes. Ridiculously that smile felt like a victory.

* * *

The musical chimes of a mobile phone grew louder, drawing the attention of other café patrons. It was only then that Imogen realised it was her phone chirping away in her bag. In a fit of out-with-the-old-Imogen energy, she’d decided the old, plain ring tone was boring, swapping it for a bright pop tune.

‘Hello?’

‘Imogen?’ His voice was smooth and warm, deep enough to make her shiver.

‘Thierry?’ The word was a croak of surprise. She’d berated herself all morning for wishing last night hadn’t ended the way it had.

The fact Thierry had stayed so long only showed how dreadful she must have looked. And that he was what her mum would have called ‘a true gentleman’.

‘How are you today? Are you feeling better?’

‘Good, thank you. I’m fit as a fiddle.’ An exaggeration—those headaches always left her wrung out. But she was perking up by the moment. ‘How are you?’

There was a crack of laughter, and Imogen’s hand tightened on the phone. Even from a distance his laugh melted something inside. She sank back in her chair, noticing for the first time a blue patch of sky through the grey cloud.

‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

She blinked, registering his deep, seductive tone. Her blood pumped faster and she tried to tell herself she imagined it. Nothing, she knew, put men off as much as illness. Even illness by proxy. For a moment Scott’s face swam in her vision till she banished it.