The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. ABBY GREEN
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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 go somewhere else if you’d prefer.’
Alana looked at him suspiciously, hating this invasion of her space. He was as immoveable as a rock. If they went somewhere else that would involve more time. If they stayed here, he’d be gone sooner. She made her reluctant decision and reached out a hand.
‘We might as well stay here. It’s a Friday night; most places in town would be like cattle markets by now.’
Despite her obvious lack of delight at the prospect, Pascal carefully masked the intense surge of triumph he felt and handed over the wine, even being careful to make sure their hands didn’t touch, knowing that could set him back. Dieu! This woman was like an assault on his every sense. He hadn’t imagined her allure, she was more vivid, more sexy, more everything, in the flesh.
As Alana went into the galley-kitchen, she was aware of him moving into the sitting room, hands in the pockets of his trousers and looking around. She sent him a surreptitious glance. He was dressed smartly—dark trousers and a light shirt, top button open as if he’d discarded a tie somewhere. He must have come straight from work—on a private plane? Somehow she couldn’t imagine him queueing up with lesser mortals for a scheduled flight. He was the kind of man who would stride across the tarmac and climb into a sleek, snazzy jet.
‘You got my flowers, I see.’
Alana’s hand stilled on the bottle opener for a moment. She looked at him. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She cringed inwardly. Had he seen the cards all laid out in a row on the table as he’d come in? ‘You shouldn’t have, though. It caused no amount of speculation at work, and I’d really prefer if you didn’t.’ God, she sounded so uptight. And what was to say he’d ever send her flowers again anyway?
‘As you can see, this house isn’t exactly big enough to take them.’
Pascal looked around and thought privately that this was hardly what she must have been used to, as Ryan O’Connor’s wife. It made her even more enigmatic. She was fast proving that, whatever scene she’d been a part of in the past, that was not who she was now. ‘No, I guess not. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Alana, I merely wanted to show you that I meant what I said, about seeing you again, and I didn’t have your number, so…’
Alana stabbed the cork with the bottle opener. ‘It’s fine; forget it. The old-folks’ home around the corner were delighted, as they got the other half of the flower shop you sent.’
She sent him a small, rueful smile then, unable to help herself. She didn’t like being ungrateful for gifts.
Pascal was looking at her with an arrested expression on his face, his eyes intent on the area of her mouth. Her lips tingled. Alana’s hands stopped on the cork. ‘What is it?’
But then his eyes lifted to hers as if she’d imagined it, and he went back to looking at her books and prints. ‘Nothing.’
Eventually she pulled the cork free with a loud pop and got down two glasses from her open shelves. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, keeping one for herself.
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