The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. ABBY GREEN
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looked at him and nodded jerkily. ‘OK.’
Alana was burningly aware of the interest she and Pascal had generated as they followed the maître d’ to the table. While the establishment was much too exclusive for the clientele to seriously rubberneck, nevertheless their interest was undeniably piqued.
It was another strike against the man who sat opposite her now, broad and so handsome, that despite her antipathy she couldn’t help that hot flutter of response.
He sat back in his chair. Alana could feel the whisper of his long legs stretching out under the table, and she tucked hers so tightly under her chair that it was uncomfortable.
‘You don’t have to worry, Alana, I’m under no illusions; you’re compartmentalising this very much in the “work” box.’
She just looked at him, and he quirked a brow at her.
‘The fact that you insisted on meeting me at my hotel rather than let me pick you up from your home, the fact that you haven’t changed out of your work clothes.’
Alana felt stiff and unbelievably vulnerable at the way he was so incisively summing her up. ‘I didn’t have time to change. And, yes, for me this is work.’ She leaned forward slightly then. His perceptiveness made her feel cornered. ‘I’ve had the experience of living with a level of public interest that I never want to invite into my life again. Being here with you, being seen with you, could put me in an awkward position. I don’t want people to think we’re here on some sort of date.’ She sat back with her heart thumping at the way his face had darkened ominously.
‘So who do you date, then, Alana?’
‘I don’t.’
‘But you were married to Ryan O’Connor.’
The fact that he’d already found that out made her feel inordinately exposed. Her mouth twisted cynically. ‘No doubt you didn’t have to dig too deep to find that out.’
‘No deeper than you dug to find out about my life.’
‘That was for a professional interview.’
‘Do I need to remind you that your questions didn’t exactly follow the script?’
She flushed hotly. His eyes flashed with that same icy fire she’d witnessed earlier. She said defensively, ‘You must know that if you open yourself up to any kind of press attention, then there’s a risk that you’ll be asked about things that are off- limits.’
He inclined his head, the ice still in his eyes. ‘Of course; I’m not so naïve. But somehow I hadn’t expected that of you.’
Ridiculously, Alana felt hurt and guilty. He was right; with another person who wasn’t pushing her buttons so much, she would never have taken the initiative to ask unscripted questions. It had been her reaction to him that had prompted her to try and provoke a response that would take his intense interest off her, that playful teasing he’d seemed set to disarm her with. Again she wondered what she’d scratched the surface of earlier.
She opened her mouth, but at that moment a waitress arrived and distracted them by taking their orders. Conversation didn’t resume until she had returned with a bottle of white wine. They’d both ordered fish. Once they were alone again, Pascal sat up straight. ‘You can tell yourself that you’re here for work, Alana, but I did not ask you here to talk about work. It’s a subject I have to admit I find intensely boring when we could be discussing much more interesting things….’
‘Such as?’ she asked faintly, mesmerised by the way his eyes had changed again into warm pools of dark promise.
He took a sip of wine and she followed his lead unconsciously, her mouth feeling dry.
‘Such as where you went last night, if you don’t date.’
Initially Alana had felt herself automatically tensing up at his question, but then something happened. She found herself melting somewhere inside, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Some part of her was responding to his heat, and it was just too hard not to give in just a little. So she told him about her brother’s fortieth birthday. And that led to telling him about her six brothers and sisters. And her parents.
‘They’re all happily married with kids?’
Alana had to smile at the vague look of horror on his face. She knew people sometimes couldn’t get over the entirely normal fact of large Irish families. She nodded, but felt that awfully familiar guilt strike her. She was the anomaly in her family. She tried to ignore the pain and spoke lightly. ‘My family are a glowing testament to the institution. I have a grand total of fifteen nieces and nephews and my parents have been happily married for fifty years.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And where do you come?’
‘I’m the baby. Ten years younger than my youngest brother. Apparently I was a happy mistake. The age gap meant that despite coming from such a big family I’ve always felt in some ways like an only child. For most of the time that I can remember, it was just me and my parents.’
Alana fell silent as she thought of her parents. She was acutely aware of their increasing frailty, and especially her father, who had had a triple bypass the previous year. With her older siblings busy with families and their own problems, the care and concern of their parents largely fell to her. Not that she minded, of course. But she was aware nevertheless that they worried about her, that they wanted to see her settled like the others. Especially after Ryan.
Alana took a quick gulp of coffee and avoided Pascal’s laser-like gaze. They’d finished their meal, and the plates had been cleared. It was as if he could see right through her head to her thoughts. She hoped the coffee would dilute the effect of the wine, which had been like liquid nectar. She’d shrugged off her jacket some time ago, and the silk of her shirt felt ridiculously sensual against her skin. And she found that it was all too easy to talk to Pascal Lévêque. He was attentive, charming, interested. Interesting.
But then he cut through her glow of growing warmth by asking softly, ‘So what happened with you?’
At first she didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your marriage. You were about to divorce your husband when he died, weren’t you?’
Immediately the glow left, Alana tensed. She could see his eyes flare, watching her retreat.
Unconsciously she felt for her jacket to pull it back on, instinctively seeking for some kind of armour. Her voice felt harsh. ‘I see that whoever your source was didn’t stop at the bare facts.’
Pascal’s jaw clenched. ‘I’m not judging you, Alana, or anything like it. I’m just asking a question. I can’t imagine it was easy to take a decision to divorce, coming from the family that you’ve described.’
Her arms stilled in the struggle to get her jacket on; his perceptiveness sneaked into some very vulnerable part of her. He didn’t know the half of it. Her own family still didn’t know the half of it. They’d been as mystified and dismayed as the rest of the country at her behaviour. Something her husband had ruthlessly exploited in a bid to win as much sympathy as possible.
She broke eye contact with effort and finished the job of putting on her jacket. Finally she looked at him again. ‘I’d really prefer not to talk about my marriage.’
Pascal was tempted to push her, but could see her clam up visibly. She’d become more and more relaxed over the course of the meal. He’d had to restrain his eyes from dropping numerous times to the soft swell of her breasts under the fine silk of her shirt. He still had no idea why she seemed so determined to cover up as much as possible. But, instead of his interest waning, the opposite was true. He had to admit that was part of the reason he’d asked her out—some kind of bid to have her reveal herself to be boring or diminish her attraction—yet she was intriguing him on levels that no other woman had ever touched.
He was not done with this, with her. But he knew that