A Vow To Secure His Legacy. Annie West
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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