Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. Fiona McArthur
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are you talking about? Did someone come on to you? Did someone do something to you?’
‘No,’ she dismissed him furiously, while trying to shake him off unsuccessfully. ‘Not that you would have noticed anyway. But, thanks, you’ve saved me going back in to look for you. If you could give me the keys to your apartment, I’d appreciate it; I’ll get my things and be gone by the time you get back. No doubt you’ll be wanting the place to yourself tonight?’
‘And why would that be?’ His voice was arctic, but Alana was on fire.
‘Do you really need me to spell it out, Pascal? I thought you were more sophisticated than that.’ She berated herself bitterly now for having allowed herself to be seduced by him.
‘Apparently not so sophisticated that I can go to the bar to get a drink for my date and turn around to find she has disappeared, only to find her again and have her run from the room as if I’d chased her out myself.’
He’d been looking for her? A reflex to stop, to apologise, was quashed as she remembered the woman. They’d looked far too cosy. She’d only known Pascal two weeks. Did she really think she could trust him? Her astounding naïvety mocked her mercilessly.
‘Your companion might have another impression. She seemed to think that you were quite interested in what she had to offer.’
Pascal could recall only too noxiously what the British model Cecilia Hampton had been offering. She’d all but wrapped herself around him like a clinging vine, and had spoken in an absurdly quiet, jarring little-girl voice—a well-worn ploy to get a man to come closer, whereupon she’d all but thrust her enormous fake bosom in his face. He’d been feeling foolish ever since he’d stalked away from Alana to get drinks, and had turned back to get her, imagining all the predatory males in the room moving in on her, but she’d disappeared.
His car drew up at that moment and, heaving a sigh of relief, he hurried Alana down the steps and into the back, making her slide along the seat and getting in beside her, not giving her a chance to get out. Or say a thing.
In the back of the car Alana ripped her arm from Pascal’s grasp, her skin hot and tingling. ‘How dare you? I want you to let me out this minute. I’ll get a cab.’
She sat forward and opened her mouth to speak to the driver, but Pascal hauled her over and she lay sprawled inelegantly against him. With his other hand he flicked a switch and the privacy window slid up with a hiss.
The air was electric around them. Alana was very aware of how she lay practically across his lap, in a pose of supplication that galled her. His body was tense and taut, and unmistakably hard. It made her feel sick, that he could so easily transfer his desire from one to another.
‘Isn’t there something wrong with this picture?’ she gritted out, holding herself as tense and as far away as possible.
‘Yes,’ Pascal ground out. ‘You’re wearing far too many clothes for my liking and I want you now.’
Alana tried to pull free, but he was remorseless and held her still. ‘You don’t want me, you want her.’
In an instant Pascal had shifted and lifted Alana with an ease that shocked her. She found herself straddling his lap, knees pressed either side of his powerful thighs. His hands were on her waist, holding her captive. A wave of anger and humiliation at her own helpless response, her lack of strength, drove her to try and move but she couldn’t.
Her arms were rigid, either side of Pascal’s shoulders on the seat behind them. With his hands firmly on her waist he shifted her slightly so that she could feel where his erection strained between them against the confines of his trousers. A rush of desire made her suck in a betraying breath. And then his hands came up to her dress, to undo the clasp hidden underneath the flower. If he undid that, her dress would fall to her waist.
‘Don’t you dare.’ She caught his hands, but he swatted hers away with ease. He undid her dress and it fell. Alana caught it. The motion of the car made her fall against him, and made the apex between her legs grind into Pascal’s hardness. She could hear his breath coming harshly, see the colour slash across his cheekbones. She felt sick inside, knowing that he could just as easily be doing this with any other woman.
She heard him sigh, and he looked up at her with a curiously unguarded expression. She was caught by it.
‘Alana, please believe me: if I were in the unfortunate position of having Cecilia Hampton straddle my lap right now, I can assure you that she would not be feeling what you’re feeling.’
He snaked a hand around the back of her neck. Alana tried to hold herself stiff, but it was too difficult. His voice was low, reasonable, and oh, so sexy. ‘You’d disappeared when I went looking for you, so I went back to wait at the bar, thinking you’d come find me there. Cecilia approached me. If you’d watched for another few seconds before running out, you would have seen me extricate myself from her extremely unwelcome embrace.’
Alana looked down at him. He looked sincere. Had she read it wrong? She found herself wanting to believe him so much. And that was beyond scary in its implications. But right now she could avoid thinking about it without a huge amount of effort. The need consuming her, consuming the air around them, was too great. Desire flowed, hot and urgent, between them. This was all-encompassing, and she had to give into it and deal with the fallout later.
Pascal slowly moved his hand from the back of her neck, over her shoulder and down to her hands. He exerted a little bit of pressure and Alana let him pull her hands away, giving in to a need too great. Her dress fell to her waist, baring her breasts. She put her hands back onto the seat behind Pascal. He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly, reverently. It made something hard melt inside her. She sank into him, found her hips moving sinuously against his. Urgency rose. His kiss became more forceful. He dragged his mouth away and held the weight of one breast in his hand before flicking out a tongue and laving the distended peak. Alana’s back arched.
She pressed kisses feverishly to his face, mouth, neck, her hands seeking to rip open his shirt. Buttons popped and his bow tie disappeared down into the cracks between the seats. She blindly sought his belt buckle and opened it impatiently.
‘You’re like a fever in my blood, Alana. There’s no one else I want.’
His words set her aflame even more, and she bent to kiss him again. He lifted her slightly and she braced her hands against his shoulders. She bit her lip as she heard his zip come down, and as he pulled his trousers down with a rough urgency. Then he settled her back and she almost cried out at the sensation of his hard, virile, unsheathed heat, right there.
He lifted her dress at her waist, and she heard fabric rip as he brought two hands to the side of her knickers and pulled. He pressed a kiss to her throat as she felt the material being pulled away. ‘I’m not sorry and I’ll buy you new ones.’
She didn’t care. She wanted him inside her, right now. The ache was killing her.
As if he heard her silent plea, he lifted her again, and she could feel his hand on himself as he guided his rigid length to the apex of her thighs. He slid in easily, and as Alana sank down onto him, he surged upwards. She was so turned on, and the sensation was so shockingly thrilling, that she came right there and then, her inner muscles clamping around him in a series of minor convulsions.
She dropped her head into his shoulder. He was still rigid within her, filling her. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry …’ She was breathing heavily.
He pulled her back, tipped her head up, pressed a kiss to her mouth, slid his tongue between her soft lips. She could feel him stir within her, and inexplicably she could feel herself start to respond again, not being allowed to fall back to earth; she was kept on a high plateau of sensation that threatened to go even higher.
‘We’ve only just started.’
With a slow, burning intensity, Pascal moved within her like a devil magician. He brought her to the edge only to stop, then start again. In a fever of prolonged ecstasy, skin slick with sweat, it was only