By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс
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talking on his mobile. Probably chatting to government ministers or giving instructions to people in his office. Or maybe he was warning his girlfriends not to expect him for a night or two.
After a few fascinating blocks they turned into the Rue Montorgueil, which was a market crowded with shoppers patronising the dozens of cafés and patisseries, food and wine shops.
Charmed to her socks, she forgot all her misgivings and oohed and ahhed like a tourist. The rue was a Monet come to life.
‘Do you cook?’ he enquired, pausing by a cheese emporium.
‘Not in France. Do you?’
He laughed at her quick response. ‘I don’t have to. I have a hundred restaurants on my doorstep. But for you I’ll turn the leaf.’
He purchased several varieties of cheese, some sausage slices, a crusty loaf and fruit, olives and some salad vegetables from a market stall brimming with fresh produce. Then, apparently exhausted by such heavy domestic activity, he suggested lunch, steering her towards a café with red geraniums spilling from planters on its window ledges.
Relieved not to be returning to the apartment straight away, Shari sank down gratefully at the table the waiter had directed them to, while Luc piled his purchases on an empty chair. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours she felt close to a reality overload.
She gave her order, then listened while Luc discussed his choice with the waiter. When the guy bustled away, Luc excused himself and drew out his phone.
‘Are they needing you at your office?’
‘Not at all. I’m conducting some research.’
After a while she said gingerly, ‘Did … Was Manon a good cook?’
He kept his eyes lowered to the phone. ‘She could barely cook an egg.’
It was pretty clear what he’d seen in the Parisian paragon. ‘Did you and she dine out every night?’
He frowned. ‘Most nights. Though our work commitments often meant not with each other.’
‘When did you ever talk?’
He said drily, ‘There was nothing to talk about.’
She studied him covertly. His face was as close to expressionless as a frowning man could achieve.
‘I can see your point about keeping a large dog in your beautiful apartment.’ She filled her water glass and took a sip.
He looked up sharply then, his eyes so cool she nearly jumped back in her chair. ‘Have you noticed we have had nearly two full days now without rain?’
‘Sorry.’ She winced. ‘Too forward?’
He took up his phone to deal with an incoming text. ‘There are so many other things worth discussing.’
The waiter arrived with their meals. Shari welcomed the diversion. She felt a bit shaken, actually. She certainly hadn’t intended to strike any major nerves.
She murmured to the waiter, ‘Could you please bring my salad now?’
The waiter’s brows elevated. ‘Now? Both? At the one time?’
‘Oui, s’il vous plaît.’
He threw up his hands, then hurried away to comply, shaking his head at her unfathomable foreignness.
Shari contemplated her croque Mediterranéen, conscious of a jagged sensation. Though Luc continued courteous, there was something forbidding in his expression. She accepted it was her own fault. She’d pushed the boundaries and now he’d vanished behind a steel barrier.
All at once she felt adrift in an arctic sea. The Luc who had begged her to stay and kissed her in the car had become a stranger. She’d never been good at coping with angry people. If he didn’t smile soon she didn’t know what to do. ‘Look, I—I apologise if I intruded. I know it can take a long time to forget.’
He looked up at her, his dark eyes glinting and alert. ‘That depends on what there is to forget.’
‘Of course, of course. Sorry. What do I know?’
She tasted her salad. Oh, God. Divine. The dressing was to die for. Exactly what she’d anticipated.
It was just as Rémy had declared. Every French person expected—demanded— their salad be dressed with just such a superb vinaigrette. She’d never managed to get it exactly right for him. What was she doing here? How could she possibly contemplate a whole week with another Frenchman? What did she know of Luc anyway? He dined with people in the government. He attended soirées. He was in love with a beautiful woman she could never compete with.
Glancing about her, she had the panicked realisation she’d never make it here. She just didn’t fit. In his apartment. In his life. She started as Luc’s voice cut through her musings.
‘You’re not losing your nerve?’
She glanced up guiltily. Was she so transparent? But what was there to say? She should have boarded that plane and be headed for the Antipodes right now.
His dark eyes searched hers, questioning, bemused. ‘Seriously, Shari … Because of a few bottles?’
‘No, no. It’s—a matter of common sense. Of—of—self-preservation.’
He stared at her, shaking his head, then, leaning forward, said earnestly, ‘It’s a matter of trust, chérie. And of courage. The risk is no greater for you than it is for me.’
‘But yes it is. You are safe and secure in your country, your culture, while I am …’
He grabbed her knife hand to stop its flailing. ‘Do you think I haven’t considered all of this? But what do I know of you? I’ve known you five minutes and you have a child inside you—my child, so you say—and unless I’m a perfect saint of a guy you are threatening to run away with it either to abort it without my knowledge or let it be born without me.’
Some of those words sliced her like knives. All her hopeful instincts, fragile as they’d been, shrivelled. She laid down her knife and fork, breathing hard, and met his blazing eyes.
‘Yep. That’s about the size of it.’
She got up and walked out. Once in the street, she ran.
IT WAS as well Luc’s strides were longer than Shari’s because she could run amazingly fast for a pregnant person.
When had a woman been more difficult to pin down? It was absurd how hard this—this conquest was proving. An unwelcome flash of déjà vu rocked through him just then and nearly stopped him in his tracks.
Zut, it was his recurring nightmare. The last time he tried to pin down a woman she’d left him. Abandoned her home and her world.
Surely this wasn’t the same though. It was in no way the same.
Dodging people and traffic, he cursed himself fiercely for the fiasco of the day. Everything had gone wrong. He’d known Shari was in a volatile frame of mind. Of course she was, in her condition. Why hadn’t he noticed the state of the apartment? This was no way to bring a woman home.
But why couldn’t women understand that forcing a man into this ridiculous pursuit procedure only roused him to more lust? The more he ran, the more his blood seethed in his veins with a single red-hot intent.
As if he hadn’t done enough to her already, he was conscious of a primitive need to catch her and take her down. On the pavement. On the street. Or at least rush her to his bed and plunge himself into her until she surrendered herself to him in screaming ecstasy.
At