By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс
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as any of the tourists queuing up for entry to the museum, wearing a trench over jeans and sneakers. Scarf carelessly knotted around her neck, her blonde hair rippling free. When she drew near a smile touched her mouth, fleetingly, then she grew serious again.
He narrowed his eyes. How pale she seemed.
When he kissed her, her cheeks felt cold against his lips. He slipped his hands inside her trench and drew her close, inhaling the sweet fragrance that enveloped her from head to toe. Desire quickened his blood. His mouth watered with the yearning to kiss her properly.
‘Are you tired from walking? Or did I wear you out?’
Drawing back after a few blood-stirring seconds, her heart still thumping, Shari met his warmly sensual gaze. Like her, he’d changed clothes. He was clean-shaven and sexy in dark trousers and a black polo-neck with a dark brown leather jacket.
That electric current was tugging her, making her want him. Astonishing she could still feel that way when her tender places were in need of some respite from the action. And with this … How could she even want to feel like this now?
Madly though, like an addict, she did.
‘It wasn’t that far. I love to walk.’ She showed him the map given her by the concierge at the Hôtel du Louvre. ‘See? I wanted to see as much as I could before I fly away.’ And maybe the exercise would do her good.
‘But you aren’t flying yet. You’re staying a week. Two weeks.’
Two now? She lowered her gaze. ‘We’ll see.’
See how keen he would be when he knew. When she told him what was growing inside her and taking over her body, her life, the world. How would he handle such news? That moment in Sydney when he’d heard Rémy spoken of as her fiancé flashed into her mind. His reaction had been severe enough then, but that had been nothing like this.
Would he blame her? A bolt of pure panic made her hands and armpits moisten, and for a second she nearly reeled. Oh, God in heaven, she should get a grip. Luc wasn’t the violent type. After yesterday and last night, how could she even think of comparing him with Rémy?
Examining her face, Luc felt the slightest twinge of anxiety. Surely she wasn’t still thinking of boarding that flight? A petite woman shouldn’t undertake such a harrowing journey again so soon. She still hadn’t recovered from the first. Why else would she be so pale?
For the next two hours Shari wandered through the gallery in a turmoil of unreality. Staring blindly at work after exquisite work, she was unable to think of anything except—it. It was a mere embryo now, she supposed. Not much more than a few tiny little cells. With a face, already? How long would it take eyes, nose and lips to develop?
She wished she could dash somewhere private to look it up on the Internet. Maybe when she got back to the hotel. Find out the developmental stages. Despite everything, she was curious to at least see what it looked like.
She felt Luc send her a couple of searching glances, and realised she’d hardly said a word. She needed to clean up her act. This was no way for a grown woman to take charge of what was, after all, a perfectly normal though terrifying situation.
‘What do you think?’ he said, paused before a Starry Night Over the Rhone.
She tried to focus. The painting shimmered before her gaze, ablaze with passion and aspiration, hope and the purest joy in simple things. How could such a treasure have been created by someone in a far worse life predicament than she could ever contemplate?
Oh, she was such a coward. Tears swam into her eyes. ‘It’s—a dream. Magic. The vibrancy of it. You imagine you know about something, but when you’re up close to it, in real life, and it’s connected to you your entire perception changes. You suddenly realise fate has you in its sights, and you’re helpless against nature. You’re nothing. You thought you had power to control your life but …’ Suddenly sensing his keen scrutiny, she stemmed the wild flow with a lurch of dismay.
What on earth had she been babbling?
‘That’s how I feel,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s as if Vincent knew exactly what was in my heart when he painted this picture. I am so pleased you feel the power of it too. But not surprised,’ he added warmly. ‘Not at all surprised.’
He put his arm around her and hugged her to him as if she was a precious thing. She smiled, relieved, so pleased to still be in accord with him, but underneath her glow her anxiety only intensified. He was warm now, so admiring, appreciative of her charms. Liking her. How would he feel when she told him? Would she see a swift and deadly turnaround?
Just imagining him turning cold and distant made her heart pang with dread.
‘Are you feeling very well?’ He was looking closely at her.
‘Sure. Fine. Do you—do you visit here often?’
He continued to scrutinise her. ‘Not so often now. Though I know it well, of course. If I’m in Paris at the weekends I like to visit the smaller galleries—ones out of the usual way of the tourists.’
‘I’m a tourist,’ she reminded him.
But she was thinking how little she knew of him. This tiny little minuscule face was unfurling, maybe resembling his … She squashed that hysterical thought. Ridiculous when she knew zilch about the whole development thing, and anyway she had no idea what she was planning to do about it.
‘What do you do at weekends when you aren’t in Paris?’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘Different things. My family have a little farm in the country. I visit there sometimes.’
‘A farm? Is that where your mother lives?’
He smiled. ‘Sometimes she goes there. Sometimes the Alps, or the beach, especially when Paris is too hot. But in winter she prefers her apartment.’
‘And your father?’
‘He lives in Venice.’
‘Why Venice?’
He lifted quizzical brows at her. ‘His lover lives there.’
She flushed. ‘Forgive me for asking so many questions.’ How crass she must have sounded. ‘I feel as if you know everything about me and I know so little about you.’
He looked amused. ‘Ask what you like.’
He looked relaxed enough, but all at once she felt shy. She knew she was bound to make a mess of framing the right questions. What were they, even? Where to start? There should be a manual available for the woman who was knocked up in a one-night stand.
She hesitated. ‘Well, do you …? You mentioned your ex-fiancée. Manon—is it? Emilie told me a little bit about her.’
She sensed a sudden stillness in him. Then he said smoothly, ‘She was not my fiancée.’ He gave an insouciant shrug. ‘We—had a looser arrangement than that.’
‘Oh?’
She paused before a painting of a village church. Heavenly blue and the most glorious, joyous yellow she’d ever imagined possible. Honestly, all this beauty was playing so excruciatingly on her emotions, her eyes kept pricking. It was probably one of the symptoms. As if she needed any more.
She glanced at him. ‘What of now? As of this moment. Do you have someone?’
Though he was amused, his eyes glinted. ‘As of this moment I am here with you.’
She moistened her lips. ‘Were you and she together—a long time? You and Manon?’
‘Some years. Six. Seven.’ His lashes swept down.
‘Oh. That is a long time.’ She felt surprised. She hadn’t realised the relationship had been quite so—established. For a loose arrangement it seemed long. Whatever ‘loose’ meant.
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