Эбби Грин – Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress (страница 2)

‘Excuse me, can I help you? Are you looking for someone?’ Since when had her voice taken on the huskily seductive tones of a jazz singer? Even though they were alone, Alana felt no sense of fear. Her sense of fear came from an entirely different direction.

‘You were looking at me.’

Pascal winced inwardly at the accusing tone of his voice and the baldness of his statement, but he was still reeling from coming face to face with her. His recent assumption that she would prove to be entirely unalluring was blasted to smithereens. She was all at once pale and glowing. Dewy. Cheeks flushed red from the cold breeze … or something else? That thought had blood rushing southward with an unwelcome lack of control. Her eyes were a unique shade of light green. Her lips were full and soft, not covered in glossy gloop. He’d never seen anyone so naturally beguiling.

‘Excuse me?’ Alana welcomed the righteous indignation that flowed through her, and told herself it wasn’t adrenaline. But since when had righteous indignation made her shake? She’d been right; he was obviously just a tourist looking for a little fun. He’d misconstrued her meaning when she’d smiled at him. Well, she wasn’t on the market for that sort of thing.

‘From what I recall you were doing a fair amount of looking yourself.’ She hitched up her chin. ‘I thought I recognised you, but I was wrong, so forgive me if I led you to believe that something more was on offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to get back to.’

The man smiled, revealing gleaming, strong white teeth, and Alana felt momentarily dizzy. ‘I am well aware that you are working, after all, didn’t I just see you interviewing Ireland’s manager? I was making an observation, that’s all. And you were looking at me.’

‘No more than you were looking at me.’ She desperately tried to claw back some semblance of control.

He rocked back on his heels and a different light came into his eyes. An altogether more dangerous light. And Alana could see that she was effectively trapped. The space between the seats was far too narrow for her to even attempt to push past him, and the only alternative would be to jump into the next aisle—far too unladylike and desperate. And, in the skirt she was wearing, impossible.

Alana felt unbelievably threatened. She called up her best brisk manner and hitched her laptop-bag strap higher on her shoulder, hoping he’d take the hint. ‘This conversation is getting us nowhere. Now, really, I have to get back to my office, and I’m sure you have somewhere far more exciting to be.’

After a long, intense moment, to her utter relief, he stepped back and indicated with his arm that she should precede him out of the row of seats that led into the press area. Alana gritted her teeth and walked past, but, even though she tried to arch her whole body away as she moved past him, she was aware of his height which had to be at least six foot four, the sheer breadth of him and an enticingly musky smell.

The smell of sex.

Oh God, what was wrong with her? Since when had she ever thought she could smell sex? And since when had she even been aware of what it smelt like? She felt weak in the pit of her stomach, but thankfully she was now past him and hurrying back up the main steps to the lift, which would bring her down to ground level and back to reality.

Her silent prayers weren’t answered when she felt his presence beside her, yet he said nothing as the lift doors opened. When he stepped in with her, Alana punched the button, silently pleading for the journey down to be quick. It was excruciatingly intense, sharing the small confined space, and she practically bolted as soon as the lift juddered to a halt and the doors opened. As she walked towards the main gates at the back of the stand, Alana could see her car parked on the road outside. And then she heard his steps stop behind her.

Of course, he’d kept up with her effortlessly; she had the unsettling feeling that she was on a tight leash. He was like a predator indulging his prey, not moving in for the kill just yet. And knowing that, against all rational thought in her head, Alana stopped, too, and turned round. Her heart was still pounding from the close proximity in the lift, and she just realised then that she must have held her breath the whole way down.

He was looking at her with those intense eyes. And then he said, ‘Actually, I do have somewhere more exciting to be. Maybe you’d care to join me?’

The full effect of his accent washed through her now; it was as if she’d blocked it out when she’d first heard him speak, having been too much to cope with along with everything else. He was absolutely devastating, and he was coming on to her. Alana couldn’t believe it. She knew perfectly well she was nothing special; she looked like a million other girls. What on earth could this man want with her? Anyone could see he was in another league. Alarm bells rang, loud and insistently.

She shook her head and started backing away towards the gate and her car, but the physical pull to stay in this man’s orbit was something she had to actively fight against. Simultaneously a sleek, dark Lexus pulled up beside them. Clearly his car—his chauffeur-driven car—which had of course been parked here in the VIP parking area.

She was shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr …?’

‘Lévêque.’

‘Mr Lévêque.’ Even his name sounded sexy—purposeful. Important. ‘I have to get back to work.’ She repeated it then, as if to drive a point home. ‘This is work for me. Enjoy your weekend in Dublin. There are plenty of other women out there.’ Who won’t be stupid enough to walk away, the voice mocked her. But as she finally turned and walked towards her car she told herself she was glad. He hadn’t looked put out; he hadn’t even tried to get her to change her mind. He was just a rich tourist over for the match. And she knew all about sports supporters. She used to be part of that crowd, used to be a professional supporter. Not any more.

Pascal refused to give in to the desire to look to where she was getting into her car as his own swept past and away from the stadium. He couldn’t really believe that she’d refused him. A woman hadn’t walked away from him since … he couldn’t remember when. His mouth thinned. She was right: there were plenty of other women out there. She really wasn’t anything special.

So why was it that all he could see were those invitingly soft lips? And those huge, green eyes, full of changing depths? And that alluring body in its veritable uniform that made his hands itch to rip it off and see what it hid?

He was bored. That was it. And he’d been without a lover for some weeks. He was going to a party tonight. If all he was looking for was a quick lay, then he’d get it in spades.

Feeling his equilibrium start to settle again was a welcome relief, because it hadn’t been normal since he’d laid eyes on her. He settled back and relaxed. And then promptly tensed again, all recent justifications out the window. He hadn’t got her name. And he didn’t even know if she was married. He couldn’t remember seeing a ring, but now it glared at him. That had to be it. Equanimity rushed through him again. This time he firmly cast her out of his head as a weird, momentary diversion and looked forward to the fast-approaching evening and the promise of fulfilment that was now a dull, throbbing ache in his body.

‘Alana, you can’t leave yet.’

‘But, Rory, I’ve got to get home, it’s my brother’s fortieth.’

Her boss ignored her and pulled her firmly by the hand, back into the throng of people she’d just battled her way through to get out. She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

‘Alana, you have to meet him, you’re interviewing him tomorrow. He rang in person after the match, specifically asking for you—must have seen you reporting or something, but who cares? Do you have any idea what a coup this is? He’s an important sponsor of the Six Nations … famously reclusive … billionaire.’

Alana was getting bumped and bashed by people along the way as she struggled to keep up with her hyper TV-boss. She couldn’t hear half of what he was saying. Something about an interview? That was nothing unusual; she did interviews most days. Why was he making such a big deal about this one? She cast a quick, worried look at her watch on the wrist not held captive by Rory. The surprise party would be starting in half an hour, and it would take her that to get out to her parents’ house in Foxrock. If she missed the start of it, her life wouldn’t be worth living.

Then Rory stopped abruptly and she careened into him. He turned and gave her a worried once-over. ‘You’ll do; it’s a pity you’re not more dressed up, you know, Alana, you could have made more of an effort. Really.’ His mouth pursed in disapproval.

Irritation rankled; all too frequently people seemed to expect her to be what she had been—before. ‘Rory, I’m dressed for a family party, remember? Not the French team’s celebrations.’

Which she had to privately admit now were something else. Clearly someone had a lot of money to spend. They were taking place in the lavish ballroom of the Four Seasons hotel just on the outskirts of Dublin city-centre. She wasn’t dressed in the glittering half-sheath dresses that most of the women seemed to be sporting, but she was perfectly respectable. And she preferred it that way. She had too many uncomfortable memories of being paraded in fashions that had been too tight, too small, too everything. And not her. She knew she went out of her way in situations like this to draw the line between the woman she had been and the woman she was now.