Эбби Грин – Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress (страница 9)

‘As you can see, this house isn’t exactly big enough to take them.’

Pascal looked around and thought privately that this was hardly what she must have been used to, as Ryan O’Connor’s wife. It made her even more enigmatic. She was fast proving that, whatever scene she’d been a part of in the past, that was not who she was now. ‘No, I guess not. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Alana, I merely wanted to show you that I meant what I said, about seeing you again, and I didn’t have your number, so …’

Alana stabbed the cork with the bottle opener. ‘It’s fine; forget it. The old-folks’ home around the corner were delighted, as they got the other half of the flower shop you sent.’

She sent him a small, rueful smile then, unable to help herself. She didn’t like being ungrateful for gifts.

Pascal was looking at her with an arrested expression on his face, his eyes intent on the area of her mouth. Her lips tingled. Alana’s hands stopped on the cork. ‘What is it?’

But then his eyes lifted to hers as if she’d imagined it, and he went back to looking at her books and prints. ‘Nothing.’

Eventually she pulled the cork free with a loud pop and got down two glasses from her open shelves. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, keeping one for herself.

He stood looking at her for a long moment and then held his glass out. Her heart thumped at what he might say, but all he said was, ‘Santé.’

She clinked her glass to his and replied with the Irish, ‘Sláinte.’

They both took a sip. She couldn’t quite believe that he was standing here in front of her. The wine was like liquid velvet, fragrant, round and smooth. Clearly very expensive. Alana indicated for him to sit on her couch. He did, and dwarfed the three-seater. She sat in the armchair opposite. The lighting was soft and low. The space far too intimate. This was her sanctuary, her place of refuge. And yet, having him here wasn’t generating the effect that she would have expected. She was still angry, yes—but more than that was something else, something like excitement.

She thought of something then as her stomach growled quietly. ‘Have you eaten?’

He took another drink from his glass and shook his head. ‘No.’ He just realised then that he’d hardly eaten all day; he’d been so consumed with getting out of Paris and over here. It made him feel uncomfortable now.

Alana put down her glass and stood up. ‘I was going to make myself something to eat … that is, if you want something, too?’

‘That would be great, I’m starving.’ He smiled, and the room seemed to tilt for a second.

Alana picked up her glass and backed into the kitchen, which was just feet away from where he now sat with an arm stretched out over the back of the sofa. At home, as if he dropped in all the time from Paris. She couldn’t think of that now.

‘It’s just fish, lemon sole, nothing too exciting. But I have two …’

He nodded. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’

Alana busied herself turning on the oven and putting potatoes on to boil. When she looked back over to the sitting room, she could see that Pascal was looking through her CDs. She had a moment of clarity. What was she doing? She was meant to be rushing him out of the house, not cooking him dinner! But, she had to concede, it had been easy to ask him. And he had sent her all those amazing flowers. If she was never going to see him after tonight, then what was the harm in a little dinner?

Happy that she’d justified her actions to herself, and not willing to pay attention to the hum of something in her blood, when she heard the strains of her favourite jazz CD coming from the sound system, she found it soothing rather than scary.

‘I hope you don’t mind?’

She looked over to where Pascal was hunched down at the system, the material of his trousers and shirt straining over taut, hard muscles in his thighs and back. She shook her head, her mouth feeling very dry.

‘No … no.’ She took another hasty gulp of wine. Oh God.

By the time Alana was taking his cleared plate from him, and apologising again that their dinner had been on their knees, she was smiling at something he’d just said. As she’d been preparing the dinner, they’d started up an innocuous conversation, and in the course of eating had managed to touch on films, books, French politics, the Six Nations and rugby. She’d found herself telling him about her father’s career playing for Ireland, unable to keep the pride from her voice. And she hadn’t mistaken the gleam of something unfathomable in his eyes. Even though he’d told her he hadn’t wanted to play, had he harboured ambitions?

She came back and sat down, tucking her legs under her. She’d slipped off her shoes. She felt energised, zingy, as if she could stay up all night.

To her surprise, she saw Pascal look at his watch and then he drained his glass of wine. He stood up and Alana felt unaccountably disorientated. She stood too. The space between them was electric.

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’

Alana immediately felt crushed, silly, exposed. She should have been grinning from ear to ear, racing to hand him his coat, saying good riddance—so why did she feel her stomach hollowing out at the thought? The old pain of past misjudgements rose up like a spectre.

‘Oh, well. I can imagine you must have some business here. Somewhere else to be?’

He shook his head and came close. Alana couldn’t back away as the chair was just behind her legs. Her heart was thumping so hard she felt it must be visible under her top.

‘I’ve got important meetings at home all weekend. It’s too boring to go into. But I need to make my flight slot tonight, otherwise I’ll miss my first meeting in the morning.’

Alana’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re going back to Paris? Now?’

He nodded.

The knowledge was having trouble sinking into her brain: he had come all the way to Dublin just to see her for a few hours; it was too much for her to take in.

‘I … I …’

Her shock was obviously transparent.

He pulled a quirky, sexy smile. ‘It was worth it, Alana. Just to see you again. I’ve been thinking about you all week. I can’t seem to get you out of my head.’

‘I …’ Her powers of speech had been rendered null and void. He was coming closer, making speech even more elusive and unlikely.

He was now so close that her head was tipped back to look into those dark, dark eyes. She felt a warm finger come under her chin, stroking the smooth skin, his thumb on her chin. She couldn’t move.

His scent enveloped her in a haze of desire, desire that she’d never felt before. She fancied that she could hear his heartbeat too. Then he spoke and his voice was harsh. ‘I told myself I wouldn’t do this now. But … I can’t not. You’re more intoxicating to me than anything or anyone I’ve ever known. And all week I’ve been imagining what it would be like.’

She swallowed, ‘What what would be like?’ But she knew. And heaven help her but she’d been imagining it too. She knew she had; she’d just been denying it.

He said the words and something awful like relief flowed through her.

‘To kiss you.’

With his finger still under her chin, no other parts of their bodies touching, he bent his head to hers. Past, present and future collided in the moment that her eyelids fluttered closed, and she felt his mouth touch hers. It was a brief press of his lips to hers, a testing, tasting. But it ignited a flame of raw desire along every one of Alana’s veins.

When he drew back slightly, she made a treacherous sound in her throat. She wanted more than that brief all-too-chaste kiss. And so did he evidently.

This time it wasn’t chaste and benedictory, this time it was forceful, both their mouths pressing together, tasting, experiencing. The finger at her chin was gone. His hand slid round to the back of her head, flicked away the band tying her hair in a ponytail and threaded through the soft, silky strands to cradle her skull in his hand. His other arm slid around her slim waist and pulled her into him. Her arms automatically went to his shoulders and clung for support.

The feel of his body pressed up close to hers was short-circuiting her system. He was hard all over, and so strong. She could feel his chest muscles flex against her soft curves when his arm tightened around her, pulling her even closer.

While their bodies melded together, their mouths remained fused. Pascal pulled back briefly and Alana looked up into those amazing eyes that were burning, reflecting a fire she felt deep in her belly, where a very hard part of him was making her want to move restlessly. She was stunned by everything. She felt confused; she could feel herself tremble with reaction. She frowned slightly, her mouth opened.

Pascal pressed a finger to her mouth. The softness of her lips and her warm breath made him harder, and he almost groaned out loud with the need to take her now, to sink into her yielding, silky warmth. But he knew that she wasn’t far from letting her head take over, from possibly pushing him away. ‘Don’t think. Don’t speak. Just feel.’

This time when his mouth touched hers it was slightly open. Breaths mingled and wove together, and for one split second neither of them breathed. And then Pascal slid his tongue between her lips and Alana’s hands clutched at his shoulders. She’d been kissed like this before; of course she had. But whenever Ryan had kissed her, it had always been rough and with no finesse.