* * *
Kind be damned. He looked into drowning eyes shimmering green and golden-brown and his belly twisted. This woman had hooked him with her vibrancy, humour and enthusiasm, not to mention her flagrant sexiness. Even her slight hesitancy over his name appealed ridiculously. Her vulnerability was a punch to the gut, and not just because he’d aimed to spend the night with her.
‘Shut your eyes and relax.’
‘I will.’
As soon as you leave. The unspoken words hung between them and who could blame her? He was a virtual stranger. Except he felt curiously like he’d known her half his life or, more correctly, had waited that long to meet her.
A frisson of warning ripped through him but he ignored it. She was no threat. With her tear-spiked lashes and too-pale face, she was the picture of vulnerability. There were shadows beneath her eyes too that he hadn’t seen before.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was husky, doing dangerous things to his body. Thierry had to remind himself it was from pain, not arousal.
He put the house phone to his ear, dialling room service. ‘Getting you peppermint tea. My grand-mère suffers from migraines and that helps.’
‘That’s kind but...’ Her words petered out as he ordered the tea then replaced the phone.
‘Just try it, okay? If it doesn’t work you can leave it.’ He straightened and stepped back, putting distance between them. ‘I’ll stay till it’s delivered so you don’t have to get up.’
She opened her mouth then shut it, surveying him with pain-clouded eyes. Again that stab to his gut. He frowned and turned towards the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder. ‘You’re safe with me, Imogen. I have no ulterior motives.’ Not now, at any rate. ‘Trust me. I was a Boy Scout, did I tell you?’
When he returned with a damp flannel, he caught the wry twist of her lips.
‘I’m to trust you because you were a Boy Scout?’ Her voice was pain-roughened but there was that note of almost-laughter he’d found so attractive earlier.
‘Of course. Ready to serve and always prepared.’ He brushed back a few escaped locks of hair and placed the flannel on her forehead.
She sighed, and he made himself retreat rather than trace that glossy, silk-soft hair again. He pulled up a chair and sat a couple of metres from the bed.
Shimmering, half-lidded eyes met his. ‘Are all Frenchmen so take-charge?’
‘Are all Australian women so obstinate?’
A tiny smile curved her lips, and she shut her eyes. Ridiculously that smile felt like a victory.
* * *
The musical chimes of a mobile phone grew louder, drawing the attention of other café patrons. It was only then that Imogen realised it was her phone chirping away in her bag. In a fit of out-with-the-old-Imogen energy, she’d decided the old, plain ring tone was boring, swapping it for a bright pop tune.
‘Hello?’
‘Imogen?’ His voice was smooth and warm, deep enough to make her shiver.
‘Thierry?’ The word was a croak of surprise. She’d berated herself all morning for wishing last night hadn’t ended the way it had.
The fact Thierry had stayed so long only showed how dreadful she must have looked. And that he was what her mum would have called ‘a true gentleman’.
‘How are you today? Are you feeling better?’
‘Good, thank you. I’m fit as a fiddle.’ An exaggeration—those headaches always left her wrung out. But she was perking up by the moment. ‘How are you?’
There was a crack of laughter, and Imogen’s hand tightened on the phone. Even from a distance his laugh melted something inside. She sank back in her chair, noticing for the first time a blue patch of sky through the grey cloud.
‘All the better for hearing your voice.’
She blinked, registering his deep, seductive tone. Her blood pumped faster and she tried to tell herself she imagined it. Nothing, she knew, put men off as much as illness. Even illness by proxy. For a moment Scott’s face swam in her vision till she banished it.
‘How did you get my number?’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Your mobile was on the bedside table last night.’
‘You took the number down?’
‘You’re annoyed?’
Annoyed? ‘No. Not at all.’ Surprised. Delighted. Excited! A little buzz of pleasure zoomed through her.
As she watched, the blue patch of sky grew and a beam of sunlight glanced down on the wet cobblestones, making them gleam. The café door opened behind her and the delicious aroma of fresh coffee drifted out.
‘What’s on your agenda this evening? Night-time bungee jumping? Motorcycle lessons? Or maybe that ghost tour?’
She smiled, enjoying his teasing. ‘I’m still deciding between a couple of options.’ Like a long bubble bath, painting her nails scarlet or gathering her courage and finding the dance venue Saskia had mentioned.
‘How would you like dinner at the Eiffel Tower? There’s an unexpected vacancy.’
‘There is?’ She sat up. ‘But I couldn’t get a reservation when I tried.’
‘There’s one for you now if you want it.’
‘Of course I want it!’ She squashed a howl of disappointment at the idea of dining in such a romantic setting alone. But she was a pragmatist. She’d learned to face hard truths. Thierry felt sorry for her after last night and had arranged this treat. ‘It was kind of you to do that, Thierry. Thank you.’
‘Excellent. I’ll collect you at eight.’
‘Eight?’ She blinked, dazed. He was collecting her? He was taking her to dinner?
‘Yes. See you then.’
He ended the call, and Imogen stared at the phone. Thierry Girard, the most drool-worthy, fascinating, charming man she’d ever met, was taking her to dinner? She didn’t know whether to be stunned or nervous.
She settled for thrilled.
* * *
Imogen felt like she floated on air as they drove back to her hotel. The evening had been perfect. The food, the wine, the company, the weight of Thierry’s gaze on her like a touch.
When he surveyed the dress of green and bronze her sister Izzy had created, his eyes lingered appreciatively. But when his attention roved again and again to Imogen’s bare throat and shoulders, and especially her lips, heat coiled inside, like a clock wound too tight.
It made her laughter at his outrageous stories die, replaced by a hunger that no food could remedy. Was it possible to explode with sheer longing for a man’s touch?
Did she have the nerve to follow through? Casual sex wasn’t in her repertoire. Yet there was nothing casual about how Thierry made her feel.
The question was, what did he feel? Was tonight a random kindness to a stranger or something else? Imogen wished she knew. She had absolutely no experience of high-octane, sophisticated men like Thierry Girard.
He stopped the car before her hotel and she turned towards him, only to find he was already out the door, striding around the car. A moment later her door swung open and he was helping her out.
Now. Ask him now before he says goodnight.
But her throat jammed as he hooked her hand over his arm and led her into the grand hotel—her big splurge on this end-of-a-lifetime