‘Fine.’ She nodded. Smiled brightly. ‘Thanks.’
Luc drove towards his apartment but not there directly, because he unbelievably took a wrong turn in the streets he’d known since childhood and was forced to backtrack.
Upstairs, he poured whiskey and stood at his window, gazing out over the rooftops, thinking. No, attempting to grasp onto a thought and hold it still.
Of all the women on earth for him to have accidentally impregnated … To think he’d been condemning his cousin’s abuse of her, when now he himself had caused her—this.
He hunched as hot shame rocked through him. Shame on Luc Valentin. Shame, shame, shame.
The ironies weren’t lost on him.
His ex-lover choosing to have a baby with another man. His new lover—would she even agree to being called that?—reluctantly pregnant with his child.
If it was his.
He tried to think through all the things she’d ever told him about Rémy and the break-up. The time in the boathouse, that moment of exultation when she’d produced the battered package from her purse.
He knew what some guys would think. Had she really just taken the test today? Was it possible she’d come to Paris to snare him, knowing all along she was pregnant? With his cousin’s child?
For money?
The image of her face, her gentle womanly dignity when he’d questioned her in the Gardens resurfaced. Shamed him afresh. Scathed him. Mon Dieu, what was he doing? Attempting to escape responsibility?
Needing to escape himself, he locked the apartment behind him, took the creaking old lift down and plunged into the streets.
The lights were glittering all over the city as the evening deepened. Luc strode along in the brisk air, hunched into his jacket, hands in pockets, attempting to clear his mind.
He was a rational guy. In charge of his life. It wasn’t such a big thing, after all. People dealt with these little surprises all the time. All the time.
He’d been with Manon when he’d dreamed of them having the child. That time was gone now, destroyed, but he’d learned from it. The male of the species didn’t have the right to impose his children on an unwilling female. He could see the justice of that. How some guys still managed to get away with it was a mystery.
An unbidden image of him and Shari with a child flashed through his head, and he banished it. Even if she wanted that, it would never work. Somehow, over the years, disillusionment had accumulated on his heart like so much snow.
Anyway, she’d made it clear she’d never again chance the domestic partnership model. He could well imagine her expression if he suggested anything as archaic as marriage. For all her gentleness and fragility, she could be as sharp as a knife.
She’d laugh in his face. And after her experience with Rémy, who could blame her?
No. In this case the rational decision was the only one. He’d support her through it, every step of the way.
Hopefully what she had to go through wouldn’t be too painful. His gut clenched.
The restaurants were filling, people strolling to their entertainments. Tourists, students. He recognised a few of the locals from his neighbourhood. All at once he saw the guy from the boulangerie. He was with his wife, laughing with her as they crossed the street.
Luc could see the bulge of something the guy was transporting carefully inside his down jacket, wine bottles perhaps. When they drew nearer and the guy sharpened in focus, Luc saw with a searing pang that the zipper had been pulled down a little to allow a small curly head to peep out.
He turned his face away.
Shari had a good cry in the bath, then got out. Carefully. Her disappointment was cruel, but not a sensible option. Oh, how she hated that word. For a while there she’d imagined she’d glimpsed something more than desire in Luc’s dark gaze, more than the amused affection that naturally existed between lovers who’d enjoyed some pleasant intimacy between the sheets.
Maybe if they lived in the same country she’d have a chance with him. But there was no use wanting someone who viewed her as a temporary diversion.
Realising that despite everything she really felt quite genuinely hungry, as if she could actually eat, she dressed in her other jeans and soft blue sweater, adding a pale cream scarf in case, and went down to the restaurant.
The potage du jour turned out to be a nourishing vegetable soup. Combined with crusty bread, it was food fit for angels, always supposing angels could eat. Afterwards, feeling fortified enough for anything, she asked the desk manager for an Internet key.
Luc followed the clerk’s directions up to the mezzanine. Through the open office door he saw Shari seated at a desk, her blonde head bent in study of a screen. She was so deeply immersed he knocked twice before she heard him. ‘Ça va?’
She started, glancing up. ‘Oh. I thought you were meaning to phone.’
‘I needed to see you. Face to face.’
He saw her eyes light up as she searched his face for … what?
Seeing her in the flesh, he ached to touch her, hold her, but he could hardly muscle her out of her chair. Not in her condition.
He stood a little way from her, held back by an invisible line. ‘Did you sleep?’
‘I tried, but my brain kept going round.’
‘Thinking about—it?’ He grimaced.
She looked wary. ‘What else?’
A flicker at the edge of his vision caused him to glance at the computer screen. There was an image of this large glowing ball. A sunburst, or something.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll see a doctor. Have it confirmed. Take any steps that need to be taken.’
She moistened her lips. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to see a doctor.’
He felt a bolt of surprise. ‘But … we must ensure you’re safe. I’ve heard it said that these things are better attended to sooner rather than later.’ He noticed a tension in her posture, though she spoke quite casually, her eyes lowered.
‘The steps, you mean?’
‘Alors, the—the medical support, the—everything.’
He had the sudden sensation his words weren’t getting through.
She swivelled her chair a little so she was angled away from him. Her back was straight, her hands clenched on the desk. ‘Luc—I’m going home tomorrow.’
The news shocked through him like a blow. Resistance burned inside his chest. Mon Dieu, this … This was surely a reproach, a lack of confidence in his response as a concerned, honourable guy.
‘Mais, Shari, chérie …’ He made to grasp her arm, then restrained himself when he saw her start back. It wasn’t quite a flinch, but close, and it shocked him. He remembered a couple of other times he’d noticed her brace herself as if expecting physical force, and the dismayed thought occurred to him that she didn’t trust him, either. Even after they’d been together. After the things they’d said. Things she’d shared with him about Rémy.
It wasn’t easy with all this churning inside ramping up his blood pressure, but he made a stern effort to moderate his tone, slow himself down. Not to sound so—forceful.
He said with difficulty, ‘I thought we agreed you would stay longer.’
‘Things were different then. Anyway, I didn’t really