‘This was left downstairs for you.’ He held a square brown envelope in his hand.
Ana’s mind blanked for a second, then she remembered. ‘Why do you have it?’
‘The concierge said it was delivered moments before I came. I told him I’d deliver it to you.’
‘How kind of you.’ She held out her hand. ‘Can I have it?’
‘What’s in the envelope, Ana?’ he asked tersely.
Shock battled with a sensation curiously similar to a delicious thrill of pleasure. A second later she realised Bastien hadn’t even noticed that he’d used her first name. Out of nowhere came a deep yearning to hear him call her Ana again. But not like that. She wanted him to say her name and mean it. She wanted him to say her name with pleasure.
Ruthlessly, she pushed the fanciful thought away. That was never going to happen. Desolation settled deep within her.
‘You open it,’ she prompted softly.
A flicker of surprise lit his eyes. Perhaps he’d been expecting her to fight him. But some time in the last few hours Ana had decided that if they were to spend the next three weeks together she couldn’t keep locking horns with him. Her control wouldn’t sustain the battering.
‘If you want to know what’s in the envelope, open it.’
He ripped it open immediately. Ana watched his eyes widen as he encountered the cold plastic. His gaze shot down and he stared at the object in his hand.
‘I asked your company doctor this morning if he could replace my inhaler. He promised to have it delivered here this afternoon.’
The doorbell rang. Bastien didn’t seem to hear it. He continued to stare at the inhaler.
Ana went to walk past him to get the door. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. A frown creased his brow.
‘Ana...’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you. But it really is just an inhaler.’
The bell rang again. She pulled at her arm.
He let her go.
With a cold lump of despair lodged in her chest, Ana answered the door.
* * *
Bastien raked a hand through his hair, the unsettling feeling from this afternoon surging higher. He glanced down again at the inhaler. The stark reminder that Ana had a potentially life-threatening condition made his chest tighten.
All afternoon he’d tried not to think about their conversation—tried not to admit to himself that her words held any truth. No one had dared challenge him on why he refused to let emotion rule his life. Until her.
He’d remained in a foul mood right up until he’d been handed that package downstairs. Then it had taken a turn for the worse.
Remorse stung deep now, unnerving him further. When had he ever felt the need to apologise for anything? Yet now the urge to make things right needled him.
He stood aside to let the waiter wheel the trolley into the dining room. Ana followed, her lush figure swaying seductively. She was wearing those damned jeans again. The sight of the exposed lower curve of her bottom made him swallow. Hard. Fire roared through his blood as his gaze touched on more bare flesh.
His gaze travelled upwards, taking in the indentation of her slender waist and the golden triangles of skin exhibited there too. When he saw the straps of her flesh-coloured bra the fire raged into an inferno. Yesterday she’d forgone the bra—no doubt to avoid a fashion faux pas the way some women went without underwear to avoid a visible panty line. So why did the sight of the bra inflame his senses so much more than its absence had?
He forced his gaze away from temptation. Unfortunately the waiter had no such compunction, his gaze openly appreciative.
‘C’est tout,’ Bastien snarled. He stalked him to the door, barely resisting the urge to slam it, and returned to find Ana seated, lifting the lid on the dishes.
‘This looks delicious. I’m absolutely starving.’
‘Then help yourself,’ he replied. His voice was terse but he couldn’t help it. Shock, confusion and intense desire tended to do that to a man. Sustained for long periods of time, who knew its repercussions?
‘Would you like me to serve you?’
For one hot, inappropriate moment Bastien’s mind lit on a completely different interpretation of that question. The images that bombarded him made him suck in a strained breath. He looked down at the plate her hand, at the spoon poised over the rosti and grilled lamb.
Reeling his thoughts in under fierce guard, he sat down next to her and put her inhaler on the table.
‘I owe you an apology.’
The spoon wavered in her hand. Reaching across, he gently removed it from her grasp.
‘Let me.’ He spooned several helpings onto her plate, set it down in front of her and served himself. ‘I had no right to question you about the package. Je suis désolé.’
Her eyes widened and she nodded. ‘Apology accepted.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘The last two days have been little...challenging—although I can’t say I would’ve done the same in your shoes.’
Bastien grimaced. Knowing he deserved the barbed accusation, he picked up and held out the wine bottle. At her nod, he uncorked it and poured the rich burgundy into her glass. Filling his own glass, he drank deep.
She took a mouthful of food and groaned. ‘This is seriously good!’ Her gaze dropped to his plate. ‘You haven’t tasted yours yet.’
‘No,’ he replied, and drank more wine. Mon Dieu, he was turning into a raging alcoholic—and all because of the woman sitting across from him. The woman who challenged him, made him question himself and the presence of the ache deep inside he’d thought he’d smothered for good.
‘Well, don’t blame me if I eat all of it.’
‘Go ahead. A woman who doesn’t complain about piling on the pounds at the mere sight of food makes a refreshing change.’
Her husky self-conscious laugh played havoc with his equilibrium. ‘I didn’t actually mean that. I’m not that much of a pig.’
‘Trust me, a pig is the last thing I think of when I look at you.’
Her eyes rounded.
Advising himself that it was best not to keep looking into those captivating brown depths, he resolutely picked up his fork. ‘What’s likely to trigger an attack?’
‘My asthma?’
He nodded.
‘I’ve only suffered one serious attack, so I’d say I’m generally risk-free.’ She shrugged, causing one sleeve to slip off her shoulder. ‘But sometimes in the spring, if the pollen count is high, it gets a bit uncomfortable. Heavy smoke isn’t great for me either.’
Bastien frowned. ‘So you don’t know how susceptible you are?’
‘I know what to stay away from and what situations I’ll be okay in.’
‘Yet that didn’t stop you from putting yourself in danger by attending your friend’s party?’
‘I can’t live my life in fear of an attack,’ she said, after swallowing another mouthful.
Bastien abandoned his meal and picked up his glass. ‘No, but—’
‘I took my inhaler with me,’ she interrupted, glaring at him.
He was being heavy-handed again. He looked into his glass, slowly swirling his drink, and forced himself to calm down. ‘And we all know how that