Fiona McArthur - Escape For Mother's Day - The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress

He shook his head. ‘Not at all.’ He put her case down at the bottom of the king-sized bed that was dressed in Egyptian cotton. ‘This is your room, Alana.’

He walked to the door and gestured across the hall to where she could see in through an open door to another dimly lit large room, dressed in more masculine tones. ‘That’s my room.’ He turned then and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Obviously I would prefer you to share my room with me, but it’ll be your move to make.’

Alana bit her lip. He couldn’t know how important it was to her that he wasn’t pushing her. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

He held out a hand. ‘Leave your things there. You must be hungry; I’ll prepare us something to eat downstairs.’

Alana shrugged off her jacket to lay it over the back of a chair, and felt the energy zip up her arm when she took his hand.

‘You can cook?’ she asked a little breathlessly as he led her out in her stockinged feet.

He glanced back with a smile. ‘I can just about manage to burn some pasta and tomato sauce. Are you hungry?’

Just then her stomach rumbled. She smiled too. ‘Starving.’

With a full stomach and a languorous feeling snaking through her bones, Alana walked around the downstairs living-area with a glass of wine in her hand, looking at Pascal’s prints and sculptures. She was transfixed by one photograph; something about it was very familiar. It was black and white, an old man’s face, gnarled and lined, very dark, even a hint of some other exotic lineage. His eyes were remarkable, deep set and black, holding such a wealth of emotion that Alana could feel it reach out and envelop her. There was everything in that expression: regret, pain, love, passion, disappointment, hope.

‘That’s my grandfather.’

She turned round. Pascal was a few feet behind her, looking at the photograph. She could see the resemblance now, except Pascal’s eyes were unreadable.

‘Did you take it?’

He shook his head. In an instant Pascal knew instinctively that Alana had seen the same things he saw whenever he looked at the picture. No one else had ever stood transfixed by it before. It made something feel weak in his chest. He avoided her eye, his voice gruff. ‘No; my talents lie solely in facts and figures. This was taken by an American photographer who was travelling around the south of France. After my grandfather died, I tracked him down and got a print.’

‘You must have been very close; you mentioned that you spent time with him.’

Pascal just nodded. She didn’t probe any more. She understood the need to keep things back. She knew he was watching her as she continued to walk around, taking sips of wine, feeling the surface of a smooth Roman bust beneath her fingers.

Every one of Pascal’s senses was pulled as taut as a bow string as he watched her hand smooth over the head of the bust, wanting her hand to be smoothing over him. He had to wonder if perhaps her air of vulnerability, her apparent lack of experience, was all an act, designed to entice, tease, seduce. She’d let her hair down, and it was slightly tousled from where she’d run her hands through it, but it wasn’t tousled enough for him yet.

She turned then, and he could see that her glass of wine was empty. He made as if to get the bottle and top her up, but she shook her head jerkily. She was going to make him wait; he knew it. She wasn’t ready. His desire, already at boiling point, would have to settle to a simmer for now.

Alana had turned with every intention of asking for some more wine, but she could already feel the effects. Desire hung between them, heavy and potent. Too much too soon. Pascal stood just feet away, but when he moved as if to give her some more she shook her head. She couldn’t do this now. She wasn’t ready, and she could see that he’d already read that in her expression before she’d known it herself. That disconcerted her. She wasn’t used to people intuiting her intentions.

‘You must be tired.’

She forced a smile. She was anything but. ‘I was up early. Would you mind if I went to bed?’ ‘Alone’ hung between them along with the desire, but it seemed to make it even heavier, denser. Was she doing the right thing? Her body told her no, her head said yes.

He shook his head, jaw rigid, eyes black. ‘Of course not. What time do you have to be in work tomorrow?’

Such banalities.

Alana glanced at her watch, but didn’t even register the time. ‘I have to meet the crew in Stadio Flaminio at midday; the kick-off is at 3:00 p.m.’

He nodded. ‘My car will take you in and come back for me.’

‘If you’re sure? I could get a taxi.’

He shook his head almost violently, and Alana knew the sudden urge to leave, get away now. It was as if his control was barely leashed.

He took the glass from her hand. ‘ Dors bien , Alana.’

WHEN Alana reached her room, she was breathing hard. She went straight into her en suite bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes over-bright. Her body was too sensitive, and an ache throbbed down low in her belly and between her legs. She dropped her head, hands gripping the edge of the sink.

She went back out into the bedroom and fooled herself into believing that she was doing what she wanted by unpacking her clothes and taking out her toiletries. A silk dress slithered out of her trembling hands to the ground. She picked it up. She’d pulled it out of her wardrobe on a whim. It was one of the very few dresses she’d kept from her days with Ryan, and she hadn’t worn it since her marriage had ended. Ryan had derided her when she’d worn it first, as it hadn’t been revealing enough for him … or, more accurately, for the press, who he’d constantly wanted to impress. But in actual fact it was plenty revealing, and way more than Alana had been comfortable with. Up to now.

She hung it up abruptly, refusing to think about why she’d brought it.

As she was about to start undressing, she stopped and sat on the edge of the bed. Her heart was thumping slow, heavy beats. She was shaking. Adrenaline washed through her system. Her body already knew what was inevitable. She couldn’t deny it to herself. It was as if the centre of her being had become magnetised and could only go in one direction.

She walked back over to the door and opened it. The only light came from downstairs. She paused at the top of the stairs. He was still down there, sitting on the couch, long legs splayed in front of him, in bare feet, the dregs of a glass of wine in his hands into which he was staring broodily. Fear assailed Alana again, and she almost fled, but then he looked up.

Tension snaked up from him to her and an unspoken plea: don’t go. She realised that she couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to. She came down the stairs, clinging onto the rail as she went. She was melting inside as she came closer and closer. Her clothes felt restrictive.

She got to the bottom. Without taking his eyes off hers, he carefully placed his glass on the small table at his feet and stood up. She concentrated on his eyes—dark, molten.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

He didn’t smile, but she heard the smile in his voice. ‘You were only gone ten minutes.’

‘I know I won’t be able to sleep.’

‘What do you want, Alana?’

She shook her head. ‘I want … I want …’ Her face flamed. ‘You know what I want. Don’t make me say it, please.’

‘Show me what you want.’ His voice was soft, silky, heavy with erotic promise.

He was making her come to him all the way. Making sure.

Alana stepped forward jerkily until she was standing right in front of him. She could barely breathe. They hardly touched, and now she lifted her hands to his shoulders. They were so much wider and higher than she remembered. She took another couple of awkward steps. He was making no move to help her.