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

‘Time,’ Alana said stupidly, suddenly wanting very much instead that they could make love on the floor right now. She had an erotic flash of an image: kneeling at his feet and taking him into her mouth. The shocking heat that inflamed her made her feel weak. Where had that desire come from? She’d never even done that with Ryan. She’d never even thought that she found it sexy. But the thought of driving Pascal to the edge of all endurance was intoxicating in the extreme.

‘Yes, time. Let’s eat and have some wine.’ He cut through the fevered images in her wanton imagination and pushed her towards the bathroom door, and then out and down the stairs to the sitting room. A bottle of wine sat open with two glasses. Alana felt stone-cold sober all of a sudden, which wasn’t surprising as she hadn’t drunk all evening, but bizarrely she also felt drunk, heady … something very nebulous and disturbing.

He poured wine into their glasses and busied himself with something at the oven. Although Alana was in a robe, Pascal wore faded jeans and a plain shirt that was haphazardly buttoned, showing the light smattering of hair on his chest and a sliver of hard-muscled, olive-skinned belly. Alana took a quick sip of wine. He really did have the honed body of an athlete—again something niggled at her about that, but it was wispy and eluded her.

‘Look,’ she started nervously. ‘I’m sorry about … running out like that. I’m not normally so dramatic.’

Pascal closed the oven door and slanted her a look before taking a sip of wine from his own glass.

Alana flushed. ‘We should still be there. Didn’t you have to make some kind of speech?’

Pascal shrugged noncommittally. ‘My assistant did it. It’s no big deal, really; I wouldn’t have even been here necessarily if it hadn’t been for the match happening on the same day. It was an opportunity to drum up publicity and kill two birds with one stone. But, no.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘I would much prefer to be here with you.’

She flushed again, unused to being flattered. ‘Well. Thank you. Next time—’

She stopped abruptly, her eyes flying to his with a sickening feeling as she realised what she’d been about to say—she’d been about to imply that there would be a next time.

‘That is, I don’t mean—’

Pascal hushed her and came round the counter, pulling her into him. ‘Next time I’m not going to let you out of my sight, so there will be no room for any confusion or misinterpretation, OK?’

Her mouth was dry and she just nodded.

He let her go and moved back, smiling easily, charmingly, and her world tilted all over again. ‘Now, how about you tell me about this lounge-lizard of yours?’

Alana shuddered delicately at the memory, realising that it had shaken her more than she cared to admit, but talking about it would lessen it. She told Pascal and acted out his slimy manoeuvres, and by the time she’d finished they were both laughing, and Pascal admitted that he knew exactly who she was talking about. Apparently the man was famous for pouncing on vulnerable-looking women. Their easy intimacy and Pascal’s ability to make her feel protected, to make her feel like she could trust him, was sucking Alana into a veritable whirlpool that she feared it would be nigh impossible to climb back out of.

The following evening, as Alana looked at the Italian capital grow smaller and smaller beneath her, she got hot in the face again thinking of the previous night. The erotic fantasy she’d had in the bathroom had become a reality. Pascal had let her push him to the edge of his endurance. She groaned inwardly; she seemed to be in a permanent state of heat since she met him.

She was alone on his private jet on her way back to Dublin. He was taking a commercial flight back to Paris, and he hadn’t taken no for an answer when she’d objected. He’d flown her to him, and now he was flying her home. Just like that. As if flying someone on a private jet was banal, ordinary. Easy. And she had to concede, for someone like him who strode through life and got what they wanted with a click of their fingers, of course it was easy. Accolades, money, women, beautiful houses—easy come, easy go. And she’d put herself firmly in that category, made no bones about the fact that she was fine with that.

She finally turned away from the view and recalled the stern set of his features as he’d sent her off, having insisted on accompanying her to the airport. They’d had their first row, of sorts. Except it had been more like a non-row. Alana still couldn’t quite figure what had happened but all she knew was that he hadn’t been happy.

They’d woken late, well into the early afternoon. Pascal had insisted that she see something of Rome, and had taken her to the nearby Trevi Fountain and then to a tiny restaurant tucked away from the hordes of tourists. The food had been sublime, authentic Italian cuisine at its best. The experience had been intimate, the table so small that their legs had been all but entwined underneath, and it had been easier for their hands to stay linked, too, separating only when the food arrived.

It was when they’d got back to his apartment so that Alana could pack; they’d been standing in the kitchen and she’d been watching Pascal percolate some coffee. He’d turned round and said easily, ‘There’s so much more you should see. But we can do it again.’

Alana had immediately reacted to his words at a very deep, visceral level, an instant negation of something very fleeting and wishful rising up inside her. ‘Oh, well, yes. I’m sure I’ll be back at some stage.’

It was the way she’d said ‘I’ that got his attention, and she knew it. Even though he said nothing—at first. And then he did say, ‘I meant when you come back here with me.’

Alana took the coffee he handed her and walked away into the living room, holding the cup between suddenly chilled hands. She schooled her features and turned back round to face him, forcing her voice to sound as casual as she could. ‘You really don’t have to say that, you know.’

He took a sip of coffee, his eyes narrowed disconcertingly on her face. She was glad that he was still behind the island in the kitchen.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Alana gave a little laugh, which sounded fake to her ears. ‘I mean, you don’t have to do this … reassurance thing. I really don’t expect you to make me feel like you want me to come back …’ Her words trailed off, diminishing some of the vehemence with which she’d started the statement.

He walked round the island, ridiculously small coffee cup in one hand, his other in the pocket of his jeans. He looked astoundingly gorgeous in a dark sweater. Unconsciously, Alana backed away.

‘Believe me,’ he said throatily, ‘the only thing I want to make you feel right now involves a soft surface and no clothing in our way.’

Alana gulped and took a quick swig of coffee.

‘Look,’ she said weakly, ‘all I’m saying is that I know what this is and I’m fine with that. Really.’

‘And what would that be?’

She shrugged one shoulder; they were still doing a bit of a backward dance around the room, she backing, and he advancing.

‘It’s an affair. A fling.’

His eyebrows raised high. ‘Oh, so that’s what this is?’

Alana winced. No doubt his other lovers were far too experienced and suave to put a name on their experience with him. Suddenly she felt anger rise up. Why was he being so obtuse? Surely she was doing him a favour? She stopped backing away and put her coffee cup down carefully on the low table by the sofa.

She straightened and folded her arms. ‘Look, that’s exactly what it is. We both know that. I’d prefer if we could just be honest about it. What I’m saying to you is that I don’t need to be given any kind of platitudes. I’m not going to be clingy or want anything more. If you said to me right now that this is over, and thanks but goodbye, I’d have no problem walking out of here.’