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

‘Damn right it’s not my fault. If anyone is to blame, then it’s you because this , the way you make me feel, is all your fault.’

He looked at her for a long, searing moment before hauling her even closer into his chest, and claimed her mouth with his. It was passionate, bruising, all-encompassing. Pascal’s hands held her easily, pressing her close into his fast-burgeoning arousal. And she did nothing to stop him because she couldn’t. Didn’t want to. He hadn’t touched her since it had all come out. And she needed this, wanted him so badly that nothing else mattered but him here, right now, with his mouth on hers, giving her life. Restoring sanity, while taking it away spectacularly.

He pulled back after a long, incendiary moment. They were both breathing fast, hearts thumping in unison. She looked up at him helplessly, aghast at how even now he had the power to render her speechless with just a kiss.

When he spoke, it made something cold descend into Alana’s belly; his voice was so cool, so devoid of the passion she felt in his body. ‘Have you also forgotten that you’re carrying my child? And for that reason alone, if nothing else, you will be afforded my protection whether you like it or not. This isn’t just about us any more, Alana.’

Now Alana stood at the window of Pascal’s top-floor apartment near the Champs-Elysées in Paris, arms folded. The view over the Parisian rooftops was stunning, taking in the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. Where the apartment in Rome had had something homely about it, something Alana had instinctively preferred, this was sumptuous on another level. The antiques and priceless art, the luxurious curtains and ankle-deep carpets screamed decadence.

She sighed and turned to survey the room again. Despite its objects, its gilded antique furniture, it felt empty somehow. They’d arrived yesterday evening. Pascal had overseen her pack her things in her house and had then escorted her through the crush in the square. In his car on the way to the airport she’d made her calls, explaining to her parents that she was going away for a while to let things die down. They had been understandably concerned, and to her surprise Pascal had taken the phone out of her hand and had reassured her father that she would be fine, giving him his phone numbers and also assuring them that their protection wouldn’t be lifted until Pascal was sure they would be left in peace. His easy reassurance had made her hackles rise, but had also conversely alleviated her awful, burning guilt.

Pascal had shown her to a separate bedroom when they’d arrived, clearly having had no expectation that she would share with him, and Alana had to wonder now what her role would be. And why she felt so confused about that—about what she wanted. This was exacerbated by the fact that she’d barely seen him since then. After having showed her where everything was, pointing out some food ready-prepared for eating, he’d informed her that he had work to do and had disappeared into a study.

Then this morning, he’d been up and gone to work when she’d emerged from her room, feeling like a train wreck, even after an amazingly deep sleep. He’d left a note on the kitchen counter with a long list of numbers and assistants’ names. His writing was as distinctive and boldly authoritative as him:

If you need anything, just call. I’ve set up an account in your name at my bank with funds, should you need anything. My assistant will be around shortly with bank cards. Please make yourself at home. I will be back late, so don’t wait up. I’ll be eating out.

Pascal.

And just like that, here she was—pregnant with Pascal Lévêque’s child, at the centre of a storm of controversy at home and conveniently sidelined to … where, exactly?

‘I’ve made an appointment with a gynaecologist near here for tomorrow morning. You need to start thinking about yourself and the baby.’

Alana bristled; as if she’d had time to think about anything else. She’d hardly seen Pascal, had walked what felt like the length and breadth of Paris on her own, and now he was ordering her around only minutes after coming in the apartment door at the end of a long, lonely week for her. She lashed out at his easy assumption that she was here for good. ‘I’d prefer if I could choose my own doctor, thanks, and there are plenty of gynaecologists in Dublin.’

A muscle clenched in his jaw. Alana was trying to ignore the way he looked so sexy in his suit. Suddenly to be faced with him after days of not touching him was making her equilibrium very shaky. She had to wonder if she’d imagined that kiss in her house the day he’d taken her away. Was their affair, in fact, over for him? Had the pregnancy killed his desire?

‘She’s the best in Paris. And who said anything about having the baby in Dublin? You’re here now, Alana.’

Her eyes clashed with his, and her hands clenched at her sides as she regarded him across the kitchen where she’d followed him when he’d arrived home. Now she regretted the puppy-dog-like impulse. And her insecurity. ‘I don’t believe we’ve actually discussed this, Pascal. I have every intention of having my baby at home. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just here until things die down.’

‘You mean, our baby.’

‘I mean, my baby. This is not a traditional relationship. I’ve no problem with you being involved, but I’m making the decisions to do with my body and how I want this to proceed.’

‘The medical system here is one of the best in the world,’ he declared arrogantly, and Alana opened her mouth but faltered. He was right.

‘That may be so. But when this baby is born, I’m going to want the support of my family. Here I’ve no one.’ Alana felt a rising sense of panic that Pascal would just keep her here, like some kind of animal in a zoo.

She had her hand on her belly again, in an unconscious gesture of protection. She was dressed down in jeans and a loose shirt, and Pascal could see the outline of her bra underneath, white and plain, and yet more seductive than the flimsiest lingerie he’d seen on her yet—the memory of which was all too vivid. His jaw ached from holding it so tight. His belly burned with a fire that only the woman in front of him could quench, and he knew that would only be momentary. One taste of her and he’d want more. Much more. His body thrummed with sexual hunger, but it was a hunger he feared would hurt her, it was so strong.

That was why he found himself in the novel position of holding himself back. His head was scrambled. Alana wasn’t just his lover any more, she was the mother of his unborn child. That elevated her to a place he wasn’t quite sure he knew how to navigate. He knew nothing about pregnant women. So he’d done what he thought was best, given her some space—himself, too, if he was honest. The knowledge of impending fatherhood was bringing up all sorts of long-unexplored emotions and memories, not least of which was this desire to nurture and protect. He’d buried himself deep in work to try and avoid being alone with her as much as possible. But his good intentions were feeling very elusive now as she stood in front of him with bare feet, hair down, looking as sexily undone as his most rampant fantasy. Not a scrap of artifice or make-up.

‘You’re telling me that you will expect the support of your family, when up until now you’ve had no problem shunning it?’

Alana blanched. How was it that he could see her coming from three-thousand miles away? And why had she felt compelled to tell him all about her family?

‘You haven’t even told your parents yet.’

He was remorseless, and Alana felt exposed. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone until the three-month mark, when it’s safer. Anything could happen between now and then. It’s such early days, we might not … It might not even …’