Kitabı oku: «Escape For Mother's Day», sayfa 3

Alana swallowed the last of her tea and grimaced as she washed out the cup. Pride was a terrible thing, she knew. But it had also given her a modicum of dignity. She’d never confided in anyone about the dire state of her marriage, had never told anyone about the day she’d walked into her bedroom to find Ryan in bed with three women who’d turned out to be call girls. They’d all been high on cocaine. He’d been too out of it to realise that it wasn’t even his bedroom. By then, it had been at least three years since they’d shared a bed.

That had been the day that her humiliation had reached saturation point. The pressure of having to maintain a façade of a happy marriage had tipped over into unbearability. She’d left and filed for divorce.

But her wily husband had quickly made sure that it looked as though Alana had coldly kicked him out. She hadn’t suspected his motives when he’d sheepishly offered to move out instead of her. But she should have known. The man she’d married had changed beyond all recognition as soon as he’d started earning enormous fees and tasted the heady heights of what it was to be a national superstar.

Admitting that she’d failed at her marriage had been soul destroying. She hadn’t wanted to confide the awful reality of it to anyone. Even if she had wanted to, her father’s health had been frail, and her mother had been focused solely on him. And, around the same time, one of her elder sisters had been diagnosed with breast cancer. With her sister having three children, and Alana being the only childless sibling and suddenly single again, she had moved into her sister’s home to help her brother-in-law for the few months that Màire had spent getting treatment. Alana’s marital problems had taken a backseat, and she’d been glad of the distraction while the divorce was worked out. She’d kept herself to herself and shunned her family’s well-meaning probing, too heart-sore and humiliated even to talk about it.

It was exactly as Pascal had intuited last night, and she hated to admit that. It had been so hard, coming from a family of successfully married siblings, to be the only one to fail and to cause her parents such concern. Her monumental lack of judgement haunted her to this day. She obviously couldn’t trust herself when it came to character assessment, never mind another man. And Pascal Lévêque was ringing so many bells that it should make it easy to reject his advances.

Alana brusquely pulled on her coat and got her keys. She refused to let her mind wander where it wanted: namely down a route that investigated the possibility of giving in to Pascal Lévêque’s advances. Alana reassured herself that by now he’d have forgotten the wholly unremarkable Irish woman who had piqued his interest for thirty-six hours.

Thirty-six hours. That’s all it had been. And yet it wasn’t enough. Pascal stood at the window of his Paris office and looked out over the busy area of La Défense with its distinctive Grande Arche in the distance.

Alana Cusack was taking up a prominence in his head that was usually reserved for facts and figures. Ordinarily he could compartmentalise women very well; they didn’t intrude on his every waking hour. They were for pleasure only, and fleeting pleasure at that. The minute he saw that look come into their eye, or heard that tone come into their voice, it was time to say goodbye. He enjoyed his freedom, the thrill of the chase, the conquest. No strings, no commitment.

But now a green-eyed, buttoned-up, starchy-collared, impertinent-questioning witch was making a hum of sexual frustration throb through his blood. He had to get her out of his system. Prove to himself that his desire had only been whetted because she was playing hard to get, and only because she seemed to be a little more intriguing than any other woman he’d met. The fact that she’d been married intrigued him too. Her marriage had obviously left her scarred. That had been clear from a mile away. Was that why she was so prickly, so uptight and defensive, so wary? Was she still grieving for her husband?

Pascal ran a hand through his hair impatiently. Enough! He turned his back on the view and called his PA into the room. She listened to his instructions and took down all the details, and she was professional enough not to give Pascal any indication that what he’d just asked her to do was in any way out of the ordinary.

But it was.

‘There’s something for you on your desk, Alana.’

‘Thanks, Soph,’ Alana answered distractedly as she flipped through her notes on her return from a lunchtime interview and walked into her tiny cubbyhole office just off the main newsroom. She looked up for a quick second to smile at Sophie, the general runaround girl, and her smile faltered when she saw the other girl’s clearly mischievous look. With foreboding in her heart, Alana opened her door, and there on her desk was the biggest bunch of flowers she’d ever seen in her life. Her notebook and pen slid from her fingers onto the table. With a trembling hand, she plucked the card free from amongst the ridiculously extravagant blooms.

She cast a quick look back out the door, and seeing no one, quickly shut it. She ripped the envelope open and took out the card, which was of such luxurious quality that it felt about an inch thick between her fingers. All that was written on the card in beautiful calligraphy was one mystifying letter: ‘I …’

She was completely and utterly bemused. Her dread was that they would be from him. But the card was enigmatic. They could actually be from anyone.

Not one person looked at her oddly afterwards, though, not even the junior reporter who covered current affairs who had drunkenly admitted at the office party last Christmas to having a crush on her. It wasn’t her birthday, and she hadn’t done an especially amazing babysitting-stint lately for any nieces or nephews, which sometimes resulted in flowers as a thank-you.

For the rest of the day Alana was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Distracted. She only left and brought the flowers home once she was sure nearly everyone had left the office.

The following day, as Alana walked in, flicking through her post, Sophie again said, ‘Morning! There’s something for you on your desk.’

Alana’s heart stopped. It was like groundhog day. She went into her office with a palpitating heart and shut the door firmly behind her. Another bunch of flowers. Slightly different, but as extravagant as yesterday’s. Her hands were sweating as she repeated the process of opening the envelope and taking out the card. This one read: ‘will …’

By the end of the week Alana sat at the wooden table in her sitting room and felt a little numb. The smell of flowers was overpowering in the tiny artisan-cottage. A vase sat in the centre of the table abundant with blooms. And also on the table in front of her, neatly lined up in a row, were the five cards that had accompanied a different bunch of flowers every single day of the week.

All together, they now made sense: ‘I will see you tonight’.

But of course she’d known what the full meaning of the cards was when she’d received the fifth one that morning. All day she’d experienced a fizzing in her veins and a sick churning in her belly. She’d vaguely thought of going to the cinema, or seeing if friends wanted to go out, anything to avoid being at home where she was sure he was going to call. An awful sense of inevitability washed over her. She wasn’t ready for this. She would just have to make him see that and send him on his way. But still … the gesture, the flowers, and his obvious intention to fly all the way back to Dublin just to see her, was nothing short of overwhelming.

Her phone rang shrilly in the silence and she jumped violently, her heart immediately hammering. Her mouth was dry. ‘Hello?’

‘What’s this about you and Pascal Lévêque?’

Alana sagged onto the arm of her sofa. ‘Ailish.’ Her oldest and bossiest sister was always guaranteed to raise her hackles. Twenty years separated them, and sometimes Ailish came across as a little overbearing to say the least. She meant well, though, which took the sting out of her harsh manner.

‘So? What’s going on? Apparently one of the world’s most eligible bachelors took you out for dinner last weekend.’

Tension held Alana’s body straight. ‘How did you hear about it?’

‘It was in the tabloids today.’

Alana groaned inwardly, wondering how she’d missed that. Someone at work must have leaked the story. God knew, enough people had heard him ask her. And it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to work out who the flowers had been from, either.

‘Look, I interviewed him and he took me for dinner, that’s all. Nothing is going on.’ The betraying vision of her house full to the roof with flowers made her wince.

Her sister harumphed down the phone. ‘Well, I just hope you’re not going to be gracing the tabloids every day with tales of sexual exploits with a Casanova like that. I mean, can you imagine if Mam and Dad saw that? It was bad enough having to defend you to practically the whole nation after you threw Ryan out—’

Alana stood up, her whole body quivering. The memory of her parents’ lined and worried faces was vivid. And her guilt. ‘Ailish, what I do and who I see is none of your business. Do I comment on your marriage to Tom?’

‘You wouldn’t need to,’ replied her sister waspishly. ‘We’re not the ones being discussed over morning coffee by the nation.’

Alana heard her doorbell ring and she automatically went to answer it. ‘Like I said, what I do is none of your business.’ Her sister’s ‘judge and jury’ act made anger throb through her veins, and she knew her voice was rising. She struggled for a minute with the habitually stiff lock, and tucked the phone between her neck and shoulder to use both hands.

‘I am a fully grown woman and I can see who I want, go where I want, and have sex with who I want whenever I please.’

The door finally opened. Her words hung on the cool evening air as she took in the devastatingly gorgeous sight of Pascal Lévêque just standing there, turning her inner-city enclave into something much more exotic. Her heart-rate soared. She’d forgotten all about him in the space of the last few seconds, and the high emotion her sister had been evoking. In her shock she lifted her head and her phone dropped to the ground with a tinny clatter.

Pascal swiftly bent and picked it up.

An irate voice could be heard: ‘Alana? Alana!’

Alana couldn’t take her eyes off Pascal. She took her phone back, lifted it to her ear and said vaguely, ‘Ailish, someone’s just arrived. I’ll call you back, OK?’

Words resounded in her head: too late to escape now.

CHAPTER THREE

BY THE time Alana had stepped back into her house, followed by a tall, dark and imposing Pascal Lévêque, the shock was rapidly wearing off. She crossed her arms and rounded on him with a scowl on her face. Once again he was demonstrating that ability to suck in the space around him and make everything seem more intense—dwarfed. She tried to block out the fact that he was quite simply the most handsome man who’d ever stood feet away from her and looked at her with an intensity that bordered on being indecent.

‘That phone call was a conversation that shouldn’t have had to happen. And it was all your fault.’

He inclined his head slightly. He looked huge in her tiny sitting room. ‘I apologise, but, as all I heard was the intriguing last sentence, you’ll have to forgive me as I don’t know what I’ve done. And we certainly haven’t had sex yet.’

Alana flushed when she recalled what she’d been saying to her sister as she’d opened the door. ‘Did you know that apparently our dinner date was in the papers today?’ Defensive, angry energy radiated off her in waves. She could almost see them, like a heat haze.

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers, hypnotising her. ‘No. I wasn’t aware of that. But of course, there were people at the restaurant, and I would imagine that one or two people heard me ask you at the studio; perhaps it was leaked.’

Alana laughed out loud. ‘One or two? Try the whole crew standing in the room. It’s recorded on tape, for God’s sake.’

He started to shrug off his big, black overcoat and proceeded to whip out a bottle of wine from somewhere, like a magician. Panic flowed through Alana. She put out her hands as if that might halt him. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Stop taking off your coat right now.’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘No way; you are not coming in here with a bottle of wine, and we are not going to be having a cosy chat.’

For a big man he moved swiftly and gracefully. His coat was already draped over one arm, the bottle of red wine in one hand, long fingers visible. She remembered him holding her hands, entwining those fingers with hers. A pulse throbbed between her legs.

She looked up at him and knew she must look slightly desperate—she felt desperate.

‘I don’t mind where we go, Alana, but I’ve come all this way to see you, so you’re not getting away.’

His voice was like deep velvet over steel. He meant what he said.

She gulped. ‘What do you want?’ she asked weakly. He was threatening and invading every aspect of what had been up till now her impregnable defence.

Pascal restrained himself from telling her exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want to frighten her off. But what he wanted very much involved a lot less clothes and a flat, preferably soft surface. She was dressed all in black, her hair tied back. Not a stiff shirt this time, but a roll-neck top that effectively concealed everything. And yet the material had to be cashmere or something, because it clung to her torso and chest, and for the first time he could see the proper shape of her. The thrust of her breasts against the fabric was sensual torture. They were perfectly formed, high and firm. He could imagine that they would fill his hands like ripe, succulent fruits, their tips hardening against the palm of his hand … He slammed the door on his rampant imaginings. His arousal was springing to life. He forced himself to sound reasonable, calm.

‘What I would like is to share this bottle of wine with you and to talk. We can go somewhere else if you’d prefer.’

Alana looked at him suspiciously, hating this invasion of her space. He was as immoveable as a rock. If they went somewhere else that would involve more time. If they stayed here, he’d be gone sooner. She made her reluctant decision and reached out a hand.

‘We might as well stay here. It’s a Friday night; most places in town would be like cattle markets by now.’

Despite her obvious lack of delight at the prospect, Pascal carefully masked the intense surge of triumph he felt and handed over the wine, even being careful to make sure their hands didn’t touch, knowing that could set him back. Dieu! This woman was like an assault on his every sense. He hadn’t imagined her allure, she was more vivid, more sexy, more everything, in the flesh.

As Alana went into the galley-kitchen, she was aware of him moving into the sitting room, hands in the pockets of his trousers and looking around. She sent him a surreptitious glance. He was dressed smartly—dark trousers and a light shirt, top button open as if he’d discarded a tie somewhere. He must have come straight from work—on a private plane? Somehow she couldn’t imagine him queueing up with lesser mortals for a scheduled flight. He was the kind of man who would stride across the tarmac and climb into a sleek, snazzy jet.

‘You got my flowers, I see.’

Alana’s hand stilled on the bottle opener for a moment. She looked at him. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She cringed inwardly. Had he seen the cards all laid out in a row on the table as he’d come in? ‘You shouldn’t have, though. It caused no amount of speculation at work, and I’d really prefer if you didn’t.’ God, she sounded so uptight. And what was to say he’d ever send her flowers again anyway?

‘As you can see, this house isn’t exactly big enough to take them.’

Pascal looked around and thought privately that this was hardly what she must have been used to, as Ryan O’Connor’s wife. It made her even more enigmatic. She was fast proving that, whatever scene she’d been a part of in the past, that was not who she was now. ‘No, I guess not. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Alana, I merely wanted to show you that I meant what I said, about seeing you again, and I didn’t have your number, so …’

Alana stabbed the cork with the bottle opener. ‘It’s fine; forget it. The old-folks’ home around the corner were delighted, as they got the other half of the flower shop you sent.’

She sent him a small, rueful smile then, unable to help herself. She didn’t like being ungrateful for gifts.

Pascal was looking at her with an arrested expression on his face, his eyes intent on the area of her mouth. Her lips tingled. Alana’s hands stopped on the cork. ‘What is it?’

But then his eyes lifted to hers as if she’d imagined it, and he went back to looking at her books and prints. ‘Nothing.’

Eventually she pulled the cork free with a loud pop and got down two glasses from her open shelves. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, keeping one for herself.

He stood looking at her for a long moment and then held his glass out. Her heart thumped at what he might say, but all he said was, ‘Santé.’

She clinked her glass to his and replied with the Irish, ‘Sláinte.’

They both took a sip. She couldn’t quite believe that he was standing here in front of her. The wine was like liquid velvet, fragrant, round and smooth. Clearly very expensive. Alana indicated for him to sit on her couch. He did, and dwarfed the three-seater. She sat in the armchair opposite. The lighting was soft and low. The space far too intimate. This was her sanctuary, her place of refuge. And yet, having him here wasn’t generating the effect that she would have expected. She was still angry, yes—but more than that was something else, something like excitement.

She thought of something then as her stomach growled quietly. ‘Have you eaten?’

He took another drink from his glass and shook his head. ‘No.’ He just realised then that he’d hardly eaten all day; he’d been so consumed with getting out of Paris and over here. It made him feel uncomfortable now.

Alana put down her glass and stood up. ‘I was going to make myself something to eat … that is, if you want something, too?’

‘That would be great, I’m starving.’ He smiled, and the room seemed to tilt for a second.

Alana picked up her glass and backed into the kitchen, which was just feet away from where he now sat with an arm stretched out over the back of the sofa. At home, as if he dropped in all the time from Paris. She couldn’t think of that now.

‘It’s just fish, lemon sole, nothing too exciting. But I have two …’

He nodded. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’

Alana busied herself turning on the oven and putting potatoes on to boil. When she looked back over to the sitting room, she could see that Pascal was looking through her CDs. She had a moment of clarity. What was she doing? She was meant to be rushing him out of the house, not cooking him dinner! But, she had to concede, it had been easy to ask him. And he had sent her all those amazing flowers. If she was never going to see him after tonight, then what was the harm in a little dinner?

Happy that she’d justified her actions to herself, and not willing to pay attention to the hum of something in her blood, when she heard the strains of her favourite jazz CD coming from the sound system, she found it soothing rather than scary.

‘I hope you don’t mind?’

She looked over to where Pascal was hunched down at the system, the material of his trousers and shirt straining over taut, hard muscles in his thighs and back. She shook her head, her mouth feeling very dry.

‘No … no.’ She took another hasty gulp of wine. Oh God.

By the time Alana was taking his cleared plate from him, and apologising again that their dinner had been on their knees, she was smiling at something he’d just said. As she’d been preparing the dinner, they’d started up an innocuous conversation, and in the course of eating had managed to touch on films, books, French politics, the Six Nations and rugby. She’d found herself telling him about her father’s career playing for Ireland, unable to keep the pride from her voice. And she hadn’t mistaken the gleam of something unfathomable in his eyes. Even though he’d told her he hadn’t wanted to play, had he harboured ambitions?

She came back and sat down, tucking her legs under her. She’d slipped off her shoes. She felt energised, zingy, as if she could stay up all night.

To her surprise, she saw Pascal look at his watch and then he drained his glass of wine. He stood up and Alana felt unaccountably disorientated. She stood too. The space between them was electric.

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’

Alana immediately felt crushed, silly, exposed. She should have been grinning from ear to ear, racing to hand him his coat, saying good riddance—so why did she feel her stomach hollowing out at the thought? The old pain of past misjudgements rose up like a spectre.

‘Oh, well. I can imagine you must have some business here. Somewhere else to be?’

He shook his head and came close. Alana couldn’t back away as the chair was just behind her legs. Her heart was thumping so hard she felt it must be visible under her top.

‘I’ve got important meetings at home all weekend. It’s too boring to go into. But I need to make my flight slot tonight, otherwise I’ll miss my first meeting in the morning.’

Alana’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re going back to Paris? Now?’

He nodded.

The knowledge was having trouble sinking into her brain: he had come all the way to Dublin just to see her for a few hours; it was too much for her to take in.

‘I … I …’

Her shock was obviously transparent.

He pulled a quirky, sexy smile. ‘It was worth it, Alana. Just to see you again. I’ve been thinking about you all week. I can’t seem to get you out of my head.’

‘I …’ Her powers of speech had been rendered null and void. He was coming closer, making speech even more elusive and unlikely.

He was now so close that her head was tipped back to look into those dark, dark eyes. She felt a warm finger come under her chin, stroking the smooth skin, his thumb on her chin. She couldn’t move.

His scent enveloped her in a haze of desire, desire that she’d never felt before. She fancied that she could hear his heartbeat too. Then he spoke and his voice was harsh. ‘I told myself I wouldn’t do this now. But … I can’t not. You’re more intoxicating to me than anything or anyone I’ve ever known. And all week I’ve been imagining what it would be like.’

She swallowed, ‘What what would be like?’ But she knew. And heaven help her but she’d been imagining it too. She knew she had; she’d just been denying it.

He said the words and something awful like relief flowed through her.

‘To kiss you.’

With his finger still under her chin, no other parts of their bodies touching, he bent his head to hers. Past, present and future collided in the moment that her eyelids fluttered closed, and she felt his mouth touch hers. It was a brief press of his lips to hers, a testing, tasting. But it ignited a flame of raw desire along every one of Alana’s veins.

When he drew back slightly, she made a treacherous sound in her throat. She wanted more than that brief all-too-chaste kiss. And so did he evidently.

This time it wasn’t chaste and benedictory, this time it was forceful, both their mouths pressing together, tasting, experiencing. The finger at her chin was gone. His hand slid round to the back of her head, flicked away the band tying her hair in a ponytail and threaded through the soft, silky strands to cradle her skull in his hand. His other arm slid around her slim waist and pulled her into him. Her arms automatically went to his shoulders and clung for support.

The feel of his body pressed up close to hers was short-circuiting her system. He was hard all over, and so strong. She could feel his chest muscles flex against her soft curves when his arm tightened around her, pulling her even closer.

While their bodies melded together, their mouths remained fused. Pascal pulled back briefly and Alana looked up into those amazing eyes that were burning, reflecting a fire she felt deep in her belly, where a very hard part of him was making her want to move restlessly. She was stunned by everything. She felt confused; she could feel herself tremble with reaction. She frowned slightly, her mouth opened.

Pascal pressed a finger to her mouth. The softness of her lips and her warm breath made him harder, and he almost groaned out loud with the need to take her now, to sink into her yielding, silky warmth. But he knew that she wasn’t far from letting her head take over, from possibly pushing him away. ‘Don’t think. Don’t speak. Just feel.’

This time when his mouth touched hers it was slightly open. Breaths mingled and wove together, and for one split second neither of them breathed. And then Pascal slid his tongue between her lips and Alana’s hands clutched at his shoulders. She’d been kissed like this before; of course she had. But whenever Ryan had kissed her, it had always been rough and with no finesse.

But this was in another league. Pascal’s tongue danced erotically with hers, advanced and retreated, inviting her to follow him. And she did. Winding her arms tight around his neck, pressing even closer, she slid her tongue into his mouth and was rewarded with a low guttural moan. It was the sexiest feeling, and she was controlling the pace, the movements. She savoured his full lower lip, felt it with her tongue, let it glide across the surface before allowing their tongues to duel again.

When she felt him snake a hand under her top, to feel the skin above her trousers, the curve of her waist, her legs trembled in earnest. Their kisses stilled for a second, as if he was waiting to see what signal she would give. She nipped his lower lip gently and she could feel him half-smile against her mouth.

His hand slid higher over her smooth back, to just below the clasp of her bra. His hand was so big she imagined it could span her entire back. With a practised flick of his wrist and fingers, he opened the clasp. Alana felt her bra loosen, but she was lost in a maelstrom of lust so strong that she wanted nothing more than for him take the weight and fullness of her breast into his palm—which he promptly did, sliding his whole hand around her ribs as if loath not to caress every part of her. The sensation was so shockingly electric that she gasped and wrenched her mouth from his, breathing jerkily.

His other hand still cradled her head; their bodies were still fused at every conceivable point. She was on her tiptoes to try and keep his hardness there, at the apex of her thighs where a loud, heavy beat of blood called to her. She couldn’t do anything but look up into his glittering, aroused gaze as his hand cupped her heavy flesh and his thumb moved back and forth over the tingling, tight peak of her nipple.

She bit her lip, and he bent his head to whisper hotly in her ear, ‘I want to take it into my mouth until you come apart in my arms … until you’re so wet that sliding into you will be the easiest thing in the world.’

A million things were hurtling into Alana’s head. Past experiences, warnings, wants and confusion reigned. What was happening to her? She should be shocked, but she wasn’t. She’d never thought in a million years she could respond like this, and yet they had done little more here and now than she’d already experienced at teen discos years ago. Or during her marriage.

Pascal could see the way her eyes were clearing, the way those green depths were starting to swirl. He had to pull back, even if it was going to kill him. Gently he closed her bra again and stepped back slightly to pull down her top. He’d been right; her body with its gentle curves was infinitely more alluring than he’d ever expected it to be, her breasts fuller. It was a crime that she hid under those structured tops and dark colours.

He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped back completely, and tried to ignore the inferno raging in his pants.

‘I have to go. I wish I didn’t, but I do. You could come with me?’ he asked then, but already he could see her start to tense, stiffen.

‘No,’ he answered for her. ‘It’s too soon.’ He castigated himself for his lack of control.

He walked over to get his coat which was draped on the back of a chair, and pulled it on. He saw the cards that had accompanied the flowers neatly lined up to show the sentence they’d spelt out. Something forceful struck him then. He’d never gone to such trouble before. Women always said yes; it was always easy. But recently his experiences with women had always proved somewhat unsatisfactory. And now merely kissing Alana was making him feel like a randy teenager again.

Alana welcomed the distance as she watched him put his coat on, accentuating his shoulders, his broad back. His shoulders that she’d just been clutching with complete abandon, because if she hadn’t, she’d have dissolved at his feet. What had he done to her? What the hell did he think he was doing, waltzing in here for just a few hours only to mess up her carefully controlled world? She crossed her arms over still tight and sensitive breasts.

He turned around and saw her look immediately. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

Alana’s jaw tensed so hard she felt it might break. ‘I don’t want this. I don’t want you.’

He covered the paltry distance between them in a couple of steps, floorboards creaking under his weight.