The Night That Started It All Read online

  If such a modest kiss could affect her so wildly, surely her decision to stay a while couldn’t be all wrong?

  On the way to his place, though, she was naturally besieged by second thoughts. How warm would he continue to be when her inner frump broke out? How long could she fake this soigné sophistication? Before she knew it she’d be forgetting to wear a scarf and clumping around in Ugg boots.

  But he seemed so genuinely chuffed, grinning, chatting, his eyes shining as he pointed out various landmarks to her, she didn’t have the heart to pull out right then. And when he opened the door of an apartment on the sixth and topmost floor of a centuries-old building in the deuxième arrondissement, and she walked in and saw Paris spreading below through tall windows at every turn, it was a heady moment.

  Not quite real, actually.

  Luc Valentin wanted her. As she gazed about, blinking at the silk curtains, the ornate mirrors, the rich oriental rugs vying for supremacy on the gleaming wooden floor, the elegant velvet sofas, an actual chandelier in the sitting room, those words kept spinning around and around in her head.

  Even with a bun in the oven he wanted her. Could he have noticed how pregnant women looked a few months in? Had he realised she wouldn’t remain her svelte and lissom self for long?

  Maybe he wasn’t expecting her to stay pregnant. Her fears all came flooding back, highlighted in red.

  ‘Bienvenue,’ he said, holding her shoulders, then kissing her lips as she stood in a luxury-induced trance. For such a rich and sophisticated man, he seemed a trifle awkward. ‘Please—be as if you are at home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The decor here could put the Ritz to shame. She had a shameful wish it had been a tiny bit more humble. Imposing bureaus and credenzas, while admirable, could be quite lowering. As could walls of peach-coloured silk and a thousand metres of yellow curtains.

  But who was she to criticise? She felt strangely tongue-tied, as if the Tardis had set her down in a distant universe.

  As his victory glow calmed a little Luc looked closely at her. She stood apparently rooted midway between the sitting room and the entrance, gazing about. He felt a pang of uncertainty. Somehow here she seemed smaller and more vulnerable, as if she’d shrunk back into herself.

  ‘Are you feeling well?’ he said. ‘Can I offer you something? Coffee?’ With a leap of inspiration he came up with his furthest reach of hospitality to date. ‘Tea?’

  Not that he could guarantee there would be any.

  ‘Not just now, thanks.’

  He felt a strong and manly urge to seal his triumphant possession of her on the nearest available surface, but he sensed the timing would be wrong. And with her condition, he might have to check first about the safety issue.

  He made a mental note to conduct some research at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to—unpack?’

  She cast him a hesitant glance. He had the sinking feeling she was about to refuse, but she only said, ‘Your apartment is very nice. Are all of these family heirlooms?’

  ‘Somebody’s, perhaps. Not my family’s.’

  ‘Oh. I—I was reminded a bit of your mother’s. I thought she might have …’ she waved her hand ‘… you know, contributed when you moved out of home.’

  Amusement at the thought of Maman parting with her precious things to accommodate Manon’s ambitions made Luc smile. Then he saw Shari flush and felt an instant rush of remorse. What a clumsy idiot, embarrassing her when she was clearly feeling shy.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he hastened to assure her. He flicked a glance about at the place. It was so long since he’d really looked at it, he’d forgotten how appalled he was initially by all the yellow. A man could get used to anything. But could a woman? An Australian woman?

  ‘My ex-girlfriend is—er was a—a … What do you call—a professional designer. This was how she—liked things.’

  Nom de Dieu. Horror gripped him by the balls. Had he really brought up Manon in the first minute? Zut, why was it that with Shari Lacey he was as inept as an adolescent?

  ‘Come,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’ll show you everything.’ He reached for her suitcase.

  Feeling gauche, Shari followed. Now she could see the hand of a designer everywhere she looked. The matching armchairs by the fireplace. Those two chairs she glimpsed facing each other across that small perfect table in the kitchen. All the yellows blending, complementing each other.

  Maybe it was her imagination, but the sum effect was of more than mere luxury. It was also somehow—intimate. As if two minds entwined as one occupied this retreat from the world.

  She followed him along a silk-lined hall to some double doors.

  ‘La chambre à coucher.’ He opened them with an offhand gesture.

  Shari drew in a breath. Wow. What a chamber. Spacious, panelled in more peach silk, it was a decorator’s dream, rich with fabrics and plushness.

  At Luc’s urging she ventured in a few steps, and felt an immediate sense of having intruded. Naturally, she supposed, the space had a deeply personal ambience. She let her gaze dwell on the three sets of windows with long silk lemon curtains tied back with sashes. She could see charming little balconies outside.

  She tried not to stare at the most dominant piece in the room, but it screamed at her. Wherever she looked, Luc and Manon’s bed bore down upon her with its handsome bedhead, the matching lamps on either side. Their pillows. Their sumptuous counterpane.

  Feeling Luc’s narrow appraisal, Shari turned away, wondering if it was striking him how awkwardly she fitted here in his private space. Their space.

  Directly facing the bed and above the fireplace was a modern erotic painting of lovers locked in the primal embrace. Following her gaze, Luc started, blinking at it, then stepped forward and snatched it down. Sliding it to the floor, he turned it to the wall.

  He gave a jerky, dismissive wave. ‘A poor choice. I’ve always been meaning to dispose of it.’

  He turned away to open another set of doors that led into a smaller chamber of lamps and mirrors, with large wardrobe cupboards lining one wall, a sumptuous chaise longue and a pretty bathroom beyond.

  ‘Le boudoir.’ He placed her suitcase inside. ‘For—the woman. I have my own dressing room next door, as you see.’

  Shari’s gaze settled on the woman’s dressing table. It was delicate-looking, with wavy lines, a beautiful winged mirror and a matching chair covered in rose and lemon patterned silk. Some highly polished perfume bottles sparkled before the mirror, while a tortoiseshell hairbrush still lay in wait for its rightful owner. Shari could almost see the chic and elegant woman seated there, completing her toilette.

  Luc hastily strode forward and swept the surface bare, dropping the items into a silk-covered waste bin. ‘The maid should have attended to this. I’m extremely sorry.’ He looked so stern Shari hoped the maid wouldn’t have to face him soon. He opened a closet door, then with a muttered curse closed it again quickly before she could see inside.

  The air prickled with discomfort. Shari hardly knew what to say. ‘It’s all—gorgeous.’ She gestured around at the exquisite room. ‘My suitcase is ruining the effect.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Not at all. Your suitcase is the only reality in a—a ridiculous fantasy. She—Manon—liked to feel like a courtesan of the First Empire.’ He gave a terse laugh, then backed out of there rather quickly. ‘And ah … as you see … all—all of our balconies are very small, I regret to say.’ He gave a swift smile. ‘Not like in Australia.’

  ‘Nothing is like in Australia.’

  He stared at her for a strained second, then said tensely, ‘There is another bedroom you might prefer until we prepare this one properly. Come and see.’

  He slipped his arm around her and kissed her ear. Pulled her against him and buried his face in her hair. ‘Ah … the scent of you. Shari …’ he breathed. ‘Relax. Don’t be upset by small things. Don’t worry. I will …’ He kissed her and she felt the vibrancy of his hard body p
ressed against hers, but she disentangled herself.

  It didn’t feel right kissing him in there.

  The guest room was charming, though not in the same class of opulence. While there was no boudoir attached, Shari thought the capacious armoir more than sufficient for her belongings. As well there was a chest of drawers and a small bathroom.

  ‘This’ll be fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m probably not the courtesan type.’

  With a flush darkening his tan, he took her arms. ‘Shari,’ he said stiffly. ‘Please accept my apologies. I should have thought before I— I don’t spend any time here now, so I never look at the rooms. I can’t imagine why I haven’t thought of changing things. It’s purely an oversight.’

  ‘It’s okay, really. It’s not as if you had any advance warning. I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘It won’t be so terrible in here for an hour or two, n’est-ce pas? I believe the bed is soft. Would you like to unpack?’ He stared hungrily from her to the bed. ‘Or—to rest?’ His eyes grew searingly wolfish.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind going for a walk, actually.’ She definitely needed a breather. Time out to reflect. ‘Stretch my legs.’

  He looked worried, but then he shrugged. ‘D’accord.’

  It was a relief to be out in the air. Shari sensed Luc feeling more relaxed too. Conversation was easier without the ghostly presence of his ex. And there was so much to see around her, every boulevard and every narrow alluring lane, she tried not to dwell on the glimpse she might or might not have caught into the inner guy.

  Did a man keep his old lover’s belongings intact simply because he forgot to remove them? Or because he couldn’t bear to part with them?

  Or was the maid entirely to blame? Could she have been a Mrs Danvers, by any chance?

  Anyway, this wasn’t a Gothic novel and she was probably reading too much into a small thing. And it was pleasant strolling with a gorgeous guy who took her hand from time to time and seemed to regard her as a fragile vessel.

  It was an impression she was eager not to correct before she’d at least had a good wallow in it. Just supposing she stayed the whole week. It was comforting to remember she still had options.

  Although she’d managed by the skin of her teeth to postpone her flight home for another week, the day of departure could be changed again, depending on available seats. Nothing was set in concrete.

  It wasn’t as if she were dreaming of moving in. But a week’s holiday with him could be very acceptable. Could be. Though he wasn’t just talking a week, was he? Underneath it all, she sensed he wasn’t kidding about wanting her to stay longer.

  She chewed her lip.

  Even if he was still in love with Manon, what difference did it make? Did a woman need to be loved by the father of her child? She could still have a good time with him, couldn’t she?

  Anyway, what was she angsting over? The elegant woman was long gone.

  Surely.

  She gave Luc’s bicep a friendly squeeze through the cashmere. Finding it so satisfyingly hard she couldn’t even make a dent, she grinned. ‘How I love a hard man. What do you do in the evenings, monsieur?’

  He shrugged. ‘Until this moment I—work, or I attend dinner meetings, soirées. D’Avion is quite important to the French economy, so sometimes I’m invited to attend receptions with people in the government. Concerts, the opera, the cinema … What does anyone do?’

  She had visions of him in evening dress, whirling around the sophisticated Parisian social scene. No doubt since he didn’t have Manon to accompany him he’d found other women to escort. Maybe he held a different beauty in his arms every night of the week.

  Though not in his apartment, clearly.

  ‘Don’t you ever feel like a night in?’

  ‘I think I might feel like one tonight.’ Though he spoke gravely, his eyes gleamed and she felt a tingle of excitement. It could be all right. If she gave it a chance.

  At least he was patient to walk with. He didn’t seem to mind or try to chivvy her along when she stopped to gaze into shop windows. Even when she ventured inside for a closer look he hung around outside, talking on his mobile. Probably chatting to government ministers or giving instructions to people in his office. Or maybe he was warning his girlfriends not to expect him for a night or two.

  After a few fascinating blocks they turned into the Rue Montorgueil, which was a market crowded with shoppers patronising the dozens of cafés and patisseries, food and wine shops.

  Charmed to her socks, she forgot all her misgivings and oohed and ahhed like a tourist. The rue was a Monet come to life.

  ‘Do you cook?’ he enquired, pausing by a cheese emporium.

  ‘Not in France. Do you?’

  He laughed at her quick response. ‘I don’t have to. I have a hundred restaurants on my doorstep. But for you I’ll turn the leaf.’

  He purchased several varieties of cheese, some sausage slices, a crusty loaf and fruit, olives and some salad vegetables from a market stall brimming with fresh produce. Then, apparently exhausted by such heavy domestic activity, he suggested lunch, steering her towards a café with red geraniums spilling from planters on its window ledges.

  Relieved not to be returning to the apartment straight away, Shari sank down gratefully at the table the waiter had directed them to, while Luc piled his purchases on an empty chair. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours she felt close to a reality overload.

  She gave her order, then listened while Luc discussed his choice with the waiter. When the guy bustled away, Luc excused himself and drew out his phone.

  ‘Are they needing you at your office?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m conducting some research.’

  After a while she said gingerly, ‘Did … Was Manon a good cook?’

  He kept his eyes lowered to the phone. ‘She could barely cook an egg.’

  It was pretty clear what he’d seen in the Parisian paragon. ‘Did you and she dine out every night?’

  He frowned. ‘Most nights. Though our work commitments often meant not with each other.’

  ‘When did you ever talk?’

  He said drily, ‘There was nothing to talk about.’

  She studied him covertly. His face was as close to expressionless as a frowning man could achieve.

  ‘I can see your point about keeping a large dog in your beautiful apartment.’ She filled her water glass and took a sip.

  He looked up sharply then, his eyes so cool she nearly jumped back in her chair. ‘Have you noticed we have had nearly two full days now without rain?’

  ‘Sorry.’ She winced. ‘Too forward?’

  He took up his phone to deal with an incoming text. ‘There are so many other things worth discussing.’

  The waiter arrived with their meals. Shari welcomed the diversion. She felt a bit shaken, actually. She certainly hadn’t intended to strike any major nerves.

  She murmured to the waiter, ‘Could you please bring my salad now?’

  The waiter’s brows elevated. ‘Now? Both? At the one time?’

  ‘Oui, s’il vous plaît.’

  He threw up his hands, then hurried away to comply, shaking his head at her unfathomable foreignness.

  Shari contemplated her croque Mediterranéen, conscious of a jagged sensation. Though Luc continued courteous, there was something forbidding in his expression. She accepted it was her own fault. She’d pushed the boundaries and now he’d vanished behind a steel barrier.

  All at once she felt adrift in an arctic sea. The Luc who had begged her to stay and kissed her in the car had become a stranger. She’d never been good at coping with angry people. If he didn’t smile soon she didn’t know what to do. ‘Look, I—I apologise if I intruded. I know it can take a long time to forget.’

  He looked up at her, his dark eyes glinting and alert. ‘That depends on what there is to forget.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Sorry. What do I know?’

  She tasted her salad. Oh, God. Divine. T
he dressing was to die for. Exactly what she’d anticipated.

  It was just as Rémy had declared. Every French person expected—demanded— their salad be dressed with just such a superb vinaigrette. She’d never managed to get it exactly right for him. What was she doing here? How could she possibly contemplate a whole week with another Frenchman? What did she know of Luc anyway? He dined with people in the government. He attended soirées. He was in love with a beautiful woman she could never compete with.

  Glancing about her, she had the panicked realisation she’d never make it here. She just didn’t fit. In his apartment. In his life. She started as Luc’s voice cut through her musings.

  ‘You’re not losing your nerve?’

  She glanced up guiltily. Was she so transparent? But what was there to say? She should have boarded that plane and be headed for the Antipodes right now.

  His dark eyes searched hers, questioning, bemused. ‘Seriously, Shari … Because of a few bottles?’

  ‘No, no. It’s—a matter of common sense. Of—of—self-preservation.’

  He stared at her, shaking his head, then, leaning forward, said earnestly, ‘It’s a matter of trust, chérie. And of courage. The risk is no greater for you than it is for me.’

  ‘But yes it is. You are safe and secure in your country, your culture, while I am …’

  He grabbed her knife hand to stop its flailing. ‘Do you think I haven’t considered all of this? But what do I know of you? I’ve known you five minutes and you have a child inside you—my child, so you say—and unless I’m a perfect saint of a guy you are threatening to run away with it either to abort it without my knowledge or let it be born without me.’

  Some of those words sliced her like knives. All her hopeful instincts, fragile as they’d been, shrivelled. She laid down her knife and fork, breathing hard, and met his blazing eyes.

  ‘Yep. That’s about the size of it.’