Count Toussaint's Pregnant Mistress. Kate Hewitt

then,’ he said as he gestured to the bartender, who hurried over. He glanced back at Abby. ‘Have you eaten? Champagne on an empty stomach is not wise.’

      As if on cue, Abby’s stomach growled. She gave a little laugh. ‘I haven’t,’ she confessed, and, flicking open the menu the bartender had provided, Luc quickly ordered. ‘Is that all right?’ he asked as he handed the menu back. ‘I do not wish us to be bothered by such details as what food to order.’ Abby gave a little shrug of assent, although she thought she’d heard him order escargots and she really wasn’t fond of them. Somehow it didn’t matter.

      ‘So.’ Luc propped his elbows on the table, his eyes seeming to glint and sparkle in the dim light. ‘Tell me something. Tell me what your favorite colour is, or if you’re scared of spiders or snakes. Did you have a dog growing up? Or a cat?’ He took a sip of champagne, smiling at her over the rim of the glass. ‘Or perhaps a fish?’

      ‘None.’ Abby reached for her own glass. ‘And both.’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘No pets, and I’m scared of both spiders and snakes. At least, I don’t like them very much. I haven’t had much firsthand experience.’

      ‘I suppose that’s a good thing, then.’

      ‘I never really thought about it.’ Abby took a sip of champagne. ‘And what about you?’

      ‘Am I scared of snakes or spiders?’

      ‘No, I’ll pick different questions.’ She paused, thinking. What did she want to know about him? Everything; the answer sprang unbidden into her mind. She wanted to know him, to have the chance to know him. To go to sleep and wake up at his side…‘Do you snore?’ she blurted, then blushed.

      ‘Do I snore?’ Luc repeated in mock outrage, one eyebrow arched. ‘What a question. How should I know such a thing?’ His lips curved into a smile that did curious things to Abby’s insides, so that her stomach felt as quivery as a bowl of jelly.

      ‘No one has ever told me I snore, at any rate.’

      ‘Ah. Um…good.’ She fiddled with her napkin, blushing, and wishing she wasn’t. She stilled in shock when she felt Luc’s hand cover her own, heavy and warm.

      ‘Abby. You are nervous.’

      ‘Yes,’ she admitted. She forced herself to look at him. ‘I’m not—I don’t—’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t usually accept invitations from strange men.’

      ‘That is probably just as well,’ Luc replied. ‘But I promise you, you are safe with me.’ He spoke with a raw, heartfelt sincerity that Abby could only believe. There was no question of doubt.

      ‘I know.’

      A black-jacketed waiter swept in silently with a tray. He didn’t speak or even look at them, simply served the food while maintaining the aura of complete privacy they had been enjoying in the empty bar. When he left, Luc gestured down to their plates, to the delicate fan of asparagus amidst paperthin slices of beef. ‘Is this all right?’

      ‘It looks delicious.’ Abby picked up her fork and toyed with a piece of asparagus. ‘Were you surprised to see me here?’ she asked after a moment. ‘In the bar?’

      ‘You were like an apparition,’ Luc told her. ‘And yet, at the same time…’ He paused, contemplating. ‘It was as if I knew you would come, and I hadn’t realized it until I saw you.’

      ‘That’s how I felt too,’ Abby whispered, and Luc smiled.

      ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, almost regretfully, ‘some things are meant to be.’

      ‘Yes,’ Abby agreed, and then added with an uncertain laugh, ‘Except, as I said before, it hardly seems real.’

      ‘Nothing good ever does,’ Luc replied, and Abby glanced up, startled. It was a cynical statement, a belief born of suffering, and she wondered what had happened in Luc’s life to make him say and believe such a thing. ‘But tonight is as real as anything is.’

      Abby nodded, wanting to lighten the mood. ‘So I know you don’t snore,’ she said, popping a piece of asparagus into her mouth, ‘but I don’t know much else.’ She paused, thinking. ‘You’re French.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But you speak English almost perfectly.’

      ‘As you do French.’

      She accepted the compliment with a graceful nod. ‘You’ve never heard me play before.’

      ‘No.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You’re quite the detective.’

      ‘You don’t live in Paris?’

      ‘No.’

      Feeling relaxed and yet also a little bold, she added, ‘You’re rich.’

      Luc gave a shrug of assent as only the rich could do. ‘I have enough. As do you, I suppose?’

      Abby nodded slowly. Yes, she had plenty of money. Her father took control of it, had done since she’d started playing professionally at seventeen. She had no idea how much money she had, or what kind of accounts it was kept in. Her father gave her spending money, and that had been enough. She’d never needed much; she liked to visit museums, buy cappuccinos in their cafés, or books. Her clothes were mostly picked by a stylist, who also took care of her hair, her nails, her make-up. She ate in restaurants and hotels, and sometimes on trains. There was little she needed, and yet somehow right now it all made her sad.

      ‘You look rather wistful,’ Luc murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’

      ‘You didn’t,’ Abby said quickly. ‘I was just…thinking.’ She smiled, wanting to shift the attention from herself and her own dawning realizations about her life. She’d been happy, or at least content, until tonight…hadn’t she? Yet in Luc’s presence she was happier and more alive than she’d ever felt before. It made her aware of the deficiencies in her life, how before this her life had been mere existence, simply a waiting period for this moment. For him. ‘You’re not from Paris, so where are you from?’

      Luc paused, and Abby had the sense that he didn’t want to tell her. ‘Down south,’ he said finally. ‘The Languedoc.’

      ‘I’ve never been there.’

      He gave a little smile. ‘It has no concert halls.’

      Her life had been defined by concert halls: Paris, London, Berlin, Prague, Milan, Madrid. She’d seen so many cities, so many gorgeous concert halls and anonymous hotel-rooms, and she felt it keenly now. The Languedoc. She wondered if he had a villa, or perhaps even a chateau. For some reason she imagined a quaint farmhouse with old stone walls, a tiled roof and brightly painted shutters amidst gently waving fields of lavender. A home. She gave a little laugh, shaking her head. Now she really was imagining things.

      ‘Do you like it there?’

      Luc paused. ‘I did.’ He spoke flatly, and Abby felt a new tension coil through the room. Then he shook it off with an easy shrug of his shoulders and smiled, leaning forward so Abby could see the lamplight glinting in his eyes; she inhaled the tang of his cologne. ‘But enough of me. I want to know of you.’

      Abby smiled back, feeling self-conscious. It seemed as if neither of them wanted to talk about themselves. ‘Fire away.’

      ‘I read in your biography that the Appassionata is one of your favourite pieces to play. Why?’

      The question surprised her. ‘Because it’s beautiful and sad at the same time,’ she finally said.

      ‘And that appeals to you?’

      ‘It’s…how I’ve felt sometimes.’ It was a strange admission, and one she hadn’t meant to confess. One, she realized, she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself. She loved music, loved playing