The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. ABBY GREEN

he was coming on to her. Alana couldn’t believe it. She knew perfectly well she was nothing special; she looked like a million other girls. What on earth could this man want with her? Anyone could see he was in another league. Alarm bells rang, loud and insistently.

      She shook her head and started backing away towards the gate and her car, but the physical pull to stay in this man’s orbit was something she had to actively fight against. Simultaneously a sleek, dark Lexus pulled up beside them. Clearly his car—his chauffeur-driven car—which had of course been parked here in the VIP parking area.

      She was shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr…?’

      ‘Lévêque.’

      ‘Mr Lévêque.’ Even his name sounded sexy—purposeful. Important. ‘I have to get back to work.’ She repeated it then, as if to drive a point home. ‘This is work for me. Enjoy your weekend in Dublin. There are plenty of other women out there.’ Who won’t be stupid enough to walk away, the voice mocked her. But as she finally turned and walked towards her car she told herself she was glad. He hadn’t looked put out; he hadn’t even tried to get her to change her mind. He was just a rich tourist over for the match. And she knew all about sports supporters. She used to be part of that crowd, used to be a professional supporter. Not any more.

      Pascal refused to give in to the desire to look to where she was getting into her car as his own swept past and away from the stadium. He couldn’t really believe that she’d refused him. A woman hadn’t walked away from him since…he couldn’t remember when. His mouth thinned. She was right: there were plenty of other women out there. She really wasn’t anything special.

      So why was it that all he could see were those invitingly soft lips? And those huge, green eyes, full of changing depths? And that alluring body in its veritable uniform that made his hands itch to rip it off and see what it hid?

      He was bored. That was it. And he’d been without a lover for some weeks. He was going to a party tonight. If all he was looking for was a quick lay, then he’d get it in spades.

      Feeling his equilibrium start to settle again was a welcome relief, because it hadn’t been normal since he’d laid eyes on her. He settled back and relaxed. And then promptly tensed again, all recent justifications out the window. He hadn’t got her name. And he didn’t even know if she was married. He couldn’t remember seeing a ring, but now it glared at him. That had to be it. Equanimity rushed through him again. This time he firmly cast her out of his head as a weird, momentary diversion and looked forward to the fast-approaching evening and the promise of fulfilment that was now a dull, throbbing ache in his body.

      ‘Alana, you can’t leave yet.’

      ‘But, Rory, I’ve got to get home, it’s my brother’s fortieth.’

      Her boss ignored her and pulled her firmly by the hand, back into the throng of people she’d just battled her way through to get out. She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

      ‘Alana, you have to meet him, you’re interviewing him tomorrow. He rang in person after the match, specifically asking for you—must have seen you reporting or something, but who cares? Do you have any idea what a coup this is? He’s an important sponsor of the Six Nations…famously reclusive… billionaire.’

      Alana was getting bumped and bashed by people along the way as she struggled to keep up with her hyper TV-boss. She couldn’t hear half of what he was saying. Something about an interview? That was nothing unusual; she did interviews most days. Why was he making such a big deal about this one? She cast a quick, worried look at her watch on the wrist not held captive by Rory. The surprise party would be starting in half an hour, and it would take her that to get out to her parents’ house in Foxrock. If she missed the start of it, her life wouldn’t be worth living.

      Then Rory stopped abruptly and she careened into him. He turned and gave her a worried once-over. ‘You’ll do; it’s a pity you’re not more dressed up, you know, Alana, you could have made more of an effort. Really.’ His mouth pursed in disapproval.

      Irritation rankled; all too frequently people seemed to expect her to be what she had been—before. ‘Rory, I’m dressed for a family party, remember? Not the French team’s celebrations.’

      Which she had to privately admit now were something else. Clearly someone had a lot of money to spend. They were taking place in the lavish ballroom of the Four Seasons hotel just on the outskirts of Dublin city-centre. She wasn’t dressed in the glittering half-sheath dresses that most of the women seemed to be sporting, but she was perfectly respectable. And she preferred it that way. She had too many uncomfortable memories of being paraded in fashions that had been too tight, too small, too everything. And not her. She knew she went out of her way in situations like this to draw the line between the woman she had been and the woman she was now.

      Rory looked over her head, tensed visibly and then looked back, taking her shoulders as if she were a child. ‘He’s just arrived. Now, I can’t impress upon you how important this man is. Apart from his role in the Six Nations, he’s the CEO of one of the biggest banks in the world. I’ll introduce you and then you can go, OK? No doubt he’s got bigger fish to fry tonight than meeting you, anyway.’

      Rory grabbed her hand again, and before Alana could say anything, he was leading her over to where a man stood with his black-suited back to them, surrounded by obviously fawning people and a couple of scantily dressed women. And suddenly Alana’s legs turned to jelly. Even before they reached him she felt her heart start to pound in recognition. It got about a million times worse when Rory hissed in her ear, ‘His name is Lévêque. Pascal Lévêque.’

      ‘I believe I saw you covering the match earlier, no?’ He said this innocently with that deeply sexy voice, as if they’d never met.

      For the second time that day Alana looked up into those eyes. Those eyes that she hadn’t been able to get out of her head. Her mouth turned dry, her hands clammy. Her reaction was alarming; she’d sworn off all men, and had no time for frivolous flirtations, and she couldn’t understand why this man was having such an extreme effect on her. Other men flirted with her and asked her out, and she dismissed them with barely a ripple of acknowledgement or reaction. But this was different. And she’d known it from the moment she had met him, which was why she’d all but run.

      Silence lengthened, and Rory nudged her discreetly but painfully. Automatically Alana held out a hand. She spoke on autopilot. ‘Yes. Yes, you did.’

      Pascal Lévêque then took her hand in his much larger one, but instead of shaking it he bent his head, his eyes never leaving hers. Alana saw what he was going to do as if in slow motion, but still the feel of his mouth on the back of her cool hand sent shockwaves through her entire body. Immediately she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her go. He straightened slowly. She felt his index finger uncurl to caress the point under the wrist where her pulse beat fast, and then he let her hand go. The gesture was fleeting but utterly earth-shattering.

      He broke their eye contact, leaving Alana feeling curiously deflated, and with a brief, succinct question Rory left, muttering something about getting drinks. The rest of the crowd the man had been talking to melted away too. He turned back, fixing on her with that intense gaze again.

      ‘You’ve had time to change, I see. Tell me, is this still classed as work?’

      Alana bristled. Hot, burning irritation was rising. ‘Of course I changed—it’s a party. And, yes, this is still work.’

      His eyes swept down, taking in what she knew to be a perfectly suitable albeit very unexciting dress. It was a black shift, high-necked and under a matching jacket. Unrevealing.

      ‘You’ve changed, too,’ she pointed out, feeling ridiculously self-conscious. But, whereas she felt sure she merged into the background, he was managing to stand out in a crowd of identically dressed men in a traditional black tuxedo, white shirt and black bow tie.

      His eyes met hers again. ‘Don’t you want to take off your coat? It’s warm in here.’