A Vow To Secure His Legacy. Annie West

Imogen’s backbone, and her stomach clenched.

      ‘How did you guess? Am I that obvious?’

      ‘Not at all.’ His gaze did a quick, comprehensive sweep from her head to her hem that ignited a slow burn deep inside. A burn that transferred to her cheeks as his eyes met hers and something passed between them, as tangible as the beat of her heart. ‘You are utterly delightful and feminine but not obvious.’

      Imogen felt the corners of her mouth lift. Flirting with a Frenchman. There was one to cross off her bucket list. Back home she hadn’t been good at flirtation, but here it seemed she didn’t have to do anything at all.

      ‘Who are you?’ Funny the way dying helped you overcome a lifetime’s reserve. Once she’d have been too over-awed to speak to a man who looked so stunningly male. He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met and despite that aura of latent power he was definitely the most suave. Even that prominent nose looked perfect in his proud face. Just as well his eyes danced or he’d be too daunting.

      ‘My apologies.’ He inclined his head in a half-bow that was wholly European and totally charming. ‘My name is Thierry Girard.’

      ‘Thierry.’ She tried it on her tongue. It didn’t sound the same as when he said it. She couldn’t quite get the little breath of air after the T, but she liked it.

      ‘And you are?’ He stepped closer, his gaze intent. She caught a scent that made her think of mountains—of clear air and pine trees.

      ‘I’m Imogen Holgate.’

      ‘Imogen.’ He nodded. ‘A pretty name. It suits you.’

      Pretty? She hadn’t been called that in ages. The last person to do so had been her mum, trying to persuade her into bright colours, saying she hid behind the dark suits she wore for work.

      ‘And now, Imogen, would you like some champagne?’ He lifted a glass.

      ‘I can get my own.’ She turned to look for a waiter.

      ‘But I brought it especially for you.’ She looked down and realised he was holding two glasses, not one. This stranger had singled her out in a room of elegant women and brought her champagne? For a moment she just stared. It was so different from her world, where she paid her way and never had to field compliments from men about anything other than her work.

      He raised the other glass, giving her a choice of either. His eyes turned serious. ‘Whichever you prefer.’

      Her cheeks flushed. He thought she was stalling because she didn’t trust him. In case he’d slipped something into one of the glasses.

      It was the sort of thing that would have occurred to her once, for in her real life she was always cautious. But right now she was struggling to absorb the fact she was with the most charming, attractive man she’d ever met. The fact that he offered both reassured her.

      She took a glass, meeting his eyes, ignoring the tingly sensation where their fingers brushed. ‘Is it champagne from the Champagne region?’

      ‘Of course. That’s the only wine that can use the name. You like champagne?’

      ‘I’ve never tried it.’

      He blinked, astonishment on his face. ‘Vraiment?’

      ‘Really.’ Imogen smiled at his shock. ‘I’m from Australia.’

      ‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I happen to know the Australians import French wine as well as exporting theirs. Champagne travels the world.’

      She shrugged, enjoying his disbelief. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ve drunk it.’ She eyed the wine with excitement. What better place to taste her first champagne than Paris?

      ‘In that case, the occasion deserves a toast. To new friends.’ His smile transformed his face from fascinating to magnetic. Imogen inhaled sharply, her lungs pushing at her ribcage. Her fingers tightened on the glass. That smile, this man, made her feel acutely aware of herself as a woman with desires she’d all but forgotten.

      Stop it! You’ve seen men smile before.

      Not like this. This was like standing in a shaft of sunshine. And it was an amazing antidote to the chill weight of despair. How could she dwell on despair when he looked at her that way?

      She lifted her glass. ‘And to new experiences.’

      She sipped, feeling the effervescence on the roof of her mouth. ‘I like that it’s not too sweet. I can taste...pears, is it?’

      He drank too, and she was riveted by the sight of his strong throat and the ripple of movement as he swallowed.

      Imogen frowned. There was nothing sexy about a man’s throat. Was there? There never had been before and she worked surrounded by men.

      But none of them were Thierry Girard.

      ‘You’re right. Definitely pears.’ He watched her over the rim of the glass. ‘To new experiences? You have some planned?’

      Imogen shrugged. ‘A few.’

      ‘Tell me.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Please. I’d like to know.’

      ‘Why?’ The word shot out, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Typical of her to sound gauche rather than sophisticated. She just wasn’t used to male attention. She was the serious, reserved sister, not the gregarious one with a flock of admirers.

      ‘Because I’m interested in you.’

      ‘Seriously?’ As soon as the word escaped heat scalded her throat and face. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Tell me I didn’t say that.’

      A rich chuckle snagged at her senses, making her eyes pop open. If his smile was gorgeous, his laugh was... She couldn’t think of a word to describe the molten-chocolate swirl enveloping her.

      ‘Why don’t you tell me about these new experiences instead?’

      Imogen opened her mouth to ask if he was really interested in hearing about them then snapped it shut.

      Here was a wonderful new adventure, flirting with a gorgeous French hunk over champagne. She wasn’t going to spoil it by being herself. She was going to go with the flow. This trip was about stepping out of her shell, tasting life’s excitement.

      Chatting with Thierry Girard was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages.

      ‘I’ve got a list. Things I want to do.’

      ‘In Paris?’ She loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled.

      ‘Not just here. I’m away from home for a month and a half but I’m only in Paris a fortnight.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m already realising my plans were too ambitious. I won’t fit everything in.’

      ‘That gives you a reason to return. You can do more on your next visit.’

      His eyes were almost warm enough to dispel the wintry chill that descended at his words. There’d be no return visit, no second chance.

      She had one shot at living to the max. She’d make the most of it, even if it meant stepping out of her comfort zone. She tossed back another mouthful of champagne, relishing the little starbursts on her tongue.

      ‘This is delicious wine.’

      He nodded. ‘It’s not bad. Now, tell me about this list. I’m intrigued.’

      She shrugged. ‘Tourist things, mainly.’ But she refused to feel self-conscious. ‘See those Impressionist masterpieces at the Musée d’Orsay, visit Versailles, go for a boat ride on the Seine.’

      ‘You’ll have time to fit those in if you have two weeks.’

      She shook her head. ‘That’s only the beginning. I want to attend a gourmet cooking class. I’ve always wanted to know how they make those melt-in-the-mouth