Escape For Mother's Day: The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. Fiona McArthur

shook his head, jaw rigid, eyes black. ‘Of course not. What time do you have to be in work tomorrow?’

      Such banalities.

      Alana glanced at her watch, but didn’t even register the time. ‘I have to meet the crew in Stadio Flaminio at midday; the kick-off is at 3:00 p.m.’

      He nodded. ‘My car will take you in and come back for me.’

      ‘If you’re sure? I could get a taxi.’

      He shook his head almost violently, and Alana knew the sudden urge to leave, get away now. It was as if his control was barely leashed.

      He took the glass from her hand. ‘Dors bien, Alana.’

      CHAPTER FOUR

      WHEN Alana reached her room, she was breathing hard. She went straight into her en suite bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes over-bright. Her body was too sensitive, and an ache throbbed down low in her belly and between her legs. She dropped her head, hands gripping the edge of the sink.

      She went back out into the bedroom and fooled herself into believing that she was doing what she wanted by unpacking her clothes and taking out her toiletries. A silk dress slithered out of her trembling hands to the ground. She picked it up. She’d pulled it out of her wardrobe on a whim. It was one of the very few dresses she’d kept from her days with Ryan, and she hadn’t worn it since her marriage had ended. Ryan had derided her when she’d worn it first, as it hadn’t been revealing enough for him … or, more accurately, for the press, who he’d constantly wanted to impress. But in actual fact it was plenty revealing, and way more than Alana had been comfortable with. Up to now.

      She hung it up abruptly, refusing to think about why she’d brought it.

      As she was about to start undressing, she stopped and sat on the edge of the bed. Her heart was thumping slow, heavy beats. She was shaking. Adrenaline washed through her system. Her body already knew what was inevitable. She couldn’t deny it to herself. It was as if the centre of her being had become magnetised and could only go in one direction.

      She walked back over to the door and opened it. The only light came from downstairs. She paused at the top of the stairs. He was still down there, sitting on the couch, long legs splayed in front of him, in bare feet, the dregs of a glass of wine in his hands into which he was staring broodily. Fear assailed Alana again, and she almost fled, but then he looked up.

      Tension snaked up from him to her and an unspoken plea: don’t go. She realised that she couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to. She came down the stairs, clinging onto the rail as she went. She was melting inside as she came closer and closer. Her clothes felt restrictive.

      She got to the bottom. Without taking his eyes off hers, he carefully placed his glass on the small table at his feet and stood up. She concentrated on his eyes—dark, molten.

      ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

      He didn’t smile, but she heard the smile in his voice. ‘You were only gone ten minutes.’

      ‘I know I won’t be able to sleep.’

      ‘What do you want, Alana?’

      She shook her head. ‘I want … I want …’ Her face flamed. ‘You know what I want. Don’t make me say it, please.’

      ‘Show me what you want.’ His voice was soft, silky, heavy with erotic promise.

      He was making her come to him all the way. Making sure.

      Alana stepped forward jerkily until she was standing right in front of him. She could barely breathe. They hardly touched, and now she lifted her hands to his shoulders. They were so much wider and higher than she remembered. She took another couple of awkward steps. He was making no move to help her.

      She looked up at him, a hint of desperation on her face; she could feel sweat on her brow. ‘Can’t you just …?’

      ‘You want me to take you? To take the decision out of your hands—so on some level you don’t have to actually make it clear what you want?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I need to know that you really want this. I won’t indulge regrets and recriminations in the morning.’

      Damn him. Since when had he become a psychoanalyst? But Alana’s need was too great.

      She moved even closer and wound her arms around his neck, bringing her whole body flush against his, leaning into him. Her breasts were crushed into his chest, and she felt him suck in a deep breath. It made her exultant. He might be displaying control, but she guessed it was shaky.

      She pulled his head down to hers, her fingers threading through dark, silky hair. She lifted her face to his and angled it to try and kiss him. She felt so awkward. She aimed for his mouth, but ended up bumping his nose, his chin. She pulled back, letting him go. This was ridiculous. No doubt he’d expected her to sashay up to him, throw him down on the sofa and seduce him into mindless ecstasy. Well, he’d be waiting.

      Her voice was stiff with humiliation. This was exactly what she’d feared. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t … done this in a while. I think you expect me to be something … more than I am.’

      She turned to go but he caught her wrist and pulled her back. She fell against him, caught off-balance. With the practised ease which she lacked and so envied, he immediately cradled the back of her head with a big hand, the other holding her close against him.

      ‘Not at all. I just wanted to be sure you were ready for this.’

      ‘Maybe I’m not, after all,’ she breathed up, mesmerised by his eyes.

      ‘I think you are.’ And then he bent his head and kissed her, exactly how she’d been aching to be kissed since the last time. Both hands now threaded through her hair, messing it up, cradling her head. Her hands rested on his chest and wound higher until they were tight around his neck. They barely paused for breath; there was no awkwardness now. First their kiss was slow, sensual, a tentative touching of tongues, tasting. Then it developed into full-on passion, igniting an inferno between them.

      Somehow, Alana didn’t know how, Pascal had manoeuvered them and now her back was against a wall. He lifted his head. One hand was high on the wall behind her, the other resting on her hip. She felt as boneless as a rag doll. She looked up, her eyes glazed, her lips plump and tingling.

      His index-finger traced around her jaw and down to the top button of her shirt. Her heart stopped and kick-started again. Faster.

      ‘Do you have any idea what this outfit has been doing to me since I saw you arrive in it?’

      She shook her head. All she knew was that she wanted to be out of it. As soon as possible.

      He started to undo her tie. ‘As much as this turns me on,’ he said gruffly, ‘I think I’m going to have to burn it.’

      ‘I have ten more at home,’ Alana said matter of factly, distractedly.

      He threw it aside and it landed in a sliver of dark colour on the wooden floor. ‘Then it’ll be a bonfire.’

      His fingers were at her buttons now. She tipped her head back to give him access, and she felt him drop his head and press a kiss to the exposed, delicate skin of her throat. Alana moaned softly. She was in a sensual land that she’d never thought she’d experience. She’d heard other women talk of lust and chemical attraction, and had always secretly disbelieved them or thought it was overrated. Now … she knew.

      She could sense Pascal’s growing impatience when he couldn’t undo any more buttons as the dress got in the way. He growled, ‘How do you get this thing off?’

      Alana stood and turned around to face the wall. ‘The zip. At the back.’

      She could feel it whisper down, and then he turned her round again. Bending to take her mouth with his, she could feel his hands go to the shoulders of her dress and push it down; it snagged on her hips, and then