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

more. Much more. His body thrummed with sexual hunger, but it was a hunger he feared would hurt her, it was so strong.

      That was why he found himself in the novel position of holding himself back. His head was scrambled. Alana wasn’t just his lover any more, she was the mother of his unborn child. That elevated her to a place he wasn’t quite sure he knew how to navigate. He knew nothing about pregnant women. So he’d done what he thought was best, given her some space—himself, too, if he was honest. The knowledge of impending fatherhood was bringing up all sorts of long-unexplored emotions and memories, not least of which was this desire to nurture and protect. He’d buried himself deep in work to try and avoid being alone with her as much as possible. But his good intentions were feeling very elusive now as she stood in front of him with bare feet, hair down, looking as sexily undone as his most rampant fantasy. Not a scrap of artifice or make-up.

      ‘You’re telling me that you will expect the support of your family, when up until now you’ve had no problem shunning it?’

      Alana blanched. How was it that he could see her coming from three-thousand miles away? And why had she felt compelled to tell him all about her family?

      ‘You haven’t even told your parents yet.’

      He was remorseless, and Alana felt exposed. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone until the three-month mark, when it’s safer. Anything could happen between now and then. It’s such early days, we might not … It might not even …’

      Pascal negated her fears with a slashing movement of his hand, a quick, violent surge of something protective rising up within him. ‘Don’t even say that. You will be fine. This baby will be fine.’ The strength of the emotion that gripped him made him feel a little shaky, even Alana had stepped back, her eyes growing huge.

      ‘Look.’ He forced a reasonable, steady tone into his voice, belying what was under the surface. ‘You need to have an initial check-up appointment, admit to that at least?’

      Alana forced herself to take a deep breath. She was feeling overwhelmed, all at sea, itchy under the surface of her skin, unbelievably vulnerable and … homesick. The sting of tears burnt the back of her eyes, and a lump lodged in her throat. To her utter horror and chagrin, she saw Pascal’s eyes narrow on her face. He came closer, and she feared even moving in case she shattered and fell apart.

      ‘What is it, Alana? What’s wrong? You seem … edgy.’

      She could have laughed out loud if she’d had the wherewithal—edgy? She’d been on a knife-edge ever since she’d laid eyes on this man. He was standing so close she could smell him. She shook her head faintly and tried to control her emotions.

      He came closer and the air seemed to swirl headily around them. It was the bizarrest sensation; the closer he came to her, the better she felt, the less isolated, the less lonely. But also the more confused.

      ‘Alana, I can see something in those expressive eyes of yours.’

      She tried to step back, but her legs wouldn’t move. She threw out a hand as if to gesture around them. ‘What on earth could be wrong, Pascal? Within a week I lost my job, found out I was pregnant, have moved homes and now I just … I’ve been alone all week, and it’s just …’ This time she couldn’t stop them. The dam she’d been holding back burst and tears fell, hot and thick, down her face; her throat worked convulsively.

      Through her blurred vision Pascal loomed large, and then Alana felt herself being enfolded in his arms, and held so tenderly and carefully against his chest that it made her cry even harder. And this wasn’t pretty, silent crying, this was loud, snotty, shuddering, gasping crying. For what seemed like an age. And as she cried Alana realised that she’d never cried once in all the years of her marriage, even at the end. Even at Ryan’s funeral. She’d locked her pain deep inside and it felt like it was all pouring out now, along with all her fears for the future and for her baby. Their baby.

      Without her knowing how he did it, Pascal had taken Alana into the sitting room and she found herself sitting on a couch, still cradled against his chest. When her crying finally began to stop and became deep, shuddering breaths, she pulled away a little. His shirt was soaked.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t look at him, and tried ineffectually to wipe at her damp face, which she could well imagine was not a pretty sight. Her eyes felt sore. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it and blew her nose loudly, moving away from him. She was mortified. She’d never cried like that, even in front of her own mother.

      He moved away for a second and came back. She saw a glass with dark liquid appear in front of her face. She looked at him swiftly. ‘I don’t think I should …’ He made a very Gallic facial expression. ‘I’m sure a small sip won’t do any harm.’ So she took a tiny sip. She could feel reaction start to set in, her legs and hands start to shake, and was glad of the burning sensation of the liquid as it entered her stomach and its comforting warmth spread outwards. She put down the glass carefully.

      ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.’ Alana felt her hands taken in Pascal’s and he pulled her gently round to face him. His face was cast slightly in the shadows of the softly lit room.

      ‘No, I’m the one who is sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone all week.’

      She felt something flutter in her chest, and Alana immediately wanted to scotch his obvious suspicion that she might have missed him. Or that she needed reassurance, like some wilting heroine or, God forbid, a lover who was falling in love with him. ‘Don’t be silly, you were busy. I understand that.’

      His mouth tightened momentarily. ‘I created more work for myself to avoid being alone with you.’

      A severe pain lanced Alana. She shouldn’t be feeling pain, yet she also couldn’t quite believe he was being so harsh. So this is what it would feel like when the time came. Well, the time had come. She tried to pull her hands from his. He wouldn’t let her go. A spark of anger restored her equilibrium. ‘Pascal—’

      ‘Let me explain. I don’t think you know what I mean.’

      Oh God, he was going to explain, and she’d just blubbered all over him. She spoke quickly, ‘No, really, I do; it’s fine.’