The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress. Эбби Грин

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.’

       Warm!

      She could feel a trickle of sweat roll down between her breasts as if his words had just turned the room into a sauna. ‘No, I’m fine.’ But all at once the jacket which had felt positively lightweight now felt like a bear skin. To be confronted with him up close and personal was overwhelming. Her eyes wanted to look their fill of his broad, lean body, wanted to rest and dwell and see if he filled out his suit as well as she suspected he did. Who was she kidding? As well as she knew he did. She didn’t have to look to feel the latent power of his taut body envelop her in waves.

      Before she knew what she was doing, she felt her hand come up in a telling gesture to smooth her hair behind her ear. It was a nervous habit. His eyes narrowed and followed her movement, and Alana flushed. Damn. She did not want to look like she was in any way aware of him.

      A smile quirked his mouth. ‘Your hair is perfectly…tidy.’

      Was he laughing at her? And then she remembered what Rory had said. She glared up at him. Her hand dropped. ‘Is it true that you requested me for this interview?’

      He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It’s tiresome, but every now and then I have to give in to press demands. So, yes, I requested you…in the hope that, perhaps with you asking the questions, it would prove a more diverting experience than I’m used to.’

      His eyes were hot and sensual. Everything professional in her reacted to his dismissive and high-handed manner. She smiled sweetly, and something treacherous ignited in her belly when she saw a flare of something in his eyes. She ignored her body’s response. ‘Mr Lévêque. If you think that just because I’m a woman I’m going to confine my questions to what your favourite colour might be, then you’re sadly mistaken.’ At that moment she made a mental note to stay up all night if she had to, to research this man.

      His eyes narrowed and cooled, and she shivered slightly.

      ‘And if you think that because you’re a woman I would dismiss your ability on that basis alone, then you are much mistaken. Any interest I have in you as far as the interview goes is purely professional. I’ve had your work investigated, and you impressed me.’

      Alana was completely taken aback, and immediately felt like apologising. But, looking up at him now, she felt that cool wind still washing over her. She could almost believe that she had imagined his hot look of just moments ago. That she had imagined everything leading up to this point. She had an uncanny prescience of what it would be like to be this man’s enemy.

      ‘Well, I’m… That is, I hadn’t thought that—’

      He cut off her inarticulate attempt to apologise. ‘Like I said, my interest in you is purely professional…as far as the interview goes. However…’ He stopped and moved closer. The air around them changed in a heartbeat. Became charged.

      Alana sucked in a breath. His eyes were hot again, making her feel very disorientated.

      ‘I can’t promise that my interest doesn’t extend beyond the professional.’

      As with earlier in the stadium, Alana felt as though the huge, packed ballroom had just shrunk around them. Adrenaline pumped through her along with the desire to flee.

      ‘Mr Lévêque. I’m very sorry, but you see—’

      ‘Are you married?’ he asked so quickly and abruptly that Alana was stunned.

      ‘Yes,’ she answered automatically, and saw something dark flash across his face. And then she stepped back and shook her head. What was this man doing to her brain? ‘No. I mean I am, I was, married.’ She bit her lip and looked out to the room briefly, desperately willing Rory to come back and interrupt them. She looked back up at Pascal with the utmost reluctance. His eyes glittered, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. She wondered how they’d got onto such personal territory so quickly, and then his words came back: I can’t promise that my interest doesn’t extend beyond the professional.

      A whole host of emotions and memories was threatening to consume her. And the fact that she was here, in an environment so evocative of her past, was quickly becoming claustrophobic. She took a breath, deeply resenting that he was making her talk about this. ‘I was married. My husband died eighteen months ago.’

      Pascal opened his mouth as if to say something, and Alana was already tensing in anticipation. But her prayers had been heard, and Rory bounded up at that moment with drinks. He thrust a glass of champagne at Alana before handing what looked like a whiskey to Pascal. And then panic struck. She put the glass on a nearby table, some of the champagne sloshing out over the rim.

      She opened her bag to pull her phone out. Ten missed calls. She groaned, ‘I am in so much trouble.’

      She turned to Rory. ‘I have to go.’ She looked at Pascal briefly, welcoming the feeling of panic which was distracting her from his overpowering presence.

      ‘I’m sorry, but I’m already late for another engagement.’

      She started backing away, valiantly ignoring Rory’s none-too- subtle facial expressions. She bumped into someone and apologised. She felt her hair come loose from its sleek chignon and pushed it behind her ear. She was literally coming apart.

      ‘It was nice to…meet you, Mr Lévêque. I look forward to the interview.’ Liar. He just watched her, a small, enigmatic smile playing around that hard mouth, and stuck one hand deep into a pocket. Alana could already see women hovering, ready to move back in again, and something curdled in her stomach.

      ‘Me, too,’ he said softly, and lifted his glass like a salute— or a threat. ‘Á demain, Alana.’ Till tomorrow.

      It was disconcerting to say the least to try and conduct a coherent conversation while the remnants of the hottest lust he’d ever experienced still washed through his body in waves. Even the welcome knowledge that she wasn’t married failed now to impinge on his racing mind. He was still trying to clamp down the intensely urgent desire to know exactly whom she had gone to meet and where. Was it a date?

      ‘So, what made you decide to ask for Alana Cusack to interview you?’ Her boss, Rory Hogan, the head of the sports division of the national TV channel, laughed nervously. He was beginning to intensely irritate Pascal with his obsequious behaviour—and also by drawing his attention to the uncomfortable fact that, in the space of the short car journey earlier, Pascal had gone from dismissing Alana Cusack from his head to making a series of calls to find out exactly who she was, and then requesting her for his interview the next day.

      Following an instinct, he decided not to dismiss this man straight away. ‘I decided to use her because she’s the best reporter you’ve got, of course.’

      Rory’s flushed face got even more flushed. ‘Well, thank you. Yes, she is good. In fact, she’s rather surprised us all.’ The other man looked round for a second and then moved closer. Pascal fought against taking a step back; Rory was becoming progressively more drunk.

      ‘The thing is, you see, she was only given a chance because of who she is.’

      Pascal’s interest sharpened. He injected a tone of bored uninterest into his voice. ‘What do you mean?’

      Rory laughed and waved an arm around. ‘See all these women hanging on?’

      Pascal