SEVEN
THREE days later Alana finally had to acknowledge that she really hadn’t had a choice. Not that it made her feel any better. What could she have done? Her family was reeling from the revelations. The country was reeling. Reporters had camped out on her parents’ front lawn until Pascal had hired security guards to protect them and drive the reporters away. She’d created an unholy row. She’d never confided in her brothers and sisters, so to seek help now—and in doing so bring the media circus behind her—would be unforgivable. The best thing she could do was to disappear. But unfortunately that could only happen with the one person she really didn’t want to have to face: Pascal. By coming to Paris, she knew she’d tacitly agreed to stay for an indeterminate amount of time—till things calmed down at home, or until she could get another job. Either way, she was in no position to call the shots for now.
Yet she’d prevaricated, resisted, and watched with mounting horror as the story had taken hold in the press, had watched as her tiny house and square had come under siege. Pascal had finally battled through reporters the previous day, his face rigid with censure as he’d rounded on her once inside the tiny space.
‘This is ridiculous. If you don’t leave and come with me right now, today, you’re going to turn this into something even bigger. They know where you live, where your family lives. You’ll have to leave the house at some stage, or were you planning on surviving on air and water?’ His scathing glance had taken in the already bare-looking shelves in her kitchen.
Alana had never felt so undone, so threatened, in all her life. Even when Ryan had been at his worst, she’d had a level of freedom, space. He hadn’t touched the part of her deep down that this man was trampling all over. She’d shaken her head as much in negation of that as anything else. ‘Please. Don’t make me; I can’t leave. I’ll manage somehow.’
‘How?’ he’d asked curtly. ‘As of next month, you’re facing repossession. You’re hardly in a position to go out and seek employment within a two-hundred-mile radius of this country. I’ve stayed here out of concern for you and your family, but I have to return to France.’ He’d gestured to the curtains drawn over her window. She could hear the jostle of people outside. ‘Are you really ready to take them on by yourself?’
Alana had looked at him and let easy anger rise. She’d lashed out as much at herself as him, but made him the target. ‘This is all your fault. If you hadn’t pursued me, if you hadn’t wanted me—’
Her words were cut off as he bridged the gap between them and gripped her upper arms, hauling her close. Words died in her throat as she felt her body come flush against his. She’d never seen him look so angry.
His mouth was a thin slash of displeasure. ‘I wanted you, yes, but you acquiesced, Alana. I’m not the reason your marriage failed, and I’m not the reason you never spoke the truth before now, and I’m certainly not the reason you felt compelled to spill your guts the other day.’
Alana gulped as she looked up, held captive in his hands, her body already responding to his. The problem was, he was the reason, but she knew she couldn’t blame him. He’d changed her; since the first moment their eyes had met, something in her had started to melt and breathe again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, soberly. ‘You’re right. It’s not your fault.’
‘Damn right it’s not my fault. If anyone is to blame, then it’s you because this, the way you make me feel, is all your fault.’
He looked at her for a long, searing moment before hauling her even closer into his chest, and claimed her mouth with his. It was passionate, bruising, all-encompassing. Pascal’s hands held her easily, pressing her close into his fast-burgeoning arousal. And she did nothing to stop him because she couldn’t. Didn’t want to. He hadn’t touched her since it had all come out. And she needed this, wanted him so badly that nothing else mattered but him here, right now, with his mouth on hers, giving her life. Restoring sanity, while taking it away spectacularly.
He pulled back after a long, incendiary moment. They were both breathing fast, hearts thumping in unison. She looked up at him helplessly, aghast at how even now he had the power to render her speechless with just a kiss.
When he spoke, it made something cold descend into Alana’s belly; his voice was so cool, so devoid of the passion she felt in his body. ‘Have you also forgotten that you’re carrying my child? And for that reason alone, if nothing else, you will be afforded my protection whether you like it or not. This isn’t just about us any more, Alana.’
Now Alana stood at the window of Pascal’s top-floor apartment near the Champs-Elysées in Paris, arms folded. The view over the Parisian rooftops was stunning, taking in the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. Where the apartment in Rome had had something homely about it, something Alana had instinctively preferred, this was sumptuous on another level. The antiques and priceless art, the luxurious curtains and ankle-deep carpets screamed decadence.
She sighed and turned to survey the room again. Despite its objects, its gilded antique furniture, it felt empty somehow. They’d arrived yesterday evening. Pascal had overseen her pack her things in her house and had then escorted her through the crush in the square. In his car on the way to the airport she’d made her calls, explaining to her parents that she was going away for a while to let things die down. They had been understandably concerned, and to her surprise Pascal had taken the phone out of her hand and had reassured her father that she would be fine, giving him his phone numbers and also assuring them that their protection wouldn’t be lifted until Pascal was sure they would be left in peace. His easy reassurance had made her hackles rise, but had also conversely alleviated her awful, burning guilt.
Pascal had shown her to a separate bedroom when they’d arrived, clearly having had no expectation that she would share with him, and Alana had to wonder now what her role would be. And why she felt so confused about that—about what she wanted. This was exacerbated by the fact that she’d barely seen him since then. After having showed her where everything was, pointing out some food ready-prepared for eating, he’d informed her that he had work to do and had disappeared into a study.
Then this morning, he’d been up and gone to work when she’d emerged from her room, feeling like a train wreck, even after an amazingly deep sleep. He’d left a note on the kitchen counter with a long list of numbers and assistants’ names. His writing was as distinctive and boldly authoritative as him:
If you need anything, just call. I’ve set up an account in your name at my bank with funds, should you need anything. My assistant will be around shortly with bank cards. Please make yourself at home. I will be back late, so don’t wait up. I’ll be eating out.
Pascal.
And just like that, here she was—pregnant with Pascal Lévêque’s child, at the centre of a storm of controversy at home and conveniently sidelined to … where, exactly?
‘I’ve made an appointment with a gynaecologist near here for tomorrow morning. You need to start thinking about yourself and the baby.’
Alana bristled; as if she’d had time to think about anything else. She’d hardly seen Pascal, had walked what felt like the length and breadth of Paris on her own, and now he was ordering her around only minutes after coming in the apartment door at the end of a long, lonely week for her. She lashed out at his easy assumption that she was here for good. ‘I’d prefer if I could choose my own doctor, thanks, and there are plenty of gynaecologists in Dublin.’
A muscle clenched in his jaw. Alana was trying to ignore the way he looked so sexy in his suit. Suddenly to be faced with him after days
