A Vow To Secure His Legacy

Imogen drew a slow breath, deliberately pushing her shoulders down as tension inched them higher. Whatever the future held, she’d meet it head on.

She crossed the bathroom and reached for the test kit she’d left there. She hadn’t had the nerve to look at the result before, telling herself it was nonsense and she’d be better having tea and biscuits to settle her stomach.

Now, reluctantly, she looked down at the indicator.

The world wobbled and she grabbed the counter.

Had her illness affected her eyes? But the indicator was clear. It was only her brain that felt blurry.

Pregnant.

She was expecting Thierry’s child.

* * *

It was harder, this time, to contact him. He had a new PA who seemed dauntingly efficient and not eager to help.

No, Monsieur Girard wasn’t in Paris. No, she couldn’t say where he was. Her tone implied Imogen had no right to renew his acquaintance. Had she been placed on some blacklist of importunate ex-lovers? Imogen imagined a throng of women trailing after him, trying to recapture his attention.

Was she to be so easily dismissed? Embarrassment and anger warred, and her grip tightened on the phone.

‘When will he be back? It’s urgent I speak with him.’ She’d taken the first train from London to Paris, checking into a tiny hotel with the last of her travel money.

‘Perhaps you’d like to leave a message, mademoiselle? He’s very busy.’ The cool tone implied he’d never find time for her again. Was that an overprotective assistant or a woman acting on orders?

Her crisp efficiency and Imogen’s realisation she could only contact him via this dragon brought home the glaring differences between them. Thierry was powerful, mixing in elite social circles and living a privileged life. Employees protected him from unsolicited contact. She was working class and unsophisticated, more at home with a spreadsheet of numbers than at a glittering social event. Only the bright passion between them had made them equals.

Imogen set her chin.

‘I need to speak with him in person. It’s imperative.’

‘As I said, I can take a message...’

But would it be delivered?

Imogen gritted her teeth, staring over the slate-grey roof of the building across the lane. It seemed close enough to touch in this cheap back street. A far cry from the magnificent hotel she’d splurged on during her first stay in Paris.

‘Please tell him I need to see him. Five minutes will do.’ She bit down grim laughter. How long did it take to break such news? ‘I have...important information for him. Something he needs to hear as soon as possible.’

‘Very well, mademoiselle.’ The phone clicked in her ear.

* * *

‘That’s all now.’ Thierry looked at his watch. ‘Finish those in the morning.’

Mademoiselle Janvier primmed her mouth. ‘I find it more efficient to complete my work before leaving and start fresh tomorrow.’

Thierry forbore from comment. His temporary PA took efficiency to a new level. At least these notes would take no more than half an hour.

He should be grateful. When there’d been that recent glitch in his plans to take over a rival business, her hard work had been invaluable. She’d even tried to match his eighteen-hour work days till he’d put a stop to it. Dedication he appreciated, but sometimes she seemed almost proprietorial.

If only she’d smile occasionally.

His lips twitched. That was his unregenerate, unbusinesslike side. The side that preferred being outdoors on a clear evening like this, rather than cooped up with a sour-faced assistant.

That part of him would far rather share a champagne picnic with an intriguing dark-haired beauty whose enthusiasm, sensuality and unexpected flashes of naïveté intrigued.

That couldn’t be regret he felt? There’d be excitement enough in his life once he cleared this final hurdle. He’d given up four years of his life and wrought a small miracle, wresting the family business from the brink of disaster. Soon...

He rolled his shoulders. Soon he could take up his real life again. The one that defined him, no matter how irresponsible his grand-père branded it. But his grand-père had never understood it was the rush of adrenalin, the thrill of pitting himself physically against the toughest challenges, that made him feel real. These past years he’d been condemned to a half life.

Adventure beckoned. What would it be first? Heli-skiing or hot-air ballooning? Or white-water rafting? Orsino had mentioned a place in Colorado...

‘By the way, there’s a woman waiting to see you.’

‘A woman?’ Thierry checked his diary. He had no appointments.

‘A Mademoiselle Holgate.’

‘Holgate?’ Something inside his chest jerked hard. ‘How long has she been waiting?’

His PA’s eyes widened as he shot to his feet. ‘I warned her she’d have to wait. You had a lot—’

‘Invite her in. Immediately!’

Mademoiselle Janvier scurried out, shock on her thin features. It was the first time she’d seen him anything but polite and calm, even when it had looked like his expansion plans, so vital to the solidity of the company, had unravelled.

The door opened and his breathing quickened. He stepped around the desk, elation pulsing.

Elation? He halted, a prickle of warning skating through him.

He and Imogen had enjoyed themselves but Thierry wasn’t in the habit of feeling more than casual pleasure at the thought of any woman. Not since Sandrine, a lifetime ago.

He’d learned his lesson then. Women added spice and pleasure, especially now his chance for serious adventure had been curtailed. But none lasted. He made sure of it. Women fitted into the category of rest and recreation.

Thierry frowned as a trim, dark-haired figure stepped into the room and an unfamiliar sensation clamped his belly.

He almost wouldn’t have recognised her. Those glorious dark tresses were scraped into a bun that reminded him of Mademoiselle Janvier with her rigid self-control. Imogen wore jeans and a shirt that leached the colour from her face. He’d never seen her in anything but bright colours. And there were shadows under her eyes, hollows beneath her cheekbones.

Again that inexplicable thump to his chest, as if an unseen hand had punched him.

‘Imogen!’ He started forward but before he reached her she slipped into a visitor’s chair.

Thierry pulled up abruptly. It wasn’t the reaction he got from women. Ever.

‘Thierry.’ She nodded, the movement curt, almost dismissive. And her eyes—they didn’t glow as he remembered. They looked...haunted as they stared at his tie. Yet there was defiance in the set of her chin. Belligerence in her clamped lips.

What had happened? He’d seen her ecstatic, curious, enthralled. He’d seen her in the throes of passion. His lower body tensed. Those memories had kept him from sleep too many nights since she’d left. He’d even seen her in pain, with tears spiking those ebony lashes. But he’d never seen her look like this.