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

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 of not touching him was making her equilibrium very shaky. She had to wonder if she’d imagined that kiss in her house the day he’d taken her away. Was their affair, in fact, over for him? Had the pregnancy killed his desire?

‘She’s the best in Paris. And who said anything about having the baby in Dublin? You’re here now, Alana.’

Her eyes clashed with his, and her hands clenched at her sides as she regarded him across the kitchen where she’d followed him when he’d arrived home. Now she regretted the puppy-dog-like impulse. And her insecurity. ‘I don’t believe we’ve actually discussed this, Pascal. I have every intention of having my baby at home. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just here until things die down.’

‘You mean, our baby.’

‘I mean, my baby. This is not a traditional relationship. I’ve no problem with you being involved, but I’m making the decisions to do with my body and how I want this to proceed.’

‘The medical system here is one of the best in the world,’ he declared arrogantly, and Alana opened her mouth but faltered. He was right.

‘That may be so. But when this baby is born, I’m going to want the support of my family. Here I’ve no one.’ Alana felt a rising sense of panic that Pascal would just keep her here, like some kind of animal in a zoo.

She had her hand on her belly again, in an unconscious gesture of protection. She was dressed down in jeans and a loose shirt, and Pascal could see the outline of her bra underneath, white and plain, and yet more seductive than the flimsiest lingerie he’d seen on her yet—the memory of which was all too vivid. His jaw ached from holding it so tight. His belly burned with a fire that only the woman in front of him could quench, and he knew that would only be momentary. One taste of her and he’d want 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.’