A Vow to Secure His Legacy

What would it be like to grow old with the man you loved? The question wormed into her brain and she had to slam down a protective portcullis before her thoughts went too far.

Thierry Girard had been a revelation. Any woman would have been in heaven experiencing Paris with him, even if she hadn’t spent years buried in a half-life of tedium, hemmed in by caution. Was it any wonder Venice, Reykjavik and London hadn’t seemed quite as fabulous as Paris? He’d brought the city alive.

He’d brought her alive.

But she couldn’t give in to romantic fantasy.

What they’d had had been wonderful and she’d lingered over each memory, loving the hazy sense of wellbeing they brought. But their passion, the romance and sense of connection had been illusory, the product of an affair that could only be short-lived.

She sipped her tea then grimaced as her taste buds did that strange thing again, turning a flavour she enjoyed into a dull, metallic tang. She put the cup down then realised she’d turned too fast, for the nausea rose again. Imogen gripped the table, taking slow breaths.

Her mother hadn’t had these symptoms. Did it mean Imogen’s condition was different after all? If anything the headaches had eased a little and were less frequent. But the nausea worried her. It was so persistent.

Reluctantly, she turned towards the bathroom. It was silly to consider the possibility of it being anything else. There was no chance a woman in her condition...

She shook her head then regretted it as the movement stirred that sick feeling again.

Clamping her lips, she headed to the bathroom. Of course it was absurd. This must be a new symptom of her deteriorating condition. Though, with the exception of the nausea, she felt better than she had in ages.

What was the point of second-guessing? She needed to see the specialist back in Sydney. He’d explain what was happening. How long she had.

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.