Slowly, he shook his head, his piercing gaze never leaving her face. ‘It’s not that. There’s something more. Something you’re hiding. I won’t do anything until I know what it is.’
That powerful jaw took on an obstinate cast as he crossed his arms across his chest, reinforcing that aura of tough, masculine strength despite his suavely tailored jacket. His lips thinned and his nostrils flared.
He looked intimidating. Not like the easy lover she remembered, or the passionate man of seconds ago. There was passion still, but something formidable too.
‘You’re reneging on what you said? You won’t step in if something...happens to me?’ Fear clutched. She wasn’t even sure if she could carry this child to term but she had to believe she could. And she had to believe there’d be someone to care for it when she was gone.
‘Hey.’ His voice was soothing, his fleeting touch on her arm gentle. ‘Don’t get worked up. All I want is the truth. Surely I’m entitled to that?’
‘You have the truth. The baby is yours.’
He stood silent, his scrutiny like a weight pushing her down.
She spun away, turning to the windows, vaguely aware of the lights of Paris beyond. Once, a few weeks ago, she’d have revelled in being here, seeing this. Now she felt terrified, scared not so much for herself as for her baby. Despair hovered in the shadows at the corner of her vision, ready to pounce if she let her guard down.
‘I can’t help unless you tell me what’s troubling you.’
She pivoted towards him. ‘Help?’ She’d wondered if he was looking for an excuse to wriggle out of that.
‘I said I would and I’m a man of my word.’ He spoke with such authority she couldn’t help but believe him.
Imogen hadn’t wanted to tell him too soon, scared the knowledge he’d definitely be responsible for their child might frighten him off. Yet surely he deserved to know? The sooner he came to grips with what was to come, the better.
‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be okay.’
A laugh ripped from Imogen’s throat. The sound scared her—so raw and guttural. It betrayed the fact she clung to calm by the skin of her teeth.
Thierry’s dark eyebrows shot up, his gaze interrogative.
‘It won’t be okay, that’s the problem.’ Her voice was harsh and raspy. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m not going to be a mother and I’m not going to know my child.’ Pain settled like a lump of cold metal in her stomach, its chill paralysing. ‘I’m dying.’
CHAPTER FIVE
THE NEXT HOUR passed in a haze, for which Imogen was grateful. She’d had enough of pain and grief and though both still threatened like bullies hovering at the edge of a playground, Thierry’s presence kept them at bay.
Two things stood out. First, the way he’d gone stark white beneath the bronze of his tanned olive skin when he heard her news. Even the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes had morphed into creases that betrayed shock rather than humour. Second, his gentle solicitude as he’d ushered her back to a chair and pressed a hot drink into her hands.
His touch had been impersonal, as far from his earlier passionate grip as it was possible to be. Dying did that—it distanced you from people, putting up an unseen but unbreakable barrier no one wanted to broach. She’d seen it with her mother—people keeping their distance, as if they feared her brain tumour might be catching.
In Thierry’s case, the fire died out of his eyes as she told him about her condition, and that her mother had died of the same illness just months before. He hadn’t protested in disbelief but his face had grown grimmer and grimmer as she’d spelled out what was in store.
‘We need to get you to a specialist.’ Even his voice had changed, the timbre hollow instead of smooth and rich.
She leaned her head against the back of her chair. ‘I have another appointment in Sydney in a couple of weeks.’
‘So far away?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not in a hurry, Thierry. I’ve been through it all with my mother and I know what to expect. Except...’ She pressed a hand to her stomach, terror swooping through her as she thought of the danger to her baby.
‘Don’t.’ He hunkered beside her, his hand on hers firm and strong, callused, as if he did more with his time than attend meetings. Heat seeped from his touch. She imagined it as warm tendrils shooting and unfurling, spreading through her chilled body. Was it imagination or did the tightness around her hunched shoulders ease?