A Vow to Secure His Legacy

‘How are you doing?’ He sat on the bed and even through the light blanket she felt his warmth. She wanted to snuggle into him and hold him tight, never let go.

She snared a breath. She had to be stronger than that. She couldn’t rely on him or anyone else.

Imogen looked up through slitted eyes and read worry on his broad brow.

‘Fine,’ she lied, loath to make that worry worse. ‘Just tired.’ That, at least, was true. A week of little sleep had left her on the edge of exhaustion.

A hand brushed the hair from her face, and her eyes fluttered closed. His touch was so soothing, so gentle. Yearning rose in a welling tide.

‘Are you sure that’s all? Do you need a doctor?’

Her eyes sprang open to find him leaning closer, the spicy fresh scent of his skin making her nostrils flare.

‘No doctor. I’ve had enough of them for now.’ Sydney would be soon enough. ‘I’m fine, really, just tired.’

‘I’ve brought croissants and juice if you’re hungry.’ She shook her head, and he frowned. ‘I have appointments all morning. I could put them off.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She tried to sound firm and strong but she suspected her voice was too hoarse. ‘I’ll get up now and head back to my hotel.’

‘You really think I’d let you?’

‘Sorry?’ Was the ache in her head making her hear things?

‘What sort of man do you take me for?’ Anger sparked in that gleaming gaze. ‘You’ll stay here while you’re in Paris. I’m just trying to work out whether I can leave you this morning.’

‘Of course you can leave me. I’m not your responsibility.’ Her brain told her to move, not loll here basking in his concern. But her aching head and tired body didn’t want to move. She forced herself to pluck at the blanket, lifting it, ready to get up.

A hard hand clasped her wrist, forcing it and the blanket back down.

‘Don’t.’ His voice caressed rather than ordered, and to her shock, awareness, acute and devastating, jagged through her. ‘We’ll argue about it later, when you have more energy.’ He stroked her hair again and there was magic in his touch. She felt the tension rolling away in little waves. ‘For now you need sleep. Promise me you’ll stay here till I come back.’

It was pure weakness, she knew, but Imogen was barely surprised to hear the whisper emerge from her lips. ‘Just for a while, then.’

When she finally woke, late in a golden afternoon, she was surprised to find herself refreshed, without that horrible hangover feeling after too much pain. Thankful for small mercies, she headed to the bathroom, only to discover her toiletries bag sitting there, and her hair brush. Dazed, she swivelled, looking back through the door to the bedroom. Her suitcase lay, unzipped, on the other side of the room.

He’d gone to her hotel and collected her belongings?

How had he done it? Surely there were rules about not giving strangers access to other people’s hotel rooms?

Imogen’s brow pleated as she tried to work out how Thierry had done it. And why. It was high-handed, and she should be annoyed, but right now the thought of getting into fresh clothes was just too appealing.

Shaking her head, she stripped off, stepping into the marble-lined shower and a stream of blissfully warm water. She’d work it all out when she was fully awake. But she’d bet Thierry’s ability to access her things had something to do with that combination of innate authority and his bone-melting smile. No doubt the hotel employee he’d approached was female.

The thought stirred unwelcome feelings. A jab of what felt like jealousy.

Imogen caught herself up sharply. She had no right to jealousy. Thierry had never been hers in any real sense. Anyway, she wouldn’t be with him long enough to worry about other women.

Emerging from the bathroom, she automatically reached for jeans, then paused as she noticed the gorgeous light of late afternoon slanting in the big windows.

She’d been too exhausted yesterday to worry about anything but confronting Thierry and breaking her news. Now she needed to book a flight to Sydney since she had Thierry’s word he’d care for their baby.

Which meant this could be her last evening in Paris.

Firming her lips, she put the jeans down and delved into the big suitcase. If this was her last night here...

Fifteen minutes later she stared at herself in the mirror. Izzy’s dress in uncrushable scarlet lace clung more than Imogen had anticipated. And it was more suited to evening than late afternoon.