‘Yes.’ He paused so long tension tightened the bare skin of her shoulders. ‘I want you to marry me.’
There was a thud and cold liquid spilled onto her thigh. Vaguely Imogen was aware of Thierry reaching out to grab her water glass before it could roll onto the deck.
She didn’t move, just sat, goggling.
‘Ah, thank you.’ He spoke to the waiter who appeared out of nowhere to mop the tablecloth and clear the plates. All the while Thierry sat there, leaning back now, one arm looped casually over the back of his chair, watching her.
The waiter left.
‘What did you say?’ Her voice was a croak from constricted muscles.
‘I want us to marry. This week.’
He looked so relaxed, as if he’d merely commented on the quality of the meal they’d shared, or on the beautiful old buildings floodlit along the banks of the Seine.
Her pulse fluttered like a mad thing. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Never more so.’ They approached another bridge and for a few moments were bathed in light. That was when she saw it, the glint of determination in those espresso-dark eyes. And the arrogant thrust of his chin.
Imogen wasn’t aware of moving but she heard a scrape and suddenly she was on her feet, stumbling for the deck’s rail. She clutched it with hands that shook.
She didn’t know what she felt. This was one shock too many. Her legs wobbled and she had trouble dragging in enough oxygen.
‘There’s no need for that,’ she finally gasped out. ‘Is this you trying to be kind?’ She didn’t need pity, no matter how good his intentions.
Imogen spun around, only to find Thierry standing behind her, just a breath away. His clean scent filled her senses as she fought for air.
‘Not kind. Just practical. Planning for the future.’ His voice was smoothly persuasive. Dully, she wondered if he used this tone to broker his business deals. Yet, despite his calm demeanour, she sensed he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared.
Good! Her heart was racing like a runaway train.
Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t see what’s practical about it.’ She licked dry lips, peering up into his shadowed features. ‘When the time comes... I’ll ensure you’re named as the father and—’
‘You think it will be that easy? Claiming the child from the other side of the world? No matter what the birth certificate says, I’ll bet Australian law is every bit as complex as in France. There’ll be one hurdle after another for me to claim the baby. It could take months, years.’
The baby. Not his baby.
What had she expected? That a mere twenty-four hours after learning he was going to be a father, Thierry would have the same powerful connection she felt for the tiny life inside her? Of course it was too much to ask. All she could do was hope that with time that would change.
‘Do you want to risk the possibility your baby will be put in care while the legalities are sorted out?’
Pain scoured her, as if someone took a rusty blade and scraped it through her womb. Her palm found her belly, pressing tenderly as if to make sure that little life was safe inside.
A large hand, warm and callused, covered hers, splaying gently across her abdomen. She blinked and looked up into unreadable eyes.
‘If we marry there will be no legal hurdles. I’ll be responsible for our child. There will be no waiting, no complications. Only what’s best for the baby.’ Thierry’s voice dropped to a low, crooning note that flowed through her like molten chocolate. Or maybe that was the effect of his touch, so real, so sure.
‘You know there’s a chance the baby might not survive?’ She choked back the horror that had haunted her since she’d learned of her pregnancy. The fear that her child might die simply because she wouldn’t live long enough for it to survive.
In the gloom away from the lights, she could just make out the fierce jut of Thierry’s hard jaw.
When he spoke his voice held an edge she couldn’t identify. ‘As your husband, I’ll be in a position to do everything possible for it. And for you.’
For one enticing moment Imogen let herself imagine leaning on Thierry as she had today, allowing him to take care of her. But ultimately they were strangers.
‘I don’t belong here, Thierry. My home is in Australia.’
‘Yet you admit you’ve got no one to look after you there.’
‘You think I came to Paris to find someone who’d look after me?’ She tried to free her hand from his but he simply pressed closer, crowding her against the railing. ‘I’m Australian. I belong there.’