‘To visit, perhaps, but where we’re going there’ll be pure air. No fumes or road noise. No crowds either.’
‘I thought you enjoyed socialising.’
He shrugged, taking action to avoid a kamikaze motorcyclist. ‘I love a good party, but after a while I’ve had enough of the chatter.’
‘So what do you like, then?’
A sideways glance showed her turned towards him, her gaze curious, as if she really wanted to know.
It struck him that most of the women he’d known had had their own agendas—to be seen at the right parties or with the right people, the heir to the Girard fortune being one of the right people. They’d had fun together but how many had tried to know Thierry the man rather than Thierry the CEO or Thierry the scion of one of France’s elite families? Or, in the old days, Thierry the famous athlete?
‘Surely it’s not a hard question?’
Not hard at all. ‘Skiing. Downhill and very, very fast.’ Once he’d thought that was his destiny. He’d been in the peak of his form training for the Winter Olympics before a busted leg had put an end to those dreams.
‘What else?’
Another glance showed she hadn’t taken her eyes off him. Of course she wanted to know. He’d be the one raising their child. His hands tightened on the wheel.
‘White-water rafting. Rally driving. Rock climbing.’
‘You don’t like to be still.’
‘You could say that. Except for hot-air ballooning. There’s nothing quite like that for getting a little perspective in your life.’ He didn’t add that a lot of his balloon treks took him to inhospitable, often dangerous places where tourists rarely went.
‘And when you’re not outdoors?’
‘These days I’m usually working.’ In the past he’d have unwound in the company of some gorgeous woman but lately his interest had waned. Until Imogen. Even today, in jeans and a plain shirt, her lithe curves made his hands itch for physical contact.
Not even telling himself that it was wrong to lust after a dying woman, a woman relying on him, could kill that hot flare of hunger.
‘What about you, Imogen? What do you like to do? I don’t mean the things on your travel list.’ It struck him suddenly that hers really had been a bucket list to be accomplished before she died. The realisation was like an icy hand curling gnarled fingers around his chest, squeezing till his lungs burned.
‘You mean, in my ordinary life?’
Thierry nodded, not trusting his voice.
‘The list is pretty ordinary, like me. No white-water rafting.’
‘Ordinary isn’t the way I’d describe you, Imogen.’ Not with her zest for life, her sense of humour and that entrancing mix of pragmatism and wide-eyed enthusiasm. As for her body... He couldn’t go there, not if he wanted to keep his wits on the traffic.
She laughed, but the smoky quality of her voice held a harsh rasp. ‘I suppose you think I’m more like a walking disaster zone. Suddenly you’ve been saddled with—’
‘Don’t!’ Thierry dragged in a breath that grated across his throat. This wasn’t the place to rehash their debate about her being a burden. He knew this was the right thing and he refused to resile from that. He forced a smile into his voice. ‘You don’t get out of answering that easily. Tell me at least three things that make you happy.’
In his peripheral vision, he saw Imogen slump a little in her seat. Then she turned to stare out the window.
‘Books. I love reading, anything from romance to history or biography.’
‘And? That’s only one.’
She hesitated. ‘Numbers. I’ve always liked numbers. There’s something...comfortable about working with figures and finding the patterns that create order out of chaos. I suppose that’s why I went into accounting.’
Thierry nodded. His cousin, Henri, was the same. Give him a spreadsheet and he was happy. The trouble was, though Henri was a genius with figures, he showed little aptitude for management. Lately it had become obvious that Thierry’s plan of leaving the family company in his charge was fraught with problems.
‘And the third?’
‘Baking. Well, cooking generally, but baking specifically.’
‘What do you bake?’ Thierry was intrigued. He didn’t know anyone who cooked for pleasure.
He thought of Jeanne, who’d been his grandparents’ cook as long as he could remember. She was fiercely protective of her domain, a dumpy little woman with arms as strong as any farm labourer, and fingers that could pinch a boy’s ears painfully if he wasn’t quick enough stealing fresh-baked pastries. As far as he could tell, she had nothing in common with Imogen.