Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (3 page)

‘That’s how I felt too,’ Abby whispered, and Luc smiled.

‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, almost regretfully, ‘some things are meant to be.’

‘Yes,’ Abby agreed, and then added with an uncertain laugh, ‘Except, as I said before, it hardly seems real.’

‘Nothing good ever does,’ Luc replied, and Abby glanced up, startled. It was a cynical statement, a belief born of suffering, and she wondered what had happened in Luc’s life to make him say and believe such a thing. ‘But tonight is as real as anything is.’

Abby nodded, wanting to lighten the mood. ‘So I know you don’t snore,’ she said, popping a piece of asparagus into her mouth, ‘but I don’t know much else.’ She paused, thinking. ‘You’re French.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you speak English almost perfectly.’

‘As you do French.’

She accepted the compliment with a graceful nod. ‘You’ve never heard me play before.’

‘No.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You’re quite the detective.’

‘You don’t live in Paris?’

‘No.’

Feeling relaxed and yet also a little bold, she added, ‘You’re rich.’

Luc gave a shrug of assent as only the rich could do. ‘I have enough. As do you, I suppose?’

Abby nodded slowly. Yes, she had plenty of money. Her father took control of it, had done since she’d started playing professionally at seventeen. She had no idea how much money she had, or what kind of accounts it was kept in. Her father gave her spending money, and that had been enough. She’d never needed much; she liked to visit museums, buy cappuccinos in their cafés, or books. Her clothes were mostly picked by a stylist, who also took care of her hair, her nails, her make-up. She ate in restaurants and hotels, and sometimes on trains. There was little she needed, and yet somehow right now it all made her sad.

‘You look rather wistful,’ Luc murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’

‘You didn’t,’ Abby said quickly. ‘I was just…thinking.’ She smiled, wanting to shift the attention from herself and her own dawning realizations about her life. She’d been happy, or at least content, until tonight…hadn’t she? Yet in Luc’s presence she was happier and more alive than she’d ever felt before. It made her aware of the deficiencies in her life, how before this her life had been mere existence, simply a waiting period for this moment. For him. ‘You’re not from Paris, so where are you from?’

Luc paused, and Abby had the sense that he didn’t want to tell her. ‘Down south,’ he said finally. ‘The Languedoc.’

‘I’ve never been there.’

He gave a little smile. ‘It has no concert halls.’

Her life had been defined by concert halls: Paris, London, Berlin, Prague, Milan, Madrid. She’d seen so many cities, so many gorgeous concert halls and anonymous hotel-rooms, and she felt it keenly now. The Languedoc. She wondered if
he had a villa, or perhaps even a chateau. For some reason she imagined a quaint farmhouse with old stone walls, a tiled roof and brightly painted shutters amidst gently waving fields of lavender. A home. She gave a little laugh, shaking her head. Now she really was imagining things.

‘Do you like it there?’

Luc paused. ‘I did.’ He spoke flatly, and Abby felt a new tension coil through the room. Then he shook it off with an easy shrug of his shoulders and smiled, leaning forward so Abby could see the lamplight glinting in his eyes; she inhaled the tang of his cologne. ‘But enough of me. I want to know of you.’

Abby smiled back, feeling self-conscious. It seemed as if neither of them wanted to talk about themselves. ‘Fire away.’

‘I read in your biography that the
Appassionata
is one of your favourite pieces to play. Why?’

The question surprised her. ‘Because it’s beautiful and sad at the same time,’ she finally said.

‘And that appeals to you?’

‘It’s…how I’ve felt sometimes.’ It was a strange admission, and one she hadn’t meant to confess. One, she realized, she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself. She loved music, loved playing piano, and yet somehow her life, the pinnacle of success, hadn’t happened the way she had wanted it to. Or at least it hadn’t felt the way she’d wanted it to. She felt like she was missing something, some integral part of life, of herself, that everyone else had.

Did she expect to find it here, with this man? Was such a thing possible? Abby took another sip of champagne. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It is one of my favourite pieces, for the reason you just named, I suppose.’ He nodded, smiling faintly. ‘Beautiful and sad.’

Abby gave a little laugh. ‘We both sound so gloomy! I love playing it, at any rate.’

The waiter returned to clear their plates, and then disappeared again as quietly as a cat. Abby was conscious of time passing; it must be nearing midnight. Her father, if he was awake, would be expecting her. Would he wait up? He had a cold, and had probably taken a sleeping tablet. He wouldn’t worry, because for seven years her routine had been unfaltering—play the piano and return to the hotel, at first by chauffeured car and later by taxi.

When would she return tonight, and how? How would this evening end? The thought made her insides fizz with both wonder and worry, for she didn’t want it to end. Not yet, not ever. This was a snatched moment, one night carved from a lifetime of music and duty—strange how those went together—and she wanted to savour it. She wanted it to last for ever.

‘What are you thinking?’ Luc asked, and before Abby could answer he continued, ‘Are you thinking that time is running out? That we only have a few hours left?’

‘How did you—?’

‘Because I am thinking the same.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps that is all we are meant to have.’

‘No!’ The word was ripped from her, a confession, followed by another, deeper one: ‘I don’t want the evening to end.’

Luc gazed at her, his head tilted to one side, his eyes dark. ‘Neither do I,’ he replied quietly, and then, his tone turning wry, added, ‘And so it won’t. We have four more courses left, surely? This is France, after all.’

‘Bien sûr,’
Abby agreed after a moment, although she hadn’t been talking about food and, she believed, neither had he. Yet what
had
she been talking about? What did she want? Her insides tightened, coiling in anticipation and awareness.

Luc smiled easily, and as if on cue the waiter brought the next course, a terrine of vegetables and herbs that was as light and frothy as air.

The evening passed in a pleasant blur of wine, food and easy conversation. It was easy, surprisingly easy, to talk to him, to slip off her heels and curl her feet under the folds of her gown, to try the
escargots
with a wrinkled nose as she confessed, ‘But they’re snails. I’ve never got over that somehow.’

‘If you could do anything,’ Luc asked as the waiter silently cleared their third course, ‘what would it be?’

By this time Abby was all too relaxed, her chin propped in one hand, her eyes sparkling. ‘Fly a kite,’ she said, earning a surprised chuckle from Luc. ‘Or learn to cook.’

‘Fly a kite?’ he repeated. ‘Really?’

Abby shrugged, suddenly conscious of how childish such a wish seemed. ‘When I was a child, I always saw them flying kites on Hampstead Heath.’

‘Them?’ Luc repeated softly, and Abby shrugged again.

‘Them. Other children.’

‘And you never flew a kite?’

‘I was always on my way to piano lessons. Too busy.’ The waiter returned with their dessert and Abby was glad of the reprieve. She hadn’t meant to reveal quite so much with that question and its betraying answer. ‘And cook, because food is so delicious and I’ve never learned how to make anything properly. What about you?’ She took a spoonful of indulgently rich, dark-chocolate mousse. ‘If you could do anything, what would it be?’

‘Turn back time,’ Luc stated matter-of-factly, and Abby started at how grim he sounded. Then he smiled and dipped his own spoon into the rich, chocolatey dessert. ‘So I could have this evening with you all over again.’

Abby smiled, although she didn’t think that was what he’d meant when he’d spoken about turning back time.

All too soon, however, the waiter returned on his silent cat’s feet to clear away their chocolate mousse and pour the
coffee in tiny porcelain cups, leaving a plate of
petits fours
, delicate and frosted pink, on the table.

The evening was almost over, Abby thought sadly. In a few minutes, a quarter of an hour perhaps, she would leave. She would find a taxi speeding down the near-empty Rue du Faubourg St Honoré, slip into its dark interior and give the driver the address of her own staid and respectable hotel half a mile away. Then she would pay the driver and walk through the deserted foyer of the hotel, avoiding the speculative looks of the bored bellboy and the silent censure of the concierge, praying that he would not tell her father,
‘Mademoiselle est revenue trop tard…’

Then she would forget this evening ever existed, and Luc—just Luc—would be nothing more than a distant memory, a dream.

Except…Except, she thought with a jolt, the evening didn’t need to end at the bar. They could go somewhere else. Somewhere private.

A bedroom.

This was a hotel, after all. Was Luc staying here? Did he have a room? The questions, as well as their potential answers, left her dizzy. Was she, a woman who had barely been kissed, actually contemplating a night with this man? A one-night stand?

Yet it wouldn’t be anything so sordid, because they knew each other. They were practically soulmates. The trite word made Abby grimace. Luc touched her hand, his caress light yet so very sure.

‘Abby,’ he said, ‘what are you thinking?’

‘That I don’t want to go home,’ Abby blurted. She felt herself flush and suddenly didn’t care. ‘I want to stay here with you.’

Luc frowned, a shadow of regret in his eyes. ‘It is late. You should go.’

She reached out and curled her fingers around his wrist;
her thumb instinctively found his pulse. ‘No.’ Was she actually begging?

‘It is better,’ Luc said quietly. ‘I…’ He sighed, gazing down at her fingers still clasped on his wrist, and lightly, so lightly, traced the delicate skin of her inner wrist with his thumb. Abby nearly shuddered at the simple yet overwhelming contact.

‘Is there any reason why we can’t…be together?’ she asked in a low voice, unable to look at him directly. She kept her gaze fastened on their clasped hands instead. ‘You aren’t…married?’

She felt Luc’s fingers tighten, tense. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not married.’

She strove for a lighter tone. ‘Are you seeing someone?’

‘No,’ he said again, just as simply. ‘There’s no one.’

‘Well.’ Abby took a breath, gathered all her courage and looked up to meet Luc’s dark gaze, offering him a smile. Offering herself. ‘There’s me.’

S
HE
was nervous, Luc saw, and he felt regret lash at him, a whip with a sting he’d felt far too many times already. He shouldn’t have let it get this far, yet he’d been so amazed, so overjoyed, by her presence in the bar. It had felt, as he’d told her, like providence. A gift. And now she was offering herself, the greatest gift of all.

He could imagine it so easily. He wanted it so much. He pictured lacing his fingers through hers, drawing her up from her seat and away from the bar with its stale traces of cigarette smoke and spilled whisky and taking her to a room upstairs. The royal suite; he’d give her nothing less. He pictured her gliding through the room, slim and dark and elegant, and then he envisioned himself slipping those skinny little straps from her creamy shoulders and pressing a kiss against the pulse that now fluttered wildly at her throat. His fingers curled even now as he pictured it, aching, as every part of him was aching, with desire.

With need, the need to lose himself in a woman—this woman—for a moment, a night. For surely it could be no more? He had nothing more to offer; his heart felt as lifeless as a stone…except when it fluttered to life as he gazed at Abby. Yet he knew how little that was, and that was why the evening must end here, now. For Abby’s sake.

‘Abby.’ He tried to smile, yet the movement hurt. He didn’t want to let her go. She was the first good thing that had happened to him in so long, perhaps ever, and he couldn’t bear to make her walk away. Not yet.
Please
, he offered in silent supplication,
not yet.

Abby smiled and braced herself for rejection. Did he actually feel sorry for her? Had she just offered herself on a plate only to be pushed away?

‘Do you know what you are saying?’

‘Of course I do.’ Brave words. She let her fingers skim his wrist. ‘I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.’

Luc gazed down at their entwined hands. Abby felt a wave of something dark and unrelenting emanate from him, a deep sorrow, an endless regret. ‘You are a beautiful woman,’ he said in a low voice, and disappointment stabbed at her with icy needles.

‘But…?’ she prompted sadly, and Luc looked up and smiled.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You won’t.’ More brave words, Abby knew. Foolish words, perhaps. Yet at that moment she felt like anything would be better, or at least more bearable, than walking away from Luc and the blossoming feeling of possibility he evoked in her just then.

Luc sighed, a heavy sound, and he shook his head slowly. Abby waited, holding her breath, hoping.

Then he stood, almost lazily reaching out to draw her to her feet, their fingers still twined.

‘Where are you going?’ Abby asked as she rose.

‘The question,’ he answered, tugging on her hand, ‘is where are
we
going?’

Abby let him lead her out of the bar; the only sound was the swoosh of her gown around her ankles. Back in the lobby Luc had a rapid discussion with the concierge, and seconds
later he led her to a bank of lifts. Abby’s breath caught in her throat. She could hardly believe this was happening, that she was allowing it to happen, that she had asked for it to happen. She barely knew Luc, and yet…

Yet she knew him, perhaps better than she’d ever known anyone before. She couldn’t turn away from this—him—even if she wanted to, even if she tried. She had no choice; her desire and need were too great.

The heady, surreal feeling didn’t leave her as they stepped into the lift and Luc pressed the button for the top floor: the penthouse suite.

They rode in silence and Abby felt sure Luc could feel her heart beating; it felt as if it were thudding right out of her chest. She gave a sideways glance and saw how calm and unconcerned he looked. Determined, resolute even.

The lift came to a halt and the doors opened directly into the suite, which took up the whole floor.

‘Come,’ Luc said, and Abby followed him into the sumptuous living-room, all velvet sofas and spindly gilt-tables, with about an acre of Turkish carpet. Abby stood in the doorway, mindlessly smoothing the silk of her gown, feeling shy and uncertain despite her earlier bravado.

She knew it wasn’t the luxurious suite of rooms that put her on edge. In her years as a concert pianist she’d seen and experienced her fair share of luxury. No, it wasn’t the room. It was the man.

He’d casually dropped the key-card the concierge had given him on a side table and shed his suit jacket, the muscles of his back and shoulders rippling under the smooth, silken fabric of his shirt. For a brief moment his body was in profile, his face in shadow. Abby didn’t think she was imagining the grim set to his jaw, or the accompanying shiver that rippled through her body at the sight of him and the darkness emanating from within that beautiful body.

Yet then he turned to her with a little smile, his expression light and easy, and she wondered if she’d been imagining it after all.

‘Aren’t you going to come in?’ he asked, laughter lurking in his voice, and Abby lowered her gaze.

‘I…’ She licked her lips. Now was not the time for cold feet, surely? ‘I’m not sure.’

Luc frowned and strode towards her, his hands coming to curl around her shoulders. ‘Abby…are you afraid?’

‘Not…exactly.’ Abby tried to laugh, but it came out wobbly and uncertain. ‘Not of you,’ she amended. ‘More of…the situation.’ She licked her lips again, hurrying to explain. ‘And I’m not afraid. I just…don’t know what to do. I know what I said, but…’

Luc’s hands relaxed on her shoulders, sliding down her bare arms to leave a wake of goosebumps before he loosely linked her fingers with his own.

‘We can simply sit and chat,’ he told her gently. ‘I enjoyed talking to you.’

‘I did too,’ Abby admitted. ‘That is, talking to you, not to me.’

‘Abby.’ Luc chuckled softly as he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. ‘I understand.’

Abby gave a little nervous laugh. ‘You must think me incredibly gauche,’ she said and he raised his eyebrows.

‘Not at all.’

‘Really?’ She laughed again, the sound more normal and easy. ‘Because, listening to myself,
I
think I sound gauche.’ She met his gaze directly, her own gaze open and candid. ‘I don’t know what to say or do.’

‘There’s no script, is there?’ Luc asked. ‘Or did I not get the memo?’

‘No script,’ Abby confirmed as, still holding her by the hand, he led her to the sofa. ‘But surely certain things are…expected?’

‘Abby, I promise you, I have no expectations. I was amazed to see you in the bar, and I’m even more amazed to see you here.’

They were sitting on the sofa now, Luc’s thigh nearly pressed against her own. Abby slipped off her heels and tucked her stocking-clad feet under the silken folds of her gown.

‘Anyway,’ Luc continued, ‘I don’t think you gauche at all. Refreshing, I would have put it.’

‘Isn’t that just a nice way of meaning “different”?’

‘Different is good.’

‘Different means different,’ Abby insisted. ‘Abnormal, weird.’

Luc reached out to touch her ankle through the folds of her gown. It was an almost absent-minded caress, his long, lean fingers lingering on the delicate bones even as his eyes, and his smile, never left her face. ‘Is that how you’ve felt?’

‘Sometimes.’ Why, Abby wondered, was it so easy to talk to him like this? To admit, confess things, she never had before even to herself? ‘Piano was pretty much my life from about age five,’ she elaborated with a shrug. ‘I stood out.’

‘At school?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I was home-tutored from age eight so I could devote more time to music.’

‘Those kids on Hampstead Heath, then?’ Luc guessed, and Abby wondered how he knew so much so quickly.
‘Them?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed wryly. ‘Them.’

In the ensuing silence Abby felt herself staring at his leg, at the taut muscle underneath the dark wool, as if fascinated by that one limb, and in truth she was. She wanted to touch it. Him. Wanted to feel the hard muscle underneath, to slide her hand along his hot skin…

What was she thinking? Feeling? Whatever it was, it coursed through her, electric and magical, as he’d described
it. It made her breathless, heady and shy, even as her hand lifted almost of its own accord, her body emboldened even if her mind was not.

Her eyes flew to Luc’s face. He was smiling at her, too much knowledge glinting in his own eyes. He reached out and stroked her cheek with one finger, and Abby could barely keep from shuddering. She found herself leaning in to that little caress, openly, wantonly, until her cheek was cupped in Luc’s hand.

He hesitated, and Abby saw the concern and doubt flicker across his face. She closed her eyes to it, not wanting this moment to end. She wanted it to go on for ever, to stretch it out and savour each precious second.

‘Abby…’ His voice came out as a breath, a plea. Abby’s only response was to turn her head so her lips brushed his palm. She acted on instinct, on need, knowing this was foreign territory, frightening and dangerous, yet exciting and wonderful too. How could she
feel
so much? She felt as if she’d been numb all her life and was only now melting into emotion, springing into vitality.

Luc leaned forward and kissed her, his lips softly brushing hers. Abby’s breath hitched at the contact. Twenty-four years old and she’d never been kissed before—not properly, anyway. She’d had her fair share of air kisses, the European double-cheek kiss and some perfunctory pecks. It was all part of the entertainment business.

But this…this was wonderful. And she wanted more. She deepened the kiss, surprising herself, and perhaps Luc as well. She was untouched, unschooled, but need was the best teacher and it drove her to open her mouth, to touch her tongue lightly to his; his other hand came up to cradle her face as his tongue began its own exploration, and Abby felt herself spinning, her breathing grew ragged, her heart racing as it never had before.

She heard Luc’s breath hitch as well and felt a sharp thrill at the thought that perhaps he was as affected as she was by what was undoubtedly a small, ordinary kiss for most people. Except right now nothing felt small or ordinary; it felt big and special, and wonderfully exciting and new.

Her hands bunched on his shirt, her fingernails snagging on the buttons before she smoothed her palms out, felt the muscles of his chest leap and jerk under her hands. Luc’s lips trailed along her jawbone, and then he lowered his head to press a kiss to the silken curve of her neck, dropping lower to her collarbone, and then lower still to the soft swell of her breast above her evening gown.

Abby gasped. She’d never been touched so much, felt so much.
Wanted
so much. Luc’s hair, soft and springy, brushed her lips as he continued his path of kisses. Driven by instinct, Abby arched backwards to allow him more access, her mind still spinning, her body lazy and languorous and yet so
alive…
And then it stopped.

He lifted his head, leaving her skin suddenly cool. One of her dress’s diamanté straps had slipped off her shoulder, and, smiling wryly, Luc righted it.

‘You should go home, Abby.’

Abby started; she was not expecting this, not wanting it. She felt a crushing sense of disappointment she’d hardly thought possible. ‘But…why?’ Her voice sounded lost and forlorn, and Abby saw an answering bleakness flicker in Luc’s eyes.

‘Because I don’t want to take advantage of you. You’re young and innocent, and you should stay that way.’

A white-hot flame of rage blazed through her. ‘I’m not a china doll to be kept on a shelf and left alone.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘That’s how everyone sees me, Luc. How everyone treats me.’ Abby swallowed convulsively, suddenly ridiculously
near to tears. She needed Luc to understand this; she wanted to be understood for once. ‘Someone to be admired—petted, perhaps, but not touched. Not—’ She stopped abruptly, yet her mouth still formed the word silently…
Loved.
‘You’re not taking advantage of me if I say yes,’ she whispered.

Luc shook his head. ‘Do you even know what you’re saying yes to?’

Abby gave a shaky little laugh. ‘I’m not
that
innocent.’

He brushed a tendril of hair away from her face, his fingertips grazing her cheek. ‘If I didn’t want you so much,’ he murmured, and with sudden boldness Abby took his fingers and pressed them to her mouth.

‘I want to be wanted.’

‘By me?’ he asked, and he sounded both honoured and incredulous.

Abby smiled against his fingers. ‘Yes, by you. Only you. I’ve never…’ She paused, for there were too many ‘nevers’ about this situation. ‘Don’t ask me to go home,’ she said simply. ‘Let me stay.’

Luc’s eyes darkened, his mouth tightening. ‘I’m a selfish man for keeping you here,’ he told her in a low voice. ‘But, God help me, I will. I don’t want to let you go. Not now. Not yet.’ His voice turned ragged as he added, half to himself, ‘I can’t.’

‘Then don’t,’ Abby replied, and her heart finished silently,
‘ever’.

Silently Luc took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom with its sumptuous king-sized bed. She stood there, still and straight, as he slipped the gown from her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor in a dark puddle of silk. Almost reverently he removed her underwear, and Abby thrilled his touch, and at the fact that she wasn’t nervous or even embarrassed. How could you be embarrassed by someone who looked at you as if you were the Venus de Milo or the Mona Lisa—an exquisite, priceless treasure?

For that was how Luc looked at her, how he touched her. His fingers barely skimmed her skin, and his head bowed almost reverently. When she was naked he brought her to the bed, and Abby stretched out on the cool sheets, expectant, and now just a little shy.

Luc undressed himself, and she watched as his shed clothes revealed a body of tanned skin and taut muscle. Naked, he stretched out next to her and let his fingers brush her navel. She shivered.

‘Cold?’

‘No,’ she confessed, and he smiled and touched her lips where his hand had been, so Abby shivered again.

‘I will do my best not to hurt you,’ he murmured, his head still bent, and Abby lightly touched his hair.