A Vow to Secure His Legacy

by Annie West

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’ The words circled the still air and eddied deep inside her. Her head shot up, eyes locking with his.

  ‘You don’t?’

  His smile was crooked and devastatingly sexy. ‘I want you here, chérie.’

  Imogen’s heart locked in her throat. Could it be?

  ‘Is it so bad being here with me?’ he murmured, his hand trailing down her throat to her bare collarbone.

  ‘Of course not. I...’ She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. ‘I like it here.’

  She’d like anywhere so long as Thierry was with her. The enormity of her feelings blindsided her. How had she gone from casual attraction to full-blown love in such a short space of time? Maybe because she wasn’t made for casual affairs. That was why she’d been so cautious with her heart and her body before this.

  ‘I’m glad. I’d wondered if it might be too quiet for you here.’

  Imogen shook her head. She loved the peace of the estate. Besides, it was only minutes to the nearest town and a short drive to the nearest city. But what made it perfect was Thierry’s presence.

  ‘You really want me to stay?’ Did he hear the longing in her voice? Hurriedly, she went on briskly. ‘I’d rather you were totally honest.’

  Thierry hesitated and there was something in his eyes that made her uneasy. As if he hid something.

  Yet what could he hide? He had been trustworthy, honest and generous from the night they’d met. He’d even pulled back from her physically when he’d believed her ill, putting her wellbeing before his own sexual needs.

  He wouldn’t lie to her.

  ‘I want you to stay, Imogen.’ His gaze bored into hers, and she felt the impact right to her core. Slowly, he smiled and it was as if he’d flicked a switch, releasing the tension straining between them.

  ‘Think about what we’ve got.’ His hand dropped to the sheet covering her, his long fingers brushing her breasts in deliberate provocation. ‘We like each other. We’re sexually more than compatible.’ He lifted his hand away and it was only then Imogen discovered how far she’d leaned forward into his touch. ‘And we’re having a child. Why not stay together?’

  Dazed as much by his touch as his words, Imogen sank back against the pillows, her body heavy and lax.

  ‘You want to stay married?’ She needed to hear him spell it out.

  ‘I do.’ That smile devastated her brain, making logic almost impossible. ‘It makes sense, Imogen.’

  Part of her wanted to exult. He wanted her here, and not just as a temporary girlfriend. Imogen knew that a future with Thierry would be everything she’d never dared to hope for. Because when she was with him she felt...

  ‘What we have is good, isn’t it?’

  Good?

  Imogen’s thoughts screeched to a halt.

  Good. That insipid word couldn’t describe how she felt when she was with Thierry.

  She opened her mouth then closed it. Her neck prickled, the hairs standing to attention as finally her sluggish brain moved into gear.

  She’d been on tenterhooks, wondering if he wanted her gone, but it was only now she realised what was missing.

  Imogen met those gleaming eyes that she’d seen kindle with desire, crinkle with laughter or warm with concern. She took in those straight shoulders that she’d leaned on in moments of weakness and those capable hands that had helped her when she’d needed it. Thierry was caring, passionate and considerate.

  But he doesn’t love you.

  There was no urgency in him, no desperation. Just calm logic and, yes, liking.

  Imogen’s heart skated to a bruising halt then lurched into a discordant rhythm so powerful she felt queasy.

  Now she understood!

  ‘This is you making the best of the situation, isn’t it? Making do.’ She recalled him talking in those terms in Paris, about not pining for the impossible, but adapting to whatever situation he found himself in.

  ‘Why not?’ That insouciant Gallic shrug made a mockery of her secret hopes and dreams. ‘I’m expected to marry some time and here we are with a baby on the way.’

  He must have noticed her breathless rigidity because he went on with a smile guaranteed to turn any woman to a puddle of pure longing. ‘We like each other.’ His hand settled on one of hers, lightly stroking an intricate scroll of desire from her wrist to her thumb. ‘Sex between us is fantastic and we respect each other.’

  ‘You said that before.’ Her voice sounded scratchy. Were those the only reasons he could come up with for them to stay together?

  ‘They’re important.’ The skin between his eyebrows pinched, as if he was surprised or annoyed she wasn’t gushing with delight. ‘I couldn’t marry a woman I didn’t respect.’ His mouth curved in a way that devastated her resolve. ‘As for the sex...’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t remember it ever being so good.’

  Imogen sat utterly still, scared that if she moved something, like her stupid heart, might shatter.

  He wants to stay married to you because the sex is good. And because you’re conveniently providing him with a child.

  No doubt he wants one to inherit the estate and the villa on the south coast, and all the other things the Girard family have amassed. He wants an heir.

  She’d been dreaming of love but Thierry laid out their relationship as if it was a business merger.

  Her lips flattened. That was how he saw this—a neat solution to a difficult problem. A way of keeping his child while getting companionship and sex into the bargain.

  She had no illusions she was the sort of woman he’d marry in normal circumstances, but Thierry had proved himself a realist through and through. Why yearn for caviar when you have fish and chips already on the table?

  Imogen felt her hair slide around her face and neck as she shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good basis for marriage.’

  His hand tightened, long fingers shackling her wrist. Did he feel her pulse hammering? He leaned in, crowding her against the pillows. For the first time since this conversation began she felt disadvantaged, naked beneath the sheet while he was dressed.

  ‘Of course it’s a good basis for marriage.’ His eyes narrowed. Fervently she hoped he couldn’t read her thoughts. ‘Unless you’re after some fantasy of romance. Is that it?’

  Self-preservation made her shake her head, even as her soul cried out that that was exactly what she wanted.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ His lips quirked up in the hint of a smile. ‘You’re like me, chérie—too practical to want hearts and flowers and sentimental protestations of undying love.’

  Dry-eyed, Imogen gritted her teeth. Thierry couldn’t know how she felt about him. He’d never deliberately trample over her feelings. Yet that didn’t stop the pain from each dismissive word.

  ‘You don’t believe in love?’

  His lips quirked. ‘Once. I fell in love with a girl from a neighbouring estate. But she married someone else. At the time I thought my heart was broken but I’m old enough now to realise that’s just a fiction. I’ve been happy with my life. It wasn’t blighted by rejection after all.’

  His expression was reflective as he stroked her palm, making her shiver. ‘What we have is precious, Imogen, even if it doesn’t go by the name of love. Respect, liking and a baby—those make a good starting point.’

  ‘Don’t forget the sex,’ she said, hiding pain behind a twisted smile.

  ‘Oh, I don’t. Not for a moment.’ He pressed his mouth to the spot below her ear where she was most sensitive. Instantly, tremors of heat racked her, and she shivered. Yet her heart ached.

  ‘Let me warm you properly, Imogen.’ He reached for the tray between them, made to lift it away, but she put a shaky hand on his arm.

  ‘No. Don’t. I’m hungry.’ The food would be
sawdust in her mouth but she couldn’t have sex with him, not now. Not knowing she’d given her heart to him and he only saw her as a convenient solution to a problematic situation.

  She didn’t care about his wealth or his power. But she wanted to matter to someone, to be the most important thing in their life. And that someone was Thierry. Because that was how she felt about him. Once she’d have settled but now she didn’t want to make do. She wanted everything.

  But he didn’t believe in love. Would he ever? If he did, would it be for her or some woman from his own set, privileged and sophisticated?

  Bile rose, and she almost choked.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The concern in his eyes was real.

  Thierry did care. Just not enough.

  ‘Fine,’ she croaked, reaching for the sparkling water on the tray. She had to hold the glass in both hands so as not to spill it, but at least that gave her something to concentrate on other than Thierry’s piercing gaze.

  She felt his scrutiny like a touch. He wanted an answer.

  What was she going to do? Flounce home and give up any chance he might, over time, begin to care for her as she did him? Or stay here like some charity case, making do with what he handed out, maybe breaking her heart little by little each day?

  The mineral water tasted unbearably metallic, and she put it down with a grimace.

  ‘Maybe I won’t have anything to eat after all.’

  ‘You’re unwell? Morning sickness?’ Thierry whipped away the tray, getting off the bed to put it on a nearby table. Imogen’s breath eased out in a sigh of relief. She needed space to think.

  ‘I’m a little out of sorts.’ After one swift glance at his frown she looked away, watching her hands smooth the rumpled sheet. How had she gone from ecstasy to misery in such a short space of time?

  It wasn’t as if he’d led her on. He’d been marvellous. It was all her own doing, because she’d made the mistake of believing the fantasy. Because she loved him.

  ‘I’ll get you some herbal tea.’

  ‘No. Nothing, thanks.’ She doubted she’d keep anything down.

  ‘Lie down then and I’ll stay here till you sleep.’

  ‘No!’ Her head shot around to find him staring at her curiously. ‘No, there’s no need.’

  See? He was caring. The sort of man any woman would want, even if he didn’t love her. Was she crazy to wish for more?

  She must be. Why would a man born to his world of privilege and power fall for someone as ordinary as her?

  A warm hand closed around hers. He stood beside the bed, so close she had to crick her neck to meet his eyes. They were unfathomable, deep and steady, yet she felt the intensity of his stare through every part of her being.

  ‘So you’ll stay, Imogen? You agree?’

  She imagined tension in his voice. Clearly, she was projecting her own emotions.

  ‘I...’

  ‘You won’t regret it. We’re good together; you know it.’

  Good. There was that word again.

  She didn’t want good. She wanted spectacular, amazing, special. She wanted love.

  She gnawed at her lip, torn between fighting for what she wanted and the craven impulse to take whatever Thierry offered. She wasn’t sure she’d like the woman she’d become if she did that.

  ‘Stay, Imogen.’ His voice was compelling, his hold tight.

  She swallowed hard. ‘I’ll stay. For now. Let’s see how it goes.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SEE HOW IT GOES.

  She was going to see how it went.

  As if he were on probation!

  Thierry frowned, flipping another page of the contract before realising he hadn’t taken in a word.

  Disgusted, he shoved his chair back from the desk.

  His ability to concentrate, even in a crisis, had always been one of his strengths. It had saved his hide more than once on long-distance motor rallies and while climbing. It had been one of the few assets he’d had in the early days when he took on this business.

  Until today concentrating on what needed to be done hadn’t been a problem. Even when he’d yearned for the wind in his hair and a far more physical challenge than that presented by corporate negotiations. He’d always given his all to the job at hand, knowing the sooner he solved a problem and moved on, the sooner he’d be free.

  Nowadays he even found satisfaction in developing and expanding the business, finding new opportunities.

  Not today.

  A month today since Imogen had agreed to stay and see how it goes.

  A month and no resolution.

  He felt like he was on trial.

  He surged to his feet and stalked to the window, staring at the blue sky that mocked his mood. He felt dark, stormy and miserable.

  Thierry folded his arms over his chest. Made miserable by a woman. It didn’t seem possible. Never had it happened in all the years since Sandrine had rejected him and his volatile young heart had counted itself broken.

  Since then he’d enjoyed women but never wanted or expected anything serious.

  Naturally, that had changed with Imogen. She was his wife so they needed a secure, meaningful relationship. One based on respect.

  That was what he’d offered her and still she refused to commit to staying.

  What more could she want?

  He spun around, his gaze driving unerringly through the office’s glass wall to his cousin Henri’s desk. There he was, his head bent towards Imogen’s.

  Heat blasted Thierry’s gut as he watched the pair, so at ease, totally absorbed in the accounts Thierry personally found incredibly dull. But Imogen and Henri spoke the same language. The language of numbers.

  When Imogen had complained she didn’t have enough to keep her busy—as if she needed to work when he could provide for her!—Thierry had suggested she assist with the accounts. It had been a masterstroke and a disaster. Imogen was happy with the opportunity to work as an accountant again, her smiles becoming more genuine and frequent, at least in the office. More than that, she’d proved a valuable asset, her skills obviously top notch.

  But her happiness at work only made him realise how rarely she smiled with him. He missed those lit-from-within smiles, so incandescent they were contagious.

  His eyes narrowed as he heard a laugh and watched Imogen and Henri share some joke.

  Thierry wanted to stride out and yank her away. Insist she share the joke with him as once she would have.

  Except it didn’t work like that. With him she was polite, friendly, as she was with Jeanne or his grandparents when they visited. But never was he treated to those delicious gurgles of pure joy that had entranced him when they’d met. Or those cheeky, teasing grins.

  He missed that. Missed Imogen. It was as if the most vital part of her was locked somewhere he couldn’t reach.

  Sometimes when they made love he felt he’d almost breached that gap, reached the woman locked behind her reserve. For, despite initial protests, Imogen hadn’t been able to deny the passion between them. They shared a bed and his one solace was that in his arms she went up in flames as surely as the propane that fuelled his balloon flights. She was mesmerising, her passion all he could ask for.

  Yet afterwards a curious blankness replaced the smoky flare of rapture. She’d withdraw mentally. For the first time ever Thierry found himself wanting to dig deeper, even discuss her feelings!

  She drove him crazy.

  He wrapped a palm around the back of his neck. He was too close to the edge.

  Thierry glared through the glass. Diable. He wasn’t jealous of his cousin, was he?

  Impossible. Yet he found himself striding across the office, only to slam to a halt, his hand on the door.

  Think, man! What are you g
oing to do? Go out and drag her off to your bedroom?

  The idea appealed, especially when he saw her smile at Henri as the younger man touched her hand then pointed to something on the screen. Waves of heat battered at Thierry, turning his belly into a churning morass.

  Okay, he admitted it. He was jealous. He knew there was nothing between them except liking and professional admiration but that didn’t lessen his envy.

  Thierry dropped the door handle as if it burned with an electric current. He took a step back.

  What was happening to him?

  He wasn’t interested in examining his feelings. He wanted action. But abducting his wife and ravishing her till she cried his name in rapture, while perfect in its own way, would leave him disgruntled when she withdrew again.

  Sex wasn’t the answer. Not alone. He had to find another way to connect with Imogen.

  * * *

  ‘Imogen.’ She stilled, her heart pattering as that deep voice turned her name into a caress.

  Would she ever not respond to it?

  Slowly, she turned, willing her breathing to steady as espresso-dark eyes snared hers and she tingled all over. It was hard, sometimes, to remember Thierry saw her as a convenient wife, not the love of his life. That heavy-lidded stare sizzled with a promise she’d almost swear held more than physical desire.

  Except she was done with fantasy. She was back into self-protection mode, carefully weighing her options for the future. She owed her baby that.

  ‘Thierry.’ She stumbled a little over his name. Last time she’d said it had been just hours ago, in that big, luxurious bed of his, and she hadn’t said it: she’d screamed it in pleasure. ‘Did you need this report? We’re almost done.’ Casually, she glanced at Henri, hoping he’d take up the conversation.

  ‘It’s not about the report,’ Thierry said. ‘I need you.’

  Imogen’s head snapped around. But the banked embers in his eyes had disappeared, or maybe she’d imagined that. Thierry looked all business.

  ‘Of course. Excuse me, Henri?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ He turned back to the spreadsheet. ‘We’ve almost sorted this. You’ll have it in ten minutes, Thierry.’