Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (2 page)

Abby looked around, wondering what to do. Her hotel, a modest little establishment, was half a mile away. She could walk, she supposed, as she’d told Monsieur Dupres she would do. A little stab of disappointment needled her. She wanted to experience life, so she was walking home alone in the rain—how ridiculous.

Her heels clicked on the pavement as she started down the street. A man in a trenchcoat hurried by, his collar turned up, and Abby glimpsed a pair of lovers entwined in the shelter of a doorway; the woman’s upturned face was misted and glowing with rain.

Abby walked, conscious more than ever of how alone she was. A woman dripping with furs and jewels stepped out of the bright lobby of an elegant hotel, her haughty, made-up face glowering with disdain at the world around her.

Abby slowed to a stop, the light from the lobby pooling, golden, around her feet. Through the ornate glass doors she could see a marble foyer and a huge crystal chandelier. As the door swooshed shut she caught the sound of clinking crystal, the trill of feminine laughter.

Without thinking about what she was doing—or why—Abby caught the closing door and thrust it open once more, even as the night porter leapt to attention a second too late.
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and slipped inside, the warmth and light of the hotel enveloping her with a strange new, electric excitement as she stood uncertainly in the doorway.

She’d been to hotels before all over the world. She was utterly familiar in foyers such as these, could issue commands to a bellboy or concierge in many different languages. Yet now as she stood there alone, uncertain, everything felt new. Different. For this time she was alone, no one knew who or where she was, and she could do as she pleased.

The question was, do what?

‘Mademoiselle…?’
A bellboy started forward, eyebrows raised in query. Abby lifted her chin.

‘I’m looking for the bar.’

The man nodded and gestured to a room off to the right panelled in dark wood. Abby nodded her thanks and started towards the long, mahogany bar, still with no idea what she was doing…or why.

She slid onto a leather stool, her hands clasped in front of her. The bartender, dressed in a tuxedo, was slowly polishing a tumbler. He glanced at her, taking in her worn coat and the diamanté straps of her evening gown visible from the open collar. Expressionless, he raised an eyebrow.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yes.’ Abby swallowed. She’d ordered wine, she’d drunk champagne; on occasion she’d had a nameless cocktail at one function or another. Now she wanted something different.

‘I’ll have…’ She swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘A martini.’

‘Straight or on the rocks?’

Oh, great. Did she want it with ice? What was even
in a
martini? And why had she ordered one? She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it. ‘Straight,’ she said firmly. ‘With an…olive.’ She had a vague collection that it came with olives. If she didn’t like the drink, at least she’d have something to eat.

The bartender turned away, and Abby’s gaze roved over the bar. Only one other person was sitting there, all the way at the other end, and before he even looked up or acknowledged her presence—with a shock that felt like an icy finger trailing down her spine and diving into her belly—she knew.

Him.

S
HE
knew it was him; she felt it in that tremor of electric awareness that rippled through her body; every nerve and muscle was on high alert as her heart began to beat with slow, heavy, deliberate thuds. He sat on the last stool, a tumbler of whisky in front of him, his head bent.

Then he raised his head and Abby’s breath caught in her throat, the sheer emotion of the moment turning her breathless and dizzy as he turned so that his gaze met and held hers, just as it had once before. For a long, taut moment neither of them spoke, they simply looked. The look went on far longer than it should have, than was appropriate for two strangers staring at each other in a bar. Still Abby could not look away. She felt as if she were suspended in time, in air, motionless and yet waiting.

‘You’re even lovelier in person.’ He spoke in English with a faint French accent, his low voice carrying across the empty room. Shock rippled through her at the realization that he knew who she was; he recognized her. Of course, plenty of people recognized her. She was the Piano Prodigy, after all. Yet under the quiet heat of his gaze Abby knew he wasn’t looking at her as a prodigy, or even a pianist. He was looking at her as a woman, and that felt wonderful.

‘You remember me,’ she whispered. Her voice trembled
and she blushed at the realization, as well as the revealing nature of the statement. She couldn’t dissemble. She didn’t know how to, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

He arched one eyebrow, with the flicker of a smile around his mouth and in his eyes. ‘Of course I remember you,’ he said, a gentle, teasing lilt to his voice—although Abby saw an intensity in his fierce blue eyes, the same intensity she’d seen in the concert hall and had responded to. ‘And now I know you remember me.’

Her blush deepened and she looked away. The bartender had delivered her martini, complete with an olive pierced by a swizzle-stick, and she seized the drink as a distraction, taking far too large a sip.

She choked, gasping as the pure alcohol burned its way to her belly, and she returned the glass to the bar with an unsteady clatter.

She felt rather than saw the man move from his stool to the one next to hers, felt the heat emanating from his lean form, inhaled the woodsy musk of his cologne. And choked a bit more.

‘Are you all right?’ he murmured, all solicitude, although Abby thought she heard a hint of laughter lacing the words. She wiped her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.

‘Yes. It…went down the wrong way.’

‘That happens,’ he murmured, and Abby knew he wasn’t fooled. She decided she might as well be candid.

‘Actually, I’ve never had a martini before,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘I had no idea it would taste so…strong.’ Now that he was here, just a few feet away from her, she took the opportunity to let her gaze sweep over him. He was tall, well over six feet, dwarfing her own five-eight frame. His hair was dark with a few streaks of grey near the temples, and long enough to raggedly reach his collar. His face held an austere beauty; the chiselled cheekbones, fiercely blue eyes and
strong jaw all worked together to create an impression of strength, yet also, strangely, of suffering. He looked and walked like a man apart, a man marked by life’s experience. By tragedy, perhaps.

Abby knew she should dismiss such impressions as fanciful, yet she could not. They were too strong, too real, just as the connection she’d felt between them at the concert and now in the bar felt real.

‘Why did you order a martini?’ he asked.

‘I wanted to order what I thought was a sophisticated drink,’ she admitted baldly. ‘Isn’t that ridiculous?’

He tilted his head, his smile deepening to reveal a devastating dimple in one cheek. His gaze swept over her worn coat, the black silk of her gown gathered around her ankles, one high-heeled sandal dangling from her foot. ‘It surely is,’ he agreed, ‘considering how sophisticated you already are.’

Abby choked again, this time in laughter. ‘You are quite the flatterer, Monsieur…?’

‘Luc.’

‘Monsieur Luc?’

‘Just Luc.’ There was a flat finality to his words that made Abby realize just how anonymous this conversation really was. She had no idea who he was beyond his first name. ‘And I know who you are,’ he continued. ‘Abigail.’

‘Abby.’

He smiled, a gesture that was strangely intimate, making warmth spread through Abby’s body. A warmth she’d never experienced before but knew she liked trickled through her limbs like warm honey, making her feel languorous, almost sleepy, even though her heart still beat fast. It was a warmth that drew her to him even though she didn’t move, made her believe in the fairy tale. This really was happening. This was real. She’d found him, here in this bar, and he’d found her. ‘Abby,’ he murmured. ‘Of course.’

Of course.
As if they knew each other, had known each other long before this moment, as if they’d been waiting for this moment. Abby felt she had been.

‘So.’ Again he smiled, no more than a flicker as he gestured towards the martini. ‘What do you think?’

Abby made a face. ‘I think I prefer champagne.’

‘Then champagne you shall have.’ With a simple flick of his wrist, Luc had the bartender hurrying over. A quick command in rapid French soon had him producing a dusty bottle of what Abby knew must be an outrageously expensive champagne and two fragile flutes. ‘Will you share a glass with me?’ Luc asked, and Abby barely resisted the impulse to laugh wildly.

In all her years playing in concert halls she’d never had an encounter like this. She’d never had any encounters at all, save the few carefully orchestrated conversations or programsignings her father arranged. They’d always made Abby feel like she was an exotic creature in a zoo to be watched, petted, admired and then left.

Caged
, she realized.
I’ve felt caged all my life.
Until now.

This moment felt free.

‘Yes,’ she said, surprised at how simple the decision was. ‘I will.’

Luc led her to a cozy table for two in the corner of the deserted bar, and Abby sank onto the plush seat, watching as the waiter popped the cork and poured two glasses of champagne, the bubbles zinging wildly.

‘To unexpected surprises,’ Luc said, raising his glass.

Abby couldn’t resist asking, ‘Aren’t all surprises unexpected?’

His smile curved his mobile mouth and glimmered in his eyes. ‘So they are,’ he agreed, and drank.

Abby drank too, letting the champagne slip down her throat and through her body. The bubbles seemed to race
through every vein and artery. She stared at the bubbles in her glass and watched them pop against the side of the flute as she desperately thought of something to say.

She’d played in the concert halls of nearly every European capital, she could navigate airports, taxis and foreign hotels, yet in the presence of this man she felt tongue-tied, and even gauche, uncertain, unable to fully believe that this was even happening.

Yet it was.

She slid a sideways glance at him and saw that there was a particularly hard set to his jaw, a determined resoluteness that seemed at odds with his light tone, the glimmer of his smile. He possessed a hardness, Abby thought suddenly, a darkness that she didn’t understand and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

He downed the rest of his champagne, turning to smile at her, the darkness retreating to his eyes alone. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again. It is providence, is it not, that you came here?’

Providence. An act of fate, of God. Abby gave a little helpless shrug of assent. ‘I don’t know why I did. I usually take a taxi straight home after a concert.’

‘But tonight you did not.’

‘No.’ The admission was no more than a breath of sound, and Luc’s direct blue gaze met hers.

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ How could she explain that the single moment of seeing him in the concert hall had changed her, made her want and feel things she’d never felt before? That single glance had opened a well of yearning inside her, and she didn’t know how it could be satisfied. ‘Because I felt restless,’ she finally said, and Luc nodded. Abby felt as if he understood everything she hadn’t said.

‘When I saw you,’ he said in a low voice, rotating the stem of his champagne flute between his long, lean fingers, ‘I felt something I have not felt in a long time.’

Abby’s breath hitched and her fingers tightened around her own glass. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What did you feel?’

Luc opened up, surprising Abby with the bleak, stark honesty of his gaze. ‘Hope.’ He reached out to brush a stilldamp tendril of hair from her cheek, his fingers barely touching her, yet still causing a wave of sensation to crash over her, dousing her to her core. ‘Didn’t you feel it, Abby? When you were at the piano and you saw me? I have never—’ He stopped, then started again. ‘It was like a current. Electric. Magical.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, the word catching in her throat. ‘I felt it too.’

‘I am glad.’ Luc’s mouth quirked upwards in a tiny smile, although there was a curious bleakness to his words. ‘It would be a sad thing if only one of us had felt it.’ He reached for the champagne bottle and topped up both of their glasses, although Abby had hardly had a sip. ‘Were you pleased with your performance tonight?’

‘I don’t know.’ She took a tiny sip of champagne. ‘I can’t remember much of it.’

Luc laughed softly. ‘Neither can I, to tell you the truth. When you came on stage and I saw you, the rest fell away. I was simply waiting for the moment when I could speak to you. I never thought it would be granted to me.’

‘Why didn’t you—?’ Abby stopped, biting her lip to keep the words, the revealing question, from coming. Luc arched an eyebrow.

‘Why didn’t I…?’ he prompted, and Abby shook her head. It didn’t matter; he filled in the rest. ‘Why didn’t I come to see you after the performance?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, the word no more than a whisper.

Luc stared into his glass for a moment, before lifting his head and giving her that direct gaze that seemed to reach right inside her and seize her soul. ‘I didn’t think I should.’

‘But…’ Abby couldn’t think of what to say or ask, how to articulate that she’d wanted him to see her, had almost been expecting it. It sounded desperate, ridiculous. All they’d shared was one look—and now a glass of champagne. She set her half-empty glass down on the table. ‘This doesn’t seem—’

‘Real? No. Perhaps not.’ Luc glanced away for a moment, his mouth tightening, his jaw tensing. Abby felt as if she’d said the wrong thing and wished she could take it back. Then he turned back to her, smiling faintly, although she still sensed a certain sorrow in him, saw it in his eyes. ‘Perhaps now is the time to be prosaic. Tell me about yourself.’

Abby shrugged, discomfited. ‘If you read my bio in the program—’

‘That might give me facts, but surely not the true essence of who you are?’

‘I’m not sure I know what the true essence of myself is.’ She made a face, eliciting a chuckle from him. ‘That sounds rather mysterious.’

‘And I meant to be prosaic. Tell me some other things, then,’ he said as he gestured to the bartender, who hurried over. He glanced back at Abby. ‘Have you eaten? Champagne on an empty stomach is not wise.’

As if on cue, Abby’s stomach growled. She gave a little laugh. ‘I haven’t,’ she confessed, and, flicking open the menu the bartender had provided, Luc quickly ordered. ‘Is that all right?’ he asked as he handed the menu back. ‘I do not wish us to be bothered by such details as what food to order.’ Abby gave a little shrug of assent, although she thought she’d heard him order
escargots
and she really wasn’t fond of them. Somehow it didn’t matter.

‘So.’ Luc propped his elbows on the table, his eyes seeming to glint and sparkle in the dim light. ‘Tell me something. Tell me what your favorite colour is, or if you’re scared of spiders
or snakes. Did you have a dog growing up? Or a cat?’ He took a sip of champagne, smiling at her over the rim of the glass. ‘Or perhaps a fish?’

‘None.’ Abby reached for her own glass. ‘And both.’

‘Pardon?’

‘No pets, and I’m scared of both spiders and snakes. At least, I don’t like them very much. I haven’t had much firsthand experience.’

‘I suppose that’s a good thing, then.’

‘I never really thought about it.’ Abby took a sip of champagne. ‘And what about you?’

‘Am I scared of snakes or spiders?’

‘No, I’ll pick different questions.’ She paused, thinking. What did she want to know about him?
Everything;
the answer sprang unbidden into her mind. She wanted to know him, to have the chance to know him. To go to sleep and wake up at his side…‘Do you snore?’ she blurted, then blushed.

‘Do I snore?’ Luc repeated in mock outrage, one eyebrow arched. ‘What a question. How should I know such a thing?’ His lips curved into a smile that did curious things to Abby’s insides, so that her stomach felt as quivery as a bowl of jelly.

‘No one has ever told me I snore, at any rate.’

‘Ah. Um…good.’ She fiddled with her napkin, blushing, and wishing she wasn’t. She stilled in shock when she felt Luc’s hand cover her own, heavy and warm.

‘Abby. You are nervous.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. She forced herself to look at him. ‘I’m not—I don’t—’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t usually accept invitations from strange men.’

‘That is probably just as well,’ Luc replied. ‘But I promise you, you are safe with me.’ He spoke with a raw, heartfelt sincerity that Abby could only believe. There was no question of doubt.

‘I know.’

A black-jacketed waiter swept in silently with a tray. He didn’t speak or even look at them, simply served the food while maintaining the aura of complete privacy they had been enjoying in the empty bar. When he left, Luc gestured down to their plates, to the delicate fan of asparagus amidst paperthin slices of beef. ‘Is this all right?’

‘It looks delicious.’ Abby picked up her fork and toyed with a piece of asparagus. ‘Were you surprised to see me here?’ she asked after a moment. ‘In the bar?’

‘You were like an apparition,’ Luc told her. ‘And yet, at the same time…’ He paused, contemplating. ‘It was as if I knew you would come, and I hadn’t realized it until I saw you.’