Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (6 page)

Now it was all too easy to imagine herself in that bed, to remember how long, lean and perfect Luc’s body had been, how cherished she’d felt in his arms. Those moments felt like the most precious and most real of her life. Or was she simply romanticizing her one experience?

Of course she was. The cold, hard fact that he’d walked away before they’d even made love proved that.

‘A bit pathetic, really,’ Abby said aloud, shaking her head. She needed to stop thinking about Luc; his memory crept up on her in these unexpected moments, made her feel vulnerable. ‘What I really need to do,’ Abby said, ‘is go out on another date. Just not with that carpenter.’

She headed downstairs, only to check herself when she
heard the sound of a key turning in the front door’s heavy, old-fashioned lock. The new tenant wasn’t supposed to arrive until three, and it was only noon. Shrugging, Abby decided she might as well say hello and confirm that everything was just as it should be.

That friendly, professional smile was already on her face as she stood in the centre of the cozy little parlour, ready to greet whoever opened the door. The words ‘welcome to Corner Cottage’ were in her mouth, about to trip off her tongue.

Then the door opened, and the words died as the smile slid off her face. She was staring right at Luc.

S
HE
looked so much the same, Luc thought, the key still in his hand as he stood there gazing at her motionless, transfixed, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst.

She didn’t move either; her own mouth was open in shock, her face pale, her eyes wide. So much the same…and yet so different. Her dark, glossy hair was caught up in a careless ponytail, and instead of an evening gown she worn jeans and a red parka over a cotton tee-shirt. She looked as fresh and scrubbed as any village girl, and yet she had a lifetime of cosmopolitan experience. He’d reduced her to this, to menial work for a second-rate catering company. Guilt sliced through him once more, and made him take a step into the room and slide the heavy key into his pocket. ‘Hello, Abby.’

She shook her head slowly, a gesture of both disbelief and denial. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I…’ He paused, wondering how much to say. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘You came here on purpose.’ It was a statement, not a question; he recognized that for the obvious fact it indeed was. A man like him would hardly visit a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere for no reason. He would frequent glamorous hotels and resorts, spas and ski lodges—places like Hotel Le
Bristol, Luc thought, a spasm of remembrance shooting through him.

‘Yes.’

‘To see me,’ she clarified, and he heard the incredulity, the latent anger.

‘Yes.’ He stared at her, struggling to keep his voice even. He hated how stilted he sounded, how he was powerless to keep the memories, the feelings, from rushing back, from overwhelming him with their force. Seeing Abby now made him remember afresh how wonderful that night had been—
could
have been. He swallowed, forcing the feeling back. He couldn’t afford regrets, not those kind. Still he stepped closer to her, inhaling her scent. She smelled, he thought, like clean laundry and fresh bread. ‘I had a devil of a time finding you,’ he continued, his voice steady now. ‘But I did, and now I’m here.’

‘Why?’ Abby crossed her arms, her eyes flashing, her tone turning soft and almost menacing in a way Luc had never heard before.

He paused. ‘I needed to make sure you were all right.’

Abby’s mind was spinning. She was conscious of so many things—the latent anger that spurted hotly through her now, surprising her, her clammy hands, the heavy thud of her own heart. Most of all, Luc. The way he looked—the strong, surprisingly familiar lines of his cheek and jaw, his hair that still touched his collar, his eyes so piercingly,
achingly
blue, his arms which were held loosely at his sides, making her want to walk straight to him and have him fold her up in an embrace.

Abby took a step back. That wasn’t going to happen. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she finally said, keeping her voice as even as his. ‘You needed to salve your conscience by making sure I wasn’t heartbroken about the night we
almost
had together over six months ago now—is that about it?’

Two spots of colour appeared high on Luc’s cheekbones. Was he actually embarrassed? Abby wondered. Or just angry? She shook her head and spread her arms wide. Her voice trembled a little. ‘Consider your conscience salved, Luc. I’m fine.’

He didn’t move. ‘You retired from piano.’

‘A decision that had nothing to do with you.’

Luc’s mouth tightened. ‘The newspaper said you’d canceled several concerts.’

Abby felt another rush of anger, which surprised her again, for she thought she’d done with this. With him. Perhaps she had, in theory. Yet now Luc stood in front of her, looking all too wonderful, making her realize how much she’d actually missed him, and demanding answers he had no right to know. ‘It really isn’t your concern, Luc,’ she said wearily. ‘The lasagne is in the fridge.’

‘The lasagne?’ Luc exhaled sharply. ‘The only reason I ordered meals was to see you!’

‘Well, you’ve seen me.’ She gave a humourless little laugh. ‘You must have done some detective work to find me here. Even the newspapers don’t know where to look, although I suppose I’m old news by now.’

‘Why did you leave piano, Abby?’

‘I told you, it had nothing to do with you.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

She laughed disbelievingly. ‘Would you
prefer
me to be heartbroken?’

Luc’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. Was this actually the man she’d almost slept with? Abby wondered. The man she’d believed herself half in love with? She really had been embarrassingly naïve, for the man before her now was cold, disinterested, even dismissive. Was she simply one more problem to solve? Why had he come here at all?

‘I just need to know why you left.’

Abby let out a short breath of exasperation. She felt
drained emotionally and physically by the last few minutes, and knew she should just walk out of the door. That would be the smart thing to do.

Yet when it came to this man she’d never been very smart. And the thought of leaving him now caused fresh sorrow to sweep through her in an unbearable wave. Stupidly.

‘If you’re going to demand answers,’ she finally said, keeping her voice brisk and a little wry, ‘then I’m going to demand a cup of tea.’ She moved past him into the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and plonking it on the stove, the efficient, everyday movements keeping back the tide of emotion and memory. Her body was still weak and tingling from just seeing him, the shock still rippling through her. She’d never thought she’d see him again, and it was only now that he was here that she realized how much she’d wanted to.

‘Do you miss it?’ Luc asked quietly, and, teapot in hand, Abby stilled. She didn’t need to ask what Luc meant.
Do you miss it?
All of it…everything: the glamour, the crowds, the jetting lifestyle. And the music. Most of all, the music.

The music was the hunger in her soul. She’d gone so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to be satisfied, not to feel that endless ache. Carefully she reached for teabags from the jar above the stove and put two in the pot. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘Not as much as I thought I would, anyway.’ Yet she knew she was lying, at least in part. She missed the music. She missed wanting the music, needing it, loving it, having it consume her.

‘Why did you retire, Abby?’ Luc asked, his voice low and intense as he moved closer to her, filling the small kitchen. ‘Why did you leave it all so suddenly?’

‘You really have the most amazing guilt complex,’ Abby told him. She turned around and found a smile. ‘You blame yourself, don’t you? You think you ruined my career.’

‘It made me wonder,’ Luc replied coolly. ‘Tell me I’m
wrong.’ Although he kept his voice detached, almost cold, Abby heard the sorrow, the grief, underneath. It reminded her of the man he’d been in Paris six months ago—a man who seemed tormented by regret. What had happened to make Luc the man he was, tortured by guilt? What had he done?

‘You’re wrong, Luc,’ she said quietly. ‘It wasn’t you, not really. It was me.’

‘What happened?’

Behind her the kettle whistled and Abby busied herself, making herself at home in the kitchen, preparing tea. She needed the time to sort her thoughts and prepare an answer.
What happened?
So much.

‘I suppose a lot of things happened at the same time,’ she finally said when the tea was ready. She handed Luc a mug and they stood in silence, hands cradled around their mugs, both of them lost in thought, waiting.

‘Our night together was a bit of a wake-up call,’ Abby continued after a moment, choosing her words carefully. ‘I realized then how closed, how
caged
, my life was. I know it looked glamorous from the outside, but all I’ve known, all I’ve ever known, is piano—concert halls and practising and not much else.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Not much of a life.’

‘And you wanted to change that?’ Luc asked eventually.

Abby paused, remembering. She hadn’t wanted mere change; she’d wanted escape. The lacklustre reviews had simply spurred her on. She took another sip of tea. ‘Yes. And, to be frank, I needed it. I was, as they say in the trade, burned out. And it showed.’

‘You’re brilliant,’ Luc objected and Abby shrugged.

‘I stopped being brilliant.’ She still felt the sting of the disappointed audiences, the scathing reviews. And worse, far worse, had been the emptiness within herself, the feeling that the intimate connection she’d forged with music had suddenly
been severed. It had left her grieving, lost, adrift in a sea of self-imposed silence, and so she’d gone. She was glad…now. At least, she told herself she was.

They both lapsed into silence; the only sound was the distant swoosh of the sea, the endless pull and tug of the tide.

‘All right,’ Luc finally said. ‘But why Cornwall? Why heft boxes like some lackey?’

He didn’t keep the disbelieving disdain from his voice, and Abby bristled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with manual labour.’

‘It’s beneath you. What if you injured your hands? What if you lost the ability to play?’

Abby had considered this, but when she’d taken the job with Cornish Country Kitchen Catering she’d been too weary and heartsore to care. ‘I haven’t played piano in six months,’ she said quietly. ‘I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever play again.’ She’d never spoken those words, that fear, aloud, and now they tore at her soul. She looked away from Luc’s shocked face.

‘Don’t,’ she warned him, trying to laugh, ‘take this on yourself. This has very little to do with you, and everything to do with me and my family.’

‘Your family?’

‘My parents are professional musicians. It’s all they’ve known, all they’ve ever cared about. Right around the time I was born, my mother’s career as a violinist began to take off. My father’s career as a pianist was faltering, and so he took over as my primary care-giver.’

She spoke flatly, as if she were talking about someone else. She almost felt like she was; she certainly now felt like a different person from the girl or even the woman she’d been. ‘He poured all his love of piano into me, as well as all of his ambition. I never wanted to let him down.’ The long days of mindless work here in Cornwall had caused her to relive her own life’s history in her mind, making realizations and connections
that had never occurred to her before. It hadn’t been the most comfortable of times, but it had been good. Necessary.

‘That may be,’ Luc said eventually. ‘But your talent is obvious, and undoubtedly surpasses your father’s. That’s not something that can be forced.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Abby agreed. ‘But talent and desire don’t always go hand in hand. At least, the desire to perform professionally.’ Yet to
play—to
feel the music emerge and dance under her fingers—was just as much of a desire and even a need as it had ever been. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, suddenly feeling restless with the discussion about herself, ‘who knows? Perhaps I’ll play again, if I’m given the opportunity. By the time I’m ready to go back, the world might have latched on to some
other
piano prodigy.’ She made a face as she spoke her own despised nickname.

‘I doubt it,’ Luc said evenly. ‘But if you wanted a break, why not go to a resort or hotel? Have a proper holiday, instead of—’

‘Working like some skivvy?’ Abby laughed. ‘This is like a holiday for me, Luc, of sorts.’

‘You certainly have the money—’

‘Actually,’ she cut him off, ‘I don’t.’ She turned to rinse her mug in the sink. She hadn’t meant to divulge that little fact, but Luc somehow had the ability to wring the truth from her, no matter how unpalatable or humiliating. He took a step towards her; she could feel his tension.

‘Abby, what do you mean?’

‘My father was in charge of investing all my money,’ Abby said, her back to him. ‘I always had what I needed, and I never thought about it much, frankly. Anyway…’ She took a breath, let it out. ‘Right around the time I felt burned out—’
the night you left me
, she couldn’t help but think
‘—I
discovered he’d lost virtually all the profits from seven years of playing. Risky
stock-investments and a downturn in the economy.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s a musician, not a banker.’

Luc swore under his breath. ‘What about continued royalties from the albums you’ve made?’

‘There are only two, and, years on, they’re not big sellers. It provides a little bit, that’s all.’

‘You could sue him.’

‘Oh, Luc.’ Abby turned around, shaking her head. ‘Do you think I want revenge? He’s my father. Besides, he doesn’t have any money to pay for a settlement. I feel sorry for him, to tell you the truth. I think he was more invested in my career than I was.’

‘What is he doing now?’

Abby shrugged. Her father had been disgusted by her choice to live in Cornwall and work like some common drudge. They were hardly ever in touch, and the only time he called was to implore her to return to the music scene. ‘Probably in London, trying to drum up some work for me. The last offer was playing somewhere in Brighton for pensioners.’

‘And what about your mother?’

‘She’s pursuing her own career. My parents have lived virtually separate lives since I started to tour. She offered to have me come live with her in Manchester, perhaps teach piano to children, but I didn’t want that. I needed to make my own life, and I have.’ She paused, and when she spoke again there was an edge to her voice. ‘I can tell you don’t think much of it, but it’s mine, and amazingly enough I’ve been happy here.’

Luc was silent for a long moment. ‘If you need money…’

She drew herself up, her breath coming out in a hiss. ‘I don’t.’

‘I won’t have you working here like a skivvy simply because—’

‘You have no choice, Luc. You have no control over my life.’

Luc’s eyes flashed brilliant azure, sharp as iron. He suddenly seemed like a dangerous man, and Abby took a step back, coming up hard against the sink. ‘Don’t tell me you walked away from it all just because of your father? I had something to do with it, Abby. I set the chain of events in motion.’

‘You have an amazing ego,’ Abby spat. She trembled with an anger she didn’t even understand.

‘Do I? Because that night affected me as much as I think it affected you.’ His voice turned ragged, his eyes burning into hers, transfixing her. ‘Six months on, and I can’t even begin to forget. It still haunts me.’