‘I thought you belonged to my sister,’ Ginny whispered. ‘That she was taking over—replacing me. I thought if I distanced myself from you, it might not hurt so much. Instead, it was a thousand times worse.’
He groaned. ‘Forgive me, ma belle. I wished only for you to rest more, at least until you stopped being sick, and for Lucille to be of some use and help you. Clothilde told me you are not as strong as she could wish.’
Ginny lips curved slowly into a smile. ‘Well, the baby and I have survived a tumble down the stairs, so perhaps we’re not as fragile as you think.’
She stretched out her hand, and he took it in his, holding it for a long moment as if it was something infinitely delicate, infinitely precious before raising it gently to his mouth. Then turning it, he let his lips and tongue softly and sensuously caress her palm, and kiss the length of each slender finger, suckling their pointed tips.
He must have felt her voluptuous shiver of delight, because he raised his head and smiled back at her, his eyes alive with passionate tenderness.
‘So, when your bruises are healed, shall we put the matter to the test—on our honeymoon, peut-être?’
‘Now I have a condition,’ she said and saw his brows lift. ‘I want you to drop any charge of harming me against Monique Chaloux,’ she went on quickly. ‘I’m not prepared to add to her troubles.’
Not, she thought, when I’ve known for myself all the terrible pain of jealousy and unrequited love.
‘You ask for that?’ Andre shook his head. ‘Mon Dieu, Virginie, when I saw you lying there, I thought I had lost you.’
‘Instead, you’ve found me,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve found each other, perhaps thanks to her.’
There was a pause then he sighed. ‘Soit. Let it be as you wish.’
Suddenly Ginny realised she was smothering a yawn. ‘Oh, no.’ She gave a little wail of dismay. ‘I let them give me a sleeping pill.’
‘Sleep then.’ Andre was still holding her hand, clasping it in both his own, his gaze warming her. ‘Dream of me, mon ange, and when you wake, I will still be here beside you.’
‘You promise?’ She was beginning to drift.
‘Pour le restant de nos jours,’ he whispered as her eyes closed. ‘For as long as we both live.’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE RUSSIAN’S ULTIMATUM by Michelle Smart.
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CHAPTER ONE
EMILY RICHARDSON DUCKED under the scaffolding over the entrance of the smart building in the heart of the city of London, strolled through the spacious atrium and headed to the wide staircase. When she reached the second floor she took an abrupt left, walked to the end of the corridor and pressed the button for the lift. Only once she had stepped inside and the door had slid shut did she allow herself to expel a breath.
Catching sight of her reflection in the mirrored wall, she raised an eyebrow. Power suits were really not her thing, especially ones dating back to the eighties. She felt suffocated —and her feet, in their patent black stilettos, were already killing her.
She had to fit in, she had to look as if she belonged in the building, so no one would give her a second glance. Her usual attire made her too noticeable—she would have been recognised before she’d got her foot over the threshold of the building. Even with the suit, she’d have to be careful. She’d timed her entrance to perfection—not too early to be conspicuous but not so late that the people she needed to avoid would be in yet. So far, so good.
For this particular lift to work, a code had to be punched in. She duly obliged and was carried all the way to the top floor and the private offices held by the senior management team of Bamber Cosmetics International—or, as it had now been renamed, Virshilas LG.
The largest of the offices was held by Mr Virshilas himself. But not today; today Pascha Virshilas was in Milan.
Unlike in the rest of the building, renovation work had yet to begin on the top floor. She imagined it wouldn’t be long before it was remodelled into Pascha Virshilas’s idea of an executive suite of offices.