Free Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress by Kate Hewitt

‘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 feltdrained 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