Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress by Kate Hewitt Page A

Milan, and I think we both could use a rest.’
    We , Abby thought, always we. As a girl it had made her feel special, included, part of something bigger than herself. Now it both irritated and saddened her. She knew the bare bones of her father’s story: he’d been a pianist too, but his talent hadn’t got him far, or not far enough, so he’d poured his creative energy into her instead. And she didn’t have any more room for it.
    ‘I want to cancel the rest of the tour,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m…burned out. I need more than a few days’ rest.’
    Andrew stared at her for a long moment, his mouth dropping open in shock. ‘Abby—’
    ‘We can refund the money if we need to,’ Abby continued, her voice becoming firmer, more certain. This was what she needed, what she craved. Her night with Luc had merely been the wake-up call. ‘I’ve been playing and recording non-stop for seven years. I need a break. A big one.’
    Andrew let out a shaky breath. ‘All right,’ he said after a moment. ‘All right. But after this tour—’
    ‘I can’t,’ Abby replied simply. ‘You heard me tonight. I can’t. We can refund—’
    ‘No,’ Andrew cut her off, and he sounded angry for the first time. ‘We can’t.’
    Abby stared at him, felt the first fingers of dread creep along her spine. Finally, after a long moment, she asked in a level voice, ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because I lost it, Abby.’ Sorrow replaced anger, and her father hung his head. ‘I lost it all.’

CHAPTER FIVE
    Six months later
    S ITTING in the warm September sunshine in a street café in Avignon, Luc gazed at the column of print, no more than a side item in the arts section of Le Monde: Piano Prodigy Abigail Summers retires.
    Luc felt a lurch deep in his gut. It was guilt, he knew, the guilt he’d tried to keep at bay now roiling through him. He’d tried not to think of Abby or that one wonderful yet unfulfilled night six months ago. He’d tried to forget her, for her own sake. She didn’t need him in her life. She couldn’t. So he’d stayed blank, cold, numb, as always, and immersed himself in work so there was no one left to hurt.
    Yet as he stared at the fine print, accompanied by a rather grainy photo of Abby playing in some anonymous concert hall, he knew he hadn’t forgotten her. At all. He might not have been actively thinking of her, but she’d been present in his mind, in his thoughts. In his memory.
    And now he felt the guilt deepen and intensify within him, turning into a solid mass of anxiety that lodged in his middle and clawed its way up his throat. Why had she retired?
    Was it because of me?
    Had he hurt another innocent with his greed, his need,despite his intentions otherwise? He shouldn’t have spoken to her, or ordered champagne, dinner and the suite…There had been a dozen different opportunities to stop, to turn away, to keep himself from hurting her. He hadn’t taken any of them.
    ‘Salut , Luc.’
    Luc looked up from the newspaper to see his solicitor, Denis Depaul, coming towards him. He tossed the paper aside, wishing he could discard his memories and concerns as easily.
    ‘Salut,’ he replied.
    Denis sat down and ordered a coffee before he continued speaking. ‘It is good to see you. I thought I might not have the opportunity; you have been working so hard.’ He paused. ‘And you come down south so rarely these days.’
    ‘Yes.’ He spoke in a clipped voice, then forced himself to relax and smile. Denis was an old family friend; he’d served his father before his death when Luc was only eleven, and had protected and nurtured the family assets as best he could until Luc had been old enough to take the reins of Toussaint Holdings.
    Luc would never forget those desperate years, when Toussaint Holdings had slid and slipped quietly, inch by inch, franc by franc, into total financial disaster, beset by corruption and crooked managers. Denis had done the best he could while Luc had watched, irate, incapable,