The Night That Started It All by Anna Cleary Page B

her stomach swam in total rejection.
    Naturally. There wasn’t a lot to look forward to.
    Rémy, in his c
—situation
. Luc Valentin on his home turf. Remembering his last view of her. Judging her. Looking the way he looked in her dreams. So damned sexy.
    She dressed with gentle movements so as not to antagonise her insides. It struck her that every garment she donned was doubly appropriate. Funereal, for mourning, and sinful, sultry and black for her wicked, whorish nature.
    Emilie had lent her a beautiful, elegant silk suit from her pre-pregnant days. Shari had to suck in her breath to close the skirt zip, but at least the cinched-in waist flattered her curves, especially her breasts in the new lacy C-cup she’d bought to accommodate the recent rise in volume.
    With sheer black stockings and high heels, she judged the overall effect satisfactorily black, and possibly more elegant than she’d ever achieved to date. Now for the hat.
    She’d managed to prevail on Em for a loan of her wide black organza Melbourne Cup number with the luxuriant velvet rose adorning its brim. Shari loved the gorgeous thing. All it lacked was a veil.
    Positioning it carefully over the simple chignon she’d managed to achieve, she had the wistful sense it still made somethingof a disguise. None of her friends would have recognised her. Perhaps Luc wouldn’t.
    Though she’d smoothed on some make-up, her strain shone through. Staring at herself in the mirror, she understood breakfast wasn’t even a remote possibility. Lucky for her the bar-fridge offered a convenient bottle of the blessed black fizz, among other things. She crammed it into her shoulder bag for later. Just in case.
    All too soon the dreaded moment came. With a dry mouth, Shari took the lift down and asked the concierge to find her a taxi. The guy obliged by strolling out to the kerb and summoning one with a piercing whistle. Normally that would have delighted an Aussie girl from Paddo. Not today.
    Shivering, she climbed into the taxi like a serving wench into a tumbril. Neil and Emilie had provided her with all the details she needed. Rémy, her former lover, fiancé and abuser, was to be buried at Père Lachaise.
    With her feet pressing an imaginary brake through the floor, Shari was carried inexorably through the cemetery gates. The car followed a winding street through a city of stone. At the very end loomed a domed chapel.
    Her heart lurched. Gathered in front was a small congregation of mourners, all garbed in black. But superimposed on her vision of all of them was Luc. He was standing a little apart from the others looking grim and inaccessible. Her stomach clenched itself nastily.
    It was the crunch of her tyres on gravel that dragged Luc from his reverie.
    He turned and narrowed his gaze against the grey glare, attempting to make out the taxi’s occupant. The graceful curve of cheek and neck he glimpsed beneath the hat brim looked youthful and extremely feminine. Surely …
    No, it couldn’t be Manon. She wouldn’t have the gall to come
here
, flaunting her condition.
    Shari got out, not sure she could trust her legs to supporther. As the taxi drove away she stood on the stone apron before the chapel, an alien in a foreign land. All eyes turned to stare at her.
    Shari
felt
the instant Luc recognised her. A tremor jolted through his tall frame that communicated itself to her at a deeply visceral level. For whole seconds he stared at her, the curious intensity blazing in his dark eyes paralysing her where she stood.
    He started towards her.
    Shari’s heart accelerated, far too fast. It was the first time she’d seen him in daylight. How could she have forgotten how—how he was? He looked powerful and autocratic, the expression of his strong, lean face grave and intent. As he neared she tried not to focus on the stirring lines of his mouth. Oh, Lord. This was hardly the time to be reminded of how it felt to be kissed by that mouth, but as he approached her insides