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Her gasp echoed around the room. ‘You would do that? But your family …’
‘With my grandfather gone, I’m the last of my family. T
hat puts me in the unique position of deciding my own destiny. And I choose you. First and always.’
‘You seriously have no idea how hot that makes you to me right now.’
‘Hot enough to get naked and sweaty with me?’ He nuzzled his way along her jaw.
‘For starters. And if you’re really, really good, I might even break out the geisha outfit for you.’ A hoarse sound escaped him and she let loose a saucy grin. ‘Does that turn you on?’
‘I’ve been without you for three weeks. My need is astronomical. So be careful what danger you put yourself in, ma petite.’ Her grimace made him grin as he skilfully divested her of her clothes. ‘You don’t like that endearment?’
‘When it draws attention to my height and stature? No.’
‘You’re perfect.’
‘I’m five-foot-two. I need stilts just to see half of what’s happening in the world.’
He sobered, his gaze intense and deep. ‘You have me now.
I’ll be your guide. No more stilts for you. I think you’ve been through enough pain for one lifetime.’
Tears filled her eyes. ‘I love you, Damion.’
‘Je t’adore aussi. And yes, I’ll teach you French.’
‘You better. I have leverage.’
‘Oh?’
She nodded. ‘That painting you picked up in Bordeaux? The Ventimiglia? It’s stolen. Interpol have been hunting it for the last six years. The rightful owners are the Busson family.’ His complete shock made her giggle. ‘Welcome to the dark side.’
EPILOGUE
DAMION WALKED INTO the château’s light-filled gallery and stopped dead.
‘I think I’ve just walked into an existential crisis.’
Reiko grinned. ‘You poor thing. I could’ve told you that the day we met.’
He peered closer at the scene in front of him. ‘What exactly is going on here?’
‘I’m trying to do the Pregnancy Pilates the instructor designed for me. And Stephane is trying his hand at his first abstract painting.’
‘But … he’s using you as his canvas?’ Damion’s head was tilted to one side as if the better to understand exactly what his three-year-old son was doing.
Her grin widened. ‘Don’t stifle the process. If pop stars can wear raw meat to express themselves, three-year-olds can paint on their mothers.’
His eyes caught hers, captivated her with the look in them. ‘And what do fathers get for suffering through this … horror?’
‘They get to join in—after which they may get a special prize.’
The enthusiasm with which he shucked off his shoes and folded his stunning body onto the play mat knocked the breath out of her. Stephane, their adopted son, shrieked his delight as his father lifted him off her back, where he’d been indulging in his mummy-canvas, and tickled him.
Easing herself down from the gentle exercise, she watched Damion. He was the grand prize any woman would kill to win. And he was hers.
She rubbed her hand across her stomach, unable to believe how blessed she was. For two years they’d seen every specialist in France and America. Each time they’d been told their chances of conceiving a child naturally were impossible.
