Читать книгу Bought For The Frenchman's Pleasure - Эбби Грин, ABBY GREEN - Страница 11

ONCE seated, Sorcha avoided looking at the unnerving man opposite her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see long brown fingers curled around the edges of the menu, and her heart started to beat fast again. It was some moments before she realised that he was looking at her expectantly. Taking a deep breath, she closed her menu too, having no idea of what it offered.

‘So…how long have you needed glasses?’ He threw her with such an innocuous question after his last words, which had been so rawly personal. She looked at him warily and was glad of the table between them, and the sturdy frames of her glasses. Perversely, they seemed to give her some protection—as if projecting an image that made her more comfortable in such close proximity to his potent sexuality.

‘Relatively recently. Years of late nights cramming for exams have taken their toll—I find I need them for reading, or if I’m tired.’

His brow quirked. ‘A hangover from school? Surely it’s been some time since you crammed for anything?’

It wasn’t really a question, but Sorcha wanted to blurt out defensively that the for the past four years she’d been studying late into the night almost every night. It was one of her most cherished accomplishments—and she’d been about to tell him. Her mouth was still open. Horror filled her at how close she’d come to telling him something so personal. The thought of his reaction if she had made her go cold.

She shut her mouth and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, what do you expect? With all the partying I was doing I hardly had time to worry about the state of my eyes, now, did I?’

Her words struck a hollow chord in Romain somewhere. He looked at her intently, but she’d already picked up the menu again. Her whole frame was tight with tension. For a brief second there something so passionate had crossed her face that he’d fully expected her to say something else entirely…but what?

‘You do seem to live quite the quiet life now, or are you just careful about where and when you’re seen, having learnt from past experience?’

The tone in his voice made all sorts of implications about why she might want to hide or not be seen. He was lounging back, at perfect ease, his suit jacket gone, his shirt open at the throat, stretched across his formidable chest. Sorcha sat up straight. She’d let her guard down for one second too many, and the thought that he must have had her investigated in some way made her feel violated.

‘If I do take on this job—which it would appear I have very little choice but to do—I will not be subjected to this kind of questioning. You know nothing about me or my past. Nothing. I will never tell you anything about my personal life.’

He inclined his head with a minute gesture, but Sorcha could see that she’d got to him. His eyes had flashed a stormy grey for a second.

He leant forward and said silkily, ‘Never say never…’

She became aware that the waiter was hovering, and Romain, supremely cool again, looked up to indicate that they were ready to order. Sorcha had never felt so many conflicting emotions and sensations before. She very much wanted to run away—get away from this disturbing man whose mere presence seemed to have the power to reach inside her and shine a light on her innermost vulnerabilities.

Romain ordered the fish special, and Sorcha ordered a steak with mash. He reacted almost comically to her order. Sorcha caught his look and read it in a second. How could she forget that she was in the presence of a serial lothario? After that night in New York Katie had been only too eager to fill her in on his reputation, which would have made Casanova blush. Her mouth tightened. He was used to this, of course. Taking models out. Wining and dining them. And no doubt he’d never heard any of them ask for anything more substantial than a lettuce leaf dressed with half a grape.

She caught the waiter just before he left the table and smiled broadly. ‘Could you make that a double portion of mash, please?’

When she looked back to Romain she could see what looked suspiciously like a twitch on his mouth. Damn him. Her small childish gesture felt flat and silly now.

They sat looking at each other for a long moment. Sorcha refused to be the one to break her gaze first. And when he spoke she felt light-headed—as if she’d scored some tiny yet triumphant victory.

‘Let me tell you a little more about the campaign. I feel that perhaps I didn’t give you the full picture before.’

Sorcha’s tone was a dry as sandpaper. ‘Don’t worry—I get the picture. You’ve got it in for me, and even though I’ll be getting paid, it’ll be Sorcha Murphy to the gallows again. Although this time with silk gloves on.’