Читать книгу A Very French Affair: Bought for the Frenchman's Pleasure / Breaking the Boss's Rules / Her Secret Husband - Эбби Грин - Страница 10

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.’

He looked at her for a long moment and felt a surge of something rush through him. Her self deprecation caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to women displaying that kind of humour around him. Not ones who looked like Sorcha Murphy.

‘To an extent you might perceive that to be the case. And based on what I said earlier I can’t blame you. However, it’s not an entirely accurate picture…’

Sorcha was surprised to find that he was almost apologising, as if he knew he’d been less than sensitive. She found herself nodding slightly, as if to encourage him to continue, and knew that while she wished she could have walked away well before now, having told him what he could do with his job, another part of her was only too happy to be here, experiencing this man’s full wattage up close.

At that moment, before he could continue, the waiter arrived at the table with a bottle of wine. Romain tasted it, and took the liberty of pouring them both a glass. Sorcha felt as though perhaps she shouldn’t take any—as if drinking wine might somehow confirm his bad opinion of her—and then berated herself. She wasn’t going to change anything for him. She didn’t care about his opinion, she told herself staunchly.

He tipped his glass in a mocking salute, and Sorcha took a sip from hers. The cool crisp white wine slipped down her throat like velvet. She thought dimly that it had no right to taste, feel so good in such a situation.

His beautifully shaped brown hand played with his glass, distracting her. She felt like clamping a hand over his to stop him, felt annoyed with him for having this power…and then he spoke again, bringing her attention back to his face and his mouth, which was even worse.

‘What I was talking about—using you for what you can bring to the campaign in terms of your past…your apparent redemption…quite apart from your undeniable beauty…’

Sorcha went pink. She hated it when anyone made reference like that to her looks. She quickly took a sip of her drink before he could notice. But he frowned slightly, those dark brows drawing together as if she puzzled him. She didn’t want to puzzle him. She didn’t want him to look any further than Sorcha Murphy the model, who would stand in front of a photographer and get the shots they required.

‘Go on. Please.’ Her voice sounded slightly strangled, and she breathed a sigh of relief when the intensity left his face.

‘Your past would never be mentioned, never alluded to. What I’m talking about is a…subliminal message, if you will. Counting on the fact that people will see you and may remember, or not, where you came from, what happened…That will elevate the campaign beyond the ordinary, because they will empathise with you.’

‘This must be some campaign if you’re putting this much thought into it,’ she said, somewhat shakily.

He nodded. ‘It is very special. Like I said, it is to showcase a selection of luxury goods and clothes supplied by my various companies, but it’s also going to promote a way of living. It’s a move away from the vigorous advertising that is common now—this will be much more…dreamlike…evocative. It centres on two people—a man and a woman—who we follow as they travel all across the world in a romantic game of cat and mouse…’

Sorcha felt for a very uncanny moment as if he might be talking about them—but that was ridiculous.

Interested despite herself, she shrugged minutely. ‘That does sound…intriguing.’

‘And is it killing you to say that?’ he asked with a mocking smile.

She shook her head, eyes flashing.

He sat forward then, making her nervous. ‘Lisa also mentioned something else to me.’

Now Sorcha was really nervous. Her mind raced…Surely Lisa wouldn’t have told him about—?

‘The youth outreach centre?’

Sorcha blanched, and Romain saw her reaction. Her eyes were two huge pools of liquid blue, and that damned vulnerability was back.

Sorcha couldn’t believe it. How could Lisa have done that? Although, after sitting with the man for less than an hour, Sorcha knew what a physical struggle it was to resist him.

‘What did she tell you?’ She asked tightly, every line of her body screaming with tension.

‘Just that you’ve been working on it for the past few years, and it’s due to open a couple of weeks after we finish shooting…’

Every ounce of self-protection in Sorcha rose up. This was so close to the heart of her, such a treasured secret, that even to be discussing it with him was overwhelming. And worse, if he decided to delve any deeper…Sorcha started to shake inwardly. ‘Yes. It is. But it’s no concern of yours—’

‘Or yours either, apparently. Lisa said that you’ve only been back periodically to oversee the building in the past year.’

The unfairness of his attack made Sorcha reel slightly. She saw spots before her eyes. But she realised quickly that if he thought that, then she could in fact use it.

She lifted one slim shoulder and glanced away, but try as she might she couldn’t totally disguise her turmoil. She looked back at Romain and steeled herself. ‘Like I said, it’s none of your business what my involvement is in the outreach centre…’ She faltered. She felt as if she was jinxing it just talking about it with him. ‘So I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring it up again.’

He ignored her. ‘Tell me, Sorcha, is it all part of the façade? To make people think you’ve changed? Did you see someone else, another celebrity, do something similar and think that you’d do the same?’ Cynicism twisted his beautiful mouth. ‘After all, you can’t beat the publicity you’ll get on the day. Tell me have you already picked out what you’re going to wear as you cut the ribbon?’

Sorcha sat back. A wave of hurt, stunning in its intensity, made her chest tighten. It was as if he had gone inside, to her most inner, secret part and slowly ripped it out to examine. He had no idea. And he mustn’t. With superhuman effort she drummed up the brittle shell of her composure, and said, ‘Why not? I may as well get as much out of it as I can.’

When she saw his look of supreme…righteousness, her anger rose, swift and potent. She leant forward again.

‘Tell me, did you walk into that agency and deduct a few noughts from my pay cheque once you saw how easy it would be?’ She shook her head, unbelievably hurt and stung, but determined not to show it. ‘Men like you disgust me. You don’t know when to stop. When it’s enough. Like when someone says no they mean no.’

He reached across the table so fast she couldn’t escape, and he caught her hand in his. His grip was harsh, and Sorcha gasped as she felt her pulse jump straight to triple time.

‘Just as you say about yourself, you know nothing about me. So don’t presume anything.’

He looked genuinely angry, and Sorcha quailed under his fierce gaze.

‘Where I come from it would be unthinkably brutal to force anyone to do anything against their will. This is a job, Sorcha—that’s all. I’ve merely used a little leverage to get what I want. Tell me, is it really going to be so hard to pout and pose for a couple of weeks all around the world? To live in luxury and walk away with a few hundred thousand in your back pocket? To see a small agency benefit from the kind of exposure and money only you can bring them?’

She snatched her hand back, shaken to the core. His opinion of her was poisonous. It was tainted. She had to go—get away. She was feeling overwhelmed and seriously out of her depth. Couldn’t think straight.

‘I…I’ve lost my appetite.’ The thought of eating now was making her feel sick. She stood up, picking up her jacket. Manners ingrained over years meant she couldn’t just run out of the door, much as she wanted to. ‘Please excuse me.’

And she turned and walked out, an awful urge to cry made her clench her jaw, lips tight together. She knew her reaction was vastly disproportionate to what had just happened. He was right. She knew that it was just a job, that in the end of course she could weather anything for a couple of weeks—especially if it meant her good friend got a cut. But that man—

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder just as she reached the doors. She whirled around jerkily, her reaction not from surprise but to his touch.

‘Sorcha, I—’

‘Look, I’ll do your job.’ She avoided looking him in the eye, tried to make her voice light to distract him from the fact that she was a quivering mass of confusion and hurt. And to feel so hurt when she barely even knew this man? It just didn’t make sense. ‘I’ve no choice, and of course you’re right. How can I turn down such a lucrative offer? After all, that is what I’m interested in isn’t it?’

She couldn’t help but look up then, but couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. It wasn’t what she’d expected. Not being able to read it made her feel even more panicky.

‘Sorcha, look, I think we’ve got off to a bad—’

‘Oh, don’t say it—please. How could we ever have got off to a good start? You’re the man who judged me on the basis of little more than hearsay and a grainy photograph eight years ago, who still assumes I’m walking around with track marks hidden on my body. I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I’ve never touched a drug in my life?’ She answered herself with a short harsh laugh. ‘Don’t bother answering. Of course not.’

She shrugged out from under his hand and moved away, closer to the door. He grabbed her wrist and, loath as she was to leave it there, because that same burning sensation was making her tingle all over, she didn’t want him to see how his touch affected her. He was only trying to smooth over turbulent waters. He was a manipulator. There to make sure she toed the line, did as she was told.

She looked at him unflinchingly and her eyes were huge. The glasses were giving her a potent air of subdued sexiness that she was oblivious to. ‘Just tell me where and when.’

He didn’t speak for a long moment. She fought to appear cool, in control. The past was something that represented her own private hell. She knew there were parts of it, parts of her, that she hadn’t looked at for a long time, had hoped she’d dealt with. Single-handed, this man was raking up a veritable field of emotional land mines.

‘You have a week off. You’ll be picked up from your apartment here in Dublin in a week’s time—ten a.m. I’ll send you over the schedule for the shoot.’

She nodded jerkily, finally retrieved her hand, and backed away through the door. For some bizarre reason she couldn’t break her gaze from his until the last moment. Then thankfully the door opened behind her, and she slipped through and was gone.