Читать книгу A Very French Affair - Эбби Грин - Страница 15

LATER that day, as Sorcha boarded the privately chartered jet, it felt as if aeons had passed. Those moments on the beach, that kiss, had an intimate residue that made Sorcha feel skittish. And, to her utter dismay, she saw that the only free seat was beside Romain.

She hovered reluctantly for a second by the empty seat. Romain glanced up eventually from some papers in his lap. He looked more like the successful businessman now, in a dark suit, light shirt and tie, undone slightly, with a top button open. A glimpse of the strong column of brown throat was tantalising.

‘It seems as though this is the only free seat.’

He smiled wolfishly. ‘Please, be my guest. It’ll be fun to watch you try to squirm away from me for five hours.’

Sorcha sat down gingerly, very careful about where she put her arms. Then she sat back and closed her eyes.

Before long, though, the familiar terror began making its all too predictable insidious climb inside her chest as the engine’s throttle roared. At this moment even Romain beside her couldn’t distract her from it. She heard him rattle papers. The engines started up in earnest, the plane lurched forward, and she felt the colour drain from her face. Her hands, despite her efforts not to give anything away were clenched tightly in her lap. She longed to be able to wrap them around the seat—that always made her feel stupidly protected—but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

As the plane gathered speed down the runway, her heart beat faster and faster.

‘What’s wrong? Scared of flying?’

The voice came from right beside her ear, and Sorcha jumped, eyes opening wide as she looked to Romain. She couldn’t even speak, and just nodded silently. When he saw the truly blatant fear in the blue depths, any teasing fled Romain’s mind. He acted purely on instinct and took one of Sorcha’s hands in his. It was clenched tight and he had to prise the bloodless fingers apart. Finally he was able to thread his fingers with hers and grip her tight. He saw her other hand go in a white-knuckle grip to the armrest.

Sorcha couldn’t believe it. The mind-numbing fear, the awful acrid taste of it, wasn’t hitting her as hard as it normally did. The plane left the ground, that awful moment came…and it was still awful, but for the first time ever bearable. It was only then, as the fear began its slow decline, that Sorcha felt the long warm fingers entwined with hers and heat unfurled in her belly. She looked down and could see white and brown fingers in a tangle. A hot, tight feeling made her abdomen clench, and the kiss invaded her consciousness with full lurid recall.

Looking up to Romain with horror, she saw him wincing. Abruptly she loosened her grip, but he didn’t loosen his. His face cleared, though, and he smiled.

‘Remind me never to arm-wrestle you. I don’t think I’d win.’

Sorcha snatched her hand back. She felt acutely vulnerable. She couldn’t believe she’d been so weakly transparent.

He settled back comfortably, turning his big body towards her. Sorcha looked resolutely at the back of the seat in front of her.

‘So is it just the take-off, or the whole thing?’

She sighed deeply. ‘Just the take off.’ She looked at him warily. ‘And being in tiny helicopters.’ She gave a delicate shudder. ‘That trip to Inis Mor…’

‘I thought you looked unnaturally pale when you got off. Why didn’t you say anything?’

She shrugged, casting him a quick glance. ‘What’s the point? It’s just a silly fear. No need to cause a fuss.’

He felt anger lick through him, but not directed at her. ‘So you’d prefer to put yourself through moments of terror like that just to keep people happy?’

‘Well, how else would I have got over there—or anywhere, these days?’

He just looked at her broodingly. ‘Where did it come from?’

Her head had that fuzzy feeling again. Why couldn’t she look this man in the eye for longer than two seconds without her head going to mush? He was going to suspect she was certifiably stupid.

‘What?’

‘Your fear of flying…. taking off…do you know where it comes from?’

Sorcha nodded slowly. Weighed up what it would mean to tell him. He saw the hesitation, and she saw how his jaw tightened.

‘I forgot about the embargo on your private life.’

Despite her best instincts, at that moment she perversely wanted to put her hand on his arm. She clenched her hand into a fist again. ‘No,’ she said tightly, and then, with a small smile that made her feel as if she’d been invaded by a rogue body snatcher, she said, ‘It’s fine.’

She looked away for a second, and then back, struck by how, even though they were in the plane surrounded by the crew, it felt as though it was just them, in some kind of bubble.

‘I was three years old, and we were taking a trip back to Spain to visit my mother’s family—’

He looked at her incredulously. ‘You’re Spanish?’

She hesitated for a split second…Hadn’t she been for most of her life? ‘Half-Spanish…My mother is. My father is—was Irish…’

‘He’s dead?’

She nodded, and felt herself go cold inside, she knew she was lying about being half-Spanish, but that was a part of her that was certainly out of bounds for discussion and none of his business. That bit of information lay far too close to the truth of everything else.

‘He died just before I turned seventeen.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Romain saw how she’d changed in an instant from being lukewarm to icy cool. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘My father died when I was twelve…a heart attack.’

She looked at him, that guarded expression faltering slightly. She remembered what Maud had told her about his mother. ‘Mine too…a heart attack, I mean. I’m sorry.’

A moment passed between them, and neither noticed for a second when the air stewardess asked if they wanted anything. Then Sorcha looked up and a guilty flush stained her cheeks. What was she thinking? Getting lost in his eyes, telling him about her father? She saw the way the stewardess practically ate him alive with just a look and welcomed the cold dose of reality.

When they’d ordered water, she could feel him settle back in.

Please, no more conversation…

‘So…your fear of flying…’

Sorcha’s tone was brisk and almost bored. She didn’t see the way Romain’s eyes narrowed on her speculatively.

‘Like I said, we were on holiday, going to Spain. It’s really not that exciting—’

‘Indulge me.’

Sorcha gulped, looked at him quickly, and then away again. ‘The plane had just taken off, and at the last second something failed and it crashed back down. I didn’t have my belt on.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d managed to unlock it somehow, and when the plane fell back down like a stone I fell and got thrown around a bit…’ She shrugged. ‘That’s it. I told you it was nothing to get worked up about. It’s silly to still let it affect me.’

He looked at her for a long, intense moment and couldn’t stop the feeling that he was somehow letting her get to him—get under his skin in a way that went beyond physical attraction. He drew back. The shutters came down, his face expressionless.

‘If you don’t mind, I have an important meeting when we land in New York and I need to concentrate on some paperwork.’

And he promptly shut Sorcha out as effectively as she had shut him out from the start. It threw her. She made the motions of getting a book out of her bag, put on her glasses to read…but the page and the print blurred in front of her eyes. She couldn’t relax next to Romain, and her mind was feverishly trying to decipher what had made him clam up like that.

She was intrigued. Suddenly he had more facets to him than a mere autocratic and judgmental luxury goods magnate. She recalled how professional he’d been on the set the day before. He’d run it smoothly, fairly…especially when Dominic had threatened to throw a little tantrum when something hadn’t gone his way. Sorcha wasn’t used to a steadying force on a set. She found more often than not that she acted as the peacemaker, the mediator between various hysterical egos.

She sneaked another look, but Romain was a million miles away, immersed in facts and figures, shirtsleeves rolled up, his profile harshly beautiful. And extremely remote. In that moment she had trouble believing that he had ever kissed her with such passion only that morning.

Some time later Sorcha felt a bump and her head jerked up. She’d been asleep on something very soft…it felt like a cushion…only it was no cushion. It was an arm and a very broad chest. She jerked upright completely. Slumberous hooded grey eyes looked back at her, completely unconcerned. Sorcha took it all in in a flash—along with the fact that they were about to land. She must have heard the wheels being lowered.

The seat divide was up, and Romain had leant back into his own reclined seat, pulling her with him onto his chest. The sudden memory of how he’d felt underneath her cheek made a flush spread through her body.

‘I…’ She couldn’t speak.

Romain watched her flounder. She looked sleepy and tousled and flushed and so…gorgeous that he had to shift minutely in his seat. He’d suffered the ignominy of his body reacting against the will he’d tried to impose on it for the past three hours or so, and right now he felt he needed to take a very long, very cold shower. When Sorcha’s head had kept drooping in jerks as she’d slept, he’d put down his papers, unbuckled their belts and pulled her into him. Again, he’d been surprised at how her soft curves had seemed to melt into his body, as if made for him. Her evocative scent had drifted up from silky black hair.

Their seats were towards the front, and somewhat screened from the rest of the cabin. And it was that fact now that seemed to be uppermost on Sorcha’s mind as her hair swung around her shoulders in an arc and she cast a nervous look backwards.

‘No one saw,’ he offered helpfully, feeling absurdly annoyed.

She sat back and folded her arms. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I must’ve been more tired than I realised.’

She could see him shrug out of the corner of her eye as he flipped his seat upright, ‘The pleasure was all mine.’

She burned. Her insides were on fire. She couldn’t even escape and go to the toilet as they were about to land. Buckling her belt again, she busied herself putting her book away—but not before it had fallen out of her hands and into Romain’s lap. He picked it up before she had a chance to snatch it back.

‘Man and His Symbols…Carl Jung…’ That imperious brow quirked again.

Sorcha was unaware of the plane touching down, announcing their arrival in New York.

‘Yes,’ she said tightly, holding out a hand for the book.

He gave it back after a long moment, making sure that their fingers brushed, and drawled, ‘I have to admit I’m more a fan of his old adversary, Freud.’

Her fingers burned. The book was hers again. She held it to her chest and said waspishly, ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Tell me,’ he said equably, which should have had alarm bells ringing in her head, ‘would this have anything to do with what Val was talking about the other night?’

She looked at him open-mouthed. And promptly shut it again. She knew if she didn’t tell him he’d only ask Val. And if she didn’t tell him she risked turning it into something bigger, more…

She sighed inwardly, then outwardly shrugged. She hated having to tell him. ‘I recently graduated from NYU. I got a degree in psychology.’

He said nothing for a long moment, those eyes assessing, making her nervous. ‘Val said you got a first?’

She nodded, amazed at his memory.

‘Well done.’

Completely nonplussed, trying to think about what this could reveal, Sorcha just muttered something unintelligible. Too much was happening. Too much of herself was being revealed, and she felt very, very exposed. She did not want him knowing anything about her, and now he knew about the outreach centre, her degree, her fear of flying, her attraction…what next?

The hubbub and chatter that surrounded them as people got out of seats and collected bags gave Sorcha an excuse to get away. And she did, with barely disguised panic.

The next evening Sorcha stood huddled against the wind in her parka jacket on the top of the Empire State Building. This was where they were working for the night. The observation deck was theirs till six in the morning. These were the only shots they had to do in New York.

‘So, where’s Mr Tall, Dark and Gorgeous tonight?’

Sorcha felt a defensive retort about to spring from her lips and bit it back. Dominic was not the person she should allow to wind her up. So she shrugged nonchalantly, as though she didn’t care, and said, ‘I have no idea. Why are you so worried anyway?’

Dominic’s face contorted into an ugly scowl. ‘Because whenever he’s around I feel like he’s watching me, waiting for me to make some kind of false move.’

Sorcha had to bite back a wry smile. She didn’t blame Dominic. Romain did have that ability, and she was glad that it wasn’t just her on the receiving end. And, as brilliant a photographer as Dominic was, there was the element of a loose cannon about him.

The truth was, she’d been wondering the same thing herself, her senses on high alert. It was odd that he wasn’t here, especially as tonight was the first time the other model was involved—her counterpart, her lover. This was where they were to meet for the first time, and she would have imagined that with Romain’s apparent love of control he’d be watching Zane like a hawk to make sure he performed.

Sorcha knew Zane well. He was one of the most recognisable male models in the world, and had just broken out to act in a movie. He was a nice guy, easy to get on with. She heard a kerfuffle in the corner. Dominic was having a mini-tantrum about something. She could hear snatches of heated conversation, and he had a mobile clamped to his ear.

‘You need to come up here now, because Claire is saying she needs approval for Zane’s costume…and if we don’t start shooting in the next half hour we’re going to jeopardise Simon getting his dawn shots…’

Sorcha’s heart started to thump. Silly. It mightn’t even be him. Since he was now back in New York, she didn’t doubt that he’d have made plans to take some current mistress out to dinner. Wasn’t that exactly how men like Romain operated? Ruthless and controlling in business, the quintessential playboy socially—a string of women around the world.

Sorcha couldn’t kid herself and think that what had happened between them had meant anything more than a bit of diverting fun for him, and that was why it couldn’t happen again. He’d been playing with her—a game of showing her that he was in control.

But some minutes later, as Lucy was touching up her make-up, she saw the observation deck doors open and Romain walk out. The New York night was chilly, and he wore a long black coat that made him look impossibly tall and dark. She hadn’t seen him all day and butterflies erupted in her stomach.

He focused on Dominic and Zane and went straight to them. Consulted with Claire. And then, with the issue apparently resolved, and a curt, ‘Don’t disturb me again unless it’s really urgent,’ he walked back out, not looking her way even momentarily.

It felt like a slap in the face—which was ridiculous when it wasn’t even directed at her. She saw the lift doors close, concealing him from view. It was obvious he hadn’t appreciated Dominic’s autocratic demand at all.

‘He didn’t look happy to be taken away from his date!’

Sorcha looked at Lucy, and ice invaded her veins. ‘What?’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Well, that’s where I bet he was…Why would he want to supervise us up here when he could be taking some beautiful woman out to dinner?’ Lucy sighed dreamily.

Sorcha longed to be the gossiping kind just once, so she could ask her if what she’d said was based on fact. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t. And for the whole night, when Romain didn’t reappear, Sorcha couldn’t stop imagining him looking into sultry blue, or brown, or green eyes, telling her—whoever—that next time they wouldn’t be interrupted, with all the passionate conviction he’d used with her, and which she stupidly, treacherously, couldn’t get out of her head…