Читать книгу Claimed by the Millionaire - Katherine Garbera - Страница 13

Five

Sheri had never wanted to be famous. Unlike other kids who dreamed of celebrity, she’d preferred her natural anonymity, so as she stared down at the newspaper in front of her, skimming the headline written in a language she couldn’t read, she saw only her picture.

Her face got hot as she blushed harder than she ever had before. She was going to die. That was it. There was no way she was going to live through this.

It was bad enough that she’d made the highly questionable decision to sleep with her boss. But now the entire world would know… Hell, Lucille would know, and she wasn’t going to let Sheri forget about this.

“Oh, my God.”

“I don’t think praying will help,” Tristan said in a quiet voice.

“What do you recommend?” she asked, desperately wishing she could go back in time.

He put a hand on her shoulder. It was big and warm and as he squeezed so slightly, she felt a little better. Not much, mind you, with her face and the ecstasy she’d felt in his arms clearly on display for the world to see.

Tristan’s expression wasn’t visible, as his face was buried in her hair. Her hands shook as she looked at the picture.

“I don’t look like myself,” she said, tracing a finger over her face. Her eyes were half-closed and she was clutching at Tristan as he kissed her. Thank goodness his broad shoulders covered her naked chest fairly well.

He reached around her to take the paper. “You look like a woman in the arms of her lover.”

“Yeah, ya think?” Sheri said, unable to help herself. She wished she could get good and mad. But this wasn’t Tristan’s fault. It was only that fact that was helping her keep it together. That and the strong belief that if she let go of her control she was going to crumple to the floor and never get up.

“Cheeky is cute, Sheri. Sarcastic is not,” he said, his accent very strong and pronounced.

She hated when he did that arrogant thing. Actually it was attractive at times, but right now, while she was grappling with the shock of seeing her scandalous picture in a major newspaper, it wasn’t.

“Sleeping with you was fun while it was our little secret,” she said, mirroring his tone. “Having the entire tabloid-reading world know about it is not.”

“Sheri—”

She cut him off and turned away, walking farther into the elegantly appointed living room. She stood underneath a painting, a large oil by someone famous, she was sure, but she didn’t know art. Her aunt Millie’s taste had run more to prints of the Brooklyn Bridge than real art.

“Sorry, was that too sarcastic? I’m not used to dealing with the paparazzi the way you are.”

“You’re right,” he said. “This is my mess. I will take care of this.”

“How, exactly?” she asked.

“Leave it to me.”

“Do they know my name?” She pivoted to face him. The morning sunlight streamed through the glass doors behind him, keeping his face in shadow.

Tristan lifted the paper and read the article.

“You haven’t read it yet?” she asked.

“Not all of it.”

“What does the headline say?”

“‘Snagged. Elusive bachelor found in love nest.’”

“Oh, my God.”

“If you’re going to pray, you should at least ask for something.”

“Tristan, I’m going to ask for lightning to strike you.”

“Not a wise course of action,” he said.

“You don’t think so?” she asked, trying to keep the panic she felt rising inside her from her voice.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her into his body. “I don’t. You need me, Sheri Donnelly, and I’m going to get you out of this mess.”

This close to him, it was hard to keep the distance she’d been struggling to maintain since she came down for breakfast.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“What?”

“I took a chance last night… Man, I knew that leaving the reception with you was a bad idea, but I was only thinking about what you might think when you saw me naked.”

Tristan drew back and tipped her head up toward his. “What I might think when you were naked?”

“Yeah, you know, stuff like, ‘she’s a lot flabbier than the women I’m used to….’”

“Ma petite, you were perfection in my arms last night.”

“You don’t have to lay it on that thick, Tristan. I look in the mirror every day and what I see staring back at me isn’t perfection.”

“Your mirror is not the best. Otherwise you’d never leave your flat in the clothes you wear.”

“Um…are you trying to make me feel better?” she asked.

He gave her a quick pat on the backside and stepped away. “I was, smart-ass.”

“So how are we going to deal with this?”

“We are not. I am.”

She shook her head. No way was she going to leave everything to Tristan. Thus far he hadn’t exactly been successful in getting the paparazzi off his own tail. And she wasn’t like him. She couldn’t afford a security detail, or a chauffeur. She took the subway to work and walked seven blocks from the station to her office.

“Tristan—”

“Enough. I said I will deal with it. Trust me.”

Tristan wasn’t surprised by the flash of temper in Sheri’s eyes. But he was surprised that she backed down. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he saw tears gleaming in her pretty brown eyes.

He was angry. At himself for not anticipating that photographers would be bold enough to take advantage of an intimate moment. At Sheri for looking up at him with wounded doe eyes that made him realize he had to fix this. She simply wasn’t as sophisticated as the heiresses and actresses he usually brought to his bed, and laughing off this kind of scandal was beyond her.

And mostly he was mad at the tabloid that had decided to print this picture. He suspected it was because the publisher, Gabrielle Damienne, was an ex-lover of his and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

“Sheri?”

“Yes.”

“Will you trust me?” he asked.

Distantly he heard the doorbell ring, but knew the housekeeper would answer it. He had the feeling that anyone who came to the door today he wasn’t going to want to see.

“I’m not sure.”

Was her trust really important to him? She was more than a one-night stand, she was a woman he cared for, but he wasn’t going to love her. So was trust really that important?

Yes, he thought. He wanted her to say she trusted him to handle this for her. He wanted to demand it. To make her admit that she would rely on him to handle this media mess.

“You seemed sure last night.”

She narrowed her eyes and then tipped her head to the side. “Last night was lust. Surely you knew that.”

He felt the burn of her words and that sickly sweet tone she used. He knew he’d been rushing her out the door until he’d seen the paper. He hadn’t really cared if she’d picked up on that fact earlier. But now, hearing those words come from her lips…he realized he already cared more for Sheri than was prudent.

She was dangerous because she made him feel way more than lust for her sexy little body, which she kept hidden under the ugliest clothing he’d ever seen on a woman.

Today, dressed in his sister Blanche’s blouse and trousers, she looked…almost beautiful. Actually, the only thing detracting from her beauty were those wounded eyes of hers. She was hurting, and a different man, a man who still had a romantic heart, would soothe her.

There was a rap on the door. “Mr. Sabina?”

“Please come in.”

Mrs. Thonnopulus opened the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but Count de Cuaron y Buatista de la Cruz is here to see you.”

Gui. He must have seen the paper this morning. And Tristan was glad to have his friend interrupt this situation with Sheri, which was going from bad to worse.

“Send him in.”

Less than a minute later Gui strode through the door. Wearing jeans and a designer one-of-a-kind shirt, Gui looked relaxed and casual. Not like the aristocrat he was, but more like the second son he also was.

“Ms. Donnelly, Tristan, please pardon my unscheduled visit. But I need a word with you, Tris.”

“About?”

“A sensitive matter,” Gui said.

“Does it involve the photos of us in the newspaper?” Sheri asked, all blunt American.

Tristan wanted to order her from the room so he could have a discussion with Gui without her sarcasm.

“Indeed. So you’ve already seen the papers.”

“Papers?”

“Reuters picked up the photo. It’s in every tabloid I’ve been able to put my hands on this morning,” Gui said.

Sheri started trembling. She turned her back on both men and dropped her head down to her chest. Tristan watched her, knowing she was dealing with the pain and unable to make himself walk across the room and comfort her.

He’d done enough of that this morning. He needed to keep a distance between them.

Gui arched one eyebrow at him and nodded toward Sheri. Tristan shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Gui rolled his eyes and went to Sheri’s side. He wrapped one arm around her shoulder and handed her a snowy-white handkerchief.

And Tristan saw red. It was that simple. He knew he’d just dismissed her, but he couldn’t stand to see Gui touching Sheri. She was his. His.

He was across the room before he realized he was moving. He nudged Gui aside and pulled Sheri into his arms. She put her head on his shoulder and he felt the warmth of her tears sinking through the cotton fabric of his shirt.

A wave of total helplessness swamped him. How was he going to fix this? He’d spent the last eight years since Cecile’s death moving forward, never stopping to answer questions or challenge the paparazzi that followed him and the scandals he wove effortlessly.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her the way he hadn’t held a woman in eight long years. He held her to give comfort. He felt the shackles he’d tried to wrap around his heart shift.

He lifted her face to his, aware that Gui had stepped out to the balcony to afford them some privacy at this moment.

“Ma petite, stop your tears.”

“I… Yes, I will. It’s just, I have no idea how to handle this,” she said, sniffling delicately.

Damn those big doe eyes of hers, he thought. He wiped her cheek with his thumbs, brushed them down her face until the tracks from her tears were completely gone.

Step away, he told himself. Comfort was one thing, but kissing her now would be the kind of mistake he was too smart to make.

He’d started to lower his head, wanting to taste her one last time, and she rose on her tiptoes, eyes closing, and leaning into his body. And he knew that for her sake, so that he didn’t hurt her any more than he already had, he couldn’t kiss her.

So instead he brushed his lips against her forehead and stepped back. He turned away, but not quickly enough to miss the disappointment and hurt on her face.

Sheri had to get out. When Tristan turned his back and walked to the balcony, where she saw Gui waiting, she grabbed her handbag and made a beeline for the door. Enough of staying here. She was clearly not wanted.

And she had experienced more than enough of that in her life. She needed to move. She checked for her hotel-room key and her passport. Both were in her handbag. She also had enough money to pay for a cab.

She wondered if she should take the time to ask the housekeeper to call one for her or just take a chance at flagging one down on the street.

She heard the rumble of Tristan’s and Gui’s voices and knew that hanging around wasn’t going to work for her. She was probably going to cry again, which was a stupid “girl” reaction to the situation, but she was tired. And she’d made love—no she’d had sex—with a man she’d been fantasizing about for too long. And now the entire world would know.

The only silver lining she saw was that Aunt Millie was dead and wouldn’t see the picture.

She walked down the stairs to the ground floor and paused in the kitchen, looking around and remembering how excited she’d been when she’d followed Tristan through this room.

How very much she’d wanted that man.

And he’d wanted her, she thought. At least for one night.

She opened the kitchen door and stepped outside into a perfect February morning. Or at least, perfect on the island of Mykonos. It was a resort town. A place the trendy visited.

She should have felt out of place all week but there had been something very welcoming in Tristan’s group of friends. Ava had made her feel so at ease, but then again the other woman was an American and had somehow recognized the attraction that Sheri felt for Tristan.

“Mademoiselle?”

“Miss?”

“Hey, lady?”

The cries came at her from every corner as a group of photographers moved closer to her. She scrambled backward, reaching for the handle on the kitchen door. She tried to open it but her hands were sweating and she couldn’t get a good grip.

She covered her face with her hands, took a deep breath and then opened her mouth and screamed the way she’d been taught to in self-defense class. A deep-throated loud sound that actually stopped the questions that the photographers were throwing at her in every language imaginable.

Asking her name. What kind of lover Tristan was. Did she think she’d finally snagged the elusive bachelor?

The door opened behind her and she felt Tristan’s arm come around her waist as he drew her back into the kitchen and slammed the door closed.

She glanced up, thinking to thank him, but he looked so angry. So…not in the mood to be teased. She’d had no idea he could ever look that mad.

“What were you thinking? Why would you leave the house without my permission?” he asked.

She backed away from him but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her in place.

“I want answers, Sheri. This isn’t a game. The paparazzi are going to be all over you until this blows over.”

“I needed to get away,” she said.

“From me?”

She nodded. “I…I like you way too much to be your plaything.”

Tristan cursed under his breath, using the few French words she’d become very familiar with since he used them regularly in the office.

“Merde is right. I’m trying to be cool about this whole thing but…I’m not ready to this morning. I’m tired and my body still tingles from the last time we made love, and you were pushing me out the door this morning.”

She tucked a strand of her curly hair behind her ear and looked up at him from under her eyelashes. His expression was unreadable.

“So I was trying to leave,” she said, concluding as quickly as she could.

Tristan turned away from her, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “First of all, I’m not expecting you to be blasé about sleeping with me.”

“Well, that’s good. Because I’m not.”

He started to speak, but she held up her hand. She couldn’t bear to hear him say that she was one of many to him. “I don’t expect you to feel the same.”

He shook his head.

“I can still feel you on my body, ma petite. The remembered feel of your sheath clasping me is making it damned hard for me to let you go.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Maybe you don’t know quite everything.”

She looked down. “I never meant to imply that I did.”

He nodded. “Good. Then stop trying to manage this on your own. We need to deal with this together, or else you’re going to get hurt.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist before realizing what she was doing. The move was a dead giveaway that she felt vulnerable, and Tristan already had seen her with tears in her eyes. She knew him well enough to know that weakness wasn’t something he understood.

He was immune to that flaw. And if he wanted her by his side, wanted them to be a team, she wanted to be worthy of staying with him.

This was the first time a man had come after her and brought her back. The first time a man hadn’t walked away from her, or simply let her walk away.

She knew better than to read too much into it, but she felt her heart beat a little faster.