Читать книгу The Chatsfield Short Romances 1-5 - Эбби Грин, Marguerite Kaye - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Later that evening Nat stood on the small terrace balcony outside her bedroom, taking in the distinctive skyline of London against the dusky clear sky. She still felt jittery after that encounter with the man. Except he wasn’t just a man. She knew who he was now. The stylist had pulled her aside after he’d left and said with huge impressed eyes, ‘How on earth do you know Salim Segal?’

Nat had looked at her, ‘Salim who?’

The stylist’s face had contorted comically into shock, ‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t know who he is? He’s only the most famous man in France right now, the highest paid male model ever, whose debut film is coming out—apparently they’re already talking about a best foreign film Oscar…’

So that’s why he’d believed her to be paparazzi. Nat figured she hadn’t heard of him because she’d been commuting mainly between England and New York. Working in the ephemeral and sometimes flaky fashion world with quite a number of narcissistic people had been a serious adjustment to make for Nat. And while she wasn’t complaining, this work was only a means to an end to funding her own future projects. She found the egos and histrionics a little hard to take and was already becoming known for not tolerating unnecessary dramas.

And now, the thought that the most charismatic man she could ever remember meeting was an integral part of that wheel—that most clichéd of things, a model turned actor—made her feel somehow…crazily disappointed. Everything in her balked at that glitzy, showy, superficial world. He’d seemed more than that. And he was certainly no ingenue.

Learning who he was and that he was at the hotel for press surrounding this film he was in had quashed the flutters in Nat’s belly at the thought that she just might take him up on his offer, even though she’d said no.

And yet now…those flutters were back and she felt a ridiculous sense of urgency. The rest of the crew lived in London as the magazine was based here, and had gone home. Normally this wouldn’t bother Nat, but that feeling of loneliness she’d had earlier surged back, irritating in the extreme. The whole evening stretched ahead of her and it seemed to mock her for her lofty bias against the world she currently inhabited.

A small voice teased her—would it be so bad to indulge in a drink with a stunningly handsome man? Heat sizzled down low when she thought of how dark his eyes were, how they’d felt on her. And her curiosity was piqued in spite of herself. She looked at her watch and saw that it was already 7.15pm. A kind of urgency gripped her again and she told herself that even if she did go down now, he’d surely be gone.

* * *

Salim sat in the dark and decadent Chatsfield bar, his back to the velvet-covered wall out of habit to be able to observe all around him. The decor suited his mood perfectly, which was getting darker and darker as the clock ticked and there was still no sign of her. He’d realised far too late that he didn’t even know her name, only that she was Bruce Jordan’s daughter.

He checked his watch and saw that he’d been sitting there for almost an hour. Disgusted with himself forwaiting for a woman like some cow-eyed youth, Salim threw back the rest of his whiskey and put the glass down. He’d been aware of a lone woman at a nearby table sending him sultry looks and what irked him now was that he wasn’t even interested in checking her out.

He wanted her. The golden-eyed stranger who had relaxed so visibly when he’d handed her camera back, almost as if it were a child. The women who’d moved with supple grace as she’d drawn a young girl out of herself to act the role of a woman beyond her years.

Salim stood up, a sense of disappointment acrid in his gut. He was about to put down money for the drink when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked to the door.

And there she was. Relief mixed with triumph was a heady rush along with a spiking of arousal, sharp and intense. Merde. He hadn’t had it this bad in a long time, if ever.

As if sensing his look from across the bar, her head turned towards him and he couldn’t breathe. Her hair was down, long and wild. Her dress was gold, silk, wrapped around her body showing the curve of her hips and breasts. Those slim legs were bare all the way down to nude high-heels. Her hands clutched a bag.

Salim stood still as he tracked her slightly hesitant walk towards him. She was a complete stranger—but he knew that if he didn’t have her before the night was out, he might die.

* * *

He was still here. Nat refused to acknowledge that the feeling rushing through her was relief. She forced her legs to move and made her way to where he was, in a corner of the bar. He wasn’t moving. Again that preternatural stillness caught at her forcibly. Along with the sheer reality of how gorgeous he was.

When she came close he put out a hand and Nat looked at it. It was big, long fingers. The heat in her lower body sizzled even more. She put out her hand too, but instead of shaking it, he took it and lifted it up and lowered his head.

His face lowered closer and his eyes locked on hers. Nat’s heart was thumping so hard now she felt light-headed. For a long moment he did nothing and it was as if he was sending her some kind of silent subliminal message. And then his mouth brushed the back of her hand, fleeting and yet hot enough to send a shard of pure sensation right to the pulse between her legs. Lord.

He let her go and straightened up, indicating for her to take a seat. ‘Thank you for joining me.’

Nat sat down, aware that her legs were wobbly, and watched him take a seat on the other side of the small, intimate table.

She admitted a little sheepishly, ‘I thought you might be gone.’

His mouth tipped up in a wry smile, ‘I almost was.’

The hint of a smile made him look younger, less brooding. A waiter interrupted them and Nat took a breath, ordering a white wine. As he conversed with the waiter, Nat took him in. He wore a black suit, which even her eye could tell was bespoke as it lovingly hugged powerful muscles. A crisp white shirt emphasised how dark he was.

And then the waiter was gone and he was looking at her again.

She put down her bag, aware she was clutching it like some kind of terrified virgin. A spurt of panic as to what he might think of her capitulation made her say, ‘Look, I’m just here for a drink, ok? I’m not…up for anything else.’

He arched a brow and that smile played around his mouth again. ‘I believe I just asked you for dinner, and as much as I can’t deny that I haven’t thought about taking you to bed…I will respect your boundaries, of course.’

Nat’s face burned. What he said was all at once so blatantly honest and yet courteous. As if he was from another time. He wanted her. The flames licked higher.

‘And,’ he was adding now, ‘As I don’t even know your name, maybe we should start there, hm?’

Nat got the distinct impression that he was no mere model turned actor. She smiled, a part of her relaxing for the first time since she’d walked in. ‘I’m Nat. Nat Jordan.’

‘And I’m Salim Segal.’

The waiter arrived and put down their drinks. When he was gone Salim raised his glass, ‘To meeting you, Nat Jordan.’

She lightly tipped her glass off his. ‘You too.’

Sipping at the cool fresh wine, she put down the glass and had to admit, ‘Someone told me who you were, earlier. After you’d left.’

‘Ah.’

Once again, not the self-involved response of a person in the media glare. It was as if he was waiting for her reaction. Interesting.

Feeling awkward now she said, ‘I believe you have a film coming out? And you’re a model?’

His face seemed to harden as he admitted with clear irritation, ‘I’ve been answering those questions all day in a million different ways. Would you mind if we didn’t talk about it?’

Nat’s mouth opened and shut again. And her eyes must have widened because he drawled, ‘What? You’d heard I was a model and an actor and you expected to find me either gazing at my own reflection or asking you out so I could talk about myself ad nauseum?’

She flushed and lifted her glass to hide behind. When she looked at him again he was staring at her and she had to shrug a little and admit, ‘I wasn’t sure what to expect…but I know what my experience of models has been and they’re usually—’

‘A bunch of vacuous clothes-horses?’

Nat’s mouth twitched. ‘Now that’s not fair, they’re not all like that. For instance our model today, Lenka, she’s studying to be a neuroscientist in Moscow.’

He leaned forward and growled softly, ‘I don’t want to talk about Lenka, or models, or films.’

He sat back and took a sip from his glass. He held it in his hand and something about the delicacy of the glass in his big hand made a light sweat break out all over her skin. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her wrap dress. Aware of how it could gape slightly at the front, showing more than she liked. She resisted the urge to tug it together.

Was it her imagination or was his gaze on her there? Hot.

But then he was asking, ‘Nat…what’s it short for?’

Her name on his tongue made little sparks skate across her skin, raising it to goosebumps. She’d never thought of herself as a particularly sexual person but right now it seemed to be all she could think about. What it would be like to feel his mouth on hers, his tongue…that body pressing her down, spreading her legs to take him-she blurted out before she lost it completely, ‘It’s short for Natalja. My mother was Russian, my parents met when my father was covering elections there.’

‘I heard you talking Russian today.’

Nat felt hot to think of him observing her work. ‘I used to speak it with my mother. My father would be away…for long periods of time.’

He leant forward again. ‘I came across your father’s work when I was twenty, in a gallery in Paris. It was seeing his images that inspired me to join the army. He died not long after I joined, I was sorry to hear of his death.’

Nat struggled to take this in, not liking how her chest got tight to hear him mention her father as a personal influence. It…bound them in a way that made her wish he was just some dizzy model interested only in talking about fashion. And then she thought about what he said. ‘You were in the army?’

He nodded. But just then someone coughed discreetly nearby and Nat looked up, a little dazed, to see the hotel manager, Cavello. He glanced at her with not a little surprise and bowed deferentially towards Salim. ‘Mr Segal, your table is ready in the restaurant, would you like us to hold it, or…?’

Nat looked at Salim. His name conjured up dark exotic things. Like him. He spoke to her, ‘I’d very much like it if you’d accompany me to dinner.’ He smiled, ‘If those boundaries of yours will allow.’

Those treacherous boundaries were disappearing like ice melting into water. She could no more walk away from this man now, than she could stop breathing.

‘Ok, I’d like that.’