Книга - Bought For The Frenchman’s Pleasure

Bought For The Frenchman's Pleasure
ABBY GREEN


As a top model, Sorcha Murphy commands a high price. But a terrible, hidden secret is about to return to haunt her. Romain de Valois knows Sorcha is damaged goods–her hedonistic reputation speaks for itself. But he wants her for one final assignment, and he's prepared to pay.Romain believes Sorcha hasn't changed her ways, and decides to change the deal: her paycheck will be recouped in the bedroom!












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She’s his in the bedroom,

but he can’t buy her love…



Showered with diamonds, draped in exquisite lingerie, whisked around the world in the lap of luxury…



The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality.



Live the dream with more

MISTRESS TO A MILLIONAIRE

titles by your favorite authors.



Available only from Harlequin Presents


.




Abby Green

BOUGHT FOR THE

FRENCHMAN’S PLEASURE












TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND


This is especially for Margaret, Peter, Jack and

Mary B…not family by blood, but my family in

every other conceivable way.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN




All about the author…

Abby Green


ABBY GREEN deferred doing a social anthropology degree to work freelance as an assistant director in the film and TV industry—which is a social study in itself! Since then it’s been early starts, long hours, mucky fields, ugly car parks and wet-weather gear—especially working in Ireland. She has no bona fide qualifications but could probably help negotiate a peace agreement between two warring countries after years of dealing with recalcitrant actors.



After discovering a guide to writing romance one day, she decided to capitalize on her long-time love for Harlequin romances and attempt to follow in the footsteps of such authors as Kate Walker and Penny Jordan. She’s enjoying the excuse to be paid to sit inside, away from the elements. She lives in Dublin and hopes that you will enjoy her stories.



You can e-mail her at abbygreen3@yahoo.co.uk.




CHAPTER ONE


AS ROMAIN DE VALOIS approached the ballroom he was glad for a second that the doors were closed. They acted as a barrier of sorts between him and that world. The thought caught him up short. A barrier? Since when had he ever thought he needed that? His strides grew longer, quicker, as if to shrug off the unaccustomed feeling that assailed him. And the most curious sensation hit him too at that moment…the desire to have someone by his side as he approached this set of doors. Someone…a woman…with her hand in his, who would understand effortlessly what he was thinking, who would glance up at him, a gleam of shared understanding in her eyes. She might even smile a little, squeeze his hand…

His steps faltered for just a second before reaching the door. The vibration of the orchestra, the muted raucous chatter and laughter of the hundreds of people inside was palpable in his chest. What on earth was wrong with him? Daydreaming about a woman when he’d never felt the lack of anything before—much less a partner. And one thing was for sure: no woman existed like that in his world, or even in his imagination until that second. If he wanted a woman like that he’d be better off going back to his small French home town, and he’d left that behind a long time ago—physically, mentally and emotionally. His hand touched the handle of the door, concrete and real, not like the disturbing wispy images in his head. He turned it and opened the door.

The rush of body heat, conversation, the smell of perfume mixed with aftershave was vivid and cloying. And yet there was a slightly awed hush that rippled through the room when he walked in. He barely noticed it any more, and wondered if he would even care if it didn’t happen. His mouth twisted with unmistakable cynicism as his eyes skipped over the looks and the whisperings, seeking out his aunt. The fact was, as head of the fashion world’s most powerful business conglomerate, he practically owned every single person who had anything to do with fashion in this huge glittering ballroom, and even some of those who rode on their coat-tails.

He owned all the dresses and suits so carefully picked out with a mind to current trends. He owned the ridiculously expensive cosmetics that sat on the flawless skin of the women, and the lustrous jewels that adorned their ears, necks and throats. They knew it and he knew it.

The crowd shifted and swayed to let him through, and for the first time in his life he didn’t feel any kind of thrill of anticipation. In fact what he felt was…dissatisfaction.

He was relatively young, wealthier than any other man there, and he knew with no false conceit that he was handsome. Most important of all, he was single. And here in New York that put a bounty on his head. So he was under no illusions as to what he represented to women in a crowd like this. And those women he’d have taken his pick from before seemed now to be too garish, too accessible. Dismayingly, the ease with which he knew he could pick the most beautiful, the most desirable, now made distaste flavour his mouth. A pneumatic blonde dressed in little more than a scrap of lace held together by air bore down on him even now.

Relief flooded him when he saw his aunt, and he crossed to her side. Focusing on her brought his mind back to the reason he was there at all tonight. To check someone out in a professional capacity—a model he was being advised to hire for one of the most lucrative ad campaigns ever. His aunt was the latest to put pressure on him as the woman in question was one of her own models. He knew well that this woman, Sorcha Murphy, would be like every other in this room. And on top of that she had a history that made her, as far as he was concerned, unemployable. Still, though, he worked and operated his business as a democracy and had no time for despotic rule. He had to play the game, show that he had at least come to inspect her for himself before telling them no…

His aunt turned and smiled fondly in acknowledgment as he approached.



‘No.’ Sorcha took in a deep patient breath. ‘It’s pronounced Sorka…’

‘That’s almost as cute as you, honey…and where is it from?’

The man’s beady eyes set deep into his fleshy face swept up and down again with a lasciviousness that made Sorcha snatch her hand back from his far too tight and sweaty grasp. He clearly had no more interest in where she or her name were from than the man in the moon. She managed to say, with some civility and a smile that felt very fake, ‘It’s Gaelic. It means brightness…

It’s been lovely meeting you, but if you wouldn’t mind, I really must—’

‘Sorcha!’

She looked around at her name being called with abject relief. The need to get away from this oily tycoon from Texas was acute and immediate.

‘Kate…’ She couldn’t disguise that relief as she greeted her friend, and gave her a very pointed look.

Sorcha turned back to the man whose eyes were now practically popping out of his head as he saw the luminous blonde beauty join Sorcha’s side. Her best friend merely smiled sweetly at him and led Sorcha away.

‘Boy, am I glad to see you. I think I need a shower after that.’ Sorcha gave a little shiver.

‘I know. He cornered me earlier, and when I saw you with him I knew I had to save you.’

Sorcha smiled at her closest friend in the whole world and gave her a quick, impulsive hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Katie. These evenings are such torture—do you think we could make a run for it?’

Kate’s nose wrinkled in her exquisite face. ‘No such luck. Maud is keeping her eagle eye on us, and has already told me that if we scarper early she’ll make us pay.’

Sorcha groaned, and at that moment caught the eye of the woman in question—Maud Harriday, doyenne of the fashion industry and head of Models Inc, the agency in New York she and Kate worked for. And who was, for want of a better term, their surrogate mother.

She smiled sunnily until Maud’s laser like gaze was distracted by something else, then stifled a huge yawn. They’d both been up since the crack of dawn for work that day, albeit for different catwalk shows.

Kate grabbed a passing waiter and took two glasses of champagne, handing one to Sorcha. She didn’t normally drink the stuff but took it anyway, for appearances’ sake. Maud liked her models to look as though they were enjoying themselves—especially when they were on show right in the middle of the mayhem of New York’s Fashion Week in one of New York’s finest hotels, rubbing shoulders with some of the most important people in media, fashion and politics.

Sorcha smiled and clinked glasses with Kate. ‘Thanks. I always feel like some kind of brood mare at these functions…don’t you?’

Kate was looking around with interest. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Sorch…’ She affected the broad accents of Maud’s famous New York drawl, and repeated her pep talk of earlier. ‘“This is the one time in the year we get to promote the new faces along with the old.”’ She nudged Sorcha playfully and said, sotto voce, ‘At the grand age of twenty-five we’re the old, in case you hadn’t noticed…’ She continued with her strident imitation. ‘“…and we generate business. These are the people who invest in you, the fashion advertisers who pay your bills, so go out there and look gorgeous.”’

Sorcha threw back her head and laughed. ‘She’d kill you if she heard you.’

The contrast of their beauty side by side—one blonde, the other dark—drew many gazes in their direction. They shared an easy intimacy that came from a long friendship that had started when Kate had gone to Sorcha’s boarding school in Ireland, just outside Dublin.

Kate spoke again, bringing Sorcha’s attention back from its wanderings. Her voice was deceptively light. ‘Plenty of gorgeous guys here tonight, Sorch…’

A tightness came into Sorcha’s face. She was recalling a recent heated discussion with her friend, and she had no desire to rake over the same ground now. No desire to go back down memory lane, where a comment like that was inevitably headed.

‘Kate, let’s not get into that again, please.’ The entreaty in her clear blue eyes was explicit. Kate was her best friend—the one person who knew her like no other, who had seen her at her worst. The familiar guilt rose up, the feeling of debt. Even though she knew Kate would never mention it or use it against her. To her relief she saw her friend nod slightly.

‘Ok, you’re off the hook for now. But it’s just…you are one of the most beautiful women I know, inside and out. I just wish—’

Sorcha took Katie’s hand, halting her words. Her voice was husky. ‘Thanks, Katie…but, really, just leave it for now—OK?’



It hadn’t been hard to seek her out in the crowd. From her pictures alone she would have been easy to find, apart from the fact that she stood out effortlessly—a pale foil of beauty next to so much artifice and expensively acquired tan.

He watched the interplay between the two women covertly. He’d heard their laughter before he’d caught sight of her, and had been surprised to find that it had come from his quarry. It had floated across the room and wound its way around his senses. The sparkling smile was still on her face as she talked to her friend. He hated to admit it, but they weren’t like the other models, fawning over the men in the crowd. They looked…like two children in the corner, playing truant. Bizarrely, because he wasn’t given to such whims, it made him want to be a part of it…

She stood out in every possible way, with long wavy jet-black hair falling below her bare shoulders. In a strapless, high-waisted dress, the pale swell of her bosom hinted at a voluptuousness that was not usual for a top model, and her poise and grace screamed years of practice. The bluest of blue eyes were ringed by dark lashes, and he could see from across the room skin so pale he imagined that up close it would look translucent.

That niggle of dissatisfaction was coming back even stronger. Not usually given to any kind of introspection, Romain ruthlessly crushed it. Still watching the woman, he found his interest piqued beyond what he’d expected to be purely a quick professional once-over to confirm his own opinion…and even more so because she wasn’t trying to capture his attention. His mouth compressed. That in itself was unusual.

He’d already decided he didn’t want to use her…especially in light of her past notoriety…but, watching her now, he had to admit that on the face of it she would actually be perfect for what they were looking for. His instincts, honed over many years in the business, told him that in a second. Whether she’d contrived it or not, the smiling, sparkling animation on Sorcha Murphy’s face effortlessly held his regard. Usually within these circles models were always so careful to put on some kind of front that any real expression had long been suppressed—either behaviourally or surgically.

He felt an almost overwhelming impulse to see her up close, and before he could control himself it had generated a throb of desire that wasn’t usually prompted so arbitrarily. It was a response he couldn’t control and which took him by surprise—again. It had been the last thing he’d expected to feel when faced with her.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they? I see that you’ve found her.’

He started at the low, husky voice that came from his right and was a little shocked at how enthralled he’d become. Had he been that obvious? He quickly schooled his face, but the woman beside him wasn’t fooled, and he was thankful that he knew her well—that it was only she who had noticed his momentarily unguarded few seconds. His mouth quirked before he gave her a kiss on both cheeks, and she mock-fluttered her lashes.

‘If I was still capable of blushing, my dear Romain, then I’d be red as a beetroot.’

‘I’m sure,’ he quipped dryly. She was at supreme ease in these gilded surroundings, and he couldn’t imagine this veritable woman of steel blushing for anyone or anything.

‘So…how are you, ma chére tante?’

She patted his cheek with her fan—a trademark eccentric accessory—and smiled affectionately. ‘Very well, thank you. We are honoured to have a man of your calibre here. I’m so glad that for once our work interests have dovetailed so neatly as I never see you any more—although I don’t imagine that the promise of a room full of beautiful women would have been any incentive?’

Romain tutted. ‘First you flatter me, then you show what a low opinion you really have…’

‘Hmm,’ she said dryly. ‘With pictures of you in numerous magazines courting what would appear to be every single model in Europe, I can see why you might want to seek out new pastures.’

He was used to this affectionate, teasing banter, though he would not have tolerated it in a million years from anyone else. He looked absently around the room. His aunt’s words had hit their mark, and he had to curb a defensive desire to tell her exactly how long it had been since he had taken a lover. It didn’t sit well with him to admit that even that area of his life seemed to be suffering.

Yet Sorcha Murphy stayed in his peripheral vision. It unnerved him, forcing him to say lightly, ‘Now, you of all people should know that you can’t believe everything you read in the press.’

‘I don’t know how you keep managing to generate all those billions of yours when you hardly seem to have the time. Always wining and dining—’

‘Maud…’ he said warningly, but in a completely unconscious gesture his eyes flicked away briefly to seek out Sorcha again. His aunt couldn’t fail to notice.

‘Ah, yes…So, what do you think?’

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I’m still not sure…’

Sometimes the older woman was far too shrewd for her own good. And she knew him too well.

She continued blithely, ‘Her blonde companion is Kate Lancaster, an old schoolfriend. She’s also one of the highest paid models working in the US—originally from London via Dublin.’

Romain kept his expression bland with little effort. Years of controlling his emotions, of never allowing anyone to see inside his head came like second nature and dictated his actions. Affecting acute boredom, he ran his eyes over the friend.

The blonde was indeed exquisite—stunning. A sensual invitation of honeyed, lissome beauty. And…Nothing. No reaction. He had to remind himself his goal wasn’t to pursue personal pleasure tonight. Even if catching his first sight of Sorcha Murphy had driven that thought from his mind and body.

He flicked his eyes back to Sorcha and felt his entire insides jolt…again…as though given an electric shock. He shrugged negligently, his hooded eyes hiding his reaction.

His aunt, apparently unaware of his efforts to appear blasé, saw his gaze resting on her. ‘So…does she live up to her portfolio?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less from one of your models, Maud.’

He could feel his aunt preen beside him. She was nothing if not the best in the business for a reason.

‘The question remains, however,’ he drawled lightly, ‘if she’s got what it takes for a gruelling campaign, and whether she has in fact reformed from her wild ways…’ He could sense his aunt bristle, and looked down into her flashing eyes. If he cast aspersions on one of her girls, then he cast aspersions on her.

‘Romain, I won’t tell you again. That was a long time ago. Not everyone is like your—’

‘Maud…’ he said warningly, with more than a hint of steel in his tone this time.

His aunt pursed her lips before saying, somewhat more tentatively, ‘I assure you that I’ve never had a day’s trouble with her. She’s polite, punctual. Photographers and stylists love her.’

‘You forget that I was working in the City in London eight years ago, when the tabloids were full of Sorcha Quinn, enfant terrible…The pictures and headlines are easy to conjure up again. It’s not so long ago, and this campaign…well, it’s sensitive.’

His aunt was beginning to sound exasperated. He knew she’d be coming to the end of her patience any minute now.

‘And as I recall you didn’t hold back your opinion then either, Romain. If she’s survived to be here today under consideration for this job then you at least owe her a fair chance. It’s not as if she came out of all that unscathed. It’s why she changed her name to Murphy—which is how you didn’t recognise her straight away when your board suggested her.’

The uncomfortable prickling assailed him again. He hadn’t recognised her. In fact something in her pictures had reached out and touched him. In a place he’d prefer not to look. Thankfully his aunt was still talking, and it was easy to divert his thoughts.

‘That’s all behind her, Romain. I have a reputation to maintain too, believe me, and if there’d ever been a hint of trouble she’d have been out. I wouldn’t have her on my books otherwise.’

Romain snorted discreetly. No leopard changed its spots so completely. He didn’t doubt that quite a few of his aunt’s models lived in such a way that if they were ever found out they’d be off the Models Inc register so fast their heads would spin. No. Women like Sorcha Murphy would keep their dirty little habits a secret. And if there was one thing he was fanatical about, it was that he never went near women involved with drugs. Professionally or socially. The very thought made his chest constrict with dark memories.

‘I know you, Romain,’ his aunt continued, sounding more confident. ‘If you were seriously concerned about Sorcha Murphy’s reputation you wouldn’t have even considered her for this. Your board of directors obviously have no qualms about her past…’

His aunt had a point. And she didn’t know that it was largely Sorcha’s past and apparent redemption that had made them so keen to use her. For him, things weren’t so straightforward. He stared across the room, finding it hard to tear his gaze away. Something was keeping him looking. Just as it had with her pictures. Some hint of vulnerability? A quality that many models failed abysmally to recreate for the camera. How could someone who looked so pure, so innocent, have been or—as was most likely—still be caught up in such a murky, corrupt world?

Just as he was thinking this, and feeling a surprising feeling of disappointment rushing through his veins, Sorcha Murphy looked across the room, almost as if she could sense the weight of his penetrating gaze. Their eyes locked. Blue and grey. And the world stopped turning.



Sorcha felt as though she’d just received a punch to her gut. And the only coherent thought she had in her head was: How did I not notice him before? There was a niggle of recognition, but she couldn’t place him immediately, and the intensity in his eyes was making it hard to focus…

As though incapable of autonomous movement, her eyes could not move from the stranger’s gaze. The most unusual steely grey, his eyes were cold…full of something…and she couldn’t quite figure what it was. One thing it wasn’t was friendly. She shivered inwardly, and yet still could not look away. Even though it was his eyes that held her as if ensnared in a web, she was also aware of his phenomenally dark good looks, the way he stood head and shoulders above anyone else, making him stand out in the crowd. Kate was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. Everything was distilled to this one moment and the tall dark man with the mesmerising eyes who kept staring, and staring. As bold as brass.

And then, in a split second of clarity, she read what was in his eyes. Condemnation and judgment. A kind of disdain. Blatantly obvious. A look that had once been all too familiar in most people’s eyes—one she hadn’t seen for a long time. A tremble started somewhere in her legs, turning them to jelly, and panic seized her insides. Aghast at the strength of her reaction, with a few strangled muttered words she thrust her glass into Kate’s free hand and walked through the crowd and out of the room, not even sure what she was running from.



‘What on earth happened to you? One minute you were here, and the next you went as white as a ghost and stormed out of the room…’

Sorcha took her glass back from her friend and took a rare big gulp. She’d been in the toilets for the last ten minutes, holding a damp cloth to her skin in an effort to halt the rising tide of a nervous rash that hadn’t appeared in years. She was still so stunned and shocked at her reaction to a mere look from that man across the room that she felt shaky. And in no mood to have her far too perceptive friend speculate on the possible reasons why.

One thing was for sure: with that blistering look she’d been transported back to another time. A time she did not want to remember. But he’d been with Maud. Surely they wouldn’t have been talking about her? She hated the irrational feeling of unease it had given her. It had felt as though he’d been able to see right into the very soul of her…

‘Nothing, Katie. I just had to go to the loo…’

‘For ten minutes?’ Katie snorted. ‘I know you, Sorcha, and—’

Her friend broke off, seeing something behind Sorcha, over her shoulder, and then her hand was gripped so tight that she gasped. ‘Katie!’

‘Don’t look now, but the most divine man is across the room…he’s talking to Maud. He must be this nephew she said was coming tonight.’ A look of comic disbelief made Kate’s jaw drop. ‘My God! I’ve just realised who he is. But of course his pictures don’t even do him justice…He’s looking over here—’

‘Katie…’ Sorcha groaned, hiding her rising panic. It had to be him—the man she had seen across the room.

When Kate said her next words, they didn’t even sink into Sorcha’s head straight away because they were said with such breathy awe.

‘He’s Romain de Valois. Maud’s nephew is Romain de Valois. It all makes sense now. The girls were talking about him backstage earlier. He’s heading up some huge campaign—not to mention he’s even here, and easily the most handsome man in New York…Of course they all think they’re in with a—’

‘Romain de Valois?’ A horrified gasp made its way out of Sorcha’s throat, which seemed to be tightening up. She’d gone horribly pale. Kate was oblivious.

‘Yes…you must have heard of him. Oh, Sorcha, just look. He is seriously the most gorgeous specimen—’

‘Katie.’ Sorcha’s voice was urgent, panicked. ‘Don’t you remember who he is?’

It seemed as though the fates were conspiring to throw her back down memory lane tonight whether she liked it or not.

Her mouth twisted into a bitter line. ‘Please tell me you haven’t forgotten that piece in the paper…the one that was worse than all the rest of them—the one that caused every other paper, every magazine and every photographer in London to turn their backs on me?’

Kate finally tore her gaze away from the man across the room and looked at Sorcha. Her brow creased for a second, and then her face became horrorstruck—about as horror struck as Sorcha felt.

Kate clutched her hand. ‘Oh, God, Sorch…that was him. He gave that interview.’

Sorcha just nodded dumbly. Her insides seemed to be shrivelling up. Even eight years ago Romain de Valois had wielded enough influence to crush a fledgling career. He’d made her the black sheep among models. In a scathing interview he had denounced the use of drugs within the fashion world and had held her up as an example. Enough people had been terrified of losing his favour to seriously damage her reputation. Yet her naïve mistake had been far outweighed by the public scandal and the fallout. She’d been cruelly judged and tried for a crime she hadn’t committed, and no one had been prepared to hear her side of the story. His power had been too great. And who cared about a skinny teenager? Within weeks there was already a new fresh face. A new lamb to the slaughter.

She’d been well aware of his name over the years, as he’d taken more and more control of the fashion industry and been mentioned more often with the kind of breathy awe that Kate had just shown. But Sorcha had always avoided listening in to conversations about him—had avoided reading about him, looking at pictures. It was a primal reflex to avoid anything that might make her remember that time in her life…and so far, despite his being Maud’s nephew, as he was based primarily in Europe their paths hadn’t crossed…

It was only the fact that she’d been able to go home to Ireland and start all over again that had saved her. Slowly but surely, with grit and determination, she’d built herself up again. She’d even taken her grandmother’s maiden surname in an effort to start over, and so far, apart from a few snide comments, she’d managed to build a successful career. At least until today. Even though Maud knew of her past, and with characteristic aplomb had declared that it didn’t matter to her, what mattered was how she behaved now, how could Sorcha fight against the poison she’d no doubt hear from her own nephew? Because that was surely what the topic of conversation had been, why he’d been looking at her like that…

‘I’m so sorry, hon. I didn’t remember…’

Sorcha squeezed Kate’s hand. She knew her palm was clammy. ‘Don’t be silly. How were we to know he’d be the nephew Maud was going on about.’ Sorcha laughed, and it sounded a little hysterical to her ears. ‘After all, she does have about a hundred of them, she’s been married so many times. And Romain de Valois wouldn’t even remember me, I’m sure.’

Kate smiled weakly, but Sorcha couldn’t fail to notice how her gaze gravitated yet again over her shoulder to that man. She looked back to Sorcha almost guiltily. ‘Look, it’s not as if we have to talk to him or anything…’

Sorcha felt a curious compulsion unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and obeyed some rogue impulse to turn and look, to see again the man who had so carelessly judged her along with everyone else all those years ago. She felt herself turning…only to come eyeball to eyeball with that suddenly familiar light grey gaze across the room—a room that seemed to have shrunk in seconds. And he was now positively glowering at her!

Feeling every part of her rebel at the movement, Sorcha tore her eyes away again and looked back to Kate, who was watching her. Her friend whistled softly, arching one delicate blonde brow. She had missed nothing in the intense look.

‘You spotted him before, didn’t you? You didn’t recognise him, but you shared a look just like that…and that’s why you ran…’

Kate’s words hit far too close to home and made Sorcha’s voice uncustomarily sharp—a knee-jerk defence reaction to the riot of feelings and emotions swirling in her breast. ‘Katie, I’ll tell you right now exactly the sort of person he is. He’s a holier-than-thou control freak. A wealthy, empty-headed playboy who turns up at the office only when he’s not cavorting on some yacht somewhere, overloaded with silly dim-witted models who don’t know their own names. He’s lucky we’ve never crossed paths before, as quite frankly I’ve matured enough not to go over there and land him one, or throw my drink in his face for being such a pompous, bigoted—’

‘Well, what’s stopping you now…?’

Sorcha stopped dead. It was only then that she registered Kate’s stunned look, her mouth gaping open inelegantly on an unspoken warning.

The low-pitched, dangerously accented deep voice came from so close behind her that she fancied she felt a hint of warm breath on her back. Too late. She hadn’t even noticed. And now he was here, right behind her. And he had obviously heard every word which seemed to hang suspended accusingly in the air.




CHAPTER TWO


AS ROMAIN spoke he felt righteous anger move through him at her insulting words. But he also felt uncharacteristically at a loss. What on earth had possessed him to cross the room so soon? He couldn’t even remember forming the wish or the desire to come closer…and yet here he was.

Her back faced him, her skin so pale that he doubted she’d ever been in the sun. And it was very lightly freckled. A true Celt.

It made her even more intriguing, added to her allure. An almost blue-black sheen rippled off her hair as she started to turn around, and when she faced him he sucked in a breath. She was, quite simply, ravishing. Almond-shaped blue eyes ringed with indecently long black lashes. Cheekbones so high and well defined that it was a sin that she wasn’t smiling, to make her cheeks full and ripe. And her mouth…Lord, it must have been created by a god of decadence. The lush lower lip was a sensual invitation to touch, feel, slide his tongue across, and on it rested a top lip that was endearing with its slight overbite—an exquisite anomaly in a perfect face, a cupid’s bow of tempting irregularity.

Her breathing was rapid, her widening eyes over-bright, the pupils dilated, and her skin flushed under his look. Something hard settled in his chest. He’d been right. He fought a silent battle with himself. Hadn’t he just witnessed her little ten-minute trip to the powder room? Where he knew damn well that she and plenty of others like her would have been indulging in snorting a mood-enhancer…the most common kind on this circuit. She hadn’t reformed.

He wanted to walk away, wanted to turn around and forget he’d ever seen her. But he also—perversely—never, ever wanted to let her out of his sight again. And he hated himself for it. And he hated her for attracting him so effortlessly. Yet he knew he was being irrational. And that fired him up even more.



‘Yes…?’

Somehow she managed to articulate a word that sounded English, that made sense. Because one thing Sorcha knew for sure was nothing else made sense any more. Every preconceived notion about this man had fled. He was just a man, a devastatingly attractive man, holding her in some kind of wickedly sensual spell.

Tall, dark and handsome. He was a walking cliché. But no banal description could do justice to the way his hair shone almost black under the glittering lights. The way his hooded eyes hinted at a dangerous sensuality that was so palpable she felt faint. The way his skin shone and glowed with undeniable rude good health, so darkly olive that she fancied he must surely come from the Far East, despite being French. She was tall—almost five foot eleven—but she had to tip her face up to his. She was barely grazing his shoulder in heels.

The bespoke designer suit did little to hide the raw untamed sexuality of the man. Sorcha, from her experience of working with some of the best bodies in the business, knew a good physique when she saw it. His was…perfect. And she’d bet money that it wasn’t honed in a gym. This man gave off an air of restless energy that spoke to her, called out to her. As a lover of the outdoors herself, she knew that he would only be content with pushing himself to the max, in the rawest of environments.

What had happened to her? Why couldn’t she seem to move? She was vaguely aware that Kate had melted away seconds ago. And he was still looking at her as though he wanted to throttle her! For long moments they stared at each other in silent and heated communication. Finally Sorcha spoke again, more impatiently this time. Who did he think he was to come over and glower at her? She refused to give him the satisfaction of recognition.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

Romain had to focus. Her voice was husky, the accent refreshingly unjarring…melodious…. Clarity rushed back with force when a hapless waiter dropped a glass nearby, shocking him out of his stupor, making her flinch. And then he remembered. And that hardness took hold again.

Say hello, exchange a few words and get out of there—after all, hadn’t he come here tonight to meet her? He might have decided to dismiss the notion of using her for the job, but a few words couldn’t hurt…

He held out a hand. ‘Romain de Valois. I don’t believe we’ve actually met before…despite that flawless character reference.’

Finally some life force returned. She ignored his hand and said, with sweet acidity, ‘Nearly as flawless as the one you gave me eight years ago?’

He dropped his hand and looked down at her, cool and unperturbed by her rudeness. ‘So you do remember? I wasn’t sure if your acerbic comments just now were due to intense dislike on first sight, or if you were referring to that.’

She couldn’t hide the bitterness. ‘Of course I remember, Monsieur de Valois. It’s not every day the press chases a seventeen-year-old out of London, calling for her blood—a press that was spurred on by your comments. All you lacked was a pulpit…’ Her chest rose and fell and she couldn’t disguise her agitation. She could feel her skin heating up under his look.

‘Do you forget that you were a seventeen-year-old drug addict?’ he said with harsh inflection. ‘Photographed unconscious on the street?’

A pain so sharp that it caused her to stop breathing for a second made Sorcha want to curl inwards. Guilt, shame, and an old, old fear all vied for supremacy. With what felt like a superhuman effort she found some hard brittle shell left. She tossed her hair with studied indifference, and was too wound up to notice the tiny flash in the cool grey gaze.

Her voice was scathing. ‘If you’ve got nothing more to do than come over here like some kind of outdated moral judge and check for track marks on my arms, then please excuse me—’ She turned to go, and was taking a step away when her wrist was caught in a strong grip. His touch seared through her whole body like a brand. He slowly and very calmly turned her palm upwards, and made a thorough study up and down the underside of her milky white arm.

‘No,’ he said musingly. ‘No track marks. But then I’m sure you’re an intelligent woman. You’d have them well hidden.’

Sorcha finally yanked her arm free and hugged it close to her chest, as though he had burnt her. Her voice was shaking with emotion, and to her utter horror she could feel the sting of tears at the back of her eyelids. ‘Mr de Valois, if you would please excuse me? I am here in a work capacity tonight for your aunt. I don’t want to cause a scene, but trust me when I say that if you try to stop me leaving again I will scream this room down.’

‘There’s no need for such dramatics Miss Murphy—or should I say Quinn? And if you did anything of the sort I’d put you over my shoulder and carry you out like a child having a tantrum.’

Sorcha gulped, her bravado in short supply all of a sudden. She didn’t doubt his words for a second, and the thought of him throwing her over his impossibly broad shoulder…She could feel the heat flare up from her stomach.

She furiously willed a body which seemed to have been invaded by an alien force to obey her silent command to stop reacting to his presence, and gritted out, ‘It’s Murphy to you. If all you want is to see the tabloid fodder you chewed up and spat out, then have a good look.’

‘Oh, I am,’ he drawled, and Sorcha mentally castigated herself for her careless words.

She didn’t want this man’s attention on her…any part of her.

‘You’ve certainly grown up…and filled out.’

She sucked in a breath, unaware that her innocent movement caused his eyes to be drawn back to those parts of her body where they had rested briefly in an eloquent accompaniment to his words.

‘I was just a teenager—’

‘No teenager I knew stayed out till six a.m. every morning, drinking champagne all night, taking cocktails of various drugs to stay awake—’

He glanced pointedly at the glass in her hand. Her knuckles were white on the stem because she gripped it so tightly. Following his glance, and feeling suddenly reckless and rebellious, she tipped the glass to him in a salute. ‘Well, I must say it’s nice to meet the man who once called me the poison seeping into the industry…Here’s to you, Mr de Valois. I wish you luck on your crusade to rid the world of imperfect people!’

And with that Sorcha downed the half empty glass in one go. Very carefully she put it down on a nearby table. And while she still could, feeling sick from the immediate rush of a drink she didn’t usually favour, she spun on impossibly high heels and strode away from him, the silk of her long dress billowing out behind her.

More than a few men turned to look as she passed, and Romain couldn’t fail to notice, the very strange and proprietorial surge of…something very disturbing. He felt a little shell shocked. He could still see the white expanse of her delicate throat, bared as she had downed the sparkling drink. Her eyes had flashed before putting the glass down.

No woman had ever walked away from him like that, or showed such blatant disrespect. Yet, much to his utter confusion, he found himself thinking that his decision to veto her for the campaign suddenly seemed a little too hasty. Watching her walk away had filled him with the almost overwhelming urge to grab her back, strike more sparks, keep her talking.

He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected her to be hard, with that smooth shell most models had, yet her vulnerability had hit him straight between the eyes. And he’d been surprised that she’d remembered his comments from eight years previously. His jaw hardened. Despite his aunt’s words, and Sorcha Murphy’s apparent vulnerability, he’d be more than surprised to find that she had given up her old habits.

To be brutally honest, he’d expected that once she’d known who he was she’d morph into exactly the type of woman he’d become immune to. Sycophantic, posturing…But she hadn’t. She’d been filled with fire and passion underneath that pale, pale skin. An intoxicating package.

For some men, he told himself angrily, and finally turned away from the image of her slender back walking away from him.



‘Well, he can take his job and—’

‘Sorcha!’ Maud’s husky smoke-ravaged voice rang out like the crack of a whip.

It stopped Sorcha in her tracks—literally. She was pacing back and forth in Maud’s palatial office that looked out over busy New York streets. Ever since Maud had called her in to tell her that Romain de Valois wanted her for his campaign, she’d been feeling jittery and panicky.

She sat down. ‘Sorry, Maud, I know he’s your nephew—’

‘Technically, he’s my ex-nephew.’ The older woman waved a hand. ‘That doesn’t matter anyway. Nepotism didn’t get him where he is now; that was through sheer hard graft and ingenuity.’ Her face softened with unmistakable affection. ‘Can you believe even I have to answer to him?’ She ignored Sorcha’s dark scowl, austerity marking her features again. ‘The fact is, this is probably one of the most prestigious jobs you could ever be offered—two weeks jet-setting around the world. Do you know how many models were considered? It’s so important to him that he’s overseeing the whole shoot personally. He’s even willing to kick off in Ireland to accommodate your holiday plans—a condition I insisted on.’

The thought of even a day with that man glowering down his nose at her, checking up on her every two minutes, caused very contradictory feelings in Sorcha’s head…and body. Since that night almost a week ago she hadn’t been able to get his dark face and tall, impressive body out of her mind. And she hated it. He was her nemesis—the embodiment of every misunderstanding she had suffered all those years ago.

‘Maud…can’t you see how difficult this would be? He’s not just anyone. He’s—’

‘I’m well aware of the things he said in London that time. But you have to admit, innocent or not, if you hadn’t been caught like that then he wouldn’t have had any reason to say anything. His hand was forced by his board. He didn’t have the complete control he enjoys now. They couldn’t be seen to be taking an easy line on models doing drugs…not when that girl had died so soon before…’

Sorcha felt cold all of a sudden. She was barely able to take in Maud’s words, her mind seizing on the girl that she’d mentioned. She had been a young model on the brink of stardom who’d overdosed and died only weeks before Sorcha’s own chain of events had unfolded. It always made her feel sick, and impotent with anger and guilt. It was one of the reasons she’d finally followed her heart in the past year and tried to do something about those past events—something concrete…

Maud stood up and came round to perch one hip on her desk. She looked at Sorcha from over her spectacles. ‘I’ll tell you something else that no one knows…’ She sighed. ‘It might help you understand…’

Sorcha looked at Maud curiously.

‘His own mother was a drug addict. She died of an overdose. So, you see, he has a very personal abhorrence of drugs.’

Sorcha felt a dart of sympathy. But then she remembered the condemnation in his eyes and forced her mind to clear the images she always worked so hard to avoid. She said, somewhat stiltedly, ‘Well, his own personal issues aside, I’m sorry for him—but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour. When he spoke to me the other night it was obvious he still believes that I’m involved in something. He’s not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m sorry, Maud, but I’m taking my few months out. You know I’ve been promising this to myself for the past year.’

Her eyes beseeched her agency boss. Maud looked fierce for a second, and then shrugged. ‘I think you’re mad, Sorcha. I’ll let him know, but I warn you—once he’s decided on something he’s not one to give up easily. He may even try to go through your Irish agency, knowing that you’re headed back there. His board of management are adamant about using you…’

Sorcha shot to her feet. ‘See! He’s been forced into this against his will. He won’t push it if I refuse. Please, just tell him and see for yourself. He’ll walk away without a backward glance.’



Sorcha closed her eyes and gripped the handrest as the plane took off. She hated take-offs. She always imagined the bottom of the plane scraping along the ground at the last moment, and then there was that wobbly bit as it fought for equilibrium in the air—

‘Are you all right, dear?’

She opened her eyes and looked at the kind, elderly woman on her right. She smiled weakly, but she could feel the sweat on her brow and knew she must be pale from the concerned look the woman was giving her.

‘Fine. Sorry—I just hate taking off. No matter how often I fly, it doesn’t get better.’

‘Ah, well, sure it’s only a short enough flight. We’ll be home in no time.’

Sorcha smiled and turned back to look out of the window. Home. Ireland. She’d only been back intermittently between jobs in the past year, to work on her project whenever she had the chance, and she’d missed it—missed her apartment. The home she shared with Kate in New York was Kate’s. But her place in Dublin was hers. Bought and paid for with her own hard-earned money.

The plane was stabilising at last, so Sorcha’s hands eased their death grip and she sat back and closed her eyes. It had been ten days since the night of the function in New York, and she hadn’t stopped working since then. Every day had been packed to the brim. Even so that man—his voice, his face, his air of intense, focused energy—would slip into her consciousness and take up residence.

Just thinking about him made her heart speed up, her breath quicken. And made a whole host of other sensations race through her body. She hated that she could be having this kind of reaction to someone who had so carelessly played God with her life, her career. She forced herself to relax. Hadn’t she walked away from him? Yet the look in his eyes when she’d left him standing there that night had been so intense…Maud hadn’t had to warn her. She was sure that he was a man who would be single-minded in his pursuit of anything…or anyone.

Since leaving Maud’s office, only three days before, she’d half expected him to turn up at any moment and demand that she do the job—which she couldn’t believe she’d even been considered for, if it was half as amazing as Maud had outlined. There were plenty more models who were far more ambitious, who always got the big campaigns. So why had not seeing him, not hearing anything, led her to feel like a cat on a hot tin roof? Why had she found herself jumping every time the phone rang, only to be in some tiny and very treacherous way disappointed when it had just been Katie or her brother?

She’d met the man for mere moments, and he had proved himself to be every bit as arrogant, judgmental and overbearing as she would have expected. Why did it have to be someone like him who seemed to be cracking through the armour she’d erected around herself for so long? Why couldn’t someone else be making her heart quicken, her breath shorten just thinking of them? Someone nice, unassuming, non-threatening. Someone who would be gentle, kind, sensitive. Certainly not tall, powerful, dark and mysterious…arrogant, overbearing, too confident, too sexual—

‘So, dear, were you on holiday in America?’

Sorcha nearly jumped out of her skin—she’d been so intent on listing Romain de Valois’s negative attributes to herself.

She shook her head, as much to herself as anyone else, and smiled.

‘No…unfortunately not. I’ve been working…’

With some kind of cowardly relief, she allowed herself to be sucked into inane conversation. Anything to stop dangerous thoughts and images circulating in her head. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to meet him again anyway…



Sorcha’s mobile was ringing as soon as she arrived at her apartment. She dumped her suitcase and fished it out of her handbag. No number was listed on the screen, but she figured it was because it was either Katie, her mother or her over-protective big brother, checking in to see if she’d landed in one piece, and they were all abroad. She smiled as she answered.

‘OK, whichever one of you it is. I’m fine, I’ve just landed, and the plane didn’t crash—although at one stage I seriously thought—’

‘Hello, Sorcha.’

Words froze on her lips. Her mouth stayed open. Her throat dried. That voice. His voice. Deep, authoritative, sensual. Disturbingly close. Her hand gripped the phone tight.

‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

A soft chuckle made her insides quiver. ‘You’re pretending to have forgotten me already?’

The conceited arrogance of the man! She knew very well who it was, and hated that he could be here, in her space, even if just on the end of a tenuous connection. She felt guilty—as though she’d conjured him up with her imaginings. She would not give him the satisfaction of letting him know that she knew it was him. Even though she burned to know what he wanted.

As if reading her every thought, he spoke with low, seductive deadliness. ‘I got your number from Maud, who informed me of your plans to go home. I know you’ve probably just arrived, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as possible.’

Sorcha closed her eyes for a second, knowing it would be futile to pretend ignorance of the power he had. The man was so confidently arrogant that he hadn’t even given her time to play dumb.

‘Yes, I am back in Dublin now. Thousands of miles from New York. I’m taking a well-earned break—’

‘I’ve got a job proposal to discuss with you.’

Sorcha’s mouth opened and closed, a whole host of conflicting emotions see—sawing through her at the realisation that he was determined to pursue her for this job. But it would be untenable, unthinkable—surely he could see that?

‘I’m afraid I’m not doing any jobs for the foreseeable future. I’ve been working back to back for the past year—not that it’s any business of yours—and now I’m taking time off. As I told Maud before I left, I’m sure you’ll find another model who can do whatever it is you have in mind. Thanks for the call, though. Goodbye.’

She was in the act of taking the phone away from her ear, about to switch it off, when she heard a silky,

‘Wait. You might want to hear what I have to say about the job.’

Reluctantly she brought the phone back to her ear. ‘I’ve already explained—’

‘I’m here in Dublin too, actually. I arrived yesterday. Charming city.’

Sorcha nearly dropped the phone in shock, her hand suddenly sweaty. He was here? In Dublin?

Feeling very agitated, she walked over to her fourth-floor window and looked down to the street outside—almost as if he might be standing there looking up at her. But the road surrounding her side of Merrion Square was empty, the inner-city rush hour traffic having been and gone. Her heart was pumping erratically.

Trying not to sound panicked, she said lightly, ‘That’s great. Enjoy your visit, Monsieur de Valois. There are plenty of very good modelling agencies—’

‘I had a lovely meeting this afternoon with your Irish agent Lisa. Very accommodating. I’ve given her the brief for the job, and she agrees with me that you’re perfect for what we’re looking for.’

Sorcha closed her eyes again and sank into the couch just behind her, under the window. This was exactly what Maud had warned her he might do. It was what she’d been hoping to avoid—at least until she’d booked herself some secluded time away. She hadn’t told her Irish agent that she was coming home, knowing full well that she’d have her booked to within an inch of her life before she’d even stepped off the plane. Sorcha was one of their biggest success stories and exports, and Lisa was the agent who had spotted her in the first place. She always felt duty-bound to do as much work for her as she could whenever she came home…as some sort of payback for having defected to the States.

‘So, Lisa knows I’m home…’ she said dully—as if she even needed to ask.

‘She does.’

He sounded so smug that Sorcha sat forward on her couch, anger surging through her veins at the thought that this man, in his stubborn pursuit of whatever it was he wanted, had scuppered her plans for rest and relaxation—not to mention the time she’d put aside to work on the important project that was so dear to her heart. ‘Why are you doing this? You can’t seriously mean to work with me. You’ve made your opinion abundantly clear, Monsieur de Valois, and I won’t have you watching my every move. Just because you can’t handle someone turning you down—’

‘Careful, Sorcha.’ His voice for the first time sounded hard and lethal.

She stopped despite herself.

‘All I’m suggesting is that you meet with Lisa tomorrow. She will tell you what I’m proposing. The decision as to whether or not you want to meet me to discuss the job further will be entirely up to you. No one will force you to do this.’




CHAPTER THREE


NO-ONEwill force you to do this…

They wouldn’t have to, Sorcha thought grimly as she walked the short journey from her agent’s office to Romain’s exclusive hotel the following day. Lisa had told her where he’d be for their ‘meeting’. She had to hand it to him. He must have walked into the small Irish modelling agency and laughed out loud. It would have been like taking candy from a baby.

She could picture it now: the industry’s most powerful head—a person who held the kind of authority that would make anyone dizzy, a man responsible for countless designers and their merchandise and advertising, not to mention his high profile as one of the world’s most eligible and handsome men—walked into a tiny basement agency, offered them a deal for one of their models that was in excess of six figures…Well, you wouldn’t have to be a rocket scientist to do the maths.

When Sorcha had walked in that morning the place had been buzzing, the excitement palpable. Pretty Woman was not one of the most successful agencies in Dublin, but it was friendly, the girls were lovely, and Lisa had become a good friend to Sorcha. When her career had started to take off in Dublin, and then London, Sorcha had refused to leave Lisa’s representation, despite being told it could sabotage her career. And then when the tide had turned against her Lisa had remained loyal in the face of scathing public opinion. Her debt to Lisa was much the same as her one to Katie. Never mentioned, never referred to, but there.

Sorcha was well aware that Pretty Woman wasn’t doing as well as other agencies. In fact the last time she’d been home Lisa had confided to her that if not for Sorcha the agency might have to close down. So now what was she supposed to do? Romain de Valois had just offered them a massively lucrative job—Lisa had even mentioned that they were hoping to expand their offices on the back of it! The proviso, of course, was that Sorcha had to be the model. Romain had told Lisa that he would not under any circumstances even entertain looking at anyone else.

Seething silently, she made her way through the pedestrian crush on the streets. The air was mild, and blue skies made Dublin look its best, but she barely noticed. Romain de Valois had painted her into a corner and thrown away the brush.

She crossed a busy road and the huge hotel loomed magnificent and ornate just opposite, gleaming in the sunshine. It stood overlooking the main city park, which bloomed with colour. Everything fled her mind as she approached closer and closer. And again she remonstrated with herself. How could such a brief meeting in one night have made such an impact? Why had he pushed her buttons so easily? She didn’t want to know, she told herself hastily. And now he was here…controlling her life like a puppet master.

She let the indignation rise. Anything to help block out the far more conflicting feelings—like one in particular, which felt suspiciously and awfully like excitement at the thought of seeing him again.



Romain sat in a high-backed chair at the rear of the main reception room in the recently refurbished Shelbourne Hotel. With his elbows on the armrests, he rested his chin on steepled fingers. He’d positioned himself in such a way that he would see Sorcha arrive before she saw him.

A necessary precaution, as he was suddenly questioning his very sanity. After that night something compelling had taken him over. When further pushed by Maud, who’d assured him of Sorcha’s professionalism again, and then by his board it had seemed almost easy to give in, to allow himself to be swayed. And now he couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d flown halfway across the world to chase a woman. His mouth compressed. He might try to dress it up, call it something else, pretend to himself that his main motive was to get her for this very genuine ad campaign—which he still couldn’t believe she’d had the temerity to turn down—but the reality, as he knew well, was that she was the first woman who’d walked away from him.

His mouth twisted. Yet if he could make sure that she behaved, make sure she stayed clean, then perhaps…this could work. After all, he would be on hand every step of the way to ensure things went the way he wanted. He didn’t usually consider mixing business with pleasure, but now…He was at a stage in his career where his absolute control meant he could do as he pleased…he was beholden to none. Maybe for once he could relax that rigid control a little. The thought of taming Sorcha Murphy was making that sense of dissatisfaction a distant memory.

And then in an instant she was there. That jolt went through his body again, taking him by surprise. His eyes ran over her hungrily, as if inspecting a thoroughbred. From the tip of her shiny black hair, tied back into a low ponytail, to the plain white shirt and casual jacket over worn jeans, all the way to the scuffed runners on her feet. She’d made no effort to impress him—the staid black frames of the sensible glasses perched on her nose said that—and yet her beauty was ethereal and intoxicatingly earthy, just as he had remembered. Unlike other models, who sometimes looked strange in real life, their proportions working for the camera but weirdly not in the flesh, Sorcha looked as good off the page, if not even better, and that was rare. A frisson of excitement ran through him as he saw the concierge point in his direction and their eyes met.

Let the battle commence.



As Sorcha approached Romain, she felt as self conscious as she had her first day on a catwalk. She had that same unsettling reaction she’d had in New York. All of her antipathy, all of her preconceived notions fled as she walked towards him—and then he compounded it by standing with lithe grace. Even taller, broader, more powerful than she remembered. Darker…That hint of Far Eastern lineage struck her again. She reached him, he held out a hand. This time, still in shock to think that he could be here, Sorcha let her hand be taken by his. It was firm, cool. His fingers closed around hers and she felt a crazy pulse throb fleetingly and disturbingly between her legs.

‘Sorcha.’ He indicated a seat opposite and didn’t let go of her hand until she sat down. When she finally got it back it was tingling.

She wished for some sanity for reality to come back into her head, which felt woozy. She was determined not to be staying for longer than a few minutes at the most, and perched uncomfortably on the edge of her chair. All previous thoughts of Pretty Woman and Lisa fled in proximity to this man.

‘Mr de Valois—’

‘I didn’t know you wore glasses.’

Sorcha’s mouth stayed open. She felt nonplussed until she put up a hand and felt the familiar frames on her nose. She’d been so preoccupied that she hadn’t even noticed that she’d forgotten to take them off. Even though her eyes weren’t so bad that she needed them right now, she suddenly wanted to keep them on.

‘Well, I’m sorry if they’re putting you off, Mr de Valois. I’m afraid, along with my other failings, I’m also slightly long-sighted.’

He tutted and lifted a hand to call for service, before fixing her with that steely gaze again. ‘Not at all. They suit you. And please don’t put yourself down—’

‘Why? Because you’ll do that for me?’

For a second there was no reaction, and then a huge smile lit his harshly handsome face, making him look years younger and so gorgeous that Sorcha felt welded to her chair. Wasn’t she supposed to be walking out by now? He looked ridiculously exotic against the backdrop of the opulent Dublin hotel, surrounded by the more pale, Celtic-skinned customers. His accent was pronounced, heightening that sense of his otherness in this place.

‘As sparky as I remember…that’s good.’

Sorcha felt like grinding her teeth. ‘I’m not trying to be sparky, Mr de Valois. I’m here to tell you that I’m not interested in your job.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Let’s order some tea, yes? I believe it is something of a national delicacy…and then we will have lunch.’

‘You’re not listening to me, Mr de Valois—’

‘No,’ he said with silken deadliness. ‘You are not listening to me. And please call me Romain—after all, we will be working closely together for the next few weeks, and I hate to stand on ceremony…’

Sorcha just looked at him and shook her head. The smooth conceit and downright arrogance of the man was unbelievable.

‘Mr de Valois, unless you plan on tying me to this chair there is nothing to stop me standing up and walking out of here. I’ve told Maud and now you that I’m not interested in the job. I’m due to take some holiday—’

She had to stop when a waitress came and delivered the tea. Sorcha couldn’t even remember the order having been taken. She watched, disgusted, at the way the pretty young blonde girl blushed a deep shade of crimson when Romain smiled at her and said thank you. The poor girl practically fell over a chair as she left, her eyes glued to what was probably the most stupendously handsome man she’d ever seen in her young life. Romain de Valois, of course, had already forgotten her, and was focusing those long-lashed grey eyes back on Sorcha, with an intensity that threatened to scramble her brains all over again.

Romain was glad of the short distraction of the waitress, because the shaft of pure arousal that had gone straight to his groin when Sorcha had mentioned being tied to the chair had thrown up other images…much more explicit…of her being tied to a bed…He fought to regain some composure, to remember what she had said.

‘Which is why we are going to start the campaign here.’ He held out a cup of tea, ‘Tell me, did you also mention to Lisa that you were not going to take the job?’

The sickening knowledge of how neatly he’d manipulated events brought her some much needed focus back—even though she knew with a sinking feeling in her belly that it would be futile to keep insisting that she wouldn’t do the job. She also had to accept the cup he was offering her, or risk causing a scene. She saw a glint of triumph light his eyes, as if he could read her thoughts. He was getting under her skin in a prickly heat kind of way that made her very nervous. It made her voice clipped, arctic. ‘In light of past…events—namely your very public condemnation of me—’ She stopped as she realised she’d been about to say at a very painful time in my life. She knew that she didn’t want him to see that vulnerable side of her, so she faltered for a second, her skin heating up. ‘I find it hard to see why you want me to do this campaign so badly.’

Romain studied her. She looked about ready to spring off the chair and bolt. And right at that moment all he wanted to do was get up, throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to his suite, loosen her hair, take off her glasses, uncover her body inch by inch, see if those soft swells that he could just glimpse under her shirt were really as voluptuous as they looked…He sat back.

He was not a Neanderthal. He was sophisticated and urbane. This woman might be appealing to the most basic level of his carnal urges, but it was probably because he hadn’t had a woman in a while and she was refreshingly different from the cool blondes he usually favoured. He sipped his tea and carefully placed the cup back onto the saucer.

‘The fact is, I had decided that we could do without you on this campaign, and was prepared to tell my board so—’

‘See?’ The relief was evident in Sorcha’s voice, in the way her face cleared, and she put down her cup and half rose from her chair. ‘That’s fine with me. Thanks for the tea—’

‘Sit down.’

Sorcha responded to the very explicit threat in his voice, sitting down again before she’d even realised what she was doing. The memory of him threatening to throw her over his shoulder was all too recent. And, as unmistakably urbane as this man was, there was an air of danger about him, a disregard for convention, the niceties.

‘But after seeing you in the flesh…’

When he said that his words were loaded with a sensual meaning that was not lost on her. Sorcha’s head went so fuzzy for a second that she missed his next immediate words.

‘You would be perfect for the job. The only suitable model, in fact.’

She shook her head, trying to clear it, and took her glasses off for a moment to pinch the bridge of her nose in an endearingly personal reflex, something she only ever did when under pressure or stressed.

‘Monsieur de Valois—’

‘Romain, please.’ He smiled, and it was the smile of a shark.

Sorcha gave in. Perhaps this was the way to reach him. She put her glasses back on and said in her most businesslike voice, ‘Very well—Romain.’ She ignored the way saying his name made a funny flutter start in her chest. ‘I’m sure your board can be persuaded to take on another model to fit their visual concepts. There has to be a million other women out there with my colouring.’ She laughed and it sounded strained. ‘I mean, all you have to do is step outside this hotel and you’ll find hundreds.’

Romain’s mouth quirked. She really had no idea how stunning she was. Was she fishing for compliments? But the look on her face was so earnest it made something in his chest tighten.

He shook his head brusquely. ‘Not as many as you would think. And none with your unique…past.’

She bristled immediately. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s inspired the whole concept of this campaign. This is no ordinary shoot, Sorcha. Only at its most basic level is it to be a showcase for numerous luxury goods, the season’s finest offerings. With the way society is going—the fascination between people and media, the cult of celebrity…you represent someone who was torn down—’

‘Thanks to you,’ she said bitterly, picking up her cup again with a jerky movement. But Romain ignored her comment, continuing as if he hadn’t heard her.

‘…and built herself up again. You’ve shown a tenacity of spirit, if you will. A grit and determination to succeed at all costs. You represent redemption. You’ve weathered a storm and come out the other side. People nowadays won’t buy the image of the virginal prom queen—they resonate more with a fallible person. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, take my board’s and my aunt’s word that you are reliable. But trust me, Sorcha, if there’s a hint of any kind of scandal or drugs I won’t hesitate to drop you, and you won’t receive a penny. However, as long as I see no evidence of anything…’ He spread his hands and shrugged eloquently.

His words made Sorcha reel slightly. She hadn’t had her past raked up so comprehensively in years. Or reduced to such succinct devastation. The cup she held in her hand shook slightly, and she put it down with a clatter. She felt as if a layer of skin had been stripped off. ‘Well, I’m delighted that someone has seen fit to take the scrap metal of my life and see it fashioned into something that can benefit the greater good of the advertising industry.’

Romain uncharacteristically felt at a loss for words—as if he had somehow made an error of judgment. Sorcha was expressionless. Cold and aloof. Without even knowing how, he knew that he’d hurt her—and that knowledge threw him. As it had when he’d seen that vulnerability up close. The hard sheen he’d expected to find hadn’t been there. And the vulnerability was there again now—just under the surface.

With what felt uncomfortably like relief, he saw the head waiter from the restaurant approach. He stood and gestured with a hand. ‘I’ve booked us a table for lunch. Why don’t we continue this discussion over some food?’

It wasn’t a question, and Sorcha felt too shell shocked to argue. Mute, she preceded him out of the reception room and into the restaurant, where gold-coloured banquette seats made their table into a gilded prison of privacy.




CHAPTER FOUR


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.’





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