A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин
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have a week off. You’ll be picked up from your apartment here in Dublin in a week’s time—ten a.m. I’ll send you over the schedule for the shoot.’
She nodded jerkily, finally retrieved her hand, and backed away through the door. For some bizarre reason she couldn’t break her gaze from his until the last moment. Then thankfully the door opened behind her, and she slipped through and was gone.
ROMAIN watched her go through the swinging doors, catching fleeting glimpses as they swung back and forth. A whole host of conflicting emotions and desires were battling under the surface of his cool grey gaze. He was watching her walk away for the second time.
He vowed at that moment that he would never watch her walk away again. An image crashed into his head of her lying underneath him, her sable hair spread out on a pillow, cheeks pink with arousal and passion. She was looking up, her blue eyes darkened, slumberous, and she was slowly bringing his head back down to hers, where their mouths…His whole body seemed to be igniting from the inside even as he tried to quash the picture. But its eroticism lingered. He wanted her badly. Past or no past; job or no job.
He shrugged mentally. So what if she was the first woman he’d take to bed who didn’t like him, or profess to love him? For him that was the kiss of death to any relationship. He was a man who didn’t deal in emotions like like or love. Their mutual antipathy could be transformed into passion. Of that he was sure. It would add an edge that was sorely lacking in his life.
He felt ruthless, almost cruel for making her do this. Then wondered broodingly if it was all an act. That effortless display of vulnerability. The hurt in her eyes when he had speculated on her motives for being involved with the outreach centre. The confusion that had assailed him when she had laughed off the suggestion that he could possibly believe she’d never been involved with drugs.
How could he be feeling in the wrong when he was offering her the kind of contract that any other model would sell their right kidney for? And why wasn’t she grateful?
With an abrupt harsh movement he walked back to the table, oblivious to the covetous glances of women as he passed by. Making his apologies to the maître d’, he followed the path that Sorcha had just taken and, despite his reasoning to himself, as he took the lift back up to his suite he felt curiously empty. For the first time ever—despite the huge workload ahead of him, and the fact he’d be crossing the world twice in the next few days—the week seemed to stretch ahead into infinity.
The helicopter was coming in low, closer and closer to the lush green land underneath. A mark for landing materialised as if from nowhere, and to Sorcha she’d never seen anything so welcome in her life. The last forty-five minutes had been pure torture. However terrifying she found taking off in a normal-sized plane, her fear had been magnified by one hundred in this tiny machine for the duration of the journey. Her only companion, the chatty make-up artist Lucy, had happily not been able to even try and make conversation. The noise was too loud.
At last they landed. Sorcha’s breathing finally returned to normal—only to shoot off the Richter scale again when she looked out of the window and saw a gleaming four-wheel drive with a tall, familiarly dark figure leaning nonchalantly against the bonnet in the near distance, arms crossed over a formidable chest. She gulped. This was it. No going back. Long days stretched ahead in which she was going to have to see him every day, every night and hour in between. Even though she hadn’t done a location job as long as this before, she’d been away on enough shoots to know what a hothouse atmosphere it was.
As she emerged, feeling decidedly shaky—and not just from the helicopter ride—she slipped on her sunglasses. Early spring on Inis Mór, the biggest of the Aran Islands just off the west coast of Ireland, was brisk and breezy, and rare brilliant sunshine glanced off every surface. The tall figure pushed himself away from the Jeep and strolled towards her. He was even more gorgeous than she remembered, and she stumbled slightly on the bottom step. Thankfully, glasses shielded his eyes too. He was wearing jeans and a casual jumper, making him disturbingly casual, altogether more…earthy, male.
He held out his hand for her bag. ‘Welcome.’
Sorcha held onto it like a lifeline and found that she couldn’t utter a word. It was simply too much to be facing him again, and the hurt from their last meeting was still fresh.
His brow quirked over his glasses at the way she held onto the bag. He gestured with a hand. ‘It’s a beautiful location, no?’
Sorcha knew exactly how lovely it was. Not too far away, at the end of the field, a steep cliff dropped to the Atlantic Ocean, where grey-green swells with white tops battered the cliffs. Thankfully she hadn’t noticed how close they’d been to the edge of the cliff, or that would have made the landing even worse. Then she saw his attention divert.
‘Ah, you must be Lucy. Welcome. The crew minibus is here to take you to your lodgings. You’re the last ones to arrive.’
Sorcha watched him greet Lucy, and saw the inevitable reaction as the younger girl took him in. Unbelievable. As he walked Lucy over to a minibus that Sorcha hadn’t even noticed, she followed, assuming that it was for her too.
Just as she was about to get in the passenger seat, she heard a curt, ‘No, Sorcha. You’re coming with me.’
She turned and found he was very close behind her. She couldn’t step back.
‘But if I’m staying with the crew then I might as well go with Lucy.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re not staying with the crew. You’re staying with me.’
Panic flared in her belly. ‘But—’
His mouth tightened. ‘And the cameramen.’
‘Oh.’
She looked back for a second and saw Lucy looking from one to the other with a speculative gleam. Knowing the insidious spread of gossip on any shoot, Sorcha didn’t want to be giving any fodder within minutes of landing on the island.
She slammed the door shut again behind her and smiled brightly. ‘Of course—I should have guessed.’ She looked back to Lucy. ‘See you in the morning, no doubt…’
‘You’ll see each other later. We’re having a dinner so that everyone can meet and get to know one another.’
And with that he bade goodbye to Lucy, took Sorcha’s bag out of her white-knuckle grasp and was soon striding back to his Jeep.
She trotted after him, stupidly incensed that he could walk faster than her, and felt indignation rise at his high-handed manner. When she caught up with him he’d already stowed her bag and was holding open the passenger door. She also hated the fact that she was slightly breathless.
‘I would normally stay with the crew. They’re going to think it’s odd if I’m with you and the photographers.’
‘Worried about gossip, Sorcha?’
His disbelieving tone mocked her. After a week of telling herself that she wouldn’t let him get to her, already she was failing abysmally. ‘Yes, actually. Having me stay with you will be an excuse for them to think—’
‘I intend to have my wicked way with you?’ That supercilious brow arched again.
Sorcha’s stomach clenched down low, and she reacted defensively—as if he had seen her inner turmoil, her helpless attraction. ‘Of course not.’ She forced herself to stop. He couldn’t read her mind. ‘That is…I mean, yes—they may think that.’ She gave a short, unamused laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry—I know you’d never taint yourself, touching someone like me. I’ve no doubt it would turn your moral stomach.’
She could feel her breasts rise up and down with her agitated breath, and hated the fact that she couldn’t remain cool and unflappable in the face of his censure, as she had planned.