A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин
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just get on with it, shall we?’ she bit out.
And in the next instant her world was upended and she was lifted against a broad, strong and very hard chest. Immediately and instinctively her arms had to go around his neck. Wide, surprised eyes clashed with his.
‘What the—?’
Romain felt the rigidity in her body. ‘Hush. We’re meant to be in love.’
‘Don’t make me sick! And if this is your idea of a joke—’
Simon came over and held a light meter close to Sorcha’s face, making her shut her mouth abruptly.
‘That’s great, guys. Let me know if you need a break, Romain. You’ll need to stand there for a while.’
Simon walked away and Sorcha smiled sweetly at Romain. ‘I do hope I’m not too heavy for you?’
‘Not at all,’ he said lightly. ‘Like the proverbial feather.’
His arms did feel secure around her—not a tremor. And Sorcha knew well that she wasn’t exactly small. She always ate well, but had been lucky enough to inherit a metabolism that burnt off calories quickly. Still, she was no lightweight. The fact that Romain seemed to be holding her so effortlessly made her feel small and feminine, delicate for the first time in her life.
She sighed deeply and looked out to sea. But as she sighed, her breasts moved against his chest. She stopped breathing as her nipples reacted and tightened.
His mouth came close to her ear and he whispered softly, his accent pronounced. ‘It helps if you breathe…’
She turned her head, and the retort on her lips was quickly forgotten. Their heads were so close together that she could feel his breath reach out and mingle with her own. She saw the deeper flecks of grey in his eyes, the small lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and that suddenly made her want to see him laugh, to see how they crinkled up.
Surrounded in a bubble of sensation, Sorcha couldn’t deny it any longer—not when she was held so tight against him. This man had broken through the wall that she’d built around her sexuality. He was smashing it down with what seemed to be little more than that proverbial feather.
Her other hand was somewhere around his shoulder. It had been in the act of pushing him away. But now the feel of his warm skin underneath the shirt was acting like a magnet. Completely unaware of what was going on around them, but perhaps subconsciously knowing that it might be sanctioned, Sorcha’s hand moved up of its own volition to his neck.
In a completely untutored and sensuous move that had Romain’s heart-rate soaring, Sorcha allowed the back of her hand to drift up his neck, pushing aside the open collar of his shirt. And then, her eyes following the movement as though mesmerised, her hand drifted upwards until her palm rested on his lightly stubbled jaw.
Romain stared down into her face. He willed her eyes to meet his, and as if she could hear him they did. A silken cord had wrapped itself around his every sense and he felt himself tighten and harden. She had become soft and pliant in his arms, her curves moulding to his form like a jigsaw piece slotting into place.
All Sorcha could see was his mouth. Her thumb moved closer, traced the corner of his lower lip. They were so close. And then his head dipped slightly. She felt his breath feather again. Her eyelids felt heavy and started to flutter closed. Every part of her was aching to feel that mouth on hers…
‘Very good! And do you know what? We don’t even need to see a kiss. I think this works really well…’
Simon’s voice cut through the haze of sensuality that had been clouding Sorcha’s brain like an alarm going off. She actually flinched—a minor movement, but one which had Romain gripping her tight to him again. But this time she held herself stiff and would not look at him. God. What on earth must he think? They’d been shooting all the time and Sorcha hadn’t even noticed!
Romain felt dazed…out of sync as he put Sorcha down until her feet touched the ground. Surrounded by all the crew, he couldn’t do what he wanted and keep her close, take that lush mouth as he’d been so close to doing. The way she’d been looking at him just then…He felt limbless. Had he just been taken for a complete fool?
After what seemed like aeons, he put her away from him with two hands. She was very shaky.
His mouth was hard, his face taut. ‘You’re a good actress.’
She looked up quickly and saw the harshness there, twisting his mouth.
Acting?
Well, if that was what he thought…thank God.
She forced a smile from somewhere and left the protection of his hands. Thankfully she didn’t fall at his feet, and with a briskness she certainly didn’t feel she said, ‘It’s my job. What you hired me for.’
And on very shaky limbs she walked over to the others and the protection of the busyness of the crew as they packed up.
The next day they were due to do a couple of quick shots in the morning and then travel to New York in the afternoon. Sorcha had tossed and turned all night, unable to get the memory of being in Romain’s arms out of her mind…her body. Giving up at six a.m., seeing the first light of dawn, she got out of bed. She knew what would calm her.
She put on her running clothes—a long sleeved T-shirt and jogging bottoms. Her battered sneakers. She tried to jog wherever she was, finding it to be almost like a form of meditation as well as exercise. She met no one on her way outside, and pulled back her sleep-mussed hair into a ponytail, heading for the beach. The air was crisp and fresh and blue skies promised another beautiful spring day, which in the west of Ireland was an anomaly to be savoured.
Hitting the beach, she found that it was pleasingly much bigger and longer than she’d expected, stretching away a few miles into the distance. After some warming up she set out at a steady pace. The repetition of movement, the control of her breath, all transported her away from disturbing thoughts and images.
About forty minutes later, feeling much calmer and very smug with herself, she came back closer to the house and stopped to rest at the seashore. Impulsively she took off her shoes and socks, wanting to feel the cold sting of the Atlantic on her hot feet. She contemplated going back to get her one-piece, knowing that the initial pain of the icy water would be far outweighed by the exhilarating feeling afterwards. As she stood debating whether or not to go back and get her suit, she looked out to sea and something caught her attention. Someone swimming. Powerful arms scissoring in and out of the water, a glimpse of a strong, olive-skinned back.
Her breath hitched and stopped. It could only be one person. No one else had that physique. And she knew that it would take more than average strength first of all to brave the icy Atlantic and then to swim in it. The currents were sometimes lethal. Mesmerised by his grace and beauty, she couldn’t move. And then, too late, she realised that he’d been coming closer all the time. The arms stopped and he stood waist-deep in the sea, water streaming off a perfectly muscled torso. Like some kind of god, he emerged from the waves, and the unreality of it all made Sorcha feel as if she was in some kind of dream.
It was only when he was walking out of the water, showing a broad chest that tapered into a slim waist, dark shorts which clung to powerful thigh muscles rippling under bronzed skin, that Sorcha finally seemed to come to her senses. The sleepless night had obviously taken its toll. She was standing there like some kind of drooling groupie!
With a strangled gasp, she turned and picked up her shoes and socks, about to make a hasty retreat. She hadn’t counted on his speed.
‘Wait.’
She stopped in her tracks. The serenity of the morning was gone. Her heart hammered anew, and it wasn’t from the exercise. She turned to face him and tried to look as blank as possible. It was hard. Romain stood just feet away, hands on hips, chest rising and falling, salt water sluicing off his skin, his hair plastered to a well-shaped skull.
‘Enjoying