A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин
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And next time we won’t be interrupted.’
It was only then that Sorcha even noticed movement on the beach and saw someone walking their dog. Mortification twisted her insides. She glared back up at Romain.
‘You might think that every model in the world wants you to bed them, but believe me, I don’t. I haven’t changed my opinion of you, and you’re the last man on this earth that I’d want to sleep with.’
Before he could come back with some silky-smooth retort, with flaming cheeks she pulled free and ran back into the house.
LATER that day, as Sorcha boarded the privately chartered jet, it felt as if aeons had passed. Those moments on the beach, that kiss, had an intimate residue that made Sorcha feel skittish. And, to her utter dismay, she saw that the only free seat was beside Romain.
She hovered reluctantly for a second by the empty seat. Romain glanced up eventually from some papers in his lap. He looked more like the successful businessman now, in a dark suit, light shirt and tie, undone slightly, with a top button open. A glimpse of the strong column of brown throat was tantalising.
‘It seems as though this is the only free seat.’
He smiled wolfishly. ‘Please, be my guest. It’ll be fun to watch you try to squirm away from me for five hours.’
Sorcha sat down gingerly, very careful about where she put her arms. Then she sat back and closed her eyes.
Before long, though, the familiar terror began making its all too predictable insidious climb inside her chest as the engine’s throttle roared. At this moment even Romain beside her couldn’t distract her from it. She heard him rattle papers. The engines started up in earnest, the plane lurched forward, and she felt the colour drain from her face. Her hands, despite her efforts not to give anything away were clenched tightly in her lap. She longed to be able to wrap them around the seat—that always made her feel stupidly protected—but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.
As the plane gathered speed down the runway, her heart beat faster and faster.
‘What’s wrong? Scared of flying?’
The voice came from right beside her ear, and Sorcha jumped, eyes opening wide as she looked to Romain. She couldn’t even speak, and just nodded silently. When he saw the truly blatant fear in the blue depths, any teasing fled Romain’s mind. He acted purely on instinct and took one of Sorcha’s hands in his. It was clenched tight and he had to prise the bloodless fingers apart. Finally he was able to thread his fingers with hers and grip her tight. He saw her other hand go in a white-knuckle grip to the armrest.
Sorcha couldn’t believe it. The mind-numbing fear, the awful acrid taste of it, wasn’t hitting her as hard as it normally did. The plane left the ground, that awful moment came…and it was still awful, but for the first time ever bearable. It was only then, as the fear began its slow decline, that Sorcha felt the long warm fingers entwined with hers and heat unfurled in her belly. She looked down and could see white and brown fingers in a tangle. A hot, tight feeling made her abdomen clench, and the kiss invaded her consciousness with full lurid recall.
Looking up to Romain with horror, she saw him wincing. Abruptly she loosened her grip, but he didn’t loosen his. His face cleared, though, and he smiled.
‘Remind me never to arm-wrestle you. I don’t think I’d win.’
Sorcha snatched her hand back. She felt acutely vulnerable. She couldn’t believe she’d been so weakly transparent.
He settled back comfortably, turning his big body towards her. Sorcha looked resolutely at the back of the seat in front of her.
‘So is it just the take-off, or the whole thing?’
She sighed deeply. ‘Just the take off.’ She looked at him warily. ‘And being in tiny helicopters.’ She gave a delicate shudder. ‘That trip to Inis Mor…’
‘I thought you looked unnaturally pale when you got off. Why didn’t you say anything?’
She shrugged, casting him a quick glance. ‘What’s the point? It’s just a silly fear. No need to cause a fuss.’
He felt anger lick through him, but not directed at her. ‘So you’d prefer to put yourself through moments of terror like that just to keep people happy?’
‘Well, how else would I have got over there—or anywhere, these days?’
He just looked at her broodingly. ‘Where did it come from?’
Her head had that fuzzy feeling again. Why couldn’t she look this man in the eye for longer than two seconds without her head going to mush? He was going to suspect she was certifiably stupid.
‘What?’
‘Your fear of flying…. taking off…do you know where it comes from?’
Sorcha nodded slowly. Weighed up what it would mean to tell him. He saw the hesitation, and she saw how his jaw tightened.
‘I forgot about the embargo on your private life.’
Despite her best instincts, at that moment she perversely wanted to put her hand on his arm. She clenched her hand into a fist again. ‘No,’ she said tightly, and then, with a small smile that made her feel as if she’d been invaded by a rogue body snatcher, she said, ‘It’s fine.’
She looked away for a second, and then back, struck by how, even though they were in the plane surrounded by the crew, it felt as though it was just them, in some kind of bubble.
‘I was three years old, and we were taking a trip back to Spain to visit my mother’s family—’
He looked at her incredulously. ‘You’re Spanish?’
She hesitated for a split second…Hadn’t she been for most of her life? ‘Half-Spanish…My mother is. My father is—was Irish…’
‘He’s dead?’
She nodded, and felt herself go cold inside, she knew she was lying about being half-Spanish, but that was a part of her that was certainly out of bounds for discussion and none of his business. That bit of information lay far too close to the truth of everything else.
‘He died just before I turned seventeen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Romain saw how she’d changed in an instant from being lukewarm to icy cool. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘My father died when I was twelve…a heart attack.’
She looked at him, that guarded expression faltering slightly. She remembered what Maud had told her about his mother. ‘Mine too…a heart attack, I mean. I’m sorry.’
A moment passed between them, and neither noticed for a second when the air stewardess asked if they wanted anything. Then Sorcha looked up and a guilty flush stained her cheeks. What was she thinking? Getting lost in his eyes, telling him about her father? She saw the way the stewardess practically ate him alive with just a look and welcomed the cold dose of reality.
When they’d ordered water, she could feel him settle back in.
Please, no more conversation…
‘So…your fear of flying…’
Sorcha’s tone was brisk and almost bored. She didn’t see the way Romain’s eyes narrowed on her speculatively.
‘Like I said, we were on holiday, going to Spain. It’s really not that exciting—’
‘Indulge me.’
Sorcha gulped, looked at him quickly, and then away again. ‘The plane had