A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин
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other since we were ten…and got discovered at the same time by a scout from Dublin when we were fifteen.’
At that moment their food was delivered. With relief at finding his intense focus off her for a moment, Sorcha tucked into the food, suddenly ravenous. They shared starters of traditional samosas and spring rolls wrapped Vietnamese-style in rice paper. Then Sorcha had ordered a main dish of steamed sea bass, while Romain had opted for a dish unique to the region, khad khargosh—wild hare.
When his meal was placed in front of him, and he saw Sorcha wrinkle her nose slightly, he asked, with a quirk to his mouth, ‘You don’t approve?’
Horrified to be caught like that, she said quickly, ‘Oh, no. It’s just the thought of the poor little hare…sorry.’
He speared a morsel and ate it, completely unperturbed. ‘But you’re not a vegetarian. You ordered steak that day in Dublin.’
When she’d fled the restaurant like a bolshy teenager…
She looked slightly shame faced and put her fork down for a moment, lifting her eyes to his. All he could see was their luminosity. Her colouring was exotic against this backdrop.
‘I don’t normally run out like that.’
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. And felt surprised. He was used to women being petulant, yet that day he knew she hadn’t been. Her speedy exit had come from something much deeper. He’d touched on a raw nerve, and he remembered that they’d been talking about her project—the outreach centre. What he’d said then seemed to him to be unbelievably insensitive now. He’d still been labouring under his misapprehension, not believing that she might be different, reformed.
And was she?
Introspection kept him quiet. He was thinking about how professional she was. So far she’d been nothing but pleasant, polite, helpful, quiet…not a hint of divadom at all. All qualities his aunt had professed her to have again when he’d taken her for dinner. A dinner in which he’d had to focus just to get Sorcha out of his head. That was why he’d largely ignored her when Dominic had called him up to the set in New York. He’d known that seeing her would have the potential to scramble his brain. And he was not comfortable with that at all. He’d known her for less than three weeks, and hadn’t even slept with her…yet.
With the last succulent morsel of sea bass dissolving on her tongue, Sorcha sat back and dabbed her napkin to her mouth. ‘That was…amazing.’
Romain sat back too. ‘Yes. And if you want you can tell Kate you had champagne…the works…I’ll back up your story.’
Sorcha grinned and held up her bottle of beer to gently clink it with his in collusion. It was only when she took a swallow and saw some kind of triumphant gleam in his eye that her blood ran cold. What was he doing? Acting as if she and he might be in a situation in the future where they would create this little in joke to share with Katie…or whoever? Almost as if they were a couple.
And what the hell was she doing? This man was the enemy…and yet at this lunch it felt as if he was anything but. She felt shivery and trembly inside. This man was playing with her, that was all.
The plates were cleared away, a clean table lay between them. And then her fears were compounded.
He leant forward, two elbows on the table. Intent. ‘I owe you an apology.’
Sorcha tensed slightly. ‘You do?’
He nodded. ‘That day in Dublin, what I said about your outreach centre, it was unforgivable. I had no right to judge something you’ve been working on—no right to judge your motivations for doing something like that.’
Sorcha floundered. This Romain was way, way more dangerous to deal with than the autocratic, overbearing Romain.
‘Well, thank you.’
Now please drop it, she begged silently.
‘Would you tell me about it?’
Sorcha fought against closing her eyes. Her plea had gone spectacularly unanswered. She thought quickly. What harm could it do to tell him just a little? Surely it wouldn’t really give away anything? She took a deep breath.
Romain had seen the conflict cross her face, the shadows in her eyes again, the effort it was taking for her to open up to him at all. It made him feel a whole host of conflicting emotions, not least the desire to ask himself, what does she have to hide?
Sorcha looked out to the lake, and when she looked back to Romain her eyes were guarded. ‘When my father died…Well, we were very close.’
Romain gave a tiny nod of his head, encouraging her to go on. She looked at him steadily, and he was aware at that moment of something powerful passing between them.
‘He was my best friend, my confidante.’ She shrugged lightly and looked down for a second. ‘I was the ultimate daddy’s girl. He used to happily tell everyone that he was wrapped around my finger…he’d bring me to his office…everywhere. He died suddenly. No warning—nothing. I got the call from my mum while I was at school. My older brother was away with his family…’ She shrugged again, and this time it was jerky, as though she was fighting to keep the emotion down.
‘I kind of went off the rails a bit. I left school that summer, and Katie and I had both been offered work in London. Unfortunately I got involved with a crowd of less than savoury characters, and a guy called Christian. I was still very angry about my father’s death, and hadn’t really dealt with it. At that age there’s not a lot of emotional support unless you get it at home…’
Romain stayed very still and quiet, his eyes holding hers, and when she looked at him they seemed to her to be like beacons. Crazy…but very, very seductive. She kept talking.
‘I guess that’s where the desire came from to do…something. For years I’ve always thought that if there had been some place…somewhere to go…that had offered impartial, confidential advice and support, I might have gone. And I might not have…’ She didn’t finish, and couldn’t look at him any more.
Romain reached across the table and took her hand, covering it with his warmth. Dark against pale. She only realised then that she was shaking.
‘Was Dominic a part of that crowd?’
She looked at him. ‘How…?’
‘He mentioned something at the start about knowing you from years ago. I put two and two together.’
She nodded. ‘Christian was his friend.’
‘Was Christian your lover?’ he asked sharply.
Her sense of danger skyrocketed.
How can I say I’m not sure…? Sorcha thought crazily to herself. She gave a brief, abrupt shake of the head. ‘No. I had a crush…it was all quite innocent…’
He seemed satisfied with that, and Sorcha prayed he’d move away from such dangerous waters.
‘Is that why you did the psychology degree? So you could work at the centre?’ He shook his own head. ‘I only realised when you told me about it that you wouldn’t have had time to come home for any real length of time…again, I’m sorry Sorcha…’
SORCHA struggled to stay calm, but she felt like she wanted to get up and run—hide, go away. With every word he was saying he was getting closer, digging deeper, and soon he’d reach the very centre of everything, the place were her desire threatened to bubble out of control.
She pulled her hand back and racked her brain for some way to take the intense spotlight off her.
‘And what about you? What are your secrets, Romain?’ Her voice felt very brittle, like her control. ‘How come you’re not married?’
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