A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин
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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.
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