A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин
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addict. She died of an overdose. So, you see, he has a very personal abhorrence of drugs.’
Sorcha felt a dart of sympathy. But then she remembered the condemnation in his eyes and forced her mind to clear the images she always worked so hard to avoid. She said, somewhat stiltedly, ‘Well, his own personal issues aside, I’m sorry for him—but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour. When he spoke to me the other night it was obvious he still believes that I’m involved in something. He’s not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m sorry, Maud, but I’m taking my few months out. You know I’ve been promising this to myself for the past year.’
Her eyes beseeched her agency boss. Maud looked fierce for a second, and then shrugged. ‘I think you’re mad, Sorcha. I’ll let him know, but I warn you—once he’s decided on something he’s not one to give up easily. He may even try to go through your Irish agency, knowing that you’re headed back there. His board of management are adamant about using you…’
Sorcha shot to her feet. ‘See! He’s been forced into this against his will. He won’t push it if I refuse. Please, just tell him and see for yourself. He’ll walk away without a backward glance.’
Sorcha closed her eyes and gripped the handrest as the plane took off. She hated take-offs. She always imagined the bottom of the plane scraping along the ground at the last moment, and then there was that wobbly bit as it fought for equilibrium in the air—
‘Are you all right, dear?’
She opened her eyes and looked at the kind, elderly woman on her right. She smiled weakly, but she could feel the sweat on her brow and knew she must be pale from the concerned look the woman was giving her.
‘Fine. Sorry—I just hate taking off. No matter how often I fly, it doesn’t get better.’
‘Ah, well, sure it’s only a short enough flight. We’ll be home in no time.’
Sorcha smiled and turned back to look out of the window. Home. Ireland. She’d only been back intermittently between jobs in the past year, to work on her project whenever she had the chance, and she’d missed it—missed her apartment. The home she shared with Kate in New York was Kate’s. But her place in Dublin was hers. Bought and paid for with her own hard-earned money.
The plane was stabilising at last, so Sorcha’s hands eased their death grip and she sat back and closed her eyes. It had been ten days since the night of the function in New York, and she hadn’t stopped working since then. Every day had been packed to the brim. Even so that man—his voice, his face, his air of intense, focused energy—would slip into her consciousness and take up residence.
Just thinking about him made her heart speed up, her breath quicken. And made a whole host of other sensations race through her body. She hated that she could be having this kind of reaction to someone who had so carelessly played God with her life, her career. She forced herself to relax. Hadn’t she walked away from him? Yet the look in his eyes when she’d left him standing there that night had been so intense…Maud hadn’t had to warn her. She was sure that he was a man who would be single-minded in his pursuit of anything…or anyone.
Since leaving Maud’s office, only three days before, she’d half expected him to turn up at any moment and demand that she do the job—which she couldn’t believe she’d even been considered for, if it was half as amazing as Maud had outlined. There were plenty more models who were far more ambitious, who always got the big campaigns. So why had not seeing him, not hearing anything, led her to feel like a cat on a hot tin roof? Why had she found herself jumping every time the phone rang, only to be in some tiny and very treacherous way disappointed when it had just been Katie or her brother?
She’d met the man for mere moments, and he had proved himself to be every bit as arrogant, judgmental and overbearing as she would have expected. Why did it have to be someone like him who seemed to be cracking through the armour she’d erected around herself for so long? Why couldn’t someone else be making her heart quicken, her breath shorten just thinking of them? Someone nice, unassuming, non-threatening. Someone who would be gentle, kind, sensitive. Certainly not tall, powerful, dark and mysterious…arrogant, overbearing, too confident, too sexual—
‘So, dear, were you on holiday in America?’
Sorcha nearly jumped out of her skin—she’d been so intent on listing Romain de Valois’s negative attributes to herself.
She shook her head, as much to herself as anyone else, and smiled.
‘No…unfortunately not. I’ve been working…’
With some kind of cowardly relief, she allowed herself to be sucked into inane conversation. Anything to stop dangerous thoughts and images circulating in her head. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to meet him again anyway…
Sorcha’s mobile was ringing as soon as she arrived at her apartment. She dumped her suitcase and fished it out of her handbag. No number was listed on the screen, but she figured it was because it was either Katie, her mother or her over-protective big brother, checking in to see if she’d landed in one piece, and they were all abroad. She smiled as she answered.
‘OK, whichever one of you it is. I’m fine, I’ve just landed, and the plane didn’t crash—although at one stage I seriously thought—’
‘Hello, Sorcha.’
Words froze on her lips. Her mouth stayed open. Her throat dried. That voice. His voice. Deep, authoritative, sensual. Disturbingly close. Her hand gripped the phone tight.
‘I’m sorry, who is this?’
A soft chuckle made her insides quiver. ‘You’re pretending to have forgotten me already?’
The conceited arrogance of the man! She knew very well who it was, and hated that he could be here, in her space, even if just on the end of a tenuous connection. She felt guilty—as though she’d conjured him up with her imaginings. She would not give him the satisfaction of letting him know that she knew it was him. Even though she burned to know what he wanted.
As if reading her every thought, he spoke with low, seductive deadliness. ‘I got your number from Maud, who informed me of your plans to go home. I know you’ve probably just arrived, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as possible.’
Sorcha closed her eyes for a second, knowing it would be futile to pretend ignorance of the power he had. The man was so confidently arrogant that he hadn’t even given her time to play dumb.
‘Yes, I am back in Dublin now. Thousands of miles from New York. I’m taking a well-earned break—’
‘I’ve got a job proposal to discuss with you.’
Sorcha’s mouth opened and closed, a whole host of conflicting emotions see—sawing through her at the realisation that he was determined to pursue her for this job. But it would be untenable, unthinkable—surely he could see that?
‘I’m afraid I’m not doing any jobs for the foreseeable future. I’ve been working back to back for the past year—not that it’s any business of yours—and now I’m taking time off. As I told Maud before I left, I’m sure you’ll find another model who can do whatever it is you have in mind. Thanks for the call, though. Goodbye.’
She was in the act of taking the phone away from her ear, about to switch it off, when she heard a silky,
‘Wait. You might want to hear what I have to say about the job.’
Reluctantly she brought the phone back to her ear. ‘I’ve already explained—’
‘I’m here in Dublin too, actually. I arrived yesterday. Charming city.’
Sorcha nearly dropped the phone in shock, her hand suddenly sweaty. He was here? In Dublin?
Feeling very agitated, she walked over to her fourth-floor window and looked down to the street outside—almost as if he might be standing there looking up at her. But the road surrounding