Chapter Two

      Later that evening Nat stood on the small terrace balcony outside her bedroom, taking in the distinctive skyline of London against the dusky clear sky. She still felt jittery after that encounter with the man. Except he wasn’t just a man. She knew who he was now. The stylist had pulled her aside after he’d left and said with huge impressed eyes, ‘How on earth do you know Salim Segal?’

      Nat had looked at her, ‘Salim who?’

      The stylist’s face had contorted comically into shock, ‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t know who he is? He’s only the most famous man in France right now, the highest paid male model ever, whose debut film is coming out—apparently they’re already talking about a best foreign film Oscar…’

      So that’s why he’d believed her to be paparazzi. Nat figured she hadn’t heard of him because she’d been commuting mainly between England and New York. Working in the ephemeral and sometimes flaky fashion world with quite a number of narcissistic people had been a serious adjustment to make for Nat. And while she wasn’t complaining, this work was only a means to an end to funding her own future projects. She found the egos and histrionics a little hard to take and was already becoming known for not tolerating unnecessary dramas.

      And now, the thought that the most charismatic man she could ever remember meeting was an integral part of that wheel—that most clichéd of things, a model turned actor—made her feel somehow…crazily disappointed. Everything in her balked at that glitzy, showy, superficial world. He’d seemed more than that. And he was certainly no ingenue.

      Learning who he was and that he was at the hotel for press surrounding this film he was in had quashed the flutters in Nat’s belly at the thought that she just might take him up on his offer, even though she’d said no.

      And yet now…those flutters were back and she felt a ridiculous sense of urgency. The rest of the crew lived in London as the magazine was based here, and had gone home. Normally this wouldn’t bother Nat, but that feeling of loneliness she’d had earlier surged back, irritating in the extreme. The whole evening stretched ahead of her and it seemed to mock her for her lofty bias against the world she currently inhabited.

      A small voice teased her—would it be so bad to indulge in a drink with a stunningly handsome man? Heat sizzled down low when she thought of how dark his eyes were, how they’d felt on her. And her curiosity was piqued in spite of herself. She looked at her watch and saw that it was already 7.15pm. A kind of urgency gripped her again and she told herself that even if she did go down now, he’d surely be gone.

      * * *

      Salim sat in the dark and decadent Chatsfield bar, his back to the velvet-covered wall out of habit to be able to observe all around him. The decor suited his mood perfectly, which was getting darker and darker as the clock ticked and there was still no sign of her. He’d realised far too late that he didn’t even know her name, only that she was Bruce Jordan’s daughter.

      He checked his watch and saw that he’d been sitting there for almost an hour. Disgusted with himself forwaiting for a woman like some cow-eyed youth, Salim threw back the rest of his whiskey and put the glass down. He’d been aware of a lone woman at a nearby table sending him sultry looks and what irked him now was that he wasn’t even interested in checking her out.

      He wanted her. The golden-eyed stranger who had relaxed so visibly when he’d handed her camera back, almost as if it were a child. The women who’d moved with supple grace as she’d drawn a young girl out of herself to act the role of a woman beyond her years.

      Salim stood up, a sense of disappointment acrid in his gut. He was about to put down money for the drink when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked to the door.

      And there she was. Relief mixed with triumph was a heady rush along with a spiking of arousal, sharp and intense. Merde. He hadn’t had it this bad in a long time, if ever.

      As if sensing his look from across the bar, her head turned towards him and he couldn’t breathe. Her hair was down, long and wild. Her dress was gold, silk, wrapped around her body showing the curve of her hips and breasts. Those slim legs were bare all the way down to nude high-heels. Her hands clutched a bag.

      Salim stood still as he tracked her slightly hesitant walk towards him. She was a complete stranger—but he knew that if he didn’t have her before the night was out, he might die.

      * * *

      He was still here. Nat refused to acknowledge that the feeling rushing through her was relief. She forced her legs to move and made her way to where he was, in a corner of the bar. He wasn’t moving. Again that preternatural stillness caught at her forcibly. Along with the sheer reality of how gorgeous he was.

      When she came close he put out a hand and Nat looked at it. It was big, long fingers. The heat in her lower body sizzled even more. She put out her hand too, but instead of shaking it, he took it and lifted it up and lowered his head.

      His face lowered closer and his eyes locked on hers. Nat’s heart was thumping so hard now she felt light-headed. For a long moment he did nothing and it was as if he was sending her some kind of silent subliminal message. And then his mouth brushed the back of her hand, fleeting and yet hot enough to send a shard of pure sensation right to the pulse between her legs. Lord.

      He let her go and straightened up, indicating for her to take a seat. ‘Thank you for joining me.’

      Nat sat down, aware that her legs were wobbly, and watched him take a seat on the other side of the small, intimate table.

      She admitted a little sheepishly, ‘I thought you might be gone.’

      His mouth tipped up in a wry smile, ‘I almost was.’

      The hint of a smile made him look younger, less brooding. A waiter interrupted them and Nat took a breath, ordering a white wine. As he conversed with the waiter, Nat took him in. He wore a black suit, which even her eye could tell was bespoke as it lovingly hugged powerful muscles. A crisp white shirt emphasised how dark he was.

      And then the waiter was gone and he was looking at her again.

      She put down her bag, aware she was clutching it like some kind of terrified virgin. A spurt of panic as to what he might think of her capitulation made her say, ‘Look, I’m just here for a drink, ok? I’m not…up for anything else.’

      He arched a brow and that smile played around his mouth again. ‘I believe I just asked you for dinner, and as much as I can’t deny that I haven’t thought about taking you to bed…I will respect your boundaries, of course.’

      Nat’s