time Hans and his first wife had often been guests at the Villa Derenz—convivial occasions when the young Marc had had the company of Hans’s son, Bernhardt, and had made enthusiastic use of the pool and gone sea bathing off the rocky shoreline of Cap Pierre. Good memories…
Marc felt a pang of nostalgic loss for those carefree days. Now, all he could say, resignedly, and with a forced smile, was, ‘Bien sûr! That would be delightful.’ He tried to make the lie convincing. ‘Delightful’ was the last word to describe spending more time with Celine making eyes at him. Having to hold her at bay.
A triumphant Celine now pushed even further in a direction Marc had no intention of letting her advance. She turned to her husband. ‘Darling, don’t feel you have to stay any longer—Marc can see me back to our hotel.’
Hans turned to Marc, a grateful expression on his face. ‘That would be so kind of you, Marc. I have to phone Bernhardt—matters to do with the forthcoming board meeting.’
Again, how could Marc object without giving Hans the reason?
The moment Hans had left Celine was, predictably, off the leash. ‘Now, tell me,’ she gushed, smiling warmly up at him, ‘which would suit me best?’ She gestured at the perambulating models.
Marc, knowing his mood was worsening with every passing moment in this impossible situation he’d been dumped in, lanced his gaze around to find the nearest model, whatever she was wearing, determined to give Celine the least opportunity for lingering.
But, as he did so, suddenly all thoughts of Celine went right out of his head.
During the fashion show itself he’d paid no attention to the endless parade of females striding up and down the catwalk, focussing instead on his phone. So now, as his eyes caught the figure of the model closest to where they stood, he felt his gaze riveted.
Tall, ultra-slender—yes. But then all the models were like that. None like this one, though, with rich chestnut hair glinting auburn, loosely pinned into an uplift that exposed a face he simply could not take his eyes from.
The perfect profile—and then, as she turned to change direction, he saw a strikingly beautiful face with sculpted cheekbones, magnificent eyes shot with sea-green, and a wide, lush mouth that was, at this moment, tight-set. The expression on her amazing face was professionally blank, but as his eyes focussed on her he felt his male antennae react instinctively—and on every frequency. She was quite incredible.
Without conscious volition he raised his free hand, summoning her over. For a second he thought she had not seen his gesture, for she was moving as if to keep stalking around as the rest of the models were doing. Then, tensing, she strode towards him. He could not take his eyes from her…
The thoughts in his head were flashing wildly. OK, so she was a model—and that put her out of reach from the off, because models were nearly always not from the kind of privileged background he insisted that any woman he showed interest in be from. But this one…
Whatever she had—and he was still analysing it, with his male antennae registering her on every frequency—it was making it dangerously hard for him to remember the rules of engagement he lived by.
As she approached, the impact she was making on him strengthened like a magnet drawing tempered steel. Dieu, but she was stunning! And now she was standing in front of him, a bare metre or so away.
He scrutinised her shamelessly, taking in her breathtaking beauty. And then he caught a flash in her eyes—as if she resented his scrutiny.
His own eyes narrowed reactively—what was her problem? She was a model; she was being paid to be looked at in the clothes she was wearing. OK, so in fact she might have been wearing a sack, for all he cared—it was her amazing beauty that was drawing his attention, not her gown.
But, abruptly, he veiled his appreciative scrutiny. It didn’t matter how stunningly beautiful she was. He had not summoned her for any reason other than the one he gave voice to now. The only reason he would show any interest in her.
‘So, what about this one?’
He turned to Celine. The sooner he could get the wretched woman to spend Hans’s money on a gown—any gown!—the sooner he would be able to get her back to her hotel and finally be done with her for the evening.
His eyes went back to the model. The number she was wearing was purple—a kind of dark grape—in raw silk, draped over her slight breasts, slithering down her slender body. Again Marc felt that unstoppable reaction to her spectacular beauty. Again he did his best to stop it—and again he failed.
‘Hmm…’ said Celine doubtfully. ‘The colour is too sombre for me, Marc. No.’ She waved the model away, dismissing her.
But Marc stayed her. ‘Please turn around,’ he instructed. The gown was a masterpiece—as was she—and he wanted to see what she looked like from the back.
The flash in those blue-green eyes came again, and again Marc wondered at it as she executed a single revolution, revealing how the gown was almost backless, exposing the sculpted contours of her spine, the superb sheen of her pale skin. And as she came back to face them he saw an expression of what could only be hostility.
What is it with her? he found himself thinking. Annoyance flickered through him. Why that reaction? It wasn’t one he was used to when he paid attention to a woman—in his long experience women wanted to draw his attention to them! His problem was keeping women away from him, and without vanity he knew that it was not only his wealth that lured them. Nature had bestowed upon him gifts that money could not buy—a six-foot-plus frame, and looks that usually had a powerful impact on women.
But not on this one, it seemed, and he felt that flicker of annoyance again as his gaze rested on her professionally blank face once more.
For a second—a fraction of a second—he thought he saw something behind that professional blankness. Something that was not that hostile flash either…
But then it was gone, and Celine was saying pettishly, ‘Marc, cherie, I really don’t like it.’
She waved the model away again, and she strode off with quickened stride, her body stiff. Marc’s eyes followed her, unwilling to lose her in the throng which swallowed her up.
A pity she was a model…
For all her amazing looks, which were capable of piercing the black mood possessing him at having been landed with Hans’s wretched adultery-minded wife, the stunning, flashing-eyed beauty was not someone, he knew perfectly well, he should allow himself to pursue…
She isn’t from my world—let her go.
But a single word echoed in his head, all the same. Domage…
A pity…
* * *
Tara wheeled away, gaining the far side of the room as fast as she could. Her heart-rate was up and she knew why. Oh, she knew why!
She shut her eyes, wanting to blank the room. To blank the oh-so-conflicting reactions battling inside her head right now. She could feel them still, behind her closed eyes, slashing away at each other, fighting for supremacy.
Two overpowering emotions.
