stopped in front of him and those stunningly unusual eyes caught him again. Her gaze fell on the camera in his hand, against his chest. Relief was visible in her expression and then it hardened again and she looked at him, holding out a small hand. ‘My camera, please.’
She had an American accent, with a touch of something more foreign. Intriguing.
Salim held on to the camera. ‘I owe you an apology.’
Her eyes flared, as if she was surprised. He could see the pulse point in her neck beating hectically and his arousal wound tighter in his body.
She crossed her arms over her chest, pushing up the swells of her breasts. He could see the voluptuous curves just under the V of her top.
‘You do,’ she agreed. ‘I told you I wasn’t paparazzi.’
Salim dragged his gaze back up and was quickly sucked deep into those golden depths. ‘So why were you taking a picture of me?’
She blushed, looked away, tension oozing from every line of her body. When she looked back her eyes glowed. Hesitantly she said, ‘I don’t know. I was looking through the lens before I even realised…I hadn’t intended to take a picture.’
He remembered turning to look and then the flash. Had it been a reflex? Something in him loosened a bit.
‘Please,’ she said now, undoing her arms, holding out her hand again, her voice husky, ‘Can I have my camera back? It’s got sentimental value for me.’
He could tell she hated the admission, as if it might be a weakness. He could understand that. Instantly he felt remorse, but asked as he handed it over, ‘Why?’
He noted how she relaxed and cradled it to her chest, avoided his eye. ‘It was my father’s. He was a well-known photojournalist who covered conflicts all over the world.’
Salim tensed as unwelcome images automatically came to mind. ‘Who was he?’
She looked at him. ‘Bruce Jordan.’
Salim’s body went still. ‘Bruce Jordan?’
She nodded. Salim reeled. He knew of her father. He shook his head, ‘Incroyable.’
She frowned, ‘What is?’
Salim felt as if he was losing his footing. ‘You…here. This.’ He could see that she got what he meant. This bizarre and palpable chemistry between them. ‘How long are you staying here?’
Her face flushed again, eyes widening imperceptibly. ‘I leave tomorrow to go home to New York.’
Someone pushed past them at the door to take equipment out and Salim could see her look around, distracted. A kind of panic lanced him. He reached out and took her arm, she looked at him. Her scent tickled his nostrils; earthy and musky.
‘I’m sorry about earlier, you caught me…off-guard. Please, let me make it up to you. Have dinner with me this evening?’
Her pupils dilated, drowning out some of the gold in her irises, but after a long moment she shook her head, hesitant. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
Salim’s hand tightened around her arm as if he could drag her bodily from the room. He wanted to. So badly it scared him. So he let her go, because he wasn’t sure it was a good idea either. But still, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, ‘If you change your mind I’ll be in the bar at seven. I won’t wait for long.’
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
