good as you looked back then—’
‘I was nineteen,’ Morgan protested, conscious that she’d picked up more than a pound since she’d been a perfect size four. ‘Anyway, I’m that not much bigger.’
‘You’re not big at all, Duchess; you know you look great. My point was back then you were naked.’ Noah placed a hand on her back and pushed her towards the door. ‘Naked is always hard to beat.’
* * *
‘Taxi, Miss Moreau?’
Morgan sent Noah a look in response to the doorman’s question.
He shook his head slightly and jammed his hands in the pockets of his pants. ‘No, thank you. It’s a beautiful afternoon; we’ll walk.’
‘Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Moreau. Sir...’
Noah fell into step with Morgan as she turned right and headed to the traffic lights to cross Park Avenue. It was moments like this when he was reminded just how famous the people he protected actually were. When the doormen and staff of one of the most famous hotels in the world recognised you and greeted you by name, as numerous people had Morgan inside the hotel, you had pull, clout—a presence.
Morgan, surprisingly, took it all in her stride. She’d greeted some of the staff by name, introduced herself to others. She didn’t act like the snob he’d expected her to be.
‘Amazing hotel. I’ve never been inside before,’ he commented as they waited for the light to change so that they could cross the road.
A taxi driver directly in front of them leaned out of his window and gestured to the driver of a limousine to move and a transit van dodged in front of another cab, which resulted in a flurry of horns and shouted insults out of open windows.
New York traffic...crazy. And they drove on the wrong side of the road.
Morgan, adjusted the shoulder strap of her leather bag, looked back at the imposing entrance to the hotel and smiled. ‘Isn’t it amazing? I love it.’
‘A couple of the staff nearly fell over to greet you. Must be crazy, being so well known.’
‘Oh, I’ve been going there since I was a little girl; for tea, for dinner, for drinks—and of course we host the ball here every five years. It’s a great place.’
‘Great, yes. Safe? I’ll be the judge of that.’
Morgan grinned. ‘Oh, you and my Mum are going to get along just fine.’
* * *
It was a stunning spring afternoon for a walk back to the MI offices.
‘Hey, Morgan. Over here!’
Noah turned around and a camera flash went off in his face. He cursed.
‘Who’s the dude, Morgan?’
A paparazzo, wearing an awful ball cap and a fifty-thousand-dollar camera, popped up. Seeing Morgan’s thundercloud face, he lifted an eyebrow in her direction.
‘This is why I hate going anywhere with you in New York,’ Noah complained in his best petulant tone. ‘Nobody ever pays any attention to me!’
Morgan looked startled for about two seconds before her poker face slid into place. ‘Are you whining?’ she demanded, not totally faking her surprise.
‘I’ve been nominated for three BAFTAs and I’ve won a BSA but do I get the attention? No!’
Both Morgan and the pap looked puzzled. ‘A BSA?’ the pap asked, confused.
‘British Soap Awards. And you call yourself a pap? Your UK counterparts would kick your ass!’
‘Who are you again?’
It went against every cell in his body, but Noah forced himself to toss his head like a prima donna. ‘Oh, that’s just wonderful!’ He looked at Morgan. ‘I’ve wasted enough time—can we please go now?’
Morgan’s lips twitched. ‘Sure.’
Noah gripped Morgan’s elbow and turned her away.
She sent him an assessing look from under her absurdly long lashes. ‘Who are you again?’
Noah grinned. ‘He’s going to spend the next couple of hours combing through photos of Brit celebrities before he realises that he’s been hosed.’
Morgan grinned. ‘Excellent. Quick thinking, soldier. It won’t stop him from printing the picture, but it did stop him from hassling me further.’
‘Cretin.’
‘Um...is there anyone back home that might get upset by seeing us together? If there is, you should give them a heads-up.’
Who would care if his photo appeared in a society column? It took a moment to board her train of thought. Ah...a wife, partner, girlfriend or significant other. He thought he saw curiosity in her eyes about whether he was involved with someone or not.
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
Frustration flicked across her face at his reply. Yep, definitely interested—which was, in itself, interesting.
‘Does that happen often? The cameras in your face?’
Morgan jabbed the ‘walk’ button to cross the road. ‘All the time. It’s deeply annoying and I wish they’d leave me alone.’
‘Well, you are one of the world’s wealthiest heiresses.’
Morgan’s pulled a face as they crossed the famous street. ‘Moreau International is wealthy—me, not so much. And I’m not that much of a social butterfly. Much to my mother’s despair,’ Morgan said quietly as she pulled oversized Audrey Hepburn sunglasses out of her black bag and slipped them on. ‘Would you believe me if I told you that I’d rather pound a stake into my ear than attend a soirée or a cocktail evening?’
He wouldn’t, actually. Look at her—she radiated confidence, class and poise. She was Morgan Moreau and her blood ran very blue. Unlike his, which was of the cheap Scottish whisky variety.
You’re a long way from home, lad. Remember that.
‘Then why do you do it?’
Morgan sent him a surprised look, opened her mouth to reply and shut it again. She dodged around a group of teenagers looking in a storefront window and looked resigned. ‘So, what did you think of Sylvester Cadigan?’ she asked a few moments later.
Change of subject, but he’d circle back round to her later. ‘He seems competent. He wasn’t happy that I demanded a complete and detailed dossier of the security arrangements they put in place for the last ball. He thought that I was questioning his professionalism.’
‘Weren’t you?’ Morgan sent him a direct look with those bottle-green eyes.
‘Sure I was. I don’t trust anyone.’
