now he felt he needed to take a very long, very cold shower. When Sorcha’s head had kept drooping in jerks as she’d slept, he’d put down his papers, unbuckled their belts and pulled her into him. Again, he’d been surprised at how her soft curves had seemed to melt into his body, as if made for him. Her evocative scent had drifted up from silky black hair.
Their seats were towards the front, and somewhat screened from the rest of the cabin. And it was that fact now that seemed to be uppermost on Sorcha’s mind as her hair swung around her shoulders in an arc and she cast a nervous look backwards.
‘No one saw,’ he offered helpfully, feeling absurdly annoyed.
She sat back and folded her arms. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I must’ve been more tired than I realised.’
She could see him shrug out of the corner of her eye as he flipped his seat upright, ‘The pleasure was all mine.’
She burned. Her insides were on fire. She couldn’t even escape and go to the toilet as they were about to land. Buckling her belt again, she busied herself putting her book away—but not before it had fallen out of her hands and into Romain’s lap. He picked it up before she had a chance to snatch it back.
‘Man and His Symbols…Carl Jung…’ That imperious brow quirked again.
Sorcha was unaware of the plane touching down, announcing their arrival in New York.
‘Yes,’ she said tightly, holding out a hand for the book.
He gave it back after a long moment, making sure that their fingers brushed, and drawled, ‘I have to admit I’m more a fan of his old adversary, Freud.’
Her fingers burned. The book was hers again. She held it to her chest and said waspishly, ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Tell me,’ he said equably, which should have had alarm bells ringing in her head, ‘would this have anything to do with what Val was talking about the other night?’
She looked at him open-mouthed. And promptly shut it again. She knew if she didn’t tell him he’d only ask Val. And if she didn’t tell him she risked turning it into something bigger, more…
She sighed inwardly, then outwardly shrugged. She hated having to tell him. ‘I recently graduated from NYU. I got a degree in psychology.’
He said nothing for a long moment, those eyes assessing, making her nervous. ‘Val said you got a first?’
She nodded, amazed at his memory.
‘Well done.’
Completely nonplussed, trying to think about what this could reveal, Sorcha just muttered something unintelligible. Too much was happening. Too much of herself was being revealed, and she felt very, very exposed. She did not want him knowing anything about her, and now he knew about the outreach centre, her degree, her fear of flying, her attraction…what next?
The hubbub and chatter that surrounded them as people got out of seats and collected bags gave Sorcha an excuse to get away. And she did, with barely disguised panic.
The next evening Sorcha stood huddled against the wind in her parka jacket on the top of the Empire State Building. This was where they were working for the night. The observation deck was theirs till six in the morning. These were the only shots they had to do in New York.
‘So, where’s Mr Tall, Dark and Gorgeous tonight?’
Sorcha felt a defensive retort about to spring from her lips and bit it back. Dominic was not the person she should allow to wind her up. So she shrugged nonchalantly, as though she didn’t care, and said, ‘I have no idea. Why are you so worried anyway?’
Dominic’s face contorted into an ugly scowl. ‘Because whenever he’s around I feel like he’s watching me, waiting for me to make some kind of false move.’
Sorcha had to bite back a wry smile. She didn’t blame Dominic. Romain did have that ability, and she was glad that it wasn’t just her on the receiving end. And, as brilliant a photographer as Dominic was, there was the element of a loose cannon about him.
The truth was, she’d been wondering the same thing herself, her senses on high alert. It was odd that he wasn’t here, especially as tonight was the first time the other model was involved—her counterpart, her lover. This was where they were to meet for the first time, and she would have imagined that with Romain’s apparent love of control he’d be watching Zane like a hawk to make sure he performed.
Sorcha knew Zane well. He was one of the most recognisable male models in the world, and had just broken out to act in a movie. He was a nice guy, easy to get on with. She heard a kerfuffle in the corner. Dominic was having a mini-tantrum about something. She could hear snatches of heated conversation, and he had a mobile clamped to his ear.
‘You need to come up here now, because Claire is saying she needs approval for Zane’s costume…and if we don’t start shooting in the next half hour we’re going to jeopardise Simon getting his dawn shots…’
Sorcha’s heart started to thump. Silly. It mightn’t even be him. Since he was now back in New York, she didn’t doubt that he’d have made plans to take some current mistress out to dinner. Wasn’t that exactly how men like Romain operated? Ruthless and controlling in business, the quintessential playboy socially—a string of women around the world.
Sorcha couldn’t kid herself and think that what had happened between them had meant anything more than a bit of diverting fun for him, and that was why it couldn’t happen again. He’d been playing with her—a game of showing her that he was in control.
But some minutes later, as Lucy was touching up her make-up, she saw the observation deck doors open and Romain walk out. The New York night was chilly, and he wore a long black coat that made him look impossibly tall and dark. She hadn’t seen him all day and butterflies erupted in her stomach.
He focused on Dominic and Zane and went straight to them. Consulted with Claire. And then, with the issue apparently resolved, and a curt, ‘Don’t disturb me again unless it’s really urgent,’ he walked back out, not looking her way even momentarily.
It felt like a slap in the face—which was ridiculous when it wasn’t even directed at her. She saw the lift doors close, concealing him from view. It was obvious he hadn’t appreciated Dominic’s autocratic demand at all.
‘He didn’t look happy to be taken away from his date!’
Sorcha looked at Lucy, and ice invaded her veins. ‘What?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Well, that’s where I bet he was…Why would he want to supervise us up here when he could be taking some beautiful woman out to dinner?’ Lucy sighed dreamily.
Sorcha longed to be the gossiping kind just once, so she could ask her if what she’d said was based on fact. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t. And for the whole night, when Romain didn’t reappear, Sorcha couldn’t stop imagining him looking into sultry blue, or brown, or green eyes, telling her—whoever—that next time they wouldn’t be interrupted, with all the passionate conviction he’d used with her, and which she stupidly, treacherously, couldn’t get out of her head…
