of her long dress billowing out behind her.
More than a few men turned to look as she passed, and Romain couldn’t fail to notice, the very strange and proprietorial surge of…something very disturbing. He felt a little shell shocked. He could still see the white expanse of her delicate throat, bared as she had downed the sparkling drink. Her eyes had flashed before putting the glass down.
No woman had ever walked away from him like that, or showed such blatant disrespect. Yet, much to his utter confusion, he found himself thinking that his decision to veto her for the campaign suddenly seemed a little too hasty. Watching her walk away had filled him with the almost overwhelming urge to grab her back, strike more sparks, keep her talking.
He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected her to be hard, with that smooth shell most models had, yet her vulnerability had hit him straight between the eyes. And he’d been surprised that she’d remembered his comments from eight years previously. His jaw hardened. Despite his aunt’s words, and Sorcha Murphy’s apparent vulnerability, he’d be more than surprised to find that she had given up her old habits.
To be brutally honest, he’d expected that once she’d known who he was she’d morph into exactly the type of woman he’d become immune to. Sycophantic, posturing…But she hadn’t. She’d been filled with fire and passion underneath that pale, pale skin. An intoxicating package.
For some men, he told himself angrily, and finally turned away from the image of her slender back walking away from him.
‘Well, he can take his job and—’
‘Sorcha!’ Maud’s husky smoke-ravaged voice rang out like the crack of a whip.
It stopped Sorcha in her tracks—literally. She was pacing back and forth in Maud’s palatial office that looked out over busy New York streets. Ever since Maud had called her in to tell her that Romain de Valois wanted her for his campaign, she’d been feeling jittery and panicky.
She sat down. ‘Sorry, Maud, I know he’s your nephew—’
‘Technically, he’s my ex-nephew.’ The older woman waved a hand. ‘That doesn’t matter anyway. Nepotism didn’t get him where he is now; that was through sheer hard graft and ingenuity.’ Her face softened with unmistakable affection. ‘Can you believe even I have to answer to him?’ She ignored Sorcha’s dark scowl, austerity marking her features again. ‘The fact is, this is probably one of the most prestigious jobs you could ever be offered—two weeks jet-setting around the world. Do you know how many models were considered? It’s so important to him that he’s overseeing the whole shoot personally. He’s even willing to kick off in Ireland to accommodate your holiday plans—a condition I insisted on.’
The thought of even a day with that man glowering down his nose at her, checking up on her every two minutes, caused very contradictory feelings in Sorcha’s head…and body. Since that night almost a week ago she hadn’t been able to get his dark face and tall, impressive body out of her mind. And she hated it. He was her nemesis—the embodiment of every misunderstanding she had suffered all those years ago.
‘Maud…can’t you see how difficult this would be? He’s not just anyone. He’s—’
‘I’m well aware of the things he said in London that time. But you have to admit, innocent or not, if you hadn’t been caught like that then he wouldn’t have had any reason to say anything. His hand was forced by his board. He didn’t have the complete control he enjoys now. They couldn’t be seen to be taking an easy line on models doing drugs…not when that girl had died so soon before…’
Sorcha felt cold all of a sudden. She was barely able to take in Maud’s words, her mind seizing on the girl that she’d mentioned. She had been a young model on the brink of stardom who’d overdosed and died only weeks before Sorcha’s own chain of events had unfolded. It always made her feel sick, and impotent with anger and guilt. It was one of the reasons she’d finally followed her heart in the past year and tried to do something about those past events—something concrete…
Maud stood up and came round to perch one hip on her desk. She looked at Sorcha from over her spectacles. ‘I’ll tell you something else that no one knows…’ She sighed. ‘It might help you understand…’
Sorcha looked at Maud curiously.
‘His own mother was a drug addict. She died of an overdose. So, you see, he has a very personal abhorrence of drugs.’
Sorcha felt a dart of sympathy. But then she remembered the condemnation in his eyes and forced her mind to clear the images she always worked so hard to avoid. She said, somewhat stiltedly, ‘Well, his own personal issues aside, I’m sorry for him—but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour. When he spoke to me the other night it was obvious he still believes that I’m involved in something. He’s not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m sorry, Maud, but I’m taking my few months out. You know I’ve been promising this to myself for the past year.’
Her eyes beseeched her agency boss. Maud looked fierce for a second, and then shrugged. ‘I think you’re mad, Sorcha. I’ll let him know, but I warn you—once he’s decided on something he’s not one to give up easily. He may even try to go through your Irish agency, knowing that you’re headed back there. His board of management are adamant about using you…’
Sorcha shot to her feet. ‘See! He’s been forced into this against his will. He won’t push it if I refuse. Please, just tell him and see for yourself. He’ll walk away without a backward glance.’
Sorcha closed her eyes and gripped the handrest as the plane took off. She hated take-offs. She always imagined the bottom of the plane scraping along the ground at the last moment, and then there was that wobbly bit as it fought for equilibrium in the air—
‘Are you all right, dear?’
She opened her eyes and looked at the kind, elderly woman on her right. She smiled weakly, but she could feel the sweat on her brow and knew she must be pale from the concerned look the woman was giving her.
‘Fine. Sorry—I just hate taking off. No matter how often I fly, it doesn’t get better.’
‘Ah, well, sure it’s only a short enough flight. We’ll be home in no time.’
Sorcha smiled and turned back to look out of the window. Home. Ireland. She’d only been back intermittently between jobs in the past year, to work on her project whenever she had the chance, and she’d missed it—missed her apartment. The home she shared with Kate in New York was Kate’s. But her place in Dublin was hers. Bought and paid for with her own hard-earned money.
The plane was stabilising at last, so Sorcha’s hands eased their death grip and she sat back and closed her eyes. It had been ten days since the night of the function in New York, and she hadn’t stopped working since then. Every day had been packed to the brim. Even so that man—his voice, his face, his air of intense, focused energy—would slip into her consciousness and take up residence.
Just thinking about him made her heart speed up, her breath quicken. And made a whole host of other sensations race through her body. She hated that she could be having this kind of reaction to someone who had so carelessly played God with her life, her career. She forced herself to relax. Hadn’t she walked away from him? Yet the look in his eyes when she’d left him standing there that night had been so intense…Maud hadn’t had to warn her. She was sure that he was a man who would be single-minded in his pursuit of anything…or
