A Very French Affair: Bought for the Frenchman's Pleasure / Breaking the Boss's Rules / Her Secret Husband
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Romain ordered the fish special, and Sorcha ordered a steak with mash. He reacted almost comically to her order. Sorcha caught his look and read it in a second. How could she forget that she was in the presence of a serial lothario? After that night in New York Katie had been only too eager to fill her in on his reputation, which would have made Casanova blush. Her mouth tightened. He was used to this, of course. Taking models out. Wining and dining them. And no doubt he’d never heard any of them ask for anything more substantial than a lettuce leaf dressed with half a grape.
She caught the waiter just before he left the table and smiled broadly. ‘Could you make that a double portion of mash, please?’
When she looked back to Romain she could see what looked suspiciously like a twitch on his mouth. Damn him. Her small childish gesture felt flat and silly now.
They sat looking at each other for a long moment. Sorcha refused to be the one to break her gaze first. And when he spoke she felt light-headed—as if she’d scored some tiny yet triumphant victory.
‘Let me tell you a little more about the campaign. I feel that perhaps I didn’t give you the full picture before.’
Sorcha’s tone was a dry as sandpaper. ‘Don’t worry—I get the picture. You’ve got it in for me, and even though I’ll be getting paid, it’ll be Sorcha Murphy to the gallows again. Although this time with silk gloves on.’
He looked at her for a long moment and felt a surge of something rush through him. Her self deprecation caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to women displaying that kind of humour around him. Not ones who looked like Sorcha Murphy.
‘To an extent you might perceive that to be the case. And based on what I said earlier I can’t blame you. However, it’s not an entirely accurate picture…’
Sorcha was surprised to find that he was almost apologising, as if he knew he’d been less than sensitive. She found herself nodding slightly, as if to encourage him to continue, and knew that while she wished she could have walked away well before now, having told him what he could do with his job, another part of her was only too happy to be here, experiencing this man’s full wattage up close.
At that moment, before he could continue, the waiter arrived at the table with a bottle of wine. Romain tasted it, and took the liberty of pouring them both a glass. Sorcha felt as though perhaps she shouldn’t take any—as if drinking wine might somehow confirm his bad opinion of her—and then berated herself. She wasn’t going to change anything for him. She didn’t care about his opinion, she told herself staunchly.
He tipped his glass in a mocking salute, and Sorcha took a sip from hers. The cool crisp white wine slipped down her throat like velvet. She thought dimly that it had no right to taste, feel so good in such a situation.
His beautifully shaped brown hand played with his glass, distracting her. She felt like clamping a hand over his to stop him, felt annoyed with him for having this power…and then he spoke again, bringing her attention back to his face and his mouth, which was even worse.
‘What I was talking about—using you for what you can bring to the campaign in terms of your past…your apparent redemption…quite apart from your undeniable beauty…’
Sorcha went pink. She hated it when anyone made reference like that to her looks. She quickly took a sip of her drink before he could notice. But he frowned slightly, those dark brows drawing together as if she puzzled him. She didn’t want to puzzle him. She didn’t want him to look any further than Sorcha Murphy the model, who would stand in front of a photographer and get the shots they required.
‘Go on. Please.’ Her voice sounded slightly strangled, and she breathed a sigh of relief when the intensity left his face.
‘Your past would never be mentioned, never alluded to. What I’m talking about is a…subliminal message, if you will. Counting on the fact that people will see you and may remember, or not, where you came from, what happened…That will elevate the campaign beyond the ordinary, because they will empathise with you.’
‘This must be some campaign if you’re putting this much thought into it,’ she said, somewhat shakily.
He nodded. ‘It is very special. Like I said, it is to showcase a selection of luxury goods and clothes supplied by my various companies, but it’s also going to promote a way of living. It’s a move away from the vigorous advertising that is common now—this will be much more…dreamlike…evocative. It centres on two people—a man and a woman—who we follow as they travel all across the world in a romantic game of cat and mouse…’
Sorcha felt for a very uncanny moment as if he might be talking about them—but that was ridiculous.
Interested despite herself, she shrugged minutely. ‘That does sound…intriguing.’
‘And is it killing you to say that?’ he asked with a mocking smile.
She shook her head, eyes flashing.
He sat forward then, making her nervous. ‘Lisa also mentioned something else to me.’
Now Sorcha was really nervous. Her mind raced…Surely Lisa wouldn’t have told him about—?
‘The youth outreach centre?’
Sorcha blanched, and Romain saw her reaction. Her eyes were two huge pools of liquid blue, and that damned vulnerability was back.
Sorcha couldn’t believe it. How could Lisa have done that? Although, after sitting with the man for less than an hour, Sorcha knew what a physical struggle it was to resist him.
‘What did she tell you?’ She asked tightly, every line of her body screaming with tension.
‘Just that you’ve been working on it for the past few years, and it’s due to open a couple of weeks after we finish shooting…’
Every ounce of self-protection in Sorcha rose up. This was so close to the heart of her, such a treasured secret, that even to be discussing it with him was overwhelming. And worse, if he decided to delve any deeper…Sorcha started to shake inwardly. ‘Yes. It is. But it’s no concern of yours—’
‘Or yours either, apparently. Lisa said that you’ve only been back periodically to oversee the building in the past year.’
The unfairness of his attack made Sorcha reel slightly. She saw spots before her eyes. But she realised quickly that if he thought that, then she could in fact use it.
She lifted one slim shoulder and glanced away, but try as she might she couldn’t totally disguise her turmoil. She looked back at Romain and steeled herself. ‘Like I said, it’s none of your business what my involvement is in the outreach centre…’ She faltered. She felt as if she was jinxing it just talking about it with him. ‘So I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring it up again.’
He ignored her. ‘Tell me, Sorcha, is it all part of the façade? To make people think you’ve changed? Did you see someone else, another celebrity, do something similar and think that you’d do the same?’ Cynicism twisted his beautiful mouth. ‘After all, you can’t beat the publicity you’ll get on the day. Tell me have you already picked out what you’re going to wear as you cut the ribbon?’
Sorcha sat back. A wave of hurt, stunning in its intensity, made her chest tighten. It was as if he had gone inside, to her most inner, secret part and slowly ripped it out to examine. He had no idea. And he mustn’t. With superhuman effort she drummed up the brittle shell of her composure, and said, ‘Why not? I may as well get as much out of it as I can.’
When she saw his look of supreme…righteousness, her anger rose, swift and potent. She leant forward again.
‘Tell me, did you walk into that agency and deduct a few noughts from my pay cheque once you saw how easy it would be?’ She shook her head, unbelievably hurt and stung, but determined not to show it. ‘Men like you disgust me. You don’t know when to stop. When it’s enough. Like when someone says no they mean no.’
He reached across the table so fast she couldn’t escape, and he caught her hand in his. His grip was harsh, and Sorcha gasped as she felt her pulse jump straight to triple time.
‘Just as you say about yourself, you know nothing about me. So don’t presume anything.’
He looked genuinely angry, and Sorcha quailed under his fierce gaze.
‘Where I come from it would be unthinkably brutal to force anyone to do anything against their will. This is a job, Sorcha—that’s all. I’ve merely used a little leverage to get what I want. Tell me, is it really going to be so hard to pout and pose for a couple of weeks all around the world? To live in luxury and walk away with a few hundred thousand in your back pocket? To see a small agency benefit from the kind of exposure and money only you can bring them?’
She snatched her hand back, shaken to the core. His opinion of her was poisonous. It was tainted. She had to go—get away. She was feeling overwhelmed and seriously out of her depth. Couldn’t think straight.
‘I…I’ve lost my appetite.’ The thought of eating now was making her feel sick. She stood up, picking up her jacket. Manners ingrained over years meant she couldn’t just run out of the door, much as she wanted to. ‘Please excuse me.’
And she turned and walked out, an awful urge to cry made her clench her jaw, lips tight together. She knew her reaction was vastly disproportionate to what had just happened. He was right. She knew that it was just a job, that in the end of course she could weather anything for a couple of weeks—especially if it meant her good friend got a cut. But that man—
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder just as she reached the doors. She whirled around jerkily, her reaction not from surprise but to his touch.
‘Sorcha, I—’
‘Look, I’ll do your job.’ She avoided looking him in the eye, tried to make her voice light to distract him from the fact that she was a quivering mass of confusion and hurt. And to feel so hurt when she barely even knew this man? It just didn’t make sense. ‘I’ve no choice, and of course you’re right. How can I turn down such a lucrative offer? After all, that is what I’m interested in isn’t it?’
She couldn’t help but look up then, but couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. It wasn’t what she’d expected. Not being able to read it made her feel even more panicky.
‘Sorcha, look, I think we’ve got off to a bad—’
‘Oh, don’t say it—please. How could we ever have got off to a good start? You’re the man who judged me on the basis of little more than hearsay and a grainy photograph eight years ago, who still assumes I’m walking around with track marks hidden on my body. I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I’ve never touched a drug in my life?’ She answered herself with a short harsh laugh. ‘Don’t bother answering. Of course not.’
She shrugged out from under his hand and moved away, closer to the door. He grabbed her wrist and, loath as she was to leave it there, because that same burning sensation was making her tingle all over, she didn’t want him to see how his touch affected her. He was only trying to smooth over turbulent waters. He was a manipulator. There to make sure she toed the line, did as she was told.
She looked at him unflinchingly and her eyes were huge. The glasses were giving her a potent air of subdued sexiness that she was oblivious to. ‘Just tell me where and when.’
He didn’t speak for a long moment. She fought to appear cool, in control. The past was something that represented her own private hell. She knew there were parts of it, parts of her, that she hadn’t looked at for a long time, had hoped she’d dealt with. Single-handed, this man was raking up a veritable field of emotional land mines.
‘You have a week off. You’ll be picked up from your apartment here in Dublin in a week’s time—ten a.m. I’ll send you over the schedule for the shoot.’
She nodded jerkily, finally retrieved her hand, and backed away through the door. For some bizarre reason she couldn’t break her gaze from his until the last moment. Then thankfully the door opened behind her, and she slipped through and was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROMAIN watched her go through the swinging doors, catching fleeting glimpses as they swung back and forth. A whole host of conflicting emotions and desires were battling under the surface of his cool grey gaze. He was watching her walk away for the second time.
He vowed at that moment that he would never watch her walk away again. An image crashed into his head of her lying underneath him, her sable hair spread out on a pillow, cheeks pink with arousal and passion. She was looking up, her blue eyes darkened, slumberous, and she was slowly bringing his head back down to hers, where their mouths…His whole body seemed to be igniting from the inside even as he tried to quash the picture. But its eroticism lingered. He wanted her badly. Past or no past; job or no job.
He shrugged mentally. So what if she was the first woman he’d take to bed who didn’t like him, or profess to love him? For him that was the kiss of death to any relationship. He was a man who didn’t deal in emotions like like or love. Their mutual antipathy could be transformed into passion. Of that he was sure. It would add an edge that was sorely lacking in his life.
He felt ruthless, almost cruel for making her do this. Then wondered broodingly if it was all an act. That effortless display of vulnerability. The hurt in her eyes when he had speculated on her motives for being involved with the outreach centre. The confusion that had assailed him when she had laughed off the suggestion that he could possibly believe she’d never been involved with drugs.
How could he be feeling in the wrong when he was offering her the kind of contract that any other model would sell their right kidney for? And why wasn’t she grateful?
With an abrupt harsh movement he walked back to the table, oblivious to the covetous glances of women as he passed by. Making his apologies to the maître d’, he followed the path that Sorcha had just taken and, despite his reasoning to himself, as he took the lift back up to his suite he felt curiously empty. For the first time ever—despite the huge workload ahead of him, and the fact he’d be crossing the world twice in the next few days—the week seemed to stretch ahead into infinity.
The helicopter was coming in low, closer and closer to the lush green land underneath. A mark for landing materialised as if from nowhere, and to Sorcha she’d never seen anything so welcome in her life. The last forty-five minutes had been pure torture. However terrifying she found taking off in a normal-sized plane, her fear had been magnified by one hundred in this tiny machine for the duration of the journey. Her only companion, the chatty make-up artist Lucy, had happily not been able to even try and make conversation. The noise was too loud.
At last they landed. Sorcha’s breathing finally returned to normal—only to shoot off the Richter scale again when she looked out of the window and saw a gleaming four-wheel drive with a tall, familiarly dark figure leaning nonchalantly against the bonnet in the near distance, arms crossed over a formidable chest. She gulped. This was it. No going back. Long days stretched ahead in which she was going to have to see him every day, every night and hour in between. Even though she hadn’t done a location job as long as this before, she’d been away on enough shoots to know what a hothouse atmosphere it was.
As she emerged, feeling decidedly shaky—and not just from the helicopter ride—she slipped on her sunglasses. Early spring on Inis Mór, the biggest of the Aran Islands just off the west coast of Ireland, was brisk and breezy, and rare brilliant sunshine glanced off every surface. The tall figure pushed himself away from the Jeep and strolled towards her. He was even more gorgeous than she remembered, and she stumbled slightly on the bottom step. Thankfully, glasses shielded his eyes too. He was wearing jeans and a casual jumper, making him disturbingly casual, altogether more…earthy, male.
He held out his hand for her bag. ‘Welcome.’
Sorcha held onto it like a lifeline and found that she couldn’t utter a word. It was simply too much to be facing him again, and the hurt from their last meeting was still fresh.
His brow quirked over his glasses at the way she held onto the bag. He gestured with a hand. ‘It’s a beautiful location, no?’
Sorcha knew exactly how lovely it was. Not too far away, at the end of the field, a steep cliff dropped to the Atlantic Ocean, where grey-green swells with white tops battered the cliffs. Thankfully she hadn’t noticed how close they’d been to the edge of the cliff, or that would have made the landing even worse. Then she saw his attention divert.
‘Ah, you must be Lucy. Welcome. The crew minibus is here to take you to your lodgings. You’re the last ones to arrive.’
Sorcha watched him greet Lucy, and saw the inevitable reaction as the younger girl took him in. Unbelievable. As he walked Lucy over to a minibus that Sorcha hadn’t even noticed, she followed, assuming that it was for her too.
Just as she was about to get in the passenger seat, she heard a curt, ‘No, Sorcha. You’re coming with me.’
She turned and found he was very close behind her. She couldn’t step back.
‘But if I’m staying with the crew then I might as well go with Lucy.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re not staying with the crew. You’re staying with me.’
Panic flared in her belly. ‘But—’
His mouth tightened. ‘And the cameramen.’
‘Oh.’
She looked back for a second and saw Lucy looking from one to the other with a speculative gleam. Knowing the insidious spread of gossip on any shoot, Sorcha didn’t want to be giving any fodder within minutes of landing on the island.
She slammed the door shut again behind her and smiled brightly. ‘Of course—I should have guessed.’ She looked back to Lucy. ‘See you in the morning, no doubt…’
‘You’ll see each other later. We’re having a dinner so that everyone can meet and get to know one another.’
And with that he bade goodbye to Lucy, took Sorcha’s bag out of her white-knuckle grasp and was soon striding back to his Jeep.
She trotted after him, stupidly incensed that he could walk faster than her, and felt indignation rise at his high-handed manner. When she caught up with him he’d already stowed her bag and was holding open the passenger door. She also hated the fact that she was slightly breathless.
‘I would normally stay with the crew. They’re going to think it’s odd if I’m with you and the photographers.’
‘Worried about gossip, Sorcha?’
His disbelieving tone mocked her. After a week of telling herself that she wouldn’t let him get to her, already she was failing abysmally. ‘Yes, actually. Having me stay with you will be an excuse for them to think—’
‘I intend to have my wicked way with you?’ That supercilious brow arched again.
Sorcha’s stomach clenched down low, and she reacted defensively—as if he had seen her inner turmoil, her helpless attraction. ‘Of course not.’ She forced herself to stop. He couldn’t read her mind. ‘That is…I mean, yes—they may think that.’ She gave a short, unamused laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry—I know you’d never taint yourself, touching someone like me. I’ve no doubt it would turn your moral stomach.’
She could feel her breasts rise up and down with her agitated breath, and hated the fact that she couldn’t remain cool and unflappable in the face of his censure, as she had planned. And why wasn’t he saying something? He was standing very still, and suddenly Sorcha realised that he was much closer. As if he’d moved without her realising it. Her breath hitched, and stopped altogether when a lean brown hand reached out to cup her jaw.
She felt all at once dizzy, bemused, confused, and a torrent of heat was racing upwards from her belly.
His voice was husky, had a quality that caught her on the raw. ‘Actually, you’re quite wrong.’
Her mouth opened. She frowned slightly. She couldn’t see his eyes. And then he was gone—had stepped back and away as if the last few seconds hadn’t even happened. Sorcha had to grab the door for support. She felt adrift. What had he just said? That he would want to touch her? Or that he knew the others would think that he wanted to have his wicked way with her? She couldn’t think straight.
She heard a door slam, and a cool voice came from the interior of the Jeep. ‘Well? Are you going to stand there admiring the view all day?’
Romain strode away from the door he’d just shut, behind which lay the living, breathing embodiment of his sleepless nights for the past week. Sorcha Murphy.
He had to clench his hands into fists. Seeing her emerge from the tiny helicopter less than half an hour before, he’d felt the upsurge of a desire so hot, so immediate, that he had reeled with the force of it. Her obvious reluctance to share his lodgings, albeit with others, had rankled in a way that he really didn’t care for. And when he’d cupped her jaw with his hand…She had no idea how close he’d come to hauling her to him and ravaging that soft mouth. Crushing her to him.
He didn’t act on basic instincts like that. In fact, although he’d desired plenty of women, not one of them had come close to igniting such forcible desire. He’d had no intention of making his needs so obvious to her, and yet he had. He hadn’t ever lost control like that.
A dark, wispy memory struggled up through the threads of his consciousness. At least not since…then. And that was so long ago. Would he never be free of that? And why was he allowing Sorcha Murphy to even evoke that memory?
Sorcha threw off the knitted shawl she’d been wearing, feeling hot and bothered, and paced the beautifully furnished bedroom with pent-up energy. She’d barely noticed the understated luxury of the old converted farmhouse. The amazing view of green fields and the huge expanse of ocean in the distance went over her head. Even the way the wild garden tapered down to a beach at the back of the house.
She’d hardly exchanged two words with Romain in the Jeep. The tension had been heavy and pulsating between them. She was still going over his words obsessively, and yet nothing in his behaviour since he’d cupped her jaw had led her to think for a second that he did desire her. It was as if a switch had been flicked. Once he’d shown her to her bedroom he’d curtly informed her to come back downstairs in an hour, so she could meet the others. They were to give her a briefing on the schedule for the shoot, go through the storyboards.
She sank back onto the bed. Her heart was racing. Two weeks—two weeks of suffering under his condemning looks. Could she do it?
Lisa’s face flashed into her head. And also the outreach centre. In the last week, working intensively with the board at the centre, she’d realised that the money she’d earn from this job could go straight into that and would more than cover the first few months’ overheads. It would mean that the centre would have absolutely every possible chance to succeed and flourish…especially as she’d been planning on her involvement being pro bono.
She had no choice. She was here now. For better or worse. And she would just have to keep in mind all the people who would benefit from this when things got rough.
‘It’s a love story…the images will run together almost like a short film.’
Sorcha choked slightly, her attention suddenly and spectacularly brought back into the huge dining room where she sat with Simon, the film cameraman, Dominic, the photographer, and Romain, who sat across the table, his huge taut body lounging against a high-backed antique chair.
The moment she’d walked into the room some minutes before, all her recent rationalising had fled out of the window. Her entire focus had been taken by him—again. She’d noticed in a flash that he’d just had a shower. The clean crisp scent had hit her so strongly that she’d imagined everyone must be able to smell it. His hair was still damp, furrowed from where he’d obviously run fingers through it. And yet when she’d looked at him he’d been practically glacial, those grey eyes as cold as the nearby ocean.