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‘Do you forget that you were a seventeen-year-old drug addict?’ he said with harsh inflection. ‘Photographed unconscious on the street?’
A pain so sharp that it caused her to stop breathing for a second made Sorcha want to curl inwards. Guilt, shame, and an old, old fear all vied for supremacy. With what felt like a superhuman effort she found some hard brittle shell left. She tossed her hair with studied indifference, and was too wound up to notice the tiny flash in the cool grey gaze.
Her voice was scathing. ‘If you’ve got nothing more to do than come over here like some kind of outdated moral judge and check for track marks on my arms, then please excuse me—’ She turned to go, and was taking a step away when her wrist was caught in a strong grip. His touch seared through her whole body like a brand. He slowly and very calmly turned her palm upwards, and made a thorough study up and down the underside of her milky white arm.
‘No,’ he said musingly. ‘No track marks. But then I’m sure you’re an intelligent woman. You’d have them well hidden.’
Sorcha finally yanked her arm free and hugged it close to her chest, as though he had burnt her. Her voice was shaking with emotion, and to her utter horror she could feel the sting of tears at the back of her eyelids. ‘Mr de Valois, if you would please excuse me? I am here in a work capacity tonight for your aunt. I don’t want to cause a scene, but trust me when I say that if you try to stop me leaving again I will scream this room down.’
‘There’s no need for such dramatics Miss Murphy—or should I say Quinn? And if you did anything of the sort I’d put you over my shoulder and carry you out like a child having a tantrum.’
Sorcha gulped, her bravado in short supply all of a sudden. She didn’t doubt his words for a second, and the thought of him throwing her over his impossibly broad shoulder…She could feel the heat flare up from her stomach.
She furiously willed a body which seemed to have been invaded by an alien force to obey her silent command to stop reacting to his presence, and gritted out, ‘It’s Murphy to you. If all you want is to see the tabloid fodder you chewed up and spat out, then have a good look.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he drawled, and Sorcha mentally castigated herself for her careless words.
She didn’t want this man’s attention on her…any part of her.
‘You’ve certainly grown up…and filled out.’
She sucked in a breath, unaware that her innocent movement caused his eyes to be drawn back to those parts of her body where they had rested briefly in an eloquent accompaniment to his words.
‘I was just a teenager—’
‘No teenager I knew stayed out till six a.m. every morning, drinking champagne all night, taking cocktails of various drugs to stay awake—’
He glanced pointedly at the glass in her hand. Her knuckles were white on the stem because she gripped it so tightly. Following his glance, and feeling suddenly reckless and rebellious, she tipped the glass to him in a salute. ‘Well, I must say it’s nice to meet the man who once called me the poison seeping into the industry…Here’s to you, Mr de Valois. I wish you luck on your crusade to rid the world of imperfect people!’
And with that Sorcha downed the half empty glass in one go. Very carefully she put it down on a nearby table. And while she still could, feeling sick from the immediate rush of a drink she didn’t usually favour, she spun on impossibly high heels and strode away from him, the silk 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 anyone.
Since leaving Maud’s office, only three days before, she’d half expected him to turn up at any moment and demand that she do the job—which she couldn’t believe she’d even been considered for, if it was half as amazing as Maud had outlined. There were plenty more models who were far more ambitious, who always got the big campaigns. So why had not seeing him, not hearing anything, led her to feel like a cat on a hot tin roof? Why had she found herself jumping every time the phone rang, only to be in some tiny and very treacherous way disappointed when it had just been Katie or her brother?
She’d met the man for mere moments, and he had proved himself to be every bit as arrogant, judgmental and overbearing as she would have expected. Why did it have to be someone like him who seemed to be cracking through the armour she’d erected around herself for so long? Why couldn’t someone else be making her heart quicken, her breath shorten just thinking of them? Someone nice, unassuming, non-threatening. Someone who would be gentle, kind, sensitive. Certainly not tall, powerful, dark and mysterious…arrogant, overbearing, too confident, too sexual—
‘So, dear, were you on holiday in America?’
Sorcha nearly jumped out of her skin—she’d been so intent on listing Romain de Valois’s negative attributes to herself.
She shook her head, as much to herself as anyone else, and smiled.
‘No…unfortunately not. I’ve been working…’
With some kind of cowardly relief, she allowed herself to be sucked into inane conversation. Anything to stop dangerous thoughts and images circulating in her head. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to meet him again anyway…
Sorcha’s mobile was ringing as soon as she arrived at her apartment. She dumped her suitcase and fished it out of her handbag. No number was listed on the screen, but she figured it was because it was either Katie, her mother or her over-protective big brother, checking in to see if she’d landed in one piece, and they were all abroad. She smiled as she answered.
‘OK, whichever one of you it is. I’m fine, I’ve just landed, and the plane didn’t crash—although at one stage I seriously thought—’
‘Hello, Sorcha.’
Words froze on her lips. Her mouth stayed open. Her throat dried. That voice. His voice. Deep, authoritative, sensual. Disturbingly close. Her hand gripped the phone tight.
‘I’m sorry, who is this?’
A soft chuckle made her insides quiver. ‘You’re pretending to have forgotten me already?’
The conceited arrogance of the man! She knew very well who it was, and hated that he could be here, in her space, even if just on the end of a tenuous connection. She felt guilty—as though she’d conjured him up with her imaginings. She would not give him the satisfaction of letting him know that she knew it was him. Even though she burned to know what he wanted.
As if reading her every thought, he spoke with low, seductive deadliness. ‘I got your number from Maud, who informed me of your plans to go home. I know you’ve probably just arrived, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as possible.’
Sorcha closed her eyes for a second, knowing it would be futile to pretend ignorance of the power he had. The man was so confidently arrogant that he hadn’t even given her time to play dumb.
‘Yes, I am back in Dublin now. Thousands of miles from New York. I’m taking a well-earned break—’
‘I’ve got a job proposal to discuss with you.’
Sorcha’s mouth opened and closed, a whole host of conflicting emotions see—sawing through her at the realisation that he was determined to pursue her for this job. But it would be untenable, unthinkable—surely he could see that?
‘I’m afraid I’m not doing any jobs for the foreseeable future. I’ve been working back to back for the past year—not that it’s any business of yours—and now I’m taking time off. As I told Maud before I left, I’m sure you’ll find another model who can do whatever it is you have in mind. Thanks for the call, though. Goodbye.’
She was in the act of taking the phone away from her ear, about to switch it off, when she heard a silky,
‘Wait. You might want to hear what I have to say about the job.’
Reluctantly she brought the phone back to her ear. ‘I’ve already explained—’
‘I’m here in Dublin too, actually. I arrived yesterday. Charming city.’
Sorcha nearly dropped the phone in shock, her hand suddenly sweaty. He was here? In Dublin?
Feeling very agitated, she walked over to her fourth-floor window and looked down to the street outside—almost as if he might be standing there looking up at her. But the road surrounding her side of Merrion Square was empty, the inner-city rush hour traffic having been and gone. Her heart was pumping erratically.
Trying not to sound panicked, she said lightly, ‘That’s great. Enjoy your visit, Monsieur de Valois. There are plenty of very good modelling agencies—’
‘I had a lovely meeting this afternoon with your Irish agent Lisa. Very accommodating. I’ve given her the brief for the job, and she agrees with me that you’re perfect for what we’re looking for.’
Sorcha closed her eyes again and sank into the couch just behind her, under the window. This was exactly what Maud had warned her he might do. It was what she’d been hoping to avoid—at least until she’d booked herself some secluded time away. She hadn’t told her Irish agent that she was coming home, knowing full well that she’d have her booked to within an inch of her life before she’d even stepped off the plane. Sorcha was one of their biggest success stories and exports, and Lisa was the agent who had spotted her in the first place. She always felt duty-bound to do as much work for her as she could whenever she came home…as some sort of payback for having defected to the States.
‘So, Lisa knows I’m home…’ she said dully—as if she even needed to ask.
‘She does.’
He sounded so smug that Sorcha sat forward on her couch, anger surging through her veins at the thought that this man, in his stubborn pursuit of whatever it was he wanted, had scuppered her plans for rest and relaxation—not to mention the time she’d put aside to work on the important project that was so dear to her heart. ‘Why are you doing this? You can’t seriously mean to work with me. You’ve made your opinion abundantly clear, Monsieur de Valois, and I won’t have you watching my every move. Just because you can’t handle someone turning you down—’
‘Careful, Sorcha.’ His voice for the first time sounded hard and lethal.
She stopped despite herself.
‘All I’m suggesting is that you meet with Lisa tomorrow. She will tell you what I’m proposing. The decision as to whether or not you want to meet me to discuss the job further will be entirely up to you. No one will force you to do this.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u96210df4-c053-5fd1-be0c-16231f16d7ef)
NO-ONEwill force you to do this…
They wouldn’t have to, Sorcha thought grimly as she walked the short journey from her agent’s office to Romain’s exclusive hotel the following day. Lisa had told her where he’d be for their ‘meeting’. She had to hand it to him. He must have walked into the small Irish modelling agency and laughed out loud. It would have been like taking candy from a baby.
She could picture it now: the industry’s most powerful head—a person who held the kind of authority that would make anyone dizzy, a man responsible for countless designers and their merchandise and advertising, not to mention his high profile as one of the world’s most eligible and handsome men—walked into a tiny basement agency, offered them a deal for one of their models that was in excess of six figures…Well, you wouldn’t have to be a rocket scientist to do the maths.
When Sorcha had walked in that morning the place had been buzzing, the excitement palpable. Pretty Woman was not one of the most successful agencies in Dublin, but it was friendly, the girls were lovely, and Lisa had become a good friend to Sorcha. When her career had started to take off in Dublin, and then London, Sorcha had refused to leave Lisa’s representation, despite being told it could sabotage her career. And then when the tide had turned against her Lisa had remained loyal in the face of scathing public opinion. Her debt to Lisa was much the same as her one to Katie. Never mentioned, never referred to, but there.
Sorcha was well aware that Pretty Woman wasn’t doing as well as other agencies. In fact the last time she’d been home Lisa had confided to her that if not for Sorcha the agency might have to close down. So now what was she supposed to do? Romain de Valois had just offered them a massively lucrative job—Lisa had even mentioned that they were hoping to expand their offices on the back of it! The proviso, of course, was that Sorcha had to be the model. Romain had told Lisa that he would not under any circumstances even entertain looking at anyone else.
Seething silently, she made her way through the pedestrian crush on the streets. The air was mild, and blue skies made Dublin look its best, but she barely noticed. Romain de Valois had painted her into a corner and thrown away the brush.
She crossed a busy road and the huge hotel loomed magnificent and ornate just opposite, gleaming in the sunshine. It stood overlooking the main city park, which bloomed with colour. Everything fled her mind as she approached closer and closer. And again she remonstrated with herself. How could such a brief meeting in one night have made such an impact? Why had he pushed her buttons so easily? She didn’t want to know, she told herself hastily. And now he was here…controlling her life like a puppet master.
She let the indignation rise. Anything to help block out the far more conflicting feelings—like one in particular, which felt suspiciously and awfully like excitement at the thought of seeing him again.
Romain sat in a high-backed chair at the rear of the main reception room in the recently refurbished Shelbourne Hotel. With his elbows on the armrests, he rested his chin on steepled fingers. He’d positioned himself in such a way that he would see Sorcha arrive before she saw him.
A necessary precaution, as he was suddenly questioning his very sanity. After that night something compelling had taken him over. When further pushed by Maud, who’d assured him of Sorcha’s professionalism again, and then by his board it had seemed almost easy to give in, to allow himself to be swayed. And now he couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d flown halfway across the world to chase a woman. His mouth compressed. He might try to dress it up, call it something else, pretend to himself that his main motive was to get her for this very genuine ad campaign—which he still couldn’t believe she’d had the temerity to turn down—but the reality, as he knew well, was that she was the first woman who’d walked away from him.
His mouth twisted. Yet if he could make sure that she behaved, make sure she stayed clean, then perhaps…this could work. After all, he would be on hand every step of the way to ensure things went the way he wanted. He didn’t usually consider mixing business with pleasure, but now…He was at a stage in his career where his absolute control meant he could do as he pleased…he was beholden to none. Maybe for once he could relax that rigid control a little. The thought of taming Sorcha Murphy was making that sense of dissatisfaction a distant memory.
And then in an instant she was there. That jolt went through his body again, taking him by surprise. His eyes ran over her hungrily, as if inspecting a thoroughbred. From the tip of her shiny black hair, tied back into a low ponytail, to the plain white shirt and casual jacket over worn jeans, all the way to the scuffed runners on her feet. She’d made no effort to impress him—the staid black frames of the sensible glasses perched on her nose said that—and yet her beauty was ethereal and intoxicatingly earthy, just as he had remembered. Unlike other models, who sometimes looked strange in real life, their proportions working for the camera but weirdly not in the flesh, Sorcha looked as good off the page, if not even better, and that was rare. A frisson of excitement ran through him as he saw the concierge point in his direction and their eyes met.
Let the battle commence.
As Sorcha approached Romain, she felt as self conscious as she had her first day on a catwalk. She had that same unsettling reaction she’d had in New York. All of her antipathy, all of her preconceived notions fled as she walked towards him—and then he compounded it by standing with lithe grace. Even taller, broader, more powerful than she remembered. Darker…That hint of Far Eastern lineage struck her again. She reached him, he held out a hand. This time, still in shock to think that he could be here, Sorcha let her hand be taken by his. It was firm, cool. His fingers closed around hers and she felt a crazy pulse throb fleetingly and disturbingly between her legs.
‘Sorcha.’ He indicated a seat opposite and didn’t let go of her hand until she sat down. When she finally got it back it was tingling.
She wished for some sanity for reality to come back into her head, which felt woozy. She was determined not to be staying for longer than a few minutes at the most, and perched uncomfortably on the edge of her chair. All previous thoughts of Pretty Woman and Lisa fled in proximity to this man.
‘Mr de Valois—’
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses.’
Sorcha’s mouth stayed open. She felt nonplussed until she put up a hand and felt the familiar frames on her nose. She’d been so preoccupied that she hadn’t even noticed that she’d forgotten to take them off. Even though her eyes weren’t so bad that she needed them right now, she suddenly wanted to keep them on.
‘Well, I’m sorry if they’re putting you off, Mr de Valois. I’m afraid, along with my other failings, I’m also slightly long-sighted.’
