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Val got distracted by someone and walked away just as a bell sounded for dinner. Sorcha already felt wrung out. She made to move, but was blocked by Romain’s tall body.
‘What did you stop Val telling me?’
She should have known he wouldn’t let it go—and she had diverted Val with all the subtlety of a brick. Hemmed in between a chair and Romain, she could see everyone filing out to the dining room across the hall and looked after them wistfully.
‘Nothing.’ She sounded evasive.
‘What was he talking about, and why did you distract him from telling me?’
Why was she feeling so self-protective? It wouldn’t mean anything if she told him…if anything it might make him respect her more. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She didn’t want to tell him because she didn’t want him to know anything about her. And if he knew this…well, it might make him curious about other things. She needed to keep him at a distance. And then she remembered his scathing response to her involvement with the outreach centre.
She looked up and held her gaze to his, even though it wasn’t easy. That intense grey seemed to enmesh her every sense. The room was silent. Everyone was gone, and again it was just the two of them. She willed ice into her eyes and into her veins, which seemed to be far too heated of late.
‘He was talking about something that would be of no interest to you. It was personal and private, and he’d forgotten that I’d asked him not to mention it to anyone, that’s all. Anyway, how could you possibly be interested in anything about me?’
‘Oh, but I am, Sorcha—very interested. You’re mine for the next two weeks. And you’re an expensive commodity.’
Her eyes blazed with sudden fury, and she hated the frisson that had skittered down her spine at the way he’d said ‘very interested’.
‘That does not give you the right to pry. I told you before—stay out of my private life.’
His face came close to hers. ‘The hell I will—especially if you’re thinking of getting cosy with Dominic…’
She reared back. ‘What?’
‘I saw you two earlier.’
‘You saw nothing.’
‘I saw—’
‘Come on, you two. We’re all waiting to eat!’
Sorcha jerked her head round to see Val at the door, with a curious look on his face.
Romain was smooth, as if he got caught in heated dialogue every day. He gestured for Sorcha to precede him from the room, and her legs felt shaky as she did so. She avoided Val’s eye, knowing full well that there’d be a very questioning look on his face. He knew her well enough to know that she didn’t get into heated debates with gorgeous men.
Dinner provided a brief respite. Sorcha found herself seated next to Lucy, who was as chatty as ever, and Simon. He was busy explaining the logistics of how they would be shooting. She couldn’t, however, be unaware of the man on the opposite side of the huge table. Every now and then she’d feel a prickling sensation on her neck and look up, only to find that Romain would be deep in conversation with the stylist, Claire, who had grabbed a seat beside him with more haste than grace.
She couldn’t mistake the proprietorial manner in which the older woman, who was very attractive with her short blonde bob, was monopolising Romain’s attention, and Sorcha sent up silent thanks. But then a little dart of something made her acutely aware of the exact moment when Claire laid her hand on Romain’s arm and Sorcha had the bizarrest impulse to go and knock it off, feeling suddenly incensed, as if his arm was her personal property. She closed her eyes weakly.
‘Are you all right, Sorcha?’
Her eyes snapped open. Simon was looking at her with concern. She smiled quickly. ‘Fine. Absolutely fine.’ She mustered up a fake yawn. ‘Just a bit tired. It’s been a long day.’
‘Yes. And it’ll be even longer tomorrow. They want to try and get a lot done in one day.’
Back in the drawing room for after-dinner drinks a short time later, Sorcha circulated and got to know the group of about eight people. She knew that by the end of the shoot they’d all know each other much more intimately, having been thrust together for hours on end every day.
They seemed on the whole like a nice bunch, and she found to her surprise that she was looking forward to the shoot. The only person she’d avoided, apart from Romain, from whom she’d carefully made sure she was always on the opposite side of the room, had been Dominic. Contrary to what Romain might believe, Dominic had obviously set Lucy the young make-up artist in his sights, and the two had slipped away somewhere. Sorcha was quite happy, wanting to have as little to do with him as possible.
Later that night she lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. She’d made her excuses early and had crept away to bed.
This is a job like any other. Be cool, be calm, be professional and everything will be OK.
She kept telling herself that. She could handle anything. Anyone. Even Romain.
But as she turned over and tried to go to sleep, the only image in her brain was the one of his face as she’d left the room earlier. It had held that same intensity when she’d walked away from him in New York. As if he could see right into her soul…And that was crazy. He was the last man in the world she wanted looking anywhere near her soul…
The next day they started early. Simon wanted to get a dawn shot of Sorcha on the beach. Dressed very impractically, in a long silk diaphanous dress, she kept a parka on until the last moment, and tried not to show how cold she was in the chilly early-morning air.
All the shot called for was for her to walk along the seashore, find a bottle in the sand and pick it up. The idea was that the bottle held a message, which she would read and which would lead her to the next place…and so on.
Standing shivering, waiting for Simon and Dominic to set up, Sorcha sent up silent thanks that at least on set Dominic seemed to be professional enough not to allude to anything, as he had the day before.
‘Sorcha…’
Romain.
She’d managed to avoid looking at him, but even so she was well aware of his location at every moment, and now he was right beside her. She turned reluctantly.
‘Yes?’
Romain looked down at her and his insides contracted. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so gorgeous, cheeks reddened by the chill wind, long hair loose and wild. Her eyes shone with a fierce, vivid blue and he almost forgot what he’d come to say. And that made him feel short-tempered. It also made him sound clipped.
‘We’ve decided to do a part of the sequence here that we were going to do in India. It’s a shot that includes Zane…your counterpart.’
Sorcha frowned. Zane was the male model/actor due to play her lover.
‘But Zane doesn’t start till we get to New York. He’s not here.’
‘I’m aware of that fact. But, as Simon pointed out, I’m similar in height and colouring, at least from behind, so I’ll stand in for him.’
Alarm bells went zinging off in Sorcha’s head, and she looked at him suspiciously, ‘What does the shot involve?’
A dark light came into Romain’s eyes, confusing Sorcha. Everything around them had faded into the background.
‘You and me…’ he drawled.
Sorcha fought to contain panic and snapped out, ‘Yes, well, even I could have deduced that—’
Just then Dominic called for her to step onto her mark. She glared at Romain, who was looking far too smug at her obvious discomfiture.
Sorcha found out more at lunchtime, and she mulled it all over in her head as she took off for a brief solitary walk afterwards. It turned out that the shot Romain had told her about had to be done at sunset, and Claire the stylist had already flown back to Dublin to get the dress required, as it was meant to be part of the wedding sequence. That had made Sorcha’s nerves go completely. She’d been too scared to ask what exactly was involved.
Would she have to kiss him?
That thought sent all sorts of shivers through her, and not all of them were of disgust…or trepidation. Was he doing this on purpose, just to mess with her?
She berated herself. Now she was just being silly.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u96210df4-c053-5fd1-be0c-16231f16d7ef)
A FEW hours later, feeling very nervous, Sorcha stood on the shoreline again, this time in a simple knee-length white broderie anglaise dress from an exclusive designer. It was meant to be a wedding dress. Her hair was up in a loose knot, and a white orchid was tucked behind her ear.
Claire the stylist was muttering as she secured the dress at the back. ‘You would not believe the pressure I was under to get back here…And this dress—it’s not even been on the catwalk yet. We weren’t meant to be shooting it for another week. It had to come from Paris with a courier and a bodyguard. And now you’re the one that gets to be held in Romain’s arms…honestly…’
Held in his arms? Sorcha’s insides froze. Surely she just meant with his arm around her shoulders as they looked out at the sunset?
And then he was there, striding towards her. He wore a white tuxedo shirt that was open at the neck, a bow tie dangling untied. His black trousers were rolled up to the knee, showing off strong, shapely calf muscles. She felt weak.
The sun was setting over the horizon, and the mood of the crew was getting more frantic, with Simon and Dominic shouting out orders as they worked simultaneously. Romain came and stood before her, slanting a look down her body, taking in her long, slim, very pale legs.
‘Very sweet—almost virginal, in fact.’
Sorcha felt a familiar secret pain grip her. She had so much to hide from a man like this.
‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ she bit out.
And in the next instant her world was upended and she was lifted against a broad, strong and very hard chest. Immediately and instinctively her arms had to go around his neck. Wide, surprised eyes clashed with his.
‘What the—?’
Romain felt the rigidity in her body. ‘Hush. We’re meant to be in love.’
‘Don’t make me sick! And if this is your idea of a joke—’
Simon came over and held a light meter close to Sorcha’s face, making her shut her mouth abruptly.
‘That’s great, guys. Let me know if you need a break, Romain. You’ll need to stand there for a while.’
Simon walked away and Sorcha smiled sweetly at Romain. ‘I do hope I’m not too heavy for you?’
‘Not at all,’ he said lightly. ‘Like the proverbial feather.’
His arms did feel secure around her—not a tremor. And Sorcha knew well that she wasn’t exactly small. She always ate well, but had been lucky enough to inherit a metabolism that burnt off calories quickly. Still, she was no lightweight. The fact that Romain seemed to be holding her so effortlessly made her feel small and feminine, delicate for the first time in her life.
She sighed deeply and looked out to sea. But as she sighed, her breasts moved against his chest. She stopped breathing as her nipples reacted and tightened.
His mouth came close to her ear and he whispered softly, his accent pronounced. ‘It helps if you breathe…’
She turned her head, and the retort on her lips was quickly forgotten. Their heads were so close together that she could feel his breath reach out and mingle with her own. She saw the deeper flecks of grey in his eyes, the small lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and that suddenly made her want to see him laugh, to see how they crinkled up.
Surrounded in a bubble of sensation, Sorcha couldn’t deny it any longer—not when she was held so tight against him. This man had broken through the wall that she’d built around her sexuality. He was smashing it down with what seemed to be little more than that proverbial feather.
Her other hand was somewhere around his shoulder. It had been in the act of pushing him away. But now the feel of his warm skin underneath the shirt was acting like a magnet. Completely unaware of what was going on around them, but perhaps subconsciously knowing that it might be sanctioned, Sorcha’s hand moved up of its own volition to his neck.
In a completely untutored and sensuous move that had Romain’s heart-rate soaring, Sorcha allowed the back of her hand to drift up his neck, pushing aside the open collar of his shirt. And then, her eyes following the movement as though mesmerised, her hand drifted upwards until her palm rested on his lightly stubbled jaw.
Romain stared down into her face. He willed her eyes to meet his, and as if she could hear him they did. A silken cord had wrapped itself around his every sense and he felt himself tighten and harden. She had become soft and pliant in his arms, her curves moulding to his form like a jigsaw piece slotting into place.
All Sorcha could see was his mouth. Her thumb moved closer, traced the corner of his lower lip. They were so close. And then his head dipped slightly. She felt his breath feather again. Her eyelids felt heavy and started to flutter closed. Every part of her was aching to feel that mouth on hers…
‘Very good! And do you know what? We don’t even need to see a kiss. I think this works really well…’
Simon’s voice cut through the haze of sensuality that had been clouding Sorcha’s brain like an alarm going off. She actually flinched—a minor movement, but one which had Romain gripping her tight to him again. But this time she held herself stiff and would not look at him. God. What on earth must he think? They’d been shooting all the time and Sorcha hadn’t even noticed!
Romain felt dazed…out of sync as he put Sorcha down until her feet touched the ground. Surrounded by all the crew, he couldn’t do what he wanted and keep her close, take that lush mouth as he’d been so close to doing. The way she’d been looking at him just then…He felt limbless. Had he just been taken for a complete fool?
After what seemed like aeons, he put her away from him with two hands. She was very shaky.
His mouth was hard, his face taut. ‘You’re a good actress.’
She looked up quickly and saw the harshness there, twisting his mouth.
Acting?
Well, if that was what he thought…thank God.
She forced a smile from somewhere and left the protection of his hands. Thankfully she didn’t fall at his feet, and with a briskness she certainly didn’t feel she said, ‘It’s my job. What you hired me for.’
And on very shaky limbs she walked over to the others and the protection of the busyness of the crew as they packed up.
The next day they were due to do a couple of quick shots in the morning and then travel to New York in the afternoon. Sorcha had tossed and turned all night, unable to get the memory of being in Romain’s arms out of her mind…her body. Giving up at six a.m., seeing the first light of dawn, she got out of bed. She knew what would calm her.
She put on her running clothes—a long sleeved T-shirt and jogging bottoms. Her battered sneakers. She tried to jog wherever she was, finding it to be almost like a form of meditation as well as exercise. She met no one on her way outside, and pulled back her sleep-mussed hair into a ponytail, heading for the beach. The air was crisp and fresh and blue skies promised another beautiful spring day, which in the west of Ireland was an anomaly to be savoured.
Hitting the beach, she found that it was pleasingly much bigger and longer than she’d expected, stretching away a few miles into the distance. After some warming up she set out at a steady pace. The repetition of movement, the control of her breath, all transported her away from disturbing thoughts and images.
About forty minutes later, feeling much calmer and very smug with herself, she came back closer to the house and stopped to rest at the seashore. Impulsively she took off her shoes and socks, wanting to feel the cold sting of the Atlantic on her hot feet. She contemplated going back to get her one-piece, knowing that the initial pain of the icy water would be far outweighed by the exhilarating feeling afterwards. As she stood debating whether or not to go back and get her suit, she looked out to sea and something caught her attention. Someone swimming. Powerful arms scissoring in and out of the water, a glimpse of a strong, olive-skinned back.
Her breath hitched and stopped. It could only be one person. No one else had that physique. And she knew that it would take more than average strength first of all to brave the icy Atlantic and then to swim in it. The currents were sometimes lethal. Mesmerised by his grace and beauty, she couldn’t move. And then, too late, she realised that he’d been coming closer all the time. The arms stopped and he stood waist-deep in the sea, water streaming off a perfectly muscled torso. Like some kind of god, he emerged from the waves, and the unreality of it all made Sorcha feel as if she was in some kind of dream.
It was only when he was walking out of the water, showing a broad chest that tapered into a slim waist, dark shorts which clung to powerful thigh muscles rippling under bronzed skin, that Sorcha finally seemed to come to her senses. The sleepless night had obviously taken its toll. She was standing there like some kind of drooling groupie!
With a strangled gasp, she turned and picked up her shoes and socks, about to make a hasty retreat. She hadn’t counted on his speed.
‘Wait.’
She stopped in her tracks. The serenity of the morning was gone. Her heart hammered anew, and it wasn’t from the exercise. She turned to face him and tried to look as blank as possible. It was hard. Romain stood just feet away, hands on hips, chest rising and falling, salt water sluicing off his skin, his hair plastered to a well-shaped skull.
‘Enjoying the view?’
She coloured in an instant and Romain frowned. The outraged virgin? Where had that come from? Just another aspect of Sorcha’s chameleon-like personality. He could see the way she held herself…so stiff…but when he’d been coming out from the water, when he’d seen her first, she’d had a look of something close to exultation on her face.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was out jogging. And I was merely making sure you were OK. I didn’t know who was swimming, and the currents here can be strong.’
He picked up a towel from nearby. She hadn’t even noticed it. ‘Would you have saved me if I’d got into trouble?’
