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CHAPTER THREE

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.’

He tutted and lifted a hand to call for service, before fixing her with that steely gaze again. ‘Not at all. They suit you. And please don’t put yourself down—’

‘Why? Because you’ll do that for me?’

For a second there was no reaction, and then a huge smile lit his harshly handsome face, making him look years younger and so gorgeous that Sorcha felt welded to her chair. Wasn’t she supposed to be walking out by now? He looked ridiculously exotic against the backdrop of the opulent Dublin hotel, surrounded by the more pale, Celtic-skinned customers. His accent was pronounced, heightening that sense of his otherness in this place.

‘As sparky as I remember…that’s good.’

Sorcha felt like grinding her teeth. ‘I’m not trying to be sparky, Mr de Valois. I’m here to tell you that I’m not interested in your job.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Let’s order some tea, yes? I believe it is something of a national delicacy…and then we will have lunch.’

‘You’re not listening to me, Mr de Valois—’

‘No,’ he said with silken deadliness. ‘You are not listening to me. And please call me Romain—after all, we will be working closely together for the next few weeks, and I hate to stand on ceremony…’

Sorcha just looked at him and shook her head. The smooth conceit and downright arrogance of the man was unbelievable.

‘Mr de Valois, unless you plan on tying me to this chair there is nothing to stop me standing up and walking out of here. I’ve told Maud and now you that I’m not interested in the job. I’m due to take some holiday—’

She had to stop when a waitress came and delivered the tea. Sorcha couldn’t even remember the order having been taken. She watched, disgusted, at the way the pretty young blonde girl blushed a deep shade of crimson when Romain smiled at her and said thank you. The poor girl practically fell over a chair as she left, her eyes glued to what was probably the most stupendously handsome man she’d ever seen in her young life. Romain de Valois, of course, had already forgotten her, and was focusing those long-lashed grey eyes back on Sorcha, with an intensity that threatened to scramble her brains all over again.

Romain was glad of the short distraction of the waitress, because the shaft of pure arousal that had gone straight to his groin when Sorcha had mentioned being tied to the chair had thrown up other images…much more explicit…of her being tied to a bed…He fought to regain some composure, to remember what she had said.

‘Which is why we are going to start the campaign here.’ He held out a cup of tea, ‘Tell me, did you also mention to Lisa that you were not going to take the job?’

The sickening knowledge of how neatly he’d manipulated events brought her some much needed focus back—even though she knew with a sinking feeling in her belly that it would be futile to keep insisting that she wouldn’t do the job. She also had to accept the cup he was offering her, or risk causing a scene. She saw a glint of triumph light his eyes, as if he could read her thoughts. He was getting under her skin in a prickly heat kind of way that made her very nervous. It made her voice clipped, arctic. ‘In light of past…events—namely your very public condemnation of me—’ She stopped as she realised she’d been about to say at a very painful time in my life. She knew that she didn’t want him to see that vulnerable side of her, so she faltered for a second, her skin heating up. ‘I find it hard to see why you want me to do this campaign so badly.’

Romain studied her. She looked about ready to spring off the chair and bolt. And right at that moment all he wanted to do was get up, throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to his suite, loosen her hair, take off her glasses, uncover her body inch by inch, see if those soft swells that he could just glimpse under her shirt were really as voluptuous as they looked…He sat back.

He was not a Neanderthal. He was sophisticated and urbane. This woman might be appealing to the most basic level of his carnal urges, but it was probably because he hadn’t had a woman in a while and she was refreshingly different from the cool blondes he usually favoured. He sipped his tea and carefully placed the cup back onto the saucer.

‘The fact is, I had decided that we could do without you on this campaign, and was prepared to tell my board so—’

‘See?’ The relief was evident in Sorcha’s voice, in the way her face cleared, and she put down her cup and half rose from her chair. ‘That’s fine with me. Thanks for the tea—’

‘Sit down.’

Sorcha responded to the very explicit threat in his voice, sitting down again before she’d even realised what she was doing. The memory of him threatening to throw her over his shoulder was all too recent. And, as unmistakably urbane as this man was, there was an air of danger about him, a disregard for convention, the niceties.

‘But after seeing you in the flesh…’

When he said that his words were loaded with a sensual meaning that was not lost on her. Sorcha’s head went so fuzzy for a second that she missed his next immediate words.

‘You would be perfect for the job. The only suitable model, in fact.’

She shook her head, trying to clear it, and took her glasses off for a moment to pinch the bridge of her nose in an endearingly personal reflex, something she only ever did when under pressure or stressed.

‘Monsieur de Valois—’

‘Romain, please.’ He smiled, and it was the smile of a shark.

Sorcha gave in. Perhaps this was the way to reach him. She put her glasses back on and said in her most businesslike voice, ‘Very well—Romain.’ She ignored the way saying his name made a funny flutter start in her chest. ‘I’m sure your board can be persuaded to take on another model to fit their visual concepts. There has to be a million other women out there with my colouring.’ She laughed and it sounded strained. ‘I mean, all you have to do is step outside this hotel and you’ll find hundreds.’

Romain’s mouth quirked. She really had no idea how stunning she was. Was she fishing for compliments? But the look on her face was so earnest it made something in his chest tighten.

He shook his head brusquely. ‘Not as many as you would think. And none with your unique…past.’

She bristled immediately. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s inspired the whole concept of this campaign. This is no ordinary shoot, Sorcha. Only at its most basic level is it to be a showcase for numerous luxury goods, the season’s finest offerings. With the way society is going—the fascination between people and media, the cult of celebrity…you represent someone who was torn down—’

‘Thanks to you,’ she said bitterly, picking up her cup again with a jerky movement. But Romain ignored her comment, continuing as if he hadn’t heard her.

‘…and built herself up again. You’ve shown a tenacity of spirit, if you will. A grit and determination to succeed at all costs. You represent redemption. You’ve weathered a storm and come out the other side. People nowadays won’t buy the image of the virginal prom queen—they resonate more with a fallible person. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, take my board’s and my aunt’s word that you are reliable. But trust me, Sorcha, if there’s a hint of any kind of scandal or drugs I won’t hesitate to drop you, and you won’t receive a penny. However, as long as I see no evidence of anything…’ He spread his hands and shrugged eloquently.

His words made Sorcha reel slightly. She hadn’t had her past raked up so comprehensively in years. Or reduced to such succinct devastation. The cup she held in her hand shook slightly, and she put it down with a clatter. She felt as if a layer of skin had been stripped off. ‘Well, I’m delighted that someone has seen fit to take the scrap metal of my life and see it fashioned into something that can benefit the greater good of the advertising industry.’

Romain uncharacteristically felt at a loss for words—as if he had somehow made an error of judgment. Sorcha was expressionless. Cold and aloof. Without even knowing how, he knew that he’d hurt her—and that knowledge threw him. As it had when he’d seen that vulnerability up close. The hard sheen he’d expected to find hadn’t been there. And the vulnerability was there again now—just under the surface.

With what felt uncomfortably like relief, he saw the head waiter from the restaurant approach. He stood and gestured with a hand. ‘I’ve booked us a table for lunch. Why don’t we continue this discussion over some food?’

It wasn’t a question, and Sorcha felt too shell shocked to argue. Mute, she preceded him out of the reception room and into the restaurant, where gold-coloured banquette seats made their table into a gilded prison of privacy.

CHAPTER FOUR

ONCE seated, Sorcha avoided looking at the unnerving man opposite her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see long brown fingers curled around the edges of the menu, and her heart started to beat fast again. It was some moments before she realised that he was looking at her expectantly. Taking a deep breath, she closed her menu too, having no idea of what it offered.

‘So…how long have you needed glasses?’ He threw her with such an innocuous question after his last words, which had been so rawly personal. She looked at him warily and was glad of the table between them, and the sturdy frames of her glasses. Perversely, they seemed to give her some protection—as if projecting an image that made her more comfortable in such close proximity to his potent sexuality.

‘Relatively recently. Years of late nights cramming for exams have taken their toll—I find I need them for reading, or if I’m tired.’

His brow quirked. ‘A hangover from school? Surely it’s been some time since you crammed for anything?’

It wasn’t really a question, but Sorcha wanted to blurt out defensively that the for the past four years she’d been studying late into the night almost every night. It was one of her most cherished accomplishments—and she’d been about to tell him. Her mouth was still open. Horror filled her at how close she’d come to telling him something so personal. The thought of his reaction if she had made her go cold.

She shut her mouth and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, what do you expect? With all the partying I was doing I hardly had time to worry about the state of my eyes, now, did I?’

Her words struck a hollow chord in Romain somewhere. He looked at her intently, but she’d already picked up the menu again. Her whole frame was tight with tension. For a brief second there something so passionate had crossed her face that he’d fully expected her to say something else entirely…but what?

‘You do seem to live quite the quiet life now, or are you just careful about where and when you’re seen, having learnt from past experience?’

The tone in his voice made all sorts of implications about why she might want to hide or not be seen. He was lounging back, at perfect ease, his suit jacket gone, his shirt open at the throat, stretched across his formidable chest. Sorcha sat up straight. She’d let her guard down for one second too many, and the thought that he must have had her investigated in some way made her feel violated.

‘If I do take on this job—which it would appear I have very little choice but to do—I will not be subjected to this kind of questioning. You know nothing about me or my past. Nothing. I will never tell you anything about my personal life.’

He inclined his head with a minute gesture, but Sorcha could see that she’d got to him. His eyes had flashed a stormy grey for a second.

He leant forward and said silkily, ‘Never say never…’

She became aware that the waiter was hovering, and Romain, supremely cool again, looked up to indicate that they were ready to order. Sorcha had never felt so many conflicting emotions and sensations before. She very much wanted to run away—get away from this disturbing man whose mere presence seemed to have the power to reach inside her and shine a light on her innermost vulnerabilities.

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.’