Loe raamatut: «A Very French Affair»

This is especially for Margaret, Peter, Jack and Mary B…not family by blood, but my family in every other conceivable way.

CHAPTER ONE

AS ROMAIN DE VALOIS approached the ballroom he was glad for a second that the doors were closed. They acted as a barrier of sorts between him and that world. The thought caught him up short. A barrier? Since when had he ever thought he needed that? His strides grew longer, quicker, as if to shrug off the unaccustomed feeling that assailed him. And the most curious sensation hit him too at that moment…the desire to have someone by his side as he approached this set of doors. Someone…a woman…with her hand in his, who would understand effortlessly what he was thinking, who would glance up at him, a gleam of shared understanding in her eyes. She might even smile a little, squeeze his hand…

His steps faltered for just a second before reaching the door. The vibration of the orchestra, the muted raucous chatter and laughter of the hundreds of people inside was palpable in his chest. What on earth was wrong with him? Daydreaming about a woman when he’d never felt the lack of anything before—much less a partner. And one thing was for sure: no woman existed like that in his world, or even in his imagination until that second. If he wanted a woman like that he’d be better off going back to his small French home town, and he’d left that behind a long time ago—physically, mentally and emotionally. His hand touched the handle of the door, concrete and real, not like the disturbing wispy images in his head. He turned it and opened the door.

The rush of body heat, conversation, the smell of perfume mixed with aftershave was vivid and cloying. And yet there was a slightly awed hush that rippled through the room when he walked in. He barely noticed it any more, and wondered if he would even care if it didn’t happen. His mouth twisted with unmistakable cynicism as his eyes skipped over the looks and the whisperings, seeking out his aunt. The fact was, as head of the fashion world’s most powerful business conglomerate, he practically owned every single person who had anything to do with fashion in this huge glittering ballroom, and even some of those who rode on their coat-tails.

He owned all the dresses and suits so carefully picked out with a mind to current trends. He owned the ridiculously expensive cosmetics that sat on the flawless skin of the women, and the lustrous jewels that adorned their ears, necks and throats. They knew it and he knew it.

The crowd shifted and swayed to let him through, and for the first time in his life he didn’t feel any kind of thrill of anticipation. In fact what he felt was…dissatisfaction.

He was relatively young, wealthier than any other man there, and he knew with no false conceit that he was handsome. Most important of all, he was single. And here in New York that put a bounty on his head. So he was under no illusions as to what he represented to women in a crowd like this. And those women he’d have taken his pick from before seemed now to be too garish, too accessible. Dismayingly, the ease with which he knew he could pick the most beautiful, the most desirable, now made distaste flavour his mouth. A pneumatic blonde dressed in little more than a scrap of lace held together by air bore down on him even now.

Relief flooded him when he saw his aunt, and he crossed to her side. Focusing on her brought his mind back to the reason he was there at all tonight. To check someone out in a professional capacity—a model he was being advised to hire for one of the most lucrative ad campaigns ever. His aunt was the latest to put pressure on him as the woman in question was one of her own models. He knew well that this woman, Sorcha Murphy, would be like every other in this room. And on top of that she had a history that made her, as far as he was concerned, unemployable. Still, though, he worked and operated his business as a democracy and had no time for despotic rule. He had to play the game, show that he had at least come to inspect her for himself before telling them no…

His aunt turned and smiled fondly in acknowledgment as he approached.

‘No.’ Sorcha took in a deep patient breath. ‘It’s pronounced Sorka…’

‘That’s almost as cute as you, honey…and where is it from?’

The man’s beady eyes set deep into his fleshy face swept up and down again with a lasciviousness that made Sorcha snatch her hand back from his far too tight and sweaty grasp. He clearly had no more interest in where she or her name were from than the man in the moon. She managed to say, with some civility and a smile that felt very fake, ‘It’s Gaelic. It means brightness…

It’s been lovely meeting you, but if you wouldn’t mind, I really must—’

‘Sorcha!’

She looked around at her name being called with abject relief. The need to get away from this oily tycoon from Texas was acute and immediate.

‘Kate…’ She couldn’t disguise that relief as she greeted her friend, and gave her a very pointed look.

Sorcha turned back to the man whose eyes were now practically popping out of his head as he saw the luminous blonde beauty join Sorcha’s side. Her best friend merely smiled sweetly at him and led Sorcha away.

‘Boy, am I glad to see you. I think I need a shower after that.’ Sorcha gave a little shiver.

‘I know. He cornered me earlier, and when I saw you with him I knew I had to save you.’

Sorcha smiled at her closest friend in the whole world and gave her a quick, impulsive hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Katie. These evenings are such torture—do you think we could make a run for it?’

Kate’s nose wrinkled in her exquisite face. ‘No such luck. Maud is keeping her eagle eye on us, and has already told me that if we scarper early she’ll make us pay.’

Sorcha groaned, and at that moment caught the eye of the woman in question—Maud Harriday, doyenne of the fashion industry and head of Models Inc, the agency in New York she and Kate worked for. And who was, for want of a better term, their surrogate mother.

She smiled sunnily until Maud’s laser like gaze was distracted by something else, then stifled a huge yawn. They’d both been up since the crack of dawn for work that day, albeit for different catwalk shows.

Kate grabbed a passing waiter and took two glasses of champagne, handing one to Sorcha. She didn’t normally drink the stuff but took it anyway, for appearances’ sake. Maud liked her models to look as though they were enjoying themselves—especially when they were on show right in the middle of the mayhem of New York’s Fashion Week in one of New York’s finest hotels, rubbing shoulders with some of the most important people in media, fashion and politics.

Sorcha smiled and clinked glasses with Kate. ‘Thanks. I always feel like some kind of brood mare at these functions…don’t you?’

Kate was looking around with interest. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Sorch…’ She affected the broad accents of Maud’s famous New York drawl, and repeated her pep talk of earlier. ‘“This is the one time in the year we get to promote the new faces along with the old.”’ She nudged Sorcha playfully and said, sotto voce, ‘At the grand age of twenty-five we’re the old, in case you hadn’t noticed…’ She continued with her strident imitation. ‘“…and we generate business. These are the people who invest in you, the fashion advertisers who pay your bills, so go out there and look gorgeous.”’

Sorcha threw back her head and laughed. ‘She’d kill you if she heard you.’

The contrast of their beauty side by side—one blonde, the other dark—drew many gazes in their direction. They shared an easy intimacy that came from a long friendship that had started when Kate had gone to Sorcha’s boarding school in Ireland, just outside Dublin.

Kate spoke again, bringing Sorcha’s attention back from its wanderings. Her voice was deceptively light. ‘Plenty of gorgeous guys here tonight, Sorch…’

A tightness came into Sorcha’s face. She was recalling a recent heated discussion with her friend, and she had no desire to rake over the same ground now. No desire to go back down memory lane, where a comment like that was inevitably headed.

‘Kate, let’s not get into that again, please.’ The entreaty in her clear blue eyes was explicit. Kate was her best friend—the one person who knew her like no other, who had seen her at her worst. The familiar guilt rose up, the feeling of debt. Even though she knew Kate would never mention it or use it against her. To her relief she saw her friend nod slightly.

‘Ok, you’re off the hook for now. But it’s just…you are one of the most beautiful women I know, inside and out. I just wish—’

Sorcha took Katie’s hand, halting her words. Her voice was husky. ‘Thanks, Katie…but, really, just leave it for now—OK?’

It hadn’t been hard to seek her out in the crowd. From her pictures alone she would have been easy to find, apart from the fact that she stood out effortlessly—a pale foil of beauty next to so much artifice and expensively acquired tan.

He watched the interplay between the two women covertly. He’d heard their laughter before he’d caught sight of her, and had been surprised to find that it had come from his quarry. It had floated across the room and wound its way around his senses. The sparkling smile was still on her face as she talked to her friend. He hated to admit it, but they weren’t like the other models, fawning over the men in the crowd. They looked…like two children in the corner, playing truant. Bizarrely, because he wasn’t given to such whims, it made him want to be a part of it…

She stood out in every possible way, with long wavy jet-black hair falling below her bare shoulders. In a strapless, high-waisted dress, the pale swell of her bosom hinted at a voluptuousness that was not usual for a top model, and her poise and grace screamed years of practice. The bluest of blue eyes were ringed by dark lashes, and he could see from across the room skin so pale he imagined that up close it would look translucent.

That niggle of dissatisfaction was coming back even stronger. Not usually given to any kind of introspection, Romain ruthlessly crushed it. Still watching the woman, he found his interest piqued beyond what he’d expected to be purely a quick professional once-over to confirm his own opinion…and even more so because she wasn’t trying to capture his attention. His mouth compressed. That in itself was unusual.

He’d already decided he didn’t want to use her…especially in light of her past notoriety…but, watching her now, he had to admit that on the face of it she would actually be perfect for what they were looking for. His instincts, honed over many years in the business, told him that in a second. Whether she’d contrived it or not, the smiling, sparkling animation on Sorcha Murphy’s face effortlessly held his regard. Usually within these circles models were always so careful to put on some kind of front that any real expression had long been suppressed—either behaviourally or surgically.

He felt an almost overwhelming impulse to see her up close, and before he could control himself it had generated a throb of desire that wasn’t usually prompted so arbitrarily. It was a response he couldn’t control and which took him by surprise—again. It had been the last thing he’d expected to feel when faced with her.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they? I see that you’ve found her.’

He started at the low, husky voice that came from his right and was a little shocked at how enthralled he’d become. Had he been that obvious? He quickly schooled his face, but the woman beside him wasn’t fooled, and he was thankful that he knew her well—that it was only she who had noticed his momentarily unguarded few seconds. His mouth quirked before he gave her a kiss on both cheeks, and she mock-fluttered her lashes.

‘If I was still capable of blushing, my dear Romain, then I’d be red as a beetroot.’

‘I’m sure,’ he quipped dryly. She was at supreme ease in these gilded surroundings, and he couldn’t imagine this veritable woman of steel blushing for anyone or anything.

‘So…how are you, ma chére tante?’

She patted his cheek with her fan—a trademark eccentric accessory—and smiled affectionately. ‘Very well, thank you. We are honoured to have a man of your calibre here. I’m so glad that for once our work interests have dovetailed so neatly as I never see you any more—although I don’t imagine that the promise of a room full of beautiful women would have been any incentive?’

Romain tutted. ‘First you flatter me, then you show what a low opinion you really have…’

‘Hmm,’ she said dryly. ‘With pictures of you in numerous magazines courting what would appear to be every single model in Europe, I can see why you might want to seek out new pastures.’

He was used to this affectionate, teasing banter, though he would not have tolerated it in a million years from anyone else. He looked absently around the room. His aunt’s words had hit their mark, and he had to curb a defensive desire to tell her exactly how long it had been since he had taken a lover. It didn’t sit well with him to admit that even that area of his life seemed to be suffering.

Yet Sorcha Murphy stayed in his peripheral vision. It unnerved him, forcing him to say lightly, ‘Now, you of all people should know that you can’t believe everything you read in the press.’

‘I don’t know how you keep managing to generate all those billions of yours when you hardly seem to have the time. Always wining and dining—’

‘Maud…’ he said warningly, but in a completely unconscious gesture his eyes flicked away briefly to seek out Sorcha again. His aunt couldn’t fail to notice.

‘Ah, yes…So, what do you think?’

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I’m still not sure…’

Sometimes the older woman was far too shrewd for her own good. And she knew him too well.

She continued blithely, ‘Her blonde companion is Kate Lancaster, an old schoolfriend. She’s also one of the highest paid models working in the US—originally from London via Dublin.’

Romain kept his expression bland with little effort. Years of controlling his emotions, of never allowing anyone to see inside his head came like second nature and dictated his actions. Affecting acute boredom, he ran his eyes over the friend.

The blonde was indeed exquisite—stunning. A sensual invitation of honeyed, lissome beauty. And…Nothing. No reaction. He had to remind himself his goal wasn’t to pursue personal pleasure tonight. Even if catching his first sight of Sorcha Murphy had driven that thought from his mind and body.

He flicked his eyes back to Sorcha and felt his entire insides jolt…again…as though given an electric shock. He shrugged negligently, his hooded eyes hiding his reaction.

His aunt, apparently unaware of his efforts to appear blasé, saw his gaze resting on her. ‘So…does she live up to her portfolio?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less from one of your models, Maud.’

He could feel his aunt preen beside him. She was nothing if not the best in the business for a reason.

‘The question remains, however,’ he drawled lightly, ‘if she’s got what it takes for a gruelling campaign, and whether she has in fact reformed from her wild ways…’ He could sense his aunt bristle, and looked down into her flashing eyes. If he cast aspersions on one of her girls, then he cast aspersions on her.

‘Romain, I won’t tell you again. That was a long time ago. Not everyone is like your—’

‘Maud…’ he said warningly, with more than a hint of steel in his tone this time.

His aunt pursed her lips before saying, somewhat more tentatively, ‘I assure you that I’ve never had a day’s trouble with her. She’s polite, punctual. Photographers and stylists love her.’

‘You forget that I was working in the City in London eight years ago, when the tabloids were full of Sorcha Quinn, enfant terrible…The pictures and headlines are easy to conjure up again. It’s not so long ago, and this campaign…well, it’s sensitive.’

His aunt was beginning to sound exasperated. He knew she’d be coming to the end of her patience any minute now.

‘And as I recall you didn’t hold back your opinion then either, Romain. If she’s survived to be here today under consideration for this job then you at least owe her a fair chance. It’s not as if she came out of all that unscathed. It’s why she changed her name to Murphy—which is how you didn’t recognise her straight away when your board suggested her.’

The uncomfortable prickling assailed him again. He hadn’t recognised her. In fact something in her pictures had reached out and touched him. In a place he’d prefer not to look. Thankfully his aunt was still talking, and it was easy to divert his thoughts.

‘That’s all behind her, Romain. I have a reputation to maintain too, believe me, and if there’d ever been a hint of trouble she’d have been out. I wouldn’t have her on my books otherwise.’

Romain snorted discreetly. No leopard changed its spots so completely. He didn’t doubt that quite a few of his aunt’s models lived in such a way that if they were ever found out they’d be off the Models Inc register so fast their heads would spin. No. Women like Sorcha Murphy would keep their dirty little habits a secret. And if there was one thing he was fanatical about, it was that he never went near women involved with drugs. Professionally or socially. The very thought made his chest constrict with dark memories.

‘I know you, Romain,’ his aunt continued, sounding more confident. ‘If you were seriously concerned about Sorcha Murphy’s reputation you wouldn’t have even considered her for this. Your board of directors obviously have no qualms about her past…’

His aunt had a point. And she didn’t know that it was largely Sorcha’s past and apparent redemption that had made them so keen to use her. For him, things weren’t so straightforward. He stared across the room, finding it hard to tear his gaze away. Something was keeping him looking. Just as it had with her pictures. Some hint of vulnerability? A quality that many models failed abysmally to recreate for the camera. How could someone who looked so pure, so innocent, have been or—as was most likely—still be caught up in such a murky, corrupt world?

Just as he was thinking this, and feeling a surprising feeling of disappointment rushing through his veins, Sorcha Murphy looked across the room, almost as if she could sense the weight of his penetrating gaze. Their eyes locked. Blue and grey. And the world stopped turning.

Sorcha felt as though she’d just received a punch to her gut. And the only coherent thought she had in her head was: How did I not notice him before? There was a niggle of recognition, but she couldn’t place him immediately, and the intensity in his eyes was making it hard to focus…

As though incapable of autonomous movement, her eyes could not move from the stranger’s gaze. The most unusual steely grey, his eyes were cold…full of something…and she couldn’t quite figure what it was. One thing it wasn’t was friendly. She shivered inwardly, and yet still could not look away. Even though it was his eyes that held her as if ensnared in a web, she was also aware of his phenomenally dark good looks, the way he stood head and shoulders above anyone else, making him stand out in the crowd. Kate was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. Everything was distilled to this one moment and the tall dark man with the mesmerising eyes who kept staring, and staring. As bold as brass.

And then, in a split second of clarity, she read what was in his eyes. Condemnation and judgment. A kind of disdain. Blatantly obvious. A look that had once been all too familiar in most people’s eyes—one she hadn’t seen for a long time. A tremble started somewhere in her legs, turning them to jelly, and panic seized her insides. Aghast at the strength of her reaction, with a few strangled muttered words she thrust her glass into Kate’s free hand and walked through the crowd and out of the room, not even sure what she was running from.

‘What on earth happened to you? One minute you were here, and the next you went as white as a ghost and stormed out of the room…’

Sorcha took her glass back from her friend and took a rare big gulp. She’d been in the toilets for the last ten minutes, holding a damp cloth to her skin in an effort to halt the rising tide of a nervous rash that hadn’t appeared in years. She was still so stunned and shocked at her reaction to a mere look from that man across the room that she felt shaky. And in no mood to have her far too perceptive friend speculate on the possible reasons why.

One thing was for sure: with that blistering look she’d been transported back to another time. A time she did not want to remember. But he’d been with Maud. Surely they wouldn’t have been talking about her? She hated the irrational feeling of unease it had given her. It had felt as though he’d been able to see right into the very soul of her…

‘Nothing, Katie. I just had to go to the loo…’

‘For ten minutes?’ Katie snorted. ‘I know you, Sorcha, and—’

Her friend broke off, seeing something behind Sorcha, over her shoulder, and then her hand was gripped so tight that she gasped. ‘Katie!’

‘Don’t look now, but the most divine man is across the room…he’s talking to Maud. He must be this nephew she said was coming tonight.’ A look of comic disbelief made Kate’s jaw drop. ‘My God! I’ve just realised who he is. But of course his pictures don’t even do him justice…He’s looking over here—’

‘Katie…’ Sorcha groaned, hiding her rising panic. It had to be him—the man she had seen across the room.

When Kate said her next words, they didn’t even sink into Sorcha’s head straight away because they were said with such breathy awe.

‘He’s Romain de Valois. Maud’s nephew is Romain de Valois. It all makes sense now. The girls were talking about him backstage earlier. He’s heading up some huge campaign—not to mention he’s even here, and easily the most handsome man in New York…Of course they all think they’re in with a—’

‘Romain de Valois?’ A horrified gasp made its way out of Sorcha’s throat, which seemed to be tightening up. She’d gone horribly pale. Kate was oblivious.

‘Yes…you must have heard of him. Oh, Sorcha, just look. He is seriously the most gorgeous specimen—’

‘Katie.’ Sorcha’s voice was urgent, panicked. ‘Don’t you remember who he is?’

It seemed as though the fates were conspiring to throw her back down memory lane tonight whether she liked it or not.

Her mouth twisted into a bitter line. ‘Please tell me you haven’t forgotten that piece in the paper…the one that was worse than all the rest of them—the one that caused every other paper, every magazine and every photographer in London to turn their backs on me?’

Kate finally tore her gaze away from the man across the room and looked at Sorcha. Her brow creased for a second, and then her face became horrorstruck—about as horror struck as Sorcha felt.

Kate clutched her hand. ‘Oh, God, Sorch…that was him. He gave that interview.’

Sorcha just nodded dumbly. Her insides seemed to be shrivelling up. Even eight years ago Romain de Valois had wielded enough influence to crush a fledgling career. He’d made her the black sheep among models. In a scathing interview he had denounced the use of drugs within the fashion world and had held her up as an example. Enough people had been terrified of losing his favour to seriously damage her reputation. Yet her naïve mistake had been far outweighed by the public scandal and the fallout. She’d been cruelly judged and tried for a crime she hadn’t committed, and no one had been prepared to hear her side of the story. His power had been too great. And who cared about a skinny teenager? Within weeks there was already a new fresh face. A new lamb to the slaughter.

She’d been well aware of his name over the years, as he’d taken more and more control of the fashion industry and been mentioned more often with the kind of breathy awe that Kate had just shown. But Sorcha had always avoided listening in to conversations about him—had avoided reading about him, looking at pictures. It was a primal reflex to avoid anything that might make her remember that time in her life…and so far, despite his being Maud’s nephew, as he was based primarily in Europe their paths hadn’t crossed…

It was only the fact that she’d been able to go home to Ireland and start all over again that had saved her. Slowly but surely, with grit and determination, she’d built herself up again. She’d even taken her grandmother’s maiden surname in an effort to start over, and so far, apart from a few snide comments, she’d managed to build a successful career. At least until today. Even though Maud knew of her past, and with characteristic aplomb had declared that it didn’t matter to her, what mattered was how she behaved now, how could Sorcha fight against the poison she’d no doubt hear from her own nephew? Because that was surely what the topic of conversation had been, why he’d been looking at her like that…

‘I’m so sorry, hon. I didn’t remember…’

Sorcha squeezed Kate’s hand. She knew her palm was clammy. ‘Don’t be silly. How were we to know he’d be the nephew Maud was going on about.’ Sorcha laughed, and it sounded a little hysterical to her ears. ‘After all, she does have about a hundred of them, she’s been married so many times. And Romain de Valois wouldn’t even remember me, I’m sure.’

Kate smiled weakly, but Sorcha couldn’t fail to notice how her gaze gravitated yet again over her shoulder to that man. She looked back to Sorcha almost guiltily. ‘Look, it’s not as if we have to talk to him or anything…’

Sorcha felt a curious compulsion unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and obeyed some rogue impulse to turn and look, to see again the man who had so carelessly judged her along with everyone else all those years ago. She felt herself turning…only to come eyeball to eyeball with that suddenly familiar light grey gaze across the room—a room that seemed to have shrunk in seconds. And he was now positively glowering at her!

Feeling every part of her rebel at the movement, Sorcha tore her eyes away again and looked back to Kate, who was watching her. Her friend whistled softly, arching one delicate blonde brow. She had missed nothing in the intense look.

‘You spotted him before, didn’t you? You didn’t recognise him, but you shared a look just like that…and that’s why you ran…’

Kate’s words hit far too close to home and made Sorcha’s voice uncustomarily sharp—a knee-jerk defence reaction to the riot of feelings and emotions swirling in her breast. ‘Katie, I’ll tell you right now exactly the sort of person he is. He’s a holier-than-thou control freak. A wealthy, empty-headed playboy who turns up at the office only when he’s not cavorting on some yacht somewhere, overloaded with silly dim-witted models who don’t know their own names. He’s lucky we’ve never crossed paths before, as quite frankly I’ve matured enough not to go over there and land him one, or throw my drink in his face for being such a pompous, bigoted—’