A Very French Affair: Bought for the Frenchman's Pleasure / Breaking the Boss's Rules / Her Secret Husband

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?’

Sorcha snorted inelegantly. ‘What do you think?’

He rubbed at his hair, totally unconcerned by her comment. With his face obscured momentarily, she couldn’t halt the inevitable slide of her gaze downwards again, seeing how the cold water had made his nipples hard. Her own seemed to pucker and tighten in direct response, and she hurriedly crossed her arms over the thin material of her T-shirt.

‘It was amazing.’ He jerked his head back towards the pounding waves.

Sorcha was distracted for a second, that sexy accent making her breath hitch again. And she did envy him the experience, knowing well how he must be feeling right now—the rush of endorphins, the tingling sensations as life came back into a body that would be near frozen.

‘I know.’ She sounded wistful. ‘It’s been a while since I swam in the sea here, but I remember.’

‘Nothing stopping you now. You could go in in your underwear. I can keep an eye.’

The lightness in his voice didn’t fool her for a second. And if he thought she was going to strip off in front of him…

She shook her head and watched with widening eyes as he proceeded to hitch the towel around his waist and strip off his shorts underneath. At the last second she whirled away from him.

‘Do you mind?’

Romain studied her taut back. Just who was Sorcha Murphy?

‘I’m decent again.’

Sorcha turned around reluctantly, relieved to see him buttoning up his jeans—although that led her eyes to his hands, and the line of dark hair that snaked up to his chest. A worn sweatshirt abruptly concealed him from view and she felt saggy with relief.

He strolled towards her nonchalantly. ‘So, why don’t you?’

She frowned, her head feeling muggy, unconsciously backing away ‘What?’

‘Go for a swim.’

She shook her head again. ‘No.’ And she struck off up the beach.

He kept pace with her all too easily.

She looked at him sideways, it seemed silly not to admit the truth. ‘But you’re right…I did think of it. I was going to go back inside and get my swimsuit.’

‘Coward,’ he called softly.

She avoided his eye, afraid of what she’d see, and looked at her watch. They were at the back of the house, a huge hedge obscuring them from view. ‘As I have to be in make-up in less than half an hour, I’m sure you don’t want to be encouraging me to be late?’

He spread an arm wide for her to precede him up the path and dipped his head. ‘Of course you’re right.’

She went to squeeze past him. The narrow gate was too small for two people, and he wasn’t budging an inch. Sorcha gritted her teeth, not even breathing, but even so she could feel his chest. She imagined it would still be cold from the sea…and were his nipples still hard?

She felt like screaming inwardly. Until she’d met him in New York, thoughts like this had never entered her head. She didn’t know if he was doing it deliberately, just to unsettle her, or because he—

Two arms came round her at that moment, and her heart skidded to a halt.

The feel of her lithe, athletic, yet lush body was too much for him. He was only human, and he couldn’t wait any more. Not after the extreme erotic torture of holding her in his arms yesterday and his sleepless night last night.

She looked up, panic-stricken. ‘What do you think you’re—’

‘Something I’ve wanted to do ever since I saw you across that room in New York, and more especially since yesterday…What we would have done if we hadn’t been interrupted.’

His powerful arms held her captive. She couldn’t move, and to do so would be to invite a friction between their bodies the thought of which made scorched colour enter Sorcha’s already pink cheeks. His words and her own body’s reaction scared the life out of her, but something joyous moved through her too, and that scared her even more witless.

She had to do something!

His head dipped, and she tried in vain to push with her hands.

‘Aren’t you afraid you might catch some immoral disease?’

His mouth hovered just inches away…Sorcha knew she should turn her head away—so why didn’t she? Her eyes, big as saucers, gazed up into his.

Romain felt his whole body tighten, felt fire blazing a trail along every vein and artery, pumping blood to areas that were becoming painfully engorged. He couldn’t even take in her words, or answer with any coherence.

Before Sorcha could move or stop him his head had dipped. The morning disappeared. Mad insanity arrived. Insanity that tasted delicious…like nothing she’d ever dreamt of before. This was a kiss unlike any other she’d experienced. The first press of his lips to hers was benedictory, almost reverent, and then he drew back. She opened her eyes. When had she closed them? And how had her hands crept up to his neck? The stark reality of what she was doing washed through her and she struggled again, but Romain was ruthless. He pushed her back against the gate, trapped her completely with his hard body.

‘No, you don’t…You want this just as much as me…’

‘No!’ she panted. ‘I don—’

And this time there was no gentle. He was hard, intrusive, ruthless, and determined to break through her every defence. His tongue forced her mouth open, made a bold foray into her mouth, and though she first had an instinct to bite…it turned quickly into a desire to explore, touch and taste. He tasted of salt water. His hand was on the back of her head, angling her better for his satisfaction. She gave a deep mewl in her throat and her treacherous hands climbed again, finding the way the skin grew silky around the back of his neck, where his wet hair made her think of him emerging from the sea just moments ago. That had a tight spiral of need starting in her belly and rising upwards, consuming every part of her on the way.

Her breasts felt sore, aching heavily against the thin material of her T-shirt and bra. She pressed herself closer, lost in a maelstrom of passion so dizzyingly new and overwhelming that she couldn’t even question it. Romain’s other hand smoothed down her back, all the way to her bottom, where he cupped one cheek, pressing her even closer, and all the time their mouths clung, tongues duelling in a frantic building heat that threatened to combust around them.

It was a dog barking that finally cut through the insanity that had taken them over. Romain noticed before she did, and pulled back with extreme reluctance. His eyes darted to a dune nearby, and he contemplated taking her right now, right there…the aching in his loins crying out for immediate release. But a dog would have an owner, and now was not the time or place. Something triumphant moved through him when he looked down into slightly glazed blue eyes. He’d been right. But when he’d sensed passion under that pale skin he hadn’t dreamt how incendiary it was. He smiled.

Sorcha finally reacted to his smile. It was smug…and something else. It made her heart turn over and at the same time her blood run cold. This time she pushed and he let her go. She fought to control her breathing, her hammering heart, and looked at him, trying not to let the confusion she felt show on her face.

‘I don’t know what you thought that was, but it won’t be happening again.’

She turned to walk away and he caught her back, catching her off guard. She fell against his body, and desire coiled tight in her abdomen again.

‘Yes, it will. And next time we won’t be interrupted.’

It was only then that Sorcha even noticed movement on the beach and saw someone walking their dog. Mortification twisted her insides. She glared back up at Romain.

‘You might think that every model in the world wants you to bed them, but believe me, I don’t. I haven’t changed my opinion of you, and you’re the last man on this earth that I’d want to sleep with.’

Before he could come back with some silky-smooth retort, with flaming cheeks she pulled free and ran back into the house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

LATER that day, as Sorcha boarded the privately chartered jet, it felt as if aeons had passed. Those moments on the beach, that kiss, had an intimate residue that made Sorcha feel skittish. And, to her utter dismay, she saw that the only free seat was beside Romain.

She hovered reluctantly for a second by the empty seat. Romain glanced up eventually from some papers in his lap. He looked more like the successful businessman now, in a dark suit, light shirt and tie, undone slightly, with a top button open. A glimpse of the strong column of brown throat was tantalising.

‘It seems as though this is the only free seat.’

He smiled wolfishly. ‘Please, be my guest. It’ll be fun to watch you try to squirm away from me for five hours.’

Sorcha sat down gingerly, very careful about where she put her arms. Then she sat back and closed her eyes.

Before long, though, the familiar terror began making its all too predictable insidious climb inside her chest as the engine’s throttle roared. At this moment even Romain beside her couldn’t distract her from it. She heard him rattle papers. The engines started up in earnest, the plane lurched forward, and she felt the colour drain from her face. Her hands, despite her efforts not to give anything away were clenched tightly in her lap. She longed to be able to wrap them around the seat—that always made her feel stupidly protected—but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

As the plane gathered speed down the runway, her heart beat faster and faster.

‘What’s wrong? Scared of flying?’

The voice came from right beside her ear, and Sorcha jumped, eyes opening wide as she looked to Romain. She couldn’t even speak, and just nodded silently. When he saw the truly blatant fear in the blue depths, any teasing fled Romain’s mind. He acted purely on instinct and took one of Sorcha’s hands in his. It was clenched tight and he had to prise the bloodless fingers apart. Finally he was able to thread his fingers with hers and grip her tight. He saw her other hand go in a white-knuckle grip to the armrest.

Sorcha couldn’t believe it. The mind-numbing fear, the awful acrid taste of it, wasn’t hitting her as hard as it normally did. The plane left the ground, that awful moment came…and it was still awful, but for the first time ever bearable. It was only then, as the fear began its slow decline, that Sorcha felt the long warm fingers entwined with hers and heat unfurled in her belly. She looked down and could see white and brown fingers in a tangle. A hot, tight feeling made her abdomen clench, and the kiss invaded her consciousness with full lurid recall.

Looking up to Romain with horror, she saw him wincing. Abruptly she loosened her grip, but he didn’t loosen his. His face cleared, though, and he smiled.

‘Remind me never to arm-wrestle you. I don’t think I’d win.’

Sorcha snatched her hand back. She felt acutely vulnerable. She couldn’t believe she’d been so weakly transparent.

He settled back comfortably, turning his big body towards her. Sorcha looked resolutely at the back of the seat in front of her.

‘So is it just the take-off, or the whole thing?’

She sighed deeply. ‘Just the take off.’ She looked at him warily. ‘And being in tiny helicopters.’ She gave a delicate shudder. ‘That trip to Inis Mor…’

‘I thought you looked unnaturally pale when you got off. Why didn’t you say anything?’

She shrugged, casting him a quick glance. ‘What’s the point? It’s just a silly fear. No need to cause a fuss.’

He felt anger lick through him, but not directed at her. ‘So you’d prefer to put yourself through moments of terror like that just to keep people happy?’

‘Well, how else would I have got over there—or anywhere, these days?’

He just looked at her broodingly. ‘Where did it come from?’

Her head had that fuzzy feeling again. Why couldn’t she look this man in the eye for longer than two seconds without her head going to mush? He was going to suspect she was certifiably stupid.

‘What?’

‘Your fear of flying…. taking off…do you know where it comes from?’

Sorcha nodded slowly. Weighed up what it would mean to tell him. He saw the hesitation, and she saw how his jaw tightened.

‘I forgot about the embargo on your private life.’

Despite her best instincts, at that moment she perversely wanted to put her hand on his arm. She clenched her hand into a fist again. ‘No,’ she said tightly, and then, with a small smile that made her feel as if she’d been invaded by a rogue body snatcher, she said, ‘It’s fine.’

She looked away for a second, and then back, struck by how, even though they were in the plane surrounded by the crew, it felt as though it was just them, in some kind of bubble.

‘I was three years old, and we were taking a trip back to Spain to visit my mother’s family—’

He looked at her incredulously. ‘You’re Spanish?’

She hesitated for a split second…Hadn’t she been for most of her life? ‘Half-Spanish…My mother is. My father is—was Irish…’

‘He’s dead?’

She nodded, and felt herself go cold inside, she knew she was lying about being half-Spanish, but that was a part of her that was certainly out of bounds for discussion and none of his business. That bit of information lay far too close to the truth of everything else.

‘He died just before I turned seventeen.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Romain saw how she’d changed in an instant from being lukewarm to icy cool. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘My father died when I was twelve…a heart attack.’

She looked at him, that guarded expression faltering slightly. She remembered what Maud had told her about his mother. ‘Mine too…a heart attack, I mean. I’m sorry.’

A moment passed between them, and neither noticed for a second when the air stewardess asked if they wanted anything. Then Sorcha looked up and a guilty flush stained her cheeks. What was she thinking? Getting lost in his eyes, telling him about her father? She saw the way the stewardess practically ate him alive with just a look and welcomed the cold dose of reality.

When they’d ordered water, she could feel him settle back in.

Please, no more conversation…

‘So…your fear of flying…’

Sorcha’s tone was brisk and almost bored. She didn’t see the way Romain’s eyes narrowed on her speculatively.

‘Like I said, we were on holiday, going to Spain. It’s really not that exciting—’

‘Indulge me.’

Sorcha gulped, looked at him quickly, and then away again. ‘The plane had just taken off, and at the last second something failed and it crashed back down. I didn’t have my belt on.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d managed to unlock it somehow, and when the plane fell back down like a stone I fell and got thrown around a bit…’ She shrugged. ‘That’s it. I told you it was nothing to get worked up about. It’s silly to still let it affect me.’

He looked at her for a long, intense moment and couldn’t stop the feeling that he was somehow letting her get to him—get under his skin in a way that went beyond physical attraction. He drew back. The shutters came down, his face expressionless.

‘If you don’t mind, I have an important meeting when we land in New York and I need to concentrate on some paperwork.’

And he promptly shut Sorcha out as effectively as she had shut him out from the start. It threw her. She made the motions of getting a book out of her bag, put on her glasses to read…but the page and the print blurred in front of her eyes. She couldn’t relax next to Romain, and her mind was feverishly trying to decipher what had made him clam up like that.

She was intrigued. Suddenly he had more facets to him than a mere autocratic and judgmental luxury goods magnate. She recalled how professional he’d been on the set the day before. He’d run it smoothly, fairly…especially when Dominic had threatened to throw a little tantrum when something hadn’t gone his way. Sorcha wasn’t used to a steadying force on a set. She found more often than not that she acted as the peacemaker, the mediator between various hysterical egos.

She sneaked another look, but Romain was a million miles away, immersed in facts and figures, shirtsleeves rolled up, his profile harshly beautiful. And extremely remote. In that moment she had trouble believing that he had ever kissed her with such passion only that morning.

Some time later Sorcha felt a bump and her head jerked up. She’d been asleep on something very soft…it felt like a cushion…only it was no cushion. It was an arm and a very broad chest. She jerked upright completely. Slumberous hooded grey eyes looked back at her, completely unconcerned. Sorcha took it all in in a flash—along with the fact that they were about to land. She must have heard the wheels being lowered.

The seat divide was up, and Romain had leant back into his own reclined seat, pulling her with him onto his chest. The sudden memory of how he’d felt underneath her cheek made a flush spread through her body.

‘I…’ She couldn’t speak.

Romain watched her flounder. She looked sleepy and tousled and flushed and so…gorgeous that he had to shift minutely in his seat. He’d suffered the ignominy of his body reacting against the will he’d tried to impose on it for the past three hours or so, and right now he felt he needed to take a very long, very cold shower. When Sorcha’s head had kept drooping in jerks as she’d slept, he’d put down his papers, unbuckled their belts and pulled her into him. Again, he’d been surprised at how her soft curves had seemed to melt into his body, as if made for him. Her evocative scent had drifted up from silky black hair.

Their seats were towards the front, and somewhat screened from the rest of the cabin. And it was that fact now that seemed to be uppermost on Sorcha’s mind as her hair swung around her shoulders in an arc and she cast a nervous look backwards.

‘No one saw,’ he offered helpfully, feeling absurdly annoyed.

She sat back and folded her arms. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I must’ve been more tired than I realised.’

She could see him shrug out of the corner of her eye as he flipped his seat upright, ‘The pleasure was all mine.’

She burned. Her insides were on fire. She couldn’t even escape and go to the toilet as they were about to land. Buckling her belt again, she busied herself putting her book away—but not before it had fallen out of her hands and into Romain’s lap. He picked it up before she had a chance to snatch it back.

‘Man and His Symbols…Carl Jung…’ That imperious brow quirked again.

Sorcha was unaware of the plane touching down, announcing their arrival in New York.

‘Yes,’ she said tightly, holding out a hand for the book.

He gave it back after a long moment, making sure that their fingers brushed, and drawled, ‘I have to admit I’m more a fan of his old adversary, Freud.’

Her fingers burned. The book was hers again. She held it to her chest and said waspishly, ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Tell me,’ he said equably, which should have had alarm bells ringing in her head, ‘would this have anything to do with what Val was talking about the other night?’

She looked at him open-mouthed. And promptly shut it again. She knew if she didn’t tell him he’d only ask Val. And if she didn’t tell him she risked turning it into something bigger, more…

She sighed inwardly, then outwardly shrugged. She hated having to tell him. ‘I recently graduated from NYU. I got a degree in psychology.’

He said nothing for a long moment, those eyes assessing, making her nervous. ‘Val said you got a first?’

She nodded, amazed at his memory.

‘Well done.’

Completely nonplussed, trying to think about what this could reveal, Sorcha just muttered something unintelligible. Too much was happening. Too much of herself was being revealed, and she felt very, very exposed. She did not want him knowing anything about her, and now he knew about the outreach centre, her degree, her fear of flying, her attraction…what next?

The hubbub and chatter that surrounded them as people got out of seats and collected bags gave Sorcha an excuse to get away. And she did, with barely disguised panic.