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

‘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—’

‘Well, what’s stopping you now…?’

Sorcha stopped dead. It was only then that she registered Kate’s stunned look, her mouth gaping open inelegantly on an unspoken warning.

The low-pitched, dangerously accented deep voice came from so close behind her that she fancied she felt a hint of warm breath on her back. Too late. She hadn’t even noticed. And now he was here, right behind her. And he had obviously heard every word which seemed to hang suspended accusingly in the air.

CHAPTER TWO

AS ROMAIN spoke he felt righteous anger move through him at her insulting words. But he also felt uncharacteristically at a loss. What on earth had possessed him to cross the room so soon? He couldn’t even remember forming the wish or the desire to come closer…and yet here he was.

Her back faced him, her skin so pale that he doubted she’d ever been in the sun. And it was very lightly freckled. A true Celt.

It made her even more intriguing, added to her allure. An almost blue-black sheen rippled off her hair as she started to turn around, and when she faced him he sucked in a breath. She was, quite simply, ravishing. Almond-shaped blue eyes ringed with indecently long black lashes. Cheekbones so high and well defined that it was a sin that she wasn’t smiling, to make her cheeks full and ripe. And her mouth…Lord, it must have been created by a god of decadence. The lush lower lip was a sensual invitation to touch, feel, slide his tongue across, and on it rested a top lip that was endearing with its slight overbite—an exquisite anomaly in a perfect face, a cupid’s bow of tempting irregularity.

Her breathing was rapid, her widening eyes over-bright, the pupils dilated, and her skin flushed under his look. Something hard settled in his chest. He’d been right. He fought a silent battle with himself. Hadn’t he just witnessed her little ten-minute trip to the powder room? Where he knew damn well that she and plenty of others like her would have been indulging in snorting a mood-enhancer…the most common kind on this circuit. She hadn’t reformed.

He wanted to walk away, wanted to turn around and forget he’d ever seen her. But he also—perversely—never, ever wanted to let her out of his sight again. And he hated himself for it. And he hated her for attracting him so effortlessly. Yet he knew he was being irrational. And that fired him up even more.

‘Yes…?’

Somehow she managed to articulate a word that sounded English, that made sense. Because one thing Sorcha knew for sure was nothing else made sense any more. Every preconceived notion about this man had fled. He was just a man, a devastatingly attractive man, holding her in some kind of wickedly sensual spell.

Tall, dark and handsome. He was a walking cliché. But no banal description could do justice to the way his hair shone almost black under the glittering lights. The way his hooded eyes hinted at a dangerous sensuality that was so palpable she felt faint. The way his skin shone and glowed with undeniable rude good health, so darkly olive that she fancied he must surely come from the Far East, despite being French. She was tall—almost five foot eleven—but she had to tip her face up to his. She was barely grazing his shoulder in heels.

The bespoke designer suit did little to hide the raw untamed sexuality of the man. Sorcha, from her experience of working with some of the best bodies in the business, knew a good physique when she saw it. His was…perfect. And she’d bet money that it wasn’t honed in a gym. This man gave off an air of restless energy that spoke to her, called out to her. As a lover of the outdoors herself, she knew that he would only be content with pushing himself to the max, in the rawest of environments.

What had happened to her? Why couldn’t she seem to move? She was vaguely aware that Kate had melted away seconds ago. And he was still looking at her as though he wanted to throttle her! For long moments they stared at each other in silent and heated communication. Finally Sorcha spoke again, more impatiently this time. Who did he think he was to come over and glower at her? She refused to give him the satisfaction of recognition.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

Romain had to focus. Her voice was husky, the accent refreshingly unjarring…melodious…. Clarity rushed back with force when a hapless waiter dropped a glass nearby, shocking him out of his stupor, making her flinch. And then he remembered. And that hardness took hold again.

Say hello, exchange a few words and get out of there—after all, hadn’t he come here tonight to meet her? He might have decided to dismiss the notion of using her for the job, but a few words couldn’t hurt…

He held out a hand. ‘Romain de Valois. I don’t believe we’ve actually met before…despite that flawless character reference.’

Finally some life force returned. She ignored his hand and said, with sweet acidity, ‘Nearly as flawless as the one you gave me eight years ago?’

He dropped his hand and looked down at her, cool and unperturbed by her rudeness. ‘So you do remember? I wasn’t sure if your acerbic comments just now were due to intense dislike on first sight, or if you were referring to that.’

She couldn’t hide the bitterness. ‘Of course I remember, Monsieur de Valois. It’s not every day the press chases a seventeen-year-old out of London, calling for her blood—a press that was spurred on by your comments. All you lacked was a pulpit…’ Her chest rose and fell and she couldn’t disguise her agitation. She could feel her skin heating up under his look.

‘Do you forget that you were a seventeen-year-old drug addict?’ he said with harsh inflection. ‘Photographed unconscious on the street?’

A pain so sharp that it caused her to stop breathing for a second made Sorcha want to curl inwards. Guilt, shame, and an old, old fear all vied for supremacy. With what felt like a superhuman effort she found some hard brittle shell left. She tossed her hair with studied indifference, and was too wound up to notice the tiny flash in the cool grey gaze.

Her voice was scathing. ‘If you’ve got nothing more to do than come over here like some kind of outdated moral judge and check for track marks on my arms, then please excuse me—’ She turned to go, and was taking a step away when her wrist was caught in a strong grip. His touch seared through her whole body like a brand. He slowly and very calmly turned her palm upwards, and made a thorough study up and down the underside of her milky white arm.

‘No,’ he said musingly. ‘No track marks. But then I’m sure you’re an intelligent woman. You’d have them well hidden.’

Sorcha finally yanked her arm free and hugged it close to her chest, as though he had burnt her. Her voice was shaking with emotion, and to her utter horror she could feel the sting of tears at the back of her eyelids. ‘Mr de Valois, if you would please excuse me? I am here in a work capacity tonight for your aunt. I don’t want to cause a scene, but trust me when I say that if you try to stop me leaving again I will scream this room down.’

‘There’s no need for such dramatics Miss Murphy—or should I say Quinn? And if you did anything of the sort I’d put you over my shoulder and carry you out like a child having a tantrum.’

Sorcha gulped, her bravado in short supply all of a sudden. She didn’t doubt his words for a second, and the thought of him throwing her over his impossibly broad shoulder…She could feel the heat flare up from her stomach.

She furiously willed a body which seemed to have been invaded by an alien force to obey her silent command to stop reacting to his presence, and gritted out, ‘It’s Murphy to you. If all you want is to see the tabloid fodder you chewed up and spat out, then have a good look.’

‘Oh, I am,’ he drawled, and Sorcha mentally castigated herself for her careless words.

She didn’t want this man’s attention on her…any part of her.

‘You’ve certainly grown up…and filled out.’

She sucked in a breath, unaware that her innocent movement caused his eyes to be drawn back to those parts of her body where they had rested briefly in an eloquent accompaniment to his words.

‘I was just a teenager—’

‘No teenager I knew stayed out till six a.m. every morning, drinking champagne all night, taking cocktails of various drugs to stay awake—’

He glanced pointedly at the glass in her hand. Her knuckles were white on the stem because she gripped it so tightly. Following his glance, and feeling suddenly reckless and rebellious, she tipped the glass to him in a salute. ‘Well, I must say it’s nice to meet the man who once called me the poison seeping into the industry…Here’s to you, Mr de Valois. I wish you luck on your crusade to rid the world of imperfect people!’

And with that Sorcha downed the half empty glass in one go. Very carefully she put it down on a nearby table. And while she still could, feeling sick from the immediate rush of a drink she didn’t usually favour, she spun on impossibly high heels and strode away from him, the silk of her long dress billowing out behind her.

More than a few men turned to look as she passed, and Romain couldn’t fail to notice, the very strange and proprietorial surge of…something very disturbing. He felt a little shell shocked. He could still see the white expanse of her delicate throat, bared as she had downed the sparkling drink. Her eyes had flashed before putting the glass down.

No woman had ever walked away from him like that, or showed such blatant disrespect. Yet, much to his utter confusion, he found himself thinking that his decision to veto her for the campaign suddenly seemed a little too hasty. Watching her walk away had filled him with the almost overwhelming urge to grab her back, strike more sparks, keep her talking.

He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected her to be hard, with that smooth shell most models had, yet her vulnerability had hit him straight between the eyes. And he’d been surprised that she’d remembered his comments from eight years previously. His jaw hardened. Despite his aunt’s words, and Sorcha Murphy’s apparent vulnerability, he’d be more than surprised to find that she had given up her old habits.

To be brutally honest, he’d expected that once she’d known who he was she’d morph into exactly the type of woman he’d become immune to. Sycophantic, posturing…But she hadn’t. She’d been filled with fire and passion underneath that pale, pale skin. An intoxicating package.

For some men, he told himself angrily, and finally turned away from the image of her slender back walking away from him.

‘Well, he can take his job and—’

‘Sorcha!’ Maud’s husky smoke-ravaged voice rang out like the crack of a whip.

It stopped Sorcha in her tracks—literally. She was pacing back and forth in Maud’s palatial office that looked out over busy New York streets. Ever since Maud had called her in to tell her that Romain de Valois wanted her for his campaign, she’d been feeling jittery and panicky.

She sat down. ‘Sorry, Maud, I know he’s your nephew—’

‘Technically, he’s my ex-nephew.’ The older woman waved a hand. ‘That doesn’t matter anyway. Nepotism didn’t get him where he is now; that was through sheer hard graft and ingenuity.’ Her face softened with unmistakable affection. ‘Can you believe even I have to answer to him?’ She ignored Sorcha’s dark scowl, austerity marking her features again. ‘The fact is, this is probably one of the most prestigious jobs you could ever be offered—two weeks jet-setting around the world. Do you know how many models were considered? It’s so important to him that he’s overseeing the whole shoot personally. He’s even willing to kick off in Ireland to accommodate your holiday plans—a condition I insisted on.’

The thought of even a day with that man glowering down his nose at her, checking up on her every two minutes, caused very contradictory feelings in Sorcha’s head…and body. Since that night almost a week ago she hadn’t been able to get his dark face and tall, impressive body out of her mind. And she hated it. He was her nemesis—the embodiment of every misunderstanding she had suffered all those years ago.

‘Maud…can’t you see how difficult this would be? He’s not just anyone. He’s—’

‘I’m well aware of the things he said in London that time. But you have to admit, innocent or not, if you hadn’t been caught like that then he wouldn’t have had any reason to say anything. His hand was forced by his board. He didn’t have the complete control he enjoys now. They couldn’t be seen to be taking an easy line on models doing drugs…not when that girl had died so soon before…’

Sorcha felt cold all of a sudden. She was barely able to take in Maud’s words, her mind seizing on the girl that she’d mentioned. She had been a young model on the brink of stardom who’d overdosed and died only weeks before Sorcha’s own chain of events had unfolded. It always made her feel sick, and impotent with anger and guilt. It was one of the reasons she’d finally followed her heart in the past year and tried to do something about those past events—something concrete…

Maud stood up and came round to perch one hip on her desk. She looked at Sorcha from over her spectacles. ‘I’ll tell you something else that no one knows…’ She sighed. ‘It might help you understand…’

Sorcha looked at Maud curiously.

‘His own mother was a drug addict. She died of an overdose. So, you see, he has a very personal abhorrence of drugs.’

Sorcha felt a dart of sympathy. But then she remembered the condemnation in his eyes and forced her mind to clear the images she always worked so hard to avoid. She said, somewhat stiltedly, ‘Well, his own personal issues aside, I’m sorry for him—but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour. When he spoke to me the other night it was obvious he still believes that I’m involved in something. He’s not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m sorry, Maud, but I’m taking my few months out. You know I’ve been promising this to myself for the past year.’

Her eyes beseeched her agency boss. Maud looked fierce for a second, and then shrugged. ‘I think you’re mad, Sorcha. I’ll let him know, but I warn you—once he’s decided on something he’s not one to give up easily. He may even try to go through your Irish agency, knowing that you’re headed back there. His board of management are adamant about using you…’

Sorcha shot to her feet. ‘See! He’s been forced into this against his will. He won’t push it if I refuse. Please, just tell him and see for yourself. He’ll walk away without a backward glance.’

Sorcha closed her eyes and gripped the handrest as the plane took off. She hated take-offs. She always imagined the bottom of the plane scraping along the ground at the last moment, and then there was that wobbly bit as it fought for equilibrium in the air—

‘Are you all right, dear?’

She opened her eyes and looked at the kind, elderly woman on her right. She smiled weakly, but she could feel the sweat on her brow and knew she must be pale from the concerned look the woman was giving her.

‘Fine. Sorry—I just hate taking off. No matter how often I fly, it doesn’t get better.’

‘Ah, well, sure it’s only a short enough flight. We’ll be home in no time.’

Sorcha smiled and turned back to look out of the window. Home. Ireland. She’d only been back intermittently between jobs in the past year, to work on her project whenever she had the chance, and she’d missed it—missed her apartment. The home she shared with Kate in New York was Kate’s. But her place in Dublin was hers. Bought and paid for with her own hard-earned money.

The plane was stabilising at last, so Sorcha’s hands eased their death grip and she sat back and closed her eyes. It had been ten days since the night of the function in New York, and she hadn’t stopped working since then. Every day had been packed to the brim. Even so that man—his voice, his face, his air of intense, focused energy—would slip into her consciousness and take up residence.

Just thinking about him made her heart speed up, her breath quicken. And made a whole host of other sensations race through her body. She hated that she could be having this kind of reaction to someone who had so carelessly played God with her life, her career. She forced herself to relax. Hadn’t she walked away from him? Yet the look in his eyes when she’d left him standing there that night had been so intense…Maud hadn’t had to warn her. She was sure that he was a man who would be single-minded in his pursuit of anything…or anyone.

Since leaving Maud’s office, only three days before, she’d half expected him to turn up at any moment and demand that she do the job—which she couldn’t believe she’d even been considered for, if it was half as amazing as Maud had outlined. There were plenty more models who were far more ambitious, who always got the big campaigns. So why had not seeing him, not hearing anything, led her to feel like a cat on a hot tin roof? Why had she found herself jumping every time the phone rang, only to be in some tiny and very treacherous way disappointed when it had just been Katie or her brother?

She’d met the man for mere moments, and he had proved himself to be every bit as arrogant, judgmental and overbearing as she would have expected. Why did it have to be someone like him who seemed to be cracking through the armour she’d erected around herself for so long? Why couldn’t someone else be making her heart quicken, her breath shorten just thinking of them? Someone nice, unassuming, non-threatening. Someone who would be gentle, kind, sensitive. Certainly not tall, powerful, dark and mysterious…arrogant, overbearing, too confident, too sexual—

‘So, dear, were you on holiday in America?’

Sorcha nearly jumped out of her skin—she’d been so intent on listing Romain de Valois’s negative attributes to herself.

She shook her head, as much to herself as anyone else, and smiled.

‘No…unfortunately not. I’ve been working…’

With some kind of cowardly relief, she allowed herself to be sucked into inane conversation. Anything to stop dangerous thoughts and images circulating in her head. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to meet him again anyway…