Bought For The Frenchman's Pleasure. Эбби Грин

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.