Bought For The Frenchman's Pleasure. Эбби Грин

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.