Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

at that dark, craggy profile. However tempting she might find the prospect.

      They talked non-stop on the journey back-about politics and art and whether it was time to legislate against motor cars in major cities—this after a speeding vehicle narrowly missed careering into Cormack’s shins.

      He knew that she was a model—just as she knew that he was a scriptwriter—but in the heady anonymity of the blossom-strewn Parisian streets, their other lives seemed curiously unconnected.

      And unimportant.

      Some sixth sense warned Cormack to behave with the utmost propriety—indeed, he did not even attempt to kiss her as he left her at her hotel, though he sensed that that was what she wanted him to do more than anything else.

      And when he did kiss her, at the airport the following afternoon, the world spun on its axis. They both stared at each other in silent amazement afterwards, as if they could not quite believe what had happened, and when he asked her to visit him in Hollywood she shyly said ‘OK’ without really thinking about it.

      When Triss arrived back home in England, the episode seemed more like a dream than reality, and she waited to see what he would do next. If anything.

      He sent a book.

      Not flowers, but a novel he thought she might find ‘interesting’. He was the first man ever to acknowledge her mind rather than her model-girl looks, and Triss was absurdly flattered.

      She read the book, was provoked and stimulated by it, and wrote back to tell him so.

      He sent another. And another. And then a letter, with an accompanying open-ended air ticket, explaining that he was tied up with a film but that he would love to see her.

      Triss did not know which of them was more surprised when she turned up unannounced one day at his Malibu home, and he opened the front door to her wearing ink-splattered white jeans—and nothing else.

      There was a long pause.

      Well, Triss supposed that someone ought to fill the growing silence. ‘H-hello,’ she said nervously.

      He knew much more about her by then. He had asked his agent to come up with anything he happened to have on-a Triss Alexander and had been unprepared for the shock of realising that the sultry siren with the flaming mane of hair she had always kept tame in Paris was the fey, pale beauty who had captivated his imagination.

      ‘Hi,’ he said, very slowly. ‘So why didn’t you tell me you were a world-famous supermodel, Beatrice?’

      Triss had done her homework too. ‘And why didn’t you tell me that you were the enfant terrible of the film world?’

      He rubbed at his darkened chin thoughtfully, and Triss found herself simultaneously wondering whether he had shaved that morning and whether or not he intended inviting her in.

      ‘Does it make a difference, then?’ he quizzed.

      Triss shook her head—today her hair was pleated into an elegant chignon with not a single strand out of place. ‘Not to me. And you?’

      ‘No.’ He stared at her, then suddenly, and without warning, lifted his hand to the back of her head, where he located the pin which held the elaborate hairstyle together and slowly pulled it out, so that the thick, abundant tresses tumbled down the side of her face like a Titian waterfall. She heard him suck in an appreciative breath, saw the way his eyes darkened in approbation.

      Her mouth trembled, colour washing over her skin as she realised how much she had missed him. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ she asked, with a boldness which astonished her.

      ‘Only if you understand that if you set foot over this threshold you’re going to end up in my bed. Probably within the hour—that’s if I can hold out that long.’

      If anyone else had said it she would have run a mile, but when Cormack said it...well, hadn’t he just put into words what she had been secretly thinking, secretly hoping for...?

      But Triss wanted more than a one-night or one-afternoon stand with Cormack, and instinct told her that tumbling into his bed right now might not be the most sensible thing to do.

      So she turned her enormous hazel eyes up at him and smiled, aware and glad for the first time in her life of the sexual power unleashed by that smile. ‘Well, in that case,’ she murmured smokily, ‘you’d better get dressed, hadn’t you? And when you’ve done that you can take me out for lunch. I’ll wait in the car.’ And she turned on her heel without another word.

      Cormack was smitten.

      He ached like a schoolboy during lunch at his favourite restaurant, where today the food tasted as uninspiring as school dinners. He wanted her so badly.

      He had brought her here to try and impress her, but now he cursed himself for his stupidity, resenting the Hollywood big names who trooped over to their table to say hello, wanting above all else to be away from here, so that he could be alone with her again.

      Except that he had probably blown it with his crass approach back at the house.

      He couldn’t believe that a man of his age and with his experience could have come out with a line like that!

      Finally they stood up to leave, bathed in golden sunlight, oblivious to the other diners who watched them so closely, completely unaware of the striking sight they made as a couple.

      ‘I’ll drop you off,’ he said heavily, trying to smile but failing dramatically. ‘Where are you staying?’

      And Triss turned bemused eyes upon him, wanting him so much that she was past caring whether or not it was the right thing to say, because suddenly it was the only thing to say. ‘But I thought I was staying with you,’ she said. ‘Or at least—that was the impression I got earlier. Was I wrong?’

      He smiled then, a heavenly smile, which gave Triss a hint of the pleasures to come. ‘Just come here,’ he murmured, and pulled her into his arms.

      Triss came back to the present to find herself studying Cormack with apparent interest, her shorn head cocked to one side.

      It must be the hairstyle which made her look even more delicate than usual, Cormack decided, emphasising as it did the small, neat features and making her eyes look so huge that you could imagine drowning in them.

      ‘You were miles away,’ he observed.

      ‘So were you,’ she said.

      ‘I was,’ he answered softly. ‘Literally and figuratively.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Remembering how we met...’

      ‘In P-Paris?’ She stumbled stupidly over the words.

      He gave an impatient kind of laugh and his blue eyes seared into her, as if something had made him very angry indeed. ‘Unless my memory is defective and we met somewhere else?’

      Triss stood up. She hated it when he adopted that terse tone—it was making her feel at even more of a disadvantage than she already did. And just how was she going to tell him about Simon, for goodness’ sake?

      She stared into the moon-like face of the grandfather clock as though she were looking at the gates of hell, but at least her face was hidden from him. And that gave her the courage to try and find out what had motivated him into coming to see her so readily.

      ‘Why did you agree to come here today, Cormack?’

      ‘I thought I’d already told you that, sweetheart,’ he returned softly. ‘I was intrigued.’

      Triss sucked in her breath impatiently. ‘Then let me rephrase the question. What did you expect to happen when you got here? Another night of “spectacular sex”, as you so sweetly put it?’

      ‘You’re surely not complaining because I saw fit to praise your undeniable talents between the sheets?’ She could hear the mocking laughter in his reply. ‘Don’t