by Nicola Marsh
‘Maybe I’m overwrought because I was just ambushed outside a hotel where no one supposedly knows me.’
‘They won’t be a problem—’
‘They’re going to camp out ’til they get a statement! Of course that’s a problem.’
She hated sounding like an irate banshee, hated how this changed everything. Now she’d have to tell him about the smear campaign post-divorce, about her running away and why.
‘We could just lay low for a while. Hide out in here.’
Her anger deflated, more from his use of ‘we’ than the complete logic of his statement. The guy was the epitome of cool. Did nothing ever faze him?
Collapsing into the nearest chair, she dragged a hand over her face. ‘I’m sorry for acting like a crazy person.’
‘You don’t like the press. I get it.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’ He pushed off the table he’d been propped on and took a seat next to her. ‘You grew up in the spotlight. Being the PM’s daughter must’ve been hell, having your every move scrutinised.’
And the rest. But she didn’t want to talk about the rest and she nodded, content to let him believe that was the reason for her paranoia.
‘Now that I’ve left that life I value my privacy even more and having them ask those ridiculous questions…’
She winced at the memory of them.
‘Yet it’s okay for you to ask me a whole host of questions, prying into my inner depths, analysing my answers, writing goodness knows what about me?’
She smiled as he intended, her heart kicking when he took her hand.
‘I have no idea why the press are here, probably for some VIP staying at the hotel and when they caught sight of you, they pounced.’
‘You didn’t seem averse to their presence?’
‘That’s because this face is meant to be plastered across media outlets.’
He turned his head side on, exaggerating his profile, and she laughed.
‘Is there nothing you wouldn’t do for publicity?’
He tensed, releasing her hand as he turned to face her, his eyes filled with an untold pain before he blinked and erased it.
‘I’d draw the line at nudity.’
She held her hand up and pretended to write on it with an imaginary pen. ‘Damn, scratch the first question off my list.’
‘Speaking of questions, guess I should answer yours.’
He wanted to do the interview now?
After sidestepping for days he chose the oddest of times to turn professional. With her nerves frazzled and her head still ringing from those horrid questions, she’d rather hole up in her room for a while.
But Roman was right. With the press camped outside the hotel now they’d discovered her presence with a potential new angle to her supposed sordid life, best to hide away for the remaining time here. And the faster she completed this interview, the faster she found out whether she had a shot at doing this job for real.
She held up her hand with fingers outstretched. ‘Give me five minutes to grab my stuff and I’ll be back.’
‘Unless you want to do it down in the lobby bar?’
A sliver of disappointment lodged in her heart. She’d hoped that after the interview they could switch to relaxation mode, that he’d wrap his arms around her and help obliterate the nasty discovery of having the paparazzi stalking her once again.
In fact, it was the first time they’d been together in his room that he hadn’t wanted to jump her; which begged the question why?
‘Sure, see you down there.’
She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t wait for an explanation. She’d been waiting her entire life to get where she was finally going and there was no way she’d jeopardise her plans now because her heart was taking a different track from her head.
Roman paced his suite for a good two minutes after Ava left, mentally rehashing the balls-up in his head.
How had his plans for a romantic evening ended in disaster?
He knew the exact moment the whole night had gone pear-shaped: when the press had bombarded Ava. What he didn’t know was why.
Sure, he’d let her off the hook with his understanding of how tough life must’ve been as the PM’s daughter, but he didn’t buy it.
For someone used to being in the public eye, her reaction had been over the top. He’d expected her to assume a stoic mask, give them some trite answer and walk out of the hotel grounds with her head held high. What he hadn’t expected was to see her freeze and clam up, as if she’d never had a microphone thrust in front of her face before.
He didn’t get it.
Until the moment she freaked he’d been quite prepared to take the intrusion in his stride, to field a few questions, flash his usual smile for the cameras and continue about his business.
The funny thing was the press didn’t have a clue to his identity. Ironic, when he’d been photographed the world over; albeit usually about to jump off a cliff or bridge. Then again, wasn’t that the reason he’d chosen Australia as a break in the first place? A full twenty-four hours away from his mother and her threats. Threats he knew were fuelled by alcohol and melancholia but threats that could end his career all the same.
That was another reason he’d chosen Australia: he’d wanted Rex to run a great article on him as a pre-emptive strike against the potential damage Estelle could do just in case.
So here he was, finally about to give Ava the interview she wanted and feeling edgy because of it.
He’d used it as a distraction, wanted to divert her away from the whole ‘is there nothing you wouldn’t do for publicity?’ thing she’d zoned in on.
He had his reasons for what he did, publicly or otherwise, and no way in hell would he be sharing those with anybody. Least of all a woman who had a talent for unerringly homing in on his deepest secrets and gently prodding them out of him.
It was why he’d suggested they meet downstairs for the interview: more formality, less intimacy. This suite held too many memories of the two of them entwined together, making desultory small talk, comfortable in a way he’d never been with any other woman.
When she started asking the hard questions he didn’t want to be vulnerable, didn’t want to run the risk of blurting what he feared most.
The next hour or two would be business. He’d stick to the facts and spin his usual rehearsed spiel to field her questions about family.
And once business was completed, well, they could concentrate on the pleasure part of the evening, something he enjoyed much better.
It had taken Ava two hours to get the basic information she needed to write a decent article on Roman Gianakis.
He’d answered her warm-up questions quickly: the usual where was he born, was he sports-mad at school, how he got his start in the sport, followed up by how many extreme sports he participated in, what was his favourite, the next challenge.
She’d delved into his job as CEO for the extreme sports governing body, his role as ambassador for the sport and where he saw the future of the sports heading.
He’d given her in-depth, usable answers. Until she’d asked about family. He’d glossed over it, mentioning he’d rather keep his questionable paternity out of the article—perfectly understandable—and not elaborating on much else apart from he had no siblings and saw his mother in London on a regular basis.
There’d been no anecdotes, no smiles, no laid-back arm across the back of the chair, as for her previous questions. Uh-uh, he’d clammed up so tight she had a hard time prying anything further out of him when she moved on.
All she needed were a few more answers and she was done.
‘You mentioned your home base is London at the moment. Do you spend a lot of time there?’
Once again his expression closed down and she pretended not to notice, focusing on her pen doodling on the edges of her notepad to keep from displaying the blatant curiosity burning her up inside.
‘The bare minimum.’
L
ike his answers.
‘If you weren’t based there, where would you like to live?’
‘Anywhere that has the highest cliffs, the roughest surf, the steepest ski slopes.’
A small sigh escaped her lips as somewhere deep inside twisted in disappointment. Practically, she knew this was a time-limited fling. Emotionally, she knew she’d moved way past that when she started to care about more than his superficialities.
‘I’m always searching for the next big thing so where the toughest challenge is, I’ll be there.’
The knife of disenchantment twisted further as she realised that was exactly how he might have viewed her: as a challenge, something to conquer before he moved on.
Her pen wobbled and she stabbed at the paper, making a great show of jotting notes. Out of necessity, for she knew if she stopped writing she’d be forced to look up to ask her next question and at that moment she couldn’t face having her fears confirmed.
She’d known this from the start; they’d both spelled it out. But all the logic in the world couldn’t ease the pain gripping her insides and squeezing hard.
That was when she knew she had to get away. Not away from the hotel, for she had the article to compile and needed to do that in complete privacy without the press messing with her head.
Away from him. She had to emotionally distance herself, for some time over the last few days her protected heart had failed to get the memo her head had dictated, the one that read ‘fling only’.
She wanted to know about his family, wanted to know the real him, not for the article but for herself, for the woman at serious risk of falling for the wrong guy. If she hadn’t already.
She didn’t want his glib responses, she wanted the man who held her in his arms as if he’d never let go to open up to her.
In her lacklustre marriage she’d never had that, had never had real intimacy and the fact she’d felt so safe, so cherished in Roman’s arms should’ve been warning enough she was in over her head.
She cared.
Much more than was good for her and the sooner she established space between them, the easier goodbye would be.
She snapped her notepad shut and thrust it into her bag, taking a composing breath before looking up and what she saw didn’t reassure her one bit.
He was still wearing his ‘public’ face, the face he’d worn for the entire interview, a benevolent expression slashed with a winning smile every now and then. It was the face of a man who’d played to an audience countless times before, who knew all the moves, all the answers. And it was that expression as much as what he hadn’t shared with her that gave her the impetus to surge to her feet.
‘Thanks, I think I have all I need.’
‘Great.’
He stood and reached for her but she made a great show of looking at her watch.
‘Can’t believe it’s so late. I’m heading up to make a start—’
‘Come back with me.’
He snagged her wrist and her pulse jackknifed.
A few hours ago, she would’ve liked nothing better than to be holed up in his suite, pretending the rest of today hadn’t happened, as if they still had a blissful few days of no responsibility before their idyllic tryst ended.
But she was through pretending. She’d been pretending most of her life—pretending to be the model daughter, pretending to be happy in her life, pretending to be someone she wasn’t—and she was done.
Forcing a smile, she shook her head. ‘Sorry, I can’t. You know how important this is to me. I only have a few days left and I really want to get this done.’
He dropped her wrist as if he’d been burned, his charming mask slipping for a second to reveal a fraction of the pain gnawing at her inside.
‘Of course. You do what you have to do.’
They stood there like two strangers, stiff, awkward, unsure, the distance she craved already developing too quickly.
‘Thanks, I’ll see you later.’
He didn’t say a word as she walked away, taking great care not to stumble on the highly polished exquisite marble.
It wasn’t until the elevator doors slid shut and she’d sagged against the back wall did she allow her face to crumple.
Roman wasn’t the only one proficient at keeping his inner self hidden behind a mask.
CHAPTER TEN
ROMAN stuck his surfboard in the sand and sank onto his towel, his mind blessedly clear as it usually was post-adrenalin rush.
Sadly, it didn’t last long, as the thoughts he’d blissfully blocked out while riding monster waves crowded into his head, jostling for position.
It had been thirty-six hours since he’d seen Ava and she’d been all he could think about.
In that time he’d done three bungee jumps between windsurfing, powerboat racing, jet skiing, mountain biking, sandboarding and caving. He’d been up at the crack of dawn and fallen into bed when his body couldn’t stand the frenetic pace any longer.
The adrenalin had helped but the moment he stopped the activities that never failed to soothe, Ava was in his head, whispering questions he had no desire to answer, questions that had him thinking about answers he’d rather not contemplate.
She’d got him thinking about Estelle too, about the choices he’d made, about changes that needed to be instigated if he wanted to maintain some kind of relationship with his mum.
She’d rung him late last night, had left a suitably contrite, civil message, the usual thing she did following one of her binges.
How many times had he picked up the pieces for her? And how many times had she fallen down again, ignoring his advice and that of her doctor, preferring to submerge her sorrows in a bottle than face up to reality?
After her last outburst he’d said he was through. Her threats had hit home and he’d already given up too much over the years to allow her to tear down the professional reputation he’d carefully built.
This time he’d walked away.
Yet she’d called him again despite vowing not to. Not that he’d expected her to keep a promise when she’d reneged on the rest of her half-assed assurances when he was growing up.
How many times had she ranted and threatened and verbally abused? Too many to count yet he’d stood by her, helping her to regain equilibrium after each bout.
Now he was done.
He couldn’t return her call, not now. He was still too mad, too hurt.
And that brought him back to Ava.
How the hell could he be hurting from not seeing her? He’d called her twice and while she’d been polite there’d been an invisible barrier between them whereas before there’d only been flirting and sizzle and laughter.
She had an important article to write, he got that. What he didn’t understand was her aloofness, almost as if once she’d got what she wanted from him she didn’t need him for much else.
Stupid, as she’d been as much into their fling as he’d been, but her hot and cold behaviour held shades of Estelle and he hated to compare her to his irresponsible, emotionally frigid mother.
A bunch of bikini-clad babes jogged past and he barely registered their coy smiles in his direction, which meant one of two things. Either he was seriously wiped out from catching those monsters waves or Ava had made more of an impact than he’d anticipated.
He didn’t like feeling this…uncertain.
He knew what he wanted out of life and how to get it. He loved his life, every thrill-seeking second. He loved meeting people and schmoozing and being recognised. He loved the rush every time he skied faster or climbed higher or jumped quicker.
Yet right now his love of life had taken a dent, as if he were looking at everything through frosted glass. Where he’d had crystal-clear clarity before, everything was annoyingly fuzzy.
He didn’t want to waste time determining Ava’s motivation for pulling away when they still had a few days left. He’d vowed to never be the type of guy who second-guessed any decision he made. Yet feeling the way he did was firmly roo
ted in Ava’s deliberate distancing and he was done mulling over why.
She’d had two days to whip the article into shape. Even if she hadn’t finished it she’d have a decent first draft by now. Hadn’t he mentioned something about proof-reading it before she submitted? If not, it was a damn good idea, an idea he’d have to present to her.
In person.
‘What are you doing here?’
So much for the welcome Roman had hoped for. If Ava’s abrupt tone hadn’t clued him in, the fact she hadn’t opened the door to her suite beyond a crack would’ve been a giveaway.
‘I came to proof-read the article.’ He tried a dazzling smile when she didn’t budge. ‘To give you my totally objective opinion, considering I’m the subject matter.’
‘That makes you subjective.’
‘Hair-splitting.’
His humour wasn’t getting through to her and if he couldn’t charm his way through the door, he was in serious trouble. It had never let him down before.
‘I’d really like to help.’
She wavered for a moment, the door inching open before she drew her shoulders back and stared him down.
‘Roman, I really need to work—’
‘Bull. Just be honest with me.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk about honesty.’
A couple exited a room two doors down and gawked their way, and Ava flushed before flinging the door open and ushering him in. Nice. The risk of being embarrassed in public had succeeded where his charm had failed.
His memory receptors leapt as she brushed past him, the sexy bespoke fragrance of the Palazzo’s toiletries clinging to her skin in an evocative veil, tempting him to bury his nose against her and inhale deeply.
‘You want honesty? How about you start by telling me why you clammed up in that interview whenever your family was mentioned?’
Just like that, his erotic haze vanished.
‘Only if you tell me why you’ve been avoiding me the last few days.’
She opened her mouth to respond and he held up a hand. ‘And don’t give me the work excuse, ’cause I get how important this article is to you, but I doubt you’ve been working on it non-stop for the last two days.’
