The Innocent Behind the Scandal

by Abby Green

  Maks looked at the camera in his hand. It was an old Nikon, probably about twenty years old, and a bit battered. There was a bin nearby, and he knew he should just throw it away and put that brief encounter out of his head, say good riddance to the whole encounter. He wouldn’t see her ever again.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Zoe looked broodingly out of the window of the train as it arrived back into London. Early autumn had been sunny in Paris, but London’s late-afternoon skies were leaden and did little to elevate her mood. Every time she thought of that last image of Maks Marchetti, smirking and saying ciao with her camera dangling from his hand, she wanted to scream—or cry.

  To her horror, tears prickled behind her eyelids. How could she have lost her beloved father’s camera like that? It was probably at the bottom of a rubbish bin by now. Wiped clean of all pictures. Memory card destroyed.

  Absently she touched the scar above her lip. It was that camera that had given her the scar. Both scars. When their car had crashed seventeen years ago, killing her parents and her younger brother. She’d been eight. Ben had been five. Her parents had been in their prime.

  She’d been holding the camera in her hands and her father had looked back at her for a moment, telling her to be careful with it. And then... Then the world had exploded in a ball of fire and pain and her life had changed overnight. She’d become an orphan. She and the camera were the only things that had survived the crash.

  Zoe took her hand down from her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, as if that might block out the unwelcome memories. She did not need to go there now. She went there enough in her dreams and nightmares.

  She opened her eyes again and forced emotion out. It was entirely her fault she’d lost her father’s camera. She shouldn’t have been so impulsive. If it hadn’t been for that other photographer telling her that if she could get into an actual show then she might have a real chance to make some decent contacts then she wouldn’t even have thought of it.

  A frisson ran over her skin when she thought about the man. Maks Marchetti. He’d been so...intense. Overwhelming. She had to acknowledge now that, in spite of the stress of the situation which she’d found herself in—entirely her own fault—she’d felt alive in a way that had had nothing to do with the adrenalin running through her body.

  He’d looked at her scars. Everyone did after a few seconds, when they registered them. She was used to the skin-prickling moment when eyes widened and then narrowed, followed by a quick look at her eyes to see if she’d noticed. Then a guilty or apologetic smile. Embarrassment.

  Zoe knew she was lucky. Her scars weren’t that disfiguring. But when Maks Marchetti had looked at them she hadn’t felt the usual sense of invasion. She’d ducked her head because, disturbingly, she’d felt something else—awareness.

  Zoe went cold inside. The same kind of awareness that had led her into trusting someone who had betrayed her trust. Who had almost done a lot worse than just betray her trust.

  The train slowed down and Zoe clamped down on her rogue thoughts again, welcoming the sight of the station ahead.

  She wasn’t as naive as she had been before. Now if a man affected her she was doubly wary, because she knew how awareness, or desire, could hide the truth about someone until it was almost too late.

  The train drew to a stop inside St Pancras Station.

  She couldn’t help wondering, though... If she knew better now, then why did she feel a sense of loss at the fact that she’d never meet Maks Marchetti again?

  It was ridiculous. Right now he was presumably at a glamorous after-party, while Zoe was headed towards the labyrinthine Tube system to get back to her tiny East London flat. Their worlds couldn’t be further apart. She was scarred—on the outside and the inside. He was not.

  She’d learnt her lesson in attempting to infiltrate a world that was not open to her. The truth was that her love of photography was just a hobby—a hobby that was now getting her into trouble. The prospect of it ever becoming anything more seemed further away than ever. In the meantime, she had a living to earn.

  Two weeks later, London

  Zoe’s arms ached, and her face ached even more from fake smiling. Her tray went from heavy to light and then heavy again, in relentless rotation, as she passed around glasses of champagne to the glittering crème de la crème of London’s most famous and beautiful.

  In an ironic twist of fate, the catering company she worked part-time for was catering a fashion event. The launch of a new head designer at a famous fashion house. It was being held in their flagship shop on Bond Street. And the label was owned by the Marchetti Group, of course.

  Zoe felt the back of her neck prickle, but brushed the sensation away. She blamed it on her hair being tied up—a rule of the job. She always felt more exposed when it was up. Exposed, and then guilty for feeling exposed. Her scars were a reminder, after all, of the incident that had defined her life.

  She told herself off for feeling paranoid. Maks Marchetti was in Paris. He was hardly likely to turn up at every event the group presided over.

  Pushing him firmly from her mind, she turned and faced the other way for a bit, hoping her tray would lighten soon.

  And then she spotted someone across the room and her blood ran cold. A tall man. Broad. Short hair glinting dark blond under the lights. He wore a steel-grey suit, a white shirt open at the neck. He was holding a half-empty glass of champagne carelessly in one hand. His head was bent towards a tall, statuesque red-haired woman who was wearing a very short, very sparkly green dress, who had the longest legs Zoe had ever seen.

  It was him.

  As if sensing Zoe looking at him, he lifted his head and those all too familiar dark grey eyes met hers before she could even move. His gaze narrowed. Recognition dawned and his expression turned icy.

  Zoe could practically read his lips. What the hell is she doing here? He said something else to the woman, never taking his gaze off Zoe, pinning her to the spot, and then came towards her, putting his glass down on a table.

  She couldn’t move. Like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. He stopped right in front of her. She’d convinced herself over the last couple of weeks that he couldn’t possibly be as beautiful as she remembered. But he was. Devastatingly so. Even if he was horrible and cruel.

  ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘I’m working for Stellar Events.’

  He made a rude sound. ‘A likely story.’

  He put his hands on the other side of her tray and the glasses wobbled precariously. Zoe came out of her shock. ‘Hey, watch it. I am actually working here.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Give me the tray and get out of here.’

  Zoe glared at him. ‘No, I’m just doing my job. You can’t chuck me out every time you see me.’

  She gave a tug of the tray at the same moment that he relaxed his grip and stumbled backwards under the weight of it, losing her balance. As if in slow motion she watched the tray tip up towards her and then the inevitable trajectory of about a dozen glasses, full of sparkling wine, falling towards her and then crashing to the artfully polished concrete floor, spraying wine in an arc around them.

  A second afterwards there was a collective sharp intake of breath and then silence. Zoe stood in shock, the front of her shirt soaked. Wine had splashed up into her face.

  She stared at Maks Marchetti. He looked grim. There was movement near them and Zoe’s boss appeared in her eyeline. An officious man in a suit, he’d been stressed already, and now he looked ready to blow completely. His face was red.

  Zoe held the tray to her chest like a shield. She started to say, ‘Steven, I’m so sorry—

  ‘Stop talking. Clean this up and then see me in the kitchen.’

  He made a motion to another waiter Zoe didn’t know and he rushed over with a brush and pan. Someone else arrived with paper towels.

 
Zoe couldn’t look at Maks Marchetti again. She bent down and started picking up the bigger pieces of glass, sucking in a breath when she pierced her finger.

  Suddenly Marchetti was beside her, taking her hand, looking at the blood. ‘Leave the glass. You’ll hurt yourself.’

  Zoe pulled her hand back, shocked at the zing of electricity that raced up her arm. She glared at him. ‘As if you care. Just leave me alone, will you? You’ve already caused enough trouble.’

  She ignored the pain in her finger and continued to pick up the glass. When she stood again, her face burning with humiliation, Marchetti was gone.

  She went back to the kitchen, where her boss was waiting for her. She put down the tray full of bits of broken glass and he handed her an envelope. His rage was icy, but his face was even redder now.

  ‘Do you have any idea who that was?’

  Zoe’s stomach sank. This wasn’t going to end well. ‘Unfortunately, I do know who that was.’

  ‘What on earth were you doing, tussling over a tray with him?’ He waved a hand, as if he didn’t even want to hear her answer, then said, ‘Maks Marchetti is one of the most important people in the fashion and luxury industry. And not only that, but his brother Nikos is here too this evening.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘I’m sorry, Zoe, but we can’t keep you on this evening—not after this. We won’t be contacting you again.’

  Zoe’s mouth dropped open. She started to formulate her defence and stopped. Nothing she could say would reverse this. They wouldn’t forgive her for this public humiliation.

  Before he left, Steven glanced at her hand. ‘You’re dripping blood everywhere. Clean yourself up, please, and leave.’ Then he swept out.

  Zoe looked at her hand stupidly. At her cut finger. Numbly she searched for and found a first aid kit, and cleaned the cut and put a plaster on her finger, wincing as it throbbed. She welcomed the pain. Damn Maks Marchetti anyway. Now she really hoped she never saw him again.

  But unfortunately that was not to be the case. When she stepped into the street from the staff entrance a short while later, she saw a sleek low-slung silver car by the kerb. The door opened and a man uncoiled his tall, lean body from the driver’s seat.

  Maks Marchetti.

  She started walking away, but he kept pace easily beside her. She was aware of her worn black trousers, white shirt—still damp from the wine—and her even more worn leather jacket. Flat shoes. Backpack on her back. She couldn’t have been less like one of the women in that glittering space. And why did that even matter to her?

  She stopped and rounded on Maks Marchetti. ‘Look, what do you want now? I’ve been fired—isn’t that enough for you? The last time I heard, streets were public spaces, so I don’t think I’m actually infringing on hallowed Marchetti Group property now, am I?’ She stopped, surprised at the depth of emotion she was feeling.

  Maks put up a hand. To her surprise, he looked slightly...sheepish. He lowered his hand. ‘I owe you an apology.’

  Stupidly, Zoe said, ‘You do?’ And then she remembered what had happened. ‘Yes, you do, actually.’

  * * *

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to get fired. I saw you across the room and I...’

  Maks trailed off, rendered uncharacteristically inarticulate for the first time in his life. He hadn’t been able to get the woman in front of him out of his head for the past two weeks. She’d dominated his waking and sleeping moments.

  When he’d spotted her across that room he’d been so surprised to see her that any kind of rationality had gone out of the window. He’d even forgotten that he’d come to the grudging conclusion that she wasn’t actually paparazzi.

  The truth was that she’d got to him. On some visceral level. From the moment he’d seen her camera lens pointed straight at him, provoking an extreme reaction. Not everyone would have reacted the way he had. His brother Nikos would have smiled and posed.

  For Maks, though, camera lenses represented an intrusion of his privacy, and he’d spent the last two weeks wondering if he’d massively overreacted. A knee-jerk reaction to old trauma.

  Yet when he’d seen her this evening, the mere sight of her had sparked that visceral reaction again. A need to see her up close juxtaposed with a need to push her away. And this time she hadn’t even had a camera.

  Because you took it.

  Whatever it was about the way she made him react, he knew he couldn’t let her walk away again. As much because he owed her this apology as for other, deeper and less coherent reasons.

  Because you want her, whispered an inner voice.

  He ignored it. She’d taken her hair down, but it couldn’t hide her exquisite bone structure or delicate beauty. Or the scars. The one above her lip and the other one at her cheek. He wanted to reach out and trace them.

  He curled his hand into a fist.

  Abruptly he asked, ‘Why did you sneak into the fashion show in Paris if it wasn’t to take shots of celebrities and sell them?’

  She swallowed. ‘Do you believe I am not paparazzi?’

  He nodded once. ‘I looked through your photos. Street fashion shots. Landscapes. Architecture. People.’

  * * *

  Him. Zoe felt exposed again when she thought about focusing on his face that day two weeks ago.

  His gaze lingered on her face now, intent. He looked at her scars. But, disconcertingly, like the last time, it didn’t bother her as much as it had when she’d noticed people clocking them as they’d taken drinks from her tray at the event just now.

  He was waiting for her response.

  She sighed. ‘I made an impulsive decision to sneak into the show when the opportunity presented itself. I’ve never been to a fashion show before, and they fascinate me. I was hoping that I might make some contacts with other photographers...break into the industry somehow. That’s all.’

  ‘You want to do fashion photography?’

  Zoe squirmed a little. She’d never really articulated this to anyone before. ‘It’s something I’ve always been interested in, yes. But there’s no way I’m remotely qualified.’

  ‘Meanwhile you’re working as a waitress?’

  She shrugged self-consciously. ‘Among other things—childminding, cleaning offices, teaching English to refugees... Although I’m not paid to do that.’ She stopped talking, suddenly aware that she was babbling about her peripatetic career. And to Maks Marchetti, who must be one of the richest people on the planet.

  Suddenly awkward, she stepped back. ‘Thank you for the apology. I’m sure you’re required back inside. I should get going.’ Zoe turned around.

  ‘Wait.’

  She stopped. Her heart was beating out of time. She felt breathless.

  Maks Marchetti came and stood in front of her. To her surprise he said, ‘Can we start again?’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Maks Marchetti.’

  Zoe knew she should just her head and step around him, saying something about having to get home and then put him out of her mind for good. But at that moment he smiled, and her breathlessness turned into asphyxiation. All good intentions turned to dust.

  She had no defence for a smiling Maks Marchetti.

  He’d been gorgeous from the moment she’d laid eyes on him, but he’d been aloof, and then condemnatory. Intimidating. She hadn’t actually seen him smile. Not even when he’d been across the room at the event with that woman. But now he was smiling and he was...utterly irresistible.

  Zoe had to force herself to breathe. She was feeling dizzy. And against every better judgement she found herself putting out her hand before she could stop herself. ‘Zoe Collins. I’m Zoe Collins.’

  Marchetti wrapped his hand around hers and that jolt of electricity zinged up her arm and into her blood. This time she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

  He said, ‘Zoe. It suits you. It’s spiky.’

  That gave Zoe th
e impetus to pull away. She almost cradled her hand to her body, as if she’d been burned. The air between them was charged. Zoe barely noticed people passing by. Traffic on the street. The warm early autumn evening. The dusky sky.

  Her mouth tipped up ruefully. ‘I’m not normally spiky. You seem to bring out the worst in me.’

  Marchetti’s smile faded. ‘You lost your job because of me.’

  Zoe made a face. ‘It’s not that big a deal, I only did a few jobs for them a month—if I was lucky.’

  He looked at her for a long moment. And then he said, ‘Still, I’d like to make it up to you. Will you join me for a drink?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ZOE LOOKED AT him. ‘A drink? Like...’ She wanted to say Like a date, but stopped herself in time. The thought was too outlandish. Ridiculous. Maks Marchetti was feeling guilty, that was all.

  He said, ‘A drink. Like a way for me to apologise for being heavy-handed, not once but twice.’

  See? Not a date.

  As if she was anywhere close to his league, with her very ordinary looks and scars.

  Zoe felt something drop inside her. He was being nice, that was all. ‘Thank you—really. But you don’t have to. It’s fine. And I did trespass on your fashion show in Paris, so you were within your rights to throw me out.’

  And confiscate my camera.

  She felt a pang of pain when she thought of that.

  Maks Marchetti said, ‘It’s not just to apologise, though. I’d like to take you for a drink to get to know you better. You...intrigue me.’

  Zoe’s brain seized. She intrigued him? Her, Zoe Collins, who wasn’t remotely interesting. Not really.

  ‘I...’ She trailed off when she saw flashbulbs popping behind him, where one of the A-list celebrities was leaving the venue. She gestured. ‘Shouldn’t you go back? Isn’t that your event?’