by Maisey Yates
More than pretty, actually.
But she had a scar—an indentation that dissected her top lip on one side, almost an inch long. There was another scar too, that ran from one upper cheekbone to under her hairline. They piqued his interest.
As if sensing his gaze on her, she ducked her head and her hair fell forward, covering her face. ‘It’s rude to stare.’
Maks had to curb an impulse to reach out and tip up her chin so he could see her. She was a complete stranger.
‘It’s rude to trespass.’
She looked up again, those eyes flashing green. They were long-lashed. She wore no make-up that he could see and her skin was flawless. Apart from the scars. It was the colour of pale cream roses with a hint of pink. It made him wonder what she would look like in the throes of passion. Would her eyes turn a deeper green when she was aroused? Would her cheeks flush a deeper pink?
An unexpected jolt of lust caught him by surprise. More than a jolt. Actually, she wasn’t just pretty. She was beautiful—but in a way that crept up on him. He moved in a world that celebrated beauty so much that he’d almost become inured to it. But she had a kind of beauty he’d never seen before. Understated. Captivating.
Dio. What the hell was wrong with him?
He took a step back. ‘Leave now and I won’t have you prosecuted for trespassing.’
She went pale.
He ignored his conscience. ‘We don’t allow paparazzi into our shows.’
Her mouth opened and he noticed her lips. Wide and lush. Soft. Tempting. His eye was drawn to that intriguing scar again.
‘I am not paparazzi.’
She’d drawn herself up, her whole body quivering as if she was indignant. Maks had to hand it to her: she was a good actress. He ignored the way he wanted to drop his gaze down over her body and study her more thoroughly. There was a distinct hum in his blood now and he did not welcome this distraction. Or attraction...
‘Well, I’m afraid that sneaking into one of the biggest shows of the season, with wall-to-wall A-list guests, makes me a touch suspicious. And in any case this is not up for discussion.’
* * *
Maks Marchetti looked over her head and made a gesture. Zoe turned around to see two beefy security men approaching them. She swivelled back to Marchetti. ‘Look, please, I didn’t mean any harm. I’m really not paparazzi.’
But her words fell on deaf ears.
Marchetti said over her head, ‘Please escort this young woman out. Make sure she doesn’t ever get into another show again.’
Zoe’s mouth fell open as her arms were taken on each side, lightly but firmly. She glared at Marchetti. How had she thought he was beautiful? The man was cruel and cold.
‘Seriously? You’re blacklisting me?’
Now she wouldn’t get in even if she had a lanyard. Her dreams of breaking into the lower echelons of the fashion photography industry were going up in smoke.
The security guards started to lead her away. She saw her camera dangling carelessly from Marchetti’s hand. ‘What about my camera?’
He held it up. ‘You lost it the moment you trespassed. Goodbye. I hope we don’t meet again, for your sake.’
Zoe was being propelled backwards, and she knew she should turn around. She didn’t even know this man and she’d gone from thinking he was gorgeous to hating him all within a few seismic minutes. But she couldn’t tear her gaze from his.
And, worse, there was a feeling of...hurt at what he’d said. That he hoped they wouldn’t meet again. What on earth was that about?
It galvanised her to say, ‘Well, for what it’s worth, Mr Marchetti, you’re the last man on earth that I ever want to meet again.’
He lifted a hand—the one without her camera. He even let his mouth tip up at one corner. ‘Ciao.’
* * *
Maks watched the security men take the woman outside and disappear. It was crazy, but for a moment he’d almost wanted to go after them and tell them to let her go.
And do what? he scoffed at himself. Look at her some more?
He shook his head and went back into the show.
He watched it from the back of the room, barely taking in the rapturous applause at the end. And, even though he’d just watched some of the world’s most beautiful women parade down a catwalk in front of him, he couldn’t seem to get a pair of long-lashed aquamarine eyes out of his head.
He went still inside, though, when he realised that he hadn’t even taken her name. She’d distracted him that much. He scowled. Just as well he’d ensured she wouldn’t gain access again. He didn’t need distractions like her.
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 som
eone 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 uncharacter
istically 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.’
* * *
