It had belonged to her father and it had gone everywhere with her since that awful—
She spoke rapidly to push down unwelcome memories. She didn’t need those now. ‘Are you Security? You can wipe all the pictures. I don’t care. Just please give me back the camera.’ She put out her hand. Panicking.
The man’s voice was incredulous. ‘You don’t know who I am?’
She looked at him. She wasn’t all that up to date on pop culture or gossip magazines, but she was fairly sure he wasn’t an actor or a singer. Although he did look vaguely familiar. Maybe he was a male model. He certainly had the looks. Although there was something raw about him—as if he would never do anything so submissive as pose for a photograph.
‘You’re not Security?’
‘I’m Maks Marchetti.’
He looked at her. She looked at him. Shock spread through her body.
Maks Marchetti.
He arched a brow. ‘The Marchetti Group? We own the fashion house whose show you just crashed.’
Zoe could feel the blood draining south from her face. Faintly she said, ‘I know who you are.’
The reason she hadn’t recognised him was because he was the most reclusive of the three Marchetti brothers, who had inherited the business from their father on his death some years previously.
The Marchetti Group was at the very top end of exclusive, and had become even more so in the years since Marchetti Senior’s death. It owned every major brand in the world—and if they didn’t own it they were busy acquiring it. The brands they didn’t own weren’t worth mentioning.
And this man was a Marchetti. Which meant he could buy and sell everyone in that room.
She could hear music starting now. Presumably the show was kicking off. That dark grey gaze was unnervingly direct. He seemed unconcerned that he was missing the start. Zoe recalled that sense of aloofness she’d picked up from him.
‘Shouldn’t you be inside? If you could just give me back the camera I’ll go and you’ll never see me again.’
* * *
Maks Marchetti looked down at the woman in front of him, more transfixed than he liked to admit. At first glance she was pretty average. Average height, average weight and build. Slim. Petite, actually. But there was something about her that kept him looking—that had caught his attention when he’d looked over and seen the camera raised to her face, pointing directly at him.
She had honey-blonde shoulder-length hair. Finely etched brows. A delicate jaw. Straight nose. Her eyes were an arresting shade of green and blue. Aquamarine. Pretty.
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.