The Innocent Behind the Scandal (The Marchetti Dynasty 2)

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.