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.’