‘This evening.’ His gaze shifted over her face in that same appraising way, as though he was studying her piece by piece.
It was impossible to be one of the world’s most sought-after models without knowing yourself to be beautiful. Jemima accepted that there was something in the physical construction of her face and body that was widely regarded to be attractive, but she was very pragmatic about it. She knew that she couldn’t take credit for any of these things—looks and beauty were almost entirely a question of chance, and as such the fact she was objectively beautiful gave her very little satisfaction. It was far easier to be proud of goals you worked hard to achieve rather than windfalls you were handed. She generally didn’t think about her looks much at all, except in relation to her work, to trends she might need to emulate or embrace.
But as Cesare swept his thickly lashed eyes over her face and his wide lips—set in a perfectly square jaw—quirked a little, she felt an unwelcome rush of warmth and feminine satisfaction fill her chest. His gaze travelled to her lips, lingering there for so long they began to tingle, and a flash of something with which she had very little personal experience but still recognised burst through her—desire, unmistakable, overtook her body, warming her insides, making her breath burn in her lungs.
‘And you?’ He matched her body language, leaning forward a little so she was acutely conscious of his frame. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him and yet somehow he seemed huge, as if he took up more than his allotment of physical space in the fashionable restaurant. He had to be six and a half feet, but it wasn’t his size alone that was formidable. It was as though he’d been cast from stone, or sculpted from bronzed marble. His body was broad, his shoulders squared and strong, his waist slim where his shirt met the leather belt, his legs long and confident. He’d discarded his jacket some time after their main course plates had been cleared and the cotton shirt he wore underneath, though undoubtedly the very best quality, and likely hand-stitched specifically for his body, strained just a little at the tops of his arms, so she could see that his biceps were pronounced.
But it was his face that had fascinated her all evening. It too had the appearance of having been deliberately sculpted, but by a hand of exceptional talent. It was a symmetrical face, with an aquiline nose, a firm, chiselled jaw, thick dark lashes above intensely watchful eyes and lips that were wide and deliberate. And when he smiled—which he hadn’t done much—two deep dimples scored his cheeks. His hair was thick and dark, cut close to his face, in contrast to a stubbled chin that she imagined would feel quite coarse beneath her fingertips.
Jemima was used to physical beauty. It didn’t generally impress her. She spent much of her time surrounded by models and, if anything, she’d begun to crave interesting, unusual features: skin that was marked with lines or tattoos, faces that told stories and invited questions.
He was purely beautiful, and yet she was fascinated by him, intrigued by him. She sensed something within him that made her want to ask questions, that inflamed her curiosity.
‘Jemima lives around the corner.’ Laurence spoke for her at the same time he lifted a hand to call a waiter’s attention. Neither Cesare nor Jemima looked away. It was as though they were the only people in the room.
‘I have a flat,’ she supplied after a beat.
One single brow lifted, changing his face altogether, so now she felt scepticism emanating from him. ‘You grew up in London?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘My family has an estate outside of Yorkshire. Almer Hall.’ She and Laurence shared a brief look at the mention of the family property that meant so much to them, the family property that would be lost if the hedge fund went down the drain.
Cynicism briefly converted to insolent mockery and then his expression was blank of anything except banal, idle curiosity.
‘You’re aristocracy.’ It wasn’t a question and yet she felt compelled to answer.
She lifted her shoulders. ‘There’s a title there somewhere. We don’t use it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It feels a bit outdated.’ She sipped her champagne now, relishing the popping of bubbles as they raced down her throat. His watchful gaze was warming her up, so she was glad for the cooling effect of the drink.
‘Scotch, Cesare?’ Laurence offered. Cesare finally took his attention from her and Jemima expelled all her breath in a long, quiet whoosh. She blinked, as though waking from a dream, and leaned back in her seat a little.
What would it be like to have those steel-grey eyes turned on her with the full force of his attention? No, she’d had his attention… With the full force of his desire? What would it be like to lean forward and brush her fingertips over his arm, to flirt with him a little, to smile and murmur an invitation in his ear?
Not for the first time, she felt the burden of her virginity with a burning sense of impatience. If she’d had some experience she’d be sorely tempted to act on those impulses. After all, the media had already hanged her for the crime of being a harlot—she might as well enjoy some of the spoils. Yes, if she’d had even a hint of experience she may well have acted on her impulse despite what that might mean for Laurence, despite the fact it could complicate matters for him.
Cesare’s voice was deep as he said the name of a whisky she recognised only because it was one that a photographer friend favoured—it was outrageously overpriced. Laurence ordered the same but, before the waiter could be dispatched, Cesare turned back to Jemima; her pulse rushed.
‘You are happy with your champagne?’
Her heart shifted in her chest. Despite all the reasons to maintain her distance, desire pushed her forward a little, just a fraction, as though her body was on autopilot, seeking his.
It was madness. As a teen model, she’d come across more than her fair share of designers, photographers, magazine editors and public relations guys, all of whom had thought she’d do whatever it took to advance her career, so by her fifteenth birthday she’d become adept at saying no without causing offence. In fact, she was very good at saying no without even having people realise that she was rejecting them. Sex, drugs, alcohol, orgies. Jemima had a knack for turning people down and still having them think well of her.
But there was danger in Cesare—a darkness that called to her, that made her certain he could be her weakness, and in that moment she wished more than anything that she was the kind of woman the world thought her to be. She wished she was sophisticated and experienced and that she knew exactly what to say to get a man like Cesare to have sex with her.
The thought alone had her standing abruptly, scraping her chair back so both sets of eyes lifted to her.
‘You okay?’ Laurence queried.
‘Perfectly fine.’ She pasted a smile to her face as she became aware more people were looking in her direction. Cursing her recognisability, and the fact Laurence had chosen this celebrity hotspot in an attempt to impress his would-be investor, she nodded jerkily. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She forced herself to walk sedately towards the facilities. Once inside, she lingered with her back against the cold, marble wall and her eyes swept shut.
She’d likely never see Cesare Durante again after this night. She was there for one reason and one reason only: to help Laurence secure him as an investor.
She had to help her cousin—there was too much at stake to risk ruining the evening because she couldn’t stop looking at Cesare and imagining what those broad, capable hands would feel like running over her body… Heat flushed her cheeks because she knew they’d feel good. Better than good. But that was beside the point—nothing was going to happen between them. She needed to get a grip.
Sucking in a deep breath, she quickly checked her appearance in the mirror, pausing just long enough to reapply her soft
coral lipstick and finger-comb her generous, side-sweeping fringe so it artfully covered one eye. She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and pulled the door inward, stepping into the wallpapered, dimly lit corridor that led to the amenities. At one end, there was a sideboard with a huge bunch of lilies sitting on top of it. A nostalgic smile briefly curved her lips.
As a child, Almer Hall had always had flowers. Huge arrangements, just like this, grand and fragrant. She paused in front of the vase, her fingertips lifting on autopilot to gently stroke the petals—like silk, dewy and tender. She inhaled the scent and swept her eyes shut, remembering the feeling of visiting her grandparents as a child, running down the marbled hallways. In summer, the fragrance had been almost overwhelming.
There were no flowers now. More than two-thirds of the house was shut down, doors closed, furniture—what remained of it—covered in sheets. The family quarters, whilst cheery, were modest and beginning to look tatty in parts. What she wouldn’t do to see the house as it used to be, tables in each room groaning under the weight of arrangements such as this.
Laurence had to pull this off. It was the only way they’d be able to save Almer Hall, to stave off the necessity of its sale. She couldn’t see it pass into other hands. It would be the final straw for her parents, who had already lost so much.
She pinged her eyes open with a swirling sense of discontent, but when her eyes naturally landed in the mirror above the flowers her gaze connected sharply with a pair of eyes that had been fascinating her all evening, and they were watching her with undisguised speculation. Her breath began to clog in her throat, making her feel light-headed.