Maks saw the shock on Zoe’s face.
‘St Petersburg? That’s in Russia.’
He bit back a smile. ‘That’s geographically correct.’
She made a face. ‘But I can’t just...leave.’
‘You have a passport, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘What commitments do you have this week?’
She folded her arms and looked at him. ‘One is to find a new job.’
The novelty of a woman who wasn’t rushing to acquiesce sent a thrill of anticipation through him. ‘All the more reason to come away with me for a few days. I owe you for getting you fired.’
Zoe suddenly looked less spiky. ‘I do actually have other commitments. I mind a neighbour’s child a couple of days a week, and I do some work for a contracting firm, cleaning offices.’
Maks shook his head. ‘I can arrange for your neighbour to have substitute childcare. And as for the office-cleaning job... I refuse to believe that’s what you need to do to survive, Zoe. You are young, beautiful and talented. You can have the world at your feet if you want.’
* * *
Zoe’s chest tightened at Maks’s words. She knew very well why she preferred to operate on the fringes, and she felt the sting of shame that she didn’t have the courage to take up more space. How was it that this man she barely knew, who was from a world elevated well above hers, could see something in her that she didn’t even dare to articulate to herself? It was unnerving.
She admitted sheepishly, ‘I don’t have any cleaning shifts lined up this week.’ She saw a glint of what looked like triumph in Maks’s eye and said quickly, ‘But I won’t go anywhere until I know that Sally’s childcare is sorted. I can’t let her down.’
* * *
‘More champagne, Miss Collins?’
Zoe looked up. She’d been staring out of the window at a carpet of fluffy white clouds under a blue sky. She shook her head at the steward. ‘No, thanks, I’m okay.’
But she wasn’t okay. She was still reeling from the speed with which Maks had managed to secure childcare for her neighbour—childcare that she was happy with—and had then spirited Zoe and her one small suitcase out of her shabby top-floor flat, across London to a private airfield and this sleek silver jet, which was now flying somewhere high above Poland, according to the pilot.
Maks was in a seat across the aisle, long legs spread in front of him while he simultaneously spoke on his phone and typed into his laptop. He’d excused himself when they’d got on board, saying, ‘I have some calls to catch up on—make yourself comfortable.’
Zoe couldn’t imagine ever feeling comfortable in Maks’s presence. Fizzing with electricity. Alive with anticipation. Reckless. Heady... The champagne wasn’t helping her to feel any less reckless. Or heady. And definitely not comfortable.
What exactly had she even agreed to? An affair? Just because she’d said she’d come with him? Would he expect payment in kind in bed?
Her mind shied away from that. Maks was too controlled, too sophisticated. Too proud. As he’d said from the beginning, she intrigued him, and she was sure that sense of intrigue would fade very quickly once he’d spent more time with her. Once he’d slept with her.
Zoe shifted in her seat as a pulse between her legs throbbed at the very thought of him—
‘What are you thinking about? You look almost...guilty.’
Zoe’s head swivelled around to Maks so quickly she almost got whiplash. She hadn’t realised he’d stopped talking on the phone and had put away his laptop. She felt guilty now—which was ridiculous.
‘I’m not thinking about anything special.’
The pulse between her legs throbbed again, as if to mock her, and she pressed her thighs together. Maks’s gaze dropped for a second, before resting on her face again. She scowled. This ability of his to read her mind was seriously irritating.
Wanting to get his attention off her far too obvious thoughts, she said, ‘So what are these meetings in St Petersburg?’
Maks sat back. ‘The Marchetti Group has an office in Moscow, but we’re interested in the untapped potential of Russian designers, a lot of whom originate in St Petersburg. We’re interested in developing the city as another growing fashion hub—not just for designers but for brands.’
‘Where was your mother from?’