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Rose couldn’t breathe. She was suddenly filled with sheer dread that he would turn his head and see her.
On a panicky reflex, she swung around to try and stay out of his line of vision—and crashed straight into another server who was right behind her. Her tray was already unstable in her hands, and Rose watched helplessly as it collided with the other silver platter and they both tipped up and turned end over end, spraying horrified guests nearby with slivers of exotic hors d’oeuvre fillings before crashing to the undoubtedly priceless oriental carpet on the floor.
A deathly silence filled the air.
* * *
Zac was trying to appear interested in what the host was saying, but as per usual his mind was elsewhere. Specifically fixated on about five foot seven of elsewhere. A woman with slim curves and strawberry blonde hair. And the face of an angel that inspired distinctly un-angelic thoughts and desires.
He still couldn’t believe she’d actually left that night. After looking at him with those wide green eyes and saying okay. He shouldn’t have taken the call. She’d slipped through his fingers like shimmering quicksilver, impossible to hold onto.
No woman had walked away from Zac. Ever. And while that admittedly did add to the intrigue, the insatiable desire she’d roused inside him was unprecedented. And the need to know more about her. And why the hell hadn’t his team found her yet?
Suddenly there was a loud metallic clatter, and Zac jerked his head around to see two trays spewing their contents and crashing to the floor. At the same moment that he was sending up silent thanks for being released from the attention of his host he was also noticing a very distinctive reddish blonde head of hair near the area of sudden carnage. Tucked up into a bun. Above a long neck.
His insides clenched—hard. It couldn’t be her. But then she turned her head ever so slightly in his direction and he saw a familiar profile. Paler than pale skin...
It was her. Recognition washed over him in a dizzying sweep of heat and relief. Zac was not letting her slip through his fingers again.
* * *
Rose had gone cold and clammy, all fingers and thumbs as she tried to gather up the detritus of expensive canapés. The other server hissed at her. ‘What is wrong with you? You’ve probably cost us both our jobs and I need this work.’
Rose’s gut lurched and she looked at the other girl’s blazingly angry expression. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know—’
‘Now,’ an assured and deep voice cut in, ‘I don’t think anyone is going to lose their jobs over a simple accident—are they, Mr Wakefield?’
Rose went still. That voice. Right above her head. His voice. She looked to her left and saw expensively shod feet.
Someone else was saying something brightly—‘Not at all. Please, let’s just move aside and get this cleared up.’—and then Rose felt a hand under her upper arm, curling around it, and she was being urged upwards.
All the way up until she was standing in front of a familiar broad chest. She couldn’t find enough breath to suck into her lungs. She was barely aware of people cleaning up and Zac leading her away from the site of the accident. She was surprised her legs were working; she couldn’t feel them.
He was opening a door and urging her through, into a dark-panelled room full of books. Rose felt as if she was in a dream, and put it down to the fact that she was probably hyperventilating.
‘Are you okay?’
She finally looked up and those blue eyes were even brighter than she remembered. His jaw was clean-shaven. She wanted to touch it. She expected he had to shave twice a day to keep it like this. He’d had stubble that night of the ball—she could remember the slight burn on her skin after they’d kissed.
She nodded. ‘You...you recognise me?’
Zac’s mouth quirked. ‘I met you a week ago, Rose. My memory still functions pretty well. And you were memorable—even if you did run.’
Thankfully the haze cleared from her head. She pulled her arm free and stepped back into the room.
Zac leaned against the door and put his hands in his pockets. As nonchalantly as if he owned the place.
‘You said you’d stay.’ He
sounded accusing.
Rose was defensive. ‘I didn’t...exactly. I said, okay. But I knew I had to leave...’
‘Why?’
Rose turned to avoid that incisive gaze. She felt as if she was being torn in two: torn between the part of her that was euphoric to see him again and the part of her that knew it was all a set-up.
She turned back to face him and gestured with a hand to her uniform and practical flat black shoes. ‘Because this is who I am.’ That, at least, was true. ‘I’m not in your league, Mr Valenti, and I think you’re only attracted to me because I’m a bit different.’
