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She’d flashed those eyes at him just like that on her birthday. Well, two could play at this game the Barringhalls had started.
Si, it really was the perfect solution.
Decided, he flicked his wrist and his driver eased the door open.
Zak stepped out to a frenzy of paparazzi flashbulbs. Ignoring them, he offered his hand to Violet, this time holding onto her as she stepped out onto the red carpet.
In her heels, she came up to his shoulder, the perfect angle for him to gaze down at for a beat before the inevitable personal questions were shouted at him.
He didn’t answer, of course. Pandering to the media was beneath him, and he’d learned long ago that the tabloid press printed what they wanted regardless of his answers or, indeed, the truth.
But when they caught sight of Violet and tripled their questions, he allowed an enigmatic smile to play on his lips as he tucked her arm into his and escorted her inside.
The paradigm had shifted.
Violet couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had happened or when. But as she walked beside Zak though the throng of designer-clad guests, she sensed an edgier purpose from him. Instinctively, she knew it wasn’t the challenge of attempting to meet his impossibly high standards.
Whatever Zak had up his sleeve was personal. Aimed at her.
It lurked in the shrewd, too-long gazes that repeatedly slanted her way as he guided her around the opulent ballroom. Halfway through the first circuit, she knew she needed to extricate herself from him.
His tight schedule, even at social functions, provided the perfect excuse. ‘You have three pre-dinner drinks. The first is with the Bolivian attaché. Here he comes now,’ she said briskly, hoping that flinging them both into business mode would throw him off whatever scent he seemed determined to hunt down.
Zak nodded without taking his eyes off the person he was saying goodbye to, then skilfully intercepted her with a hand on her elbow before she could walk away. ‘Stay. Your presence will curtail his tendency to drone on ad nauseam. You might also pick up a tip or two to take back to your institution when you leave in a few months.’
The reminder that this position was temporary shouldn’t have annoyed her, considering she’d been praying for it to end a short while ago. Perhaps it abraded her nerves because he stated it with that narrow-eyed, watchful suspicion? ‘I’ll stay if you think I’ll be useful. My role is to assist, after all.’
‘Do I detect a little displeasure in your tone, Lady Barringhall?’
Violet.
She barely stopped herself from issuing the invitation. She wouldn’t. He could use that mocking tone all he liked. Right up until she extricated herself permanently from him.
‘Of course not,’ she said with a smile manufactured straight from the depths of the decorum rulebook.
She ignored his droll expression as he greeted the attaché, sending him on his way the moment the man’s conversation grew circuitous. But after he’d introduced her to the next person with that faintly mocking tone once more, she’d had enough. ‘Why do you keep throwing my title in people’s faces?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Ignoring the blatantly false claim of obliviousness, she pressed on. ‘You’ve been in a...mood since we arrived. Is this some sort of test?’
‘Everything is a test,
Lady Barringhall. If you don’t know that by now, then I’ve been wasting my time.’
‘I don’t mean professionally and you know it. This feels personal. Did I do something to offend you?’
The only hint that she may have strayed near a bullseye with her question was in the brief flaring of his nostrils. Then he was back under supreme control. ‘I merely introduced you with your correct title. I fail to see why you would feel attacked by it.’
To push the issue felt like overkill. And yet... ‘Perhaps we should clear the air. Lay things out in the open?’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, now we get to the heart of the matter. Is this where you confess?’
She frowned. ‘Excuse me? Confess what?’
‘That this so-called role of yours is just hiding your true purpose here,’ he said, an edge in his tone.
‘And what’s my true purpose, pray tell? No, wait, let me guess. You think it’s some sort of ploy to land myself somewhere in your private life? Or, goodness, perhaps even in your bed?’
