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'Not exactly...what? Neighbours?'
'No. We met at judo lessons.'
'And you've been friends ever since?'
'Men don't look at friendship in the same way as women/ he answered slowly. 'But, yes, we're friends. Look, we're here’ he murmured, unable to hide his relief as they drew up outside the studio. 'You go inside. I'll see you in a while.'
Sorcha turned to look at him. 'Lucky me’ she said, and his eyes glittered in response.
'That's exactly what you said last night’ he murmured. 'Twice, I recall.'
'Only twice?' she retorted, and he laughed.
The assistant's voice broke into her erotic thoughts. 'Don't bite your lip, Sorcha— there's a good girl!'
'Sorry’ said Sorcha automatically. Good girt? How did models stand it?
The studio was situated in the heart of London, in a large, nondescript basement which seemed to be buzzing with life and people. As well as the assistant, there was a stylist and her assistant, plus two representatives from the ad agency which represented the Whittakers account.
Everyone in the place was wearing some kind of denim—apart from Sorcha, who had been given a ghastly gingham apron to wear to promote the sauce and had not been expecting an audience.
'Can someone push that piece of tomato out of the way? Can you lift your head a fraction higher, Sorcha? No—a bit to the left '
Sorcha's smile didn't falter, because she was determined to give it her best—even though she could very e
asily play the role of victim and claim that she had been forced into doing the shoot. Indeed, she could do it with such bad grace that she would be pronounced hopeless—and then the whole scheme would have to be rethought. Then there would be egg all over his gorgeous face.
As a way of getting back at Cesare it would be a masterly move. But getting back at
him for what? For being autocratic? Because that was him—he was right—it was part of what attracted her to him as well as what ultimately made them incompatible.
She couldn't punish the man just because he was making her feel stuff she didn't want to feel. You couldn't hold someone else responsible for your mood—because in the end that was all down to you.
There was a bustle and a buzz, and Sorcha looked round to see what all the fuss was about just as a man dressed entirely in black walked into the studio with Cesare directly behind him.
'Is that the photographer?' Sorcha whispered.
'You don't know?' The assistant looked at her as if she had just been beamed down from another planet. 'That's Maceo di Ciccio,' she said. 'And that's Cesare di Arcangelo with him—oh, but you know him, don't you? Didn't he bring you here?'
'He certainly did," said Sorcha pleasantly.
Cesare gave her a cool look, and she sent him an equally cool one back, which made his eyes narrow in mocking response. But Sorcha knew that she was playing with fire. That the feelings she had had for him all those years ago hadn't just faded away into nothing. He still amused her and he still stimulated her, on far more than just a physical level—and that was where the danger lay.
Men were good at keeping things purely sexual, and women were notoriously bad at it. Even worse, sex brought out an emotional response in women which had the capacity to make them weak as kittens.
Well, that's not going to be me, she thought fiercely.
She watched as the photographer was greeted with reverence by all his acolytes, and Sorcha couldn't help thinking that Maceo di Ciccio was on the wrong side of the camera.
He was wearing black jeans and a fine cashmere sweater. His face was rugged—with harsh angles and slanting black eyes—but although his mouth was soft and sensual, there was an almost cruel curve at the edge of his lips. With his ruffled black hair, he looked a little like a buccaneer—the kind of man who would just go all out to get what it was he wanted. And, looking like that, she didn't imagine he had to try very hard.
Cesare watched while an assistant held a light meter under Sorcha's chin, and he wondered where his expected feeling of triumph had gone. He had got his way, because she was here—even though she didn't look as if she particularly wanted to be—and he had been enjoying some mind-blowing and no-strings sex with her into the bargain!
So what was the cause of the black mood which had enveloped him since he'd got out of bed that morning? Alone, after she'd damned well made him drive her home at some godforsaken hour. As usual.
And that was the irony—because he liked to sleep alone. He liked to wake up when he
wanted, rather than have some female slipping out from beneath him, disturbing him while she went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and brush her hair in order to achieve that just-got-out-of-bed look.
