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Not that she would deign to try to prove that it was Howard who had been the cheat and the liar. She suspected that no one would believe her if she did. Instead she’d decided to somehow put it all behind her and tonight she would try the face-to-face approach, see if she could talk her way into a job.
Yet for a debilitating moment as she looked out at the crowd panic rooted her to the spot, stretched its tendrils round her nerves, caused her heart to pound against her ribcage and her breathing to turn shallow. Oh, God. Not now. Ever since the miscarriage panic assailed her, held her hostage at a whim, but she’d thought she’d tamed it, or at least learnt to hold it at bay.
But this was her first public foray, her first attempt to navigate the real world and she wasn’t sure she could manage it. Especially without the comfort of her camera in her hand to hide behind; she missed its familiar shape, the protective mantle of invisibility it threw over her. People tended to only see the lens, not the person behind it, and tonight she hated feeling so visible. Enough; she forced herself to move forward, hoped, prayed that if she launched into the fray she would stave off the panic before it took hold. One blind step, straight into the path of a fellow guest.
Instinctively she put out a hand to balance herself, the high-heeled shoes an added liability, and her palm landed on an arm. An arm hard with muscle under the super-soft fabric of his tuxedo.
‘Sorry.’ She let go, nearly leapt backwards.
‘It is I who should apologise. I did not see you behind the pillar.’
As she looked up at the owner of the Italian-tinged voice, Wow sprang to the forefront of her brain and flashed in neon. This man was seriously gorgeous. Obsidian-black hair, a little bit overlong with a rebellious spikiness. Silver-grey eyes, a face that demonstrated strength, the nose a broad arrogant jut, the jaw square and determined. His body was solid muscle packed into a beautifully cut tux that moulded to said muscles.
Emily blinked, realised the wow factor had derailed her. Completely. On the plus side the hormonal surge seemed to have also shocked panic into retreat. Say something.
‘I was just...’ looking at your muscles ‘...preparing to enter the fray.’ Really, Emily? Great opener.
‘So this evening is a battle? An ordeal?’ There was a hint of amusement in his voice but for a mad moment she also sensed an empathy.
‘No. Of course not. I am thrilled to be here to celebrate such a happy occasion.’
‘But?’
‘There is no but. Or at least... I guess I am a little nervous. I haven’t been on the social scene that much recently and...’ And now she needed to stop talking. ‘Anyway...’
‘Let me introduce myself.’ The deep Italian-tinged voice sent a trickle of warmth straight through her even as her brain registered its meaning and finally managed to put two and two together. His identity clicked as he held out his hand. ‘I am Luca Petrovelli.’
Of course—clearly her brain had turned to mush. The accent should have alerted her as soon as he spoke and, now she knew, she could see some elusive fleeting resemblance to Ava. Though she wasn’t sure how or where—Ava was blonde, beautiful and an ex-supermodel. Luca’s hair was midnight dark and his face was all lines and planes, his body all muscle. Solid, compact breadth of muscle. There was that word again and this was ridiculous. Her interest in the opposite sex was currently non-existent; her libido had buried itself under layers, strata of misery. Yet this man had poleaxed her. Comprehensively.
And she still hadn’t shaken hands. ‘I’m Emily.’
Luca’s brow creased for a second. ‘I know we haven’t met, but you look familiar.’
Emily sighed. She was used to this, even when she omitted giving her surname, as was her wont. People ‘knew’ her because of her parentage—because she was the daughter of Marigold Turner and Rajiv Khatri. One of the world’s most iconic models and a Bollywood film star respectively. Emily was the product of their brief marriage. Clearly brief ill-fated marriages ran in the family. At least on her mother’s side. Marigold was currently on husband number five; Emily would have the sense to stop at one. Alternatively, Luca might know her because of Howard.
‘It’s likely something to do with my parents or maybe my ex.’
As she said the words he snapped his fingers. ‘Got it! I visited the Dolci head offices this morning. I think Ava has a photo of you in her collage of photos on the wall.’
Oh. ‘Sorry. I am so used to people asking me about my famous parents or what it feels like to have been married to a genius that I assumed that’s why you would recognise me.’ After all, why else would he?
‘In which case, I promise not to ask any of those questions. Tell me instead how you met Ava.’ Surprise touched her—Luca wasn’t even going to ask who her parents were, though, thinking about it, she supposed it was natural for Luca to ask about Ava. They were siblings, however complicated the situation was.
‘A few years ago, back when Ava was a model, I was one of the fashion photographers on her shoot. We just clicked.’
Now he smiled and Emily blinked. The man had already awoken her long dormant hormones—now his smile had them doing aerobics. ‘It’s good when you just click,’ he said, and his voice deepened to a rumble that slid over her skin. Was he flirting? Could she blame him?
Somehow, without even noticing, she seemed to have closed the gap between them, was, oh, so close, too close. Near enough that the expensive hint of his soap tickled her nostrils, close enough that she could see the faintest hint of five o’clock shadow, study the thick gloss of his dark hair. And again her thought processes were derailed. Quickly she stepped backward.
‘Yes. Yes, it is. What do you think makes people click?’ No, no, no. That had come out all wrong. Now it sounded as if she were flirting. Was she? What was happening? How and why was this man affecting her so powerfully? She could almost feel more of her hormones yawn and stretch as they woke up for the first time in months. She ploughed on hurriedly. ‘With Ava and me, we shared a sense of humour, found it easy to talk to each other, so we grabbed a coffee together and then it snowballed from there.’
‘I agree a sense of humour is important and, of course, ease of conversation. For friendship or any sort of relationship. Though, of course, other things are important too.’
‘Such as?’
‘First impressions. A sense of instant connection. In a relationship, mutual attraction.’
‘Pah!’ The noise somewhere between a snort of derision and a puff of exasperation left her lips and he raised his eyebrows.
