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And anyway, I wasn’t here looking for romance. Precisely. I was here to try and kick-start a business I’d always dreamed about, but never had the guts to act on, until now.
But somehow the hot stone refused to stop glowing, and throbbing.
And a little voice in my brain began to whisper in my ear—questioning all my motivations for being here. And making the feeling of being a total imposter increase tenfold.
Had I really gone to all this trouble for professional reasons, or had it all been a naive excuse to play dress-up... And have Renzo Camaro notice me at last?
The thought was mortifying. And yet I couldn’t quite dismiss it. Which only made it more mortifying, frankly.
Perhaps I should head back to the quaint bed and breakfast I’d splurged on in Montmartre? But then his hooded gaze caught mine... And stopped roaming.
My heartbeat hammered my throat and pumped wildfire deep into my abdomen, turning the damn stone into a rock of burning lava.
Oh, for pity’s sake.
But even as I squirmed, far too aware of the cold satin rubbing against my oversensitized skin like sandpaper, I couldn’t seem to detach my gaze from his. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrifying and unbearably exhilarating moment, as the adrenaline continued to power through my system, I thought he had actually seen me at last. And it meant something. Although I hated to think exactly what that was.
Maybe that Jessie Burton was as needy and pathetic as her mother, after all.
But before I could freak out completely, the supermodel beside Camaro broke the strange spell he seemed to have over my body by clasping his cheek and turning his face towards her. He grinned at something she said. Then tipped her chin up and placed his mouth over hers. His lips plundered, roaming over hers with an arrogant entitlement which had the breath I’d been holding releasing in a rush.
Apparently, I had been forgotten. So much for our moment of connection. It had all been in my head.
I tore my gaze away at last, feeling like the worse kind of voyeur, as he continued to devour the supermodel while enjoying the attention of the throng—who were cheering and clapping around me, having noticed the pornographic display on the balcony.
Embarrassment scoured my throat as unwanted heat made my nipples tighten painfully and my face feel as if it had been set alight.
What was that even about?
Renzo Camaro might be the hottest guy this side of Saturn, but he was also a playboy and an absolute jerk—who was well known for seducing every beautiful woman within a five-hundred-mile radius of his collossal ego.
You are not your mum. So why on earth would you want to be noticed by someone like him?
A waiter travelled through the whooping crowd carrying a tray of champagne glasses. Whipping a full glass off the tray, I took a fortifying gulp. The bubbles burst on my tongue as I ignored the cacophony around me and refused to watch Camaro and his latest conquest. From the raucous way the crowd was cheering they were obviously putting on quite a show.
Weirdly, the last thing my mother had ever said to me—before she disappeared from my life when I was fifteen—chose that precise moment to flit through my consciousness:Never trust a good-looking man, especially one with money, baby, because you’ll never be able to hold their interest for long.
I’d always dismissed that caustic comment, because I knew she had been referring to my ‘deadbeat dad’—a man she’d told me I was better off not knowing, but whom I had still always yearned to meet. But as I swallowed down the champagne, I began to wonder, perhaps that was the only honest thing she had ever told me.
Not that I wanted to attract a playboy like Camaro. Not at all. But maybe it was good to know my mum and I could agree on that much at least.
The lights dimmed and the chamber music faded, to be replaced by the bass beat of a famous rap band beginning their set in the adjoining ballroom. As people headed towards the sound, I couldn’t seem to stop myself glancing back up at the balcony, but Camaro and the supermodel had disappeared.
No doubt they’d gone off to finish what they had started in the private suite he owned on the top three floors of the historic building, I decided resentfully.
Well, good riddance.
The champagne I’d drunk too fast fizzed through my bloodstream and my disappointment in Renzo and my dad, and every other guy who had failed to notice me, morphed into disgust—with myself, as much as any of them.
I placed the half-empty glass on a passing tray with trembling fingers.
You’re not here to attract a guy. You’re here to kick-start your catering business.And while handing out my new cards might not be the done thing, I could still at least get a close-up look at what an event like this really entailed.
I was here to do important research—and possibly some networking if the opportunity arose—for Jessie Burton Catering. But as the pounding of the bass beat began to throb in my veins and I tasted one of the canapés—a delicious roulade of spinach and smoked trout that melted on my tongue—a daring, and surprisingly exhilarating, thought bloomed inside me.
Why not enjoy myself tonight? And live the high life for a change? After all, when would I ever get the chance to attend an event like this again, with free-flowing vintage booze, an exclusive set from a band who had topped the charts twice in the last year and deluxe canapés which I hadn’t spent hours painstakingly constructing myself?
The condoms I’d had since catering college—but never had the guts to use—were burning a hole in my jewelled clutch purse alongside the business cards. I wasn’t even sure why I had popped them in there this evening, except that I’d had it drummed into me at a young age never to take a chance.
