Chapter Four #3
‘Sorry?’ She’d smiled and mingled but the edge to his voice told her he meant something else. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The photos of you gazing up at me with those big blue eyes. No one will question my presence at your side now. They won’t think I’m a minder. They’re all sure I’m your latest conquest.’
There it was again, the taint of scorn in his voice tightening around her like a whip, scoring her skin. Just as she’d begun to think he could act reasonably around her.
Silently she turned to stare at the busy street, surprised how much that hurt.
Much later, in the privacy of her room, she finally broke her self-imposed rule and searched for stories about last night’s gala. Sure enough there were photos of her and Fotis Mavridis on the red carpet and more of them inside the splendid event.
For once the stories weren’t focused solely on her.
The reports were full of speculation about the ‘reclusive businessman’ who was rumoured to be a formidable force among international power brokers but rarely attended public events.
Questions were posed about what they had in common and where they’d met.
The avid conjecture meant public interest would only ramp up from here.
The vague hints about his power intrigued her but she, like the reporters, was distracted by the photo that got most coverage. It showed them looking into each other’s eyes, him leaning so close that just seeing the image, she felt the phantom touch of his breath on her face.
Rosamund swallowed, discomfited. It looked like the most intimate of moments. His hands held hers and her face was upturned to his, eyes wide and lips parted. She looked like a woman yearning to be kissed. And he looked like a man about to claim his lover.
She dropped the phone as if burnt.
She remembered that moment, when the noise faded and the world eclipsed to a pair of sea-bright eyes and a man who, for a second, seemed to promise all she needed. But it had been an illusion.
Photos lied all the time. The child of an actor knew that better than most.
She’d been in shock last night, that was all. She’d expected there to be photos of her mother, but not that one and not so large. Though she should have known after Gaudreau’s interference with the dress.
It had taken her a second to get a grip on her emotions, and she’d been thankful to him for giving her momentary respite from prying eyes.
But not, it seemed, from the cameras.
As for his expression, it was a trick of the light and the angle of the lens.
She snatched up the phone, stuffed it in her bag then left her room. Tonight surely wouldn’t be as much of a trial as last night. After all, she’d spend much of it sitting in the dark watching a film.
At least if she felt emotional, she’d be safe from the cameras.
She was heading for the stairs when a voice drawled, ‘So you do wear red.’
She swung around to see her minder emerging from his room.
Again he looked spectacular in evening dress, his bespoke jacket moulding broad shoulders.
The combination of silky black bow-tie and white shirt against his olive skin was lethally attractive.
The midnight shadow across his jaw and the coiled energy she sensed in him made her think of a marauder, masquerading as a civilised man.
Rosamund ignored the jiggle of excitement deep inside. ‘Is there some reason I shouldn’t?’
The dress was one of her favourites, with a demure but flattering boat neckline that left the top of her shoulders bare and a full skirt that swished around her knees as she walked. It even had concealed pockets, though royal etiquette meant she wouldn’t use them in public.
‘After your temperamental performance at the couturier yesterday, I thought you had an aversion to the colour.’
Astonishment slammed into her and her bodice tightened as she fought for air. ‘Temperamental performance?’
He sauntered towards her and she hated that even with that derisory expression he looked so good. That she noticed.
‘A talented team of people worked hard to make it in a short period of time. Not just any dress but one that had great significance to the gala’s guest of honour, Antoine Gaudreau. But none of that mattered to you, did it? You couldn’t even unbend enough to accept a change to please other people.’
For a second she stood, stunned by his vitriol. Strangely—since she’d spent years telling herself the opinions of people who didn’t know her couldn’t affect her—she felt hurt. Until that was swamped by fury.
‘You’re misinformed, Kyrie Mavridis. Gaudreau directed several of my mother’s films, including her first, but this week is a retrospective dedicated to her work, not his.
’ She paused and focused on keeping her voice steady, horrified to feel herself tremble at the sudden storm of emotions.
‘As for the dress, you can keep your arrogant opinions to yourself. You have no idea of its significance.’
She turned and stalked down the stairs. It was too late to make other arrangements for tonight. But tomorrow she’d ditch her unwanted bodyguard, no matter what Leon said.