She shrugged. ‘People often respond well to cute children but can be less generous with older kids.’
‘They all need support and encouragement, whatever their age. Too often kids are vulnerable.’
His tone made her instincts twitch. This mattered to him. ‘Were you?’
He shot her a look designed to shut her down. Instead it heightened her suspicion that this was personal. His early days had been tough. ‘Few of us have picture-perfect childhoods.’
A sharp laugh escaped before she could prevent it. ‘You thinkIdid? Don’t believe everything you read.’
Her father had been a tartar, continually belittling his wife and daughter for being too friendly or informal. The vivacity and charisma he’d first admired in his wife had later enraged him, when he saw how small he looked in comparison. Rosamund took after her mother so had spent most of her life being berated and punished.
She looked away as they continued in silence.
But surreptitiously she watched his easy competence, driving through the congested streets. He had an alert confidence, an air of control, and she wondered what his story was. Her attempt to discover more about him online had revealed little.
He annoyed her and seemed to delight in showing how little he liked her. Yet she felt an uncanny certainty that he knew what he was doing, not just in protecting her, but in seeing promise in a Parisian schoolkid. He’d even won Lucie’s approval, though she’d pretended not to be impressed.
But if his judgement were so good, why treat Rosamund as a pariah? She was on the verge of ignoring pride and asking when he said, ‘You did an impressive job last night, playing to the cameras. Everyone bought your story.’
‘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 forhisexpression, 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 youdowear 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?’
