‘Do not,’ she heard him say, and there was a distinct tinge of boredom in his voice, as well as curt irritation, ‘jump to the tediously predictable assumption you are clearly about to make. All I require is this. That you accompany myself and my guest back to her hotel, where—’ he held up a silencing hand as Tara’s mind raced ahead to envisage unspeakable debaucheries ‘—she will get out and you will stay in the car with me and then return here.’
The words were clipped from him, and then his eyes were going past her towards one of the fashion designer’s hovering aides. He summoned him over with the same imperious gesture he’d used to draw her over to show off the gown she was wearing.
The man came scuttling forward. ‘Monsieur Derenz, is there anything you require?’ he asked eagerly.
Tara heard the obsequiousness in the man’s voice and deplored it. The last thing rich guys like this one needed—let alone those with the kind of tough-looking face that he had, who expected everyone to jump at their bidding—was anyone kow-towing to them. It only encouraged them.
‘Yes,’ came the curt reply. ‘I’d like to borrow your model for a very temporary engagement. I require a chaperone for my guest, Mrs Neuberger, as I escort her to her hotel. Your model will be away for no more than half an hour. Obviously I’ll pay you for her time and take full financial liability for her gown. I take it there’ll be no problem?’
The last was not a question—it was a statement. The aide nodded immediately. ‘Of course, Monsieur Derenz.’ His eyes snapped to Tara. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there! Monsieur Derenz is waiting!’
And that was that.
Fulminating, Tara knew she didn’t have a choice. She needed the money. If she kicked off and refused then her agency would be told, and as this particular fashion designer was highly influential, there would be no hope that her objection to being shanghaied in this manner would be upheld.
All the same, she glared at the man shanghaiing her as the aide scuttled off again. ‘What is this?’ she demanded.
The man—this Monsieur Derenz, whoever he was, she thought tautly—looked at her impatiently. She’d never heard of him, and all the name did was confirm that he was not British—a deduction that went not just with his name and slight accent, but also with the air of Continental style that added something to his stance, and to the way he wore the clearly hand-made tuxedo that moulded his powerful frame in ways she knew she must not pay any attention to...
‘You heard me—my guest needs a chaperone. And so do I!’
Tara could see his irritation deepen as he spoke.
‘I want you to behave as if you know me. As if—’ his mouth set ‘—we are having an affair.’
This time Tara did explode. ‘What?’
That dark flash of impatient irritation seared across his face again. ‘Cool it,’ he said tersely. ‘I merely need my guest to be...disabused...of any expectations she may have of me.’
‘She’d be welcome to you!’ Tara muttered, hardly bothering to be inaudible.
How had she managed to get inveigled into this? Then something pinged back into her mind.
‘Did you say five hundred pounds?’ she demanded. No way was she going to come out of this empty-handed—not for putting up with this man commandeering her like this.
‘Yes,’ came the indifferent reply. ‘Providing you don’t waste any more of my time than this is already taking.’
Without waiting, he helped himself to her arm and started to walk back with her across the room, to where Tara could see the blonde woman who, apparently, had the idiotic idea that this man being tall, dark, handsome—and presumably, judging by how obsequious the aide had been, very rich—in any way compensated for his high-handed behaviour and peremptory manner.
As he walked her towards the unwanted blonde he bent his head to her. ‘We have been together only a short while...you are reluctant to leave your work early, being highly conscientious—and if you pull away from me like that one more time your money is halved. Do you understand me?’
There was a grim note in his voice that put Tara’s back up even more. But he was still talking.
‘Now, tell me your name.’
It was another of those orders he clearly liked giving.
‘Tara,’ she said tightly. ‘Tara Mackenzie. And I need to get my bag and coat first—’
‘Unnecessary.’ He cut her off. ‘You’ll be back here soon enough.’
They had reached the blonde, who was looking, Tara could see, like curdled milk at their approach.
‘Ah, Celine—this is Tara. Tara—Frau Neuberger.’
His voice was more fulsome, and there might well be relief in it, Tara thought.
‘Tara’s been given the all-clear to leave early, so we can drop you off at your hotel. Alors, allons-y.’