Her heart stopped.
Even the small black mask couldn’t hide his identity.
Zac Valenti. He hadn’t left. He was right here.
The mask obscured the upper part of his face, but not the piercing blue eyes glinting down at her. He was famous for his blue eyes. Some called them icy, but right now all she could feel was a disturbing level of heat rising through her body.
Rose’s first thought was that pictures could never have prepared her for seeing him in the flesh. He towered over her own not inconsiderable five feet seven inches, and his shoulders were broad enough to block out the room behind him.
His hair was dark golden brown, thick and wavy. He was dark—darker than he looked in pictures—with a hard jaw and a firm and wickedly sensual mouth, currently tipped up sexily at one side.
He oozed the kind of easy charm and grace that came with impeccable breeding and inestimable wealth. He made Rose think of how she’d imagined Jay Gatsby from The Great Gatsby when she’d read the book. Aristocratic. Untouchable. Impossibly handsome. A golden being.
Something deep and unfamiliar inside Rose pulsed to life, disturbingly intense. Hot. It struck her: sexual awareness. It was like being plugged into an electrical socket. Her relatively sheltered life with her father, after her mother had died, hadn’t allowed for much time to mingle with the opposite sex. Rose had been too busy worrying about her father and the deep pit of despair he’d fallen into.
Zac Valenti cocked his head to one side, eyes sparkling, ‘I take it that you can talk?’
Rose found one brain cell that wasn’t still frozen in shock and nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly, and then more strongly, getting a grip on herself, ‘Yes, I can talk.’
‘That’s a relief.’ He held out a hand and smiled. ‘Zac Valenti—pleased to meet you.’
His smile had the wattage of the sun at full blast. Rose had to stop herself from blurting out, I know exactly who you are.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m Rose.’
His hand engulfed hers. Warm and strong. Slightly rough. He wa
s no soft city boy. Between her legs, her flesh jumped in response.
‘Just Rose?’
She was about to supply her second name when she thought of something and panic made her belly swoop. He might recognise her name—she and her father had worked for his family. She thought quickly and said, ‘Murphy. Rose Murphy.’ It had been her mother’s maiden name.
‘With a name and colouring like that you can’t be anything but Irish.’
Rose was sweating. ‘My parents emigrated here just before I was born.’
She pulled her hand back from his. Even though she’d met him now she still couldn’t do this. She was out of her depth, her league...her everything. Shouldn’t men like Zac Valenti have cordons of bodyguards around them? Yet he didn’t. He was like a lone wolf. This had been a crazy plan and one she couldn’t possibly execute.
She stepped back.
‘Where are you going?’
Her tongue felt too large for her mouth. ‘I have to...go...’ she said lamely.
‘Without a dance?’
He extended his hand again and now Rose felt a different kind of panic surge. ‘I don’t dance.’
‘I find that hard to believe—who doesn’t know how to dance?’
Someone who grew up watching the girls in her class go to dance classes and who buried her envy because she knew her parents couldn’t afford to send her.
Suddenly angry at being in this position, and in this place, Rose said sharply, ‘Well, I don’t...and I really should go.’
She turned away, only to feel a hand closing around her arm, tugging her back. Damn the man. Why wouldn’t he just let her go? Already she was feeling remorse for being sharp. This had nothing to do with him. Well, it did...but he wasn’t aware of her nefarious intentions.
Oh, God. She felt nauseous.