‘You?’ More scepticism.
‘Oh, yeah. Come on, you’ve read all the stuff. How else do you explain my three phantom pregnancies?’ She gestured towards her flat stomach. ‘Bad angles, awful lighting, coming straight from Bikram yoga—whatever. Photographers make more selling unflattering images than they do for the ones where I look like I’ve just stepped off a shoot.’
‘But you’re beautiful.’
Ridiculously, given that she was a highly paid model and didn’t go in for false modesty, her heart gave a little wobble at his praise.
‘Objectively speaking,’ he clarified, his tone no-nonsense. ‘You are a very beautiful woman. You could go down to the Croisette right now and be the most attractive woman there.’
‘Okay, stop!’ She laughed at the luxuriant praise. ‘I know you’re making that up. I’ve got chlorine in my hair and I’ve been for a run so I’m all sweaty.’
His eyes narrowed speculatively and heat buzzed through her veins, so she was only aware of the sound of her pulse in the silence that surrounded them. The longer he looked, the more she felt, and after a few seconds the smile dropped f
rom her lips.
‘This isn’t vanity,’ she said with a small shrug. ‘It’s professional.’
‘Oh?’ He sipped his wine, his eyes holding hers over the rim of his glass.
‘I represent some of the most prestigious luxury brands in the world. There are all kinds of clauses in my contracts but, even if there weren’t, I take my job seriously. I feel an obligation to those companies—I’ve signed on to sell their brands and I do that best when I’m “Jemima Woodcroft”—not some beach-loving scruff.’ Besides, she couldn’t exactly afford to lose any of her endorsement deals. True, Laurence’s hedge fund might finally be out of trouble, and soon he’d be able to start helping with the exorbitant costs of Almer Hall, but until then she needed every penny she could scrape together.
He was quiet. Self-conscious at his lack of response, she pulled her hair over one shoulder and aimed for a joke. ‘I bet you never have to think about this kind of thing when you go out in public?’
‘Generally not,’ he drawled. Then, thoughtfully, ‘So why do it?’
‘Model? That’s easy. It’s what I’m good at.’
‘The only thing you’re good at?’ he prompted with obvious disbelief.
‘Maybe.’ She moved away from him towards the windows, changing the subject out of habit, and because she didn’t like to think about the life she could have led if things had been different. Boats sparkled like fireflies on the sea. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’
‘Yes.’ His voice was dismissive, intolerant for her attempt to find lighter conversational ground. ‘What else might you have done?’
Her smile lacked amusement. In the reflection of the window, she watched as he crossed the room, coming to stand right behind her.
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘You must have wanted to do or be something other than perennially attractive?’
The words were perfectly banal, but she felt a sting to them.
‘Or perhaps not,’ he added as an apparent afterthought. ‘I suppose you might have wanted simply to be Lady Jemima and marry some lord or duke?’
She couldn’t say why, but his question was hurtful. She felt a sting in her chest at that casually worded supposition.
‘No.’ Her response was carefully flattened of any emotion, though. Bland and unconcerned. ‘I wasn’t really into that scene.’
‘Your parents didn’t wish you to marry some titled rich guy?’
Jemima’s eyes swept shut for a second, her face pale, and she was glad he was behind her, glad he couldn’t see the brief, betraying hint of pain—pain at what her family had once been and what they were now. Pain at the fact her parents had lost their ability at and interest in parenting Jemima when Cam had died. ‘They don’t really involve themselves in my life.’
‘You weren’t saving yourself for him, some lord or whatever?’
Jemima spun around to face Cesare and wished she hadn’t when the intensity of his expression almost felled her to her knees. ‘Absolutely not.’ She swallowed and focussed her gaze beyond his shoulder. ‘Do you mind if we change the subject?’
‘You don’t like to talk about this?’
‘Not particularly.’