She looked beautiful, and she was there for all the world to see. He wasn’t used to a sensation of jealousy, nor the tight grip of possession, but he recognised it, just as surely as he recognised the desire to go onto the stage and wrap her in his arms, throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to Cannes. But this was her life—her real life—and he had no place caring how people looked at her, nor wondering if they were mentally stripping her naked.
His mood didn’t improve as the night wore on. He was glad when the fashion show wrapped, glad when a thin man dressed all in black and holding a clipboard came up to him, a deferential expression on his face. ‘Mr Durante? Jemima’s asked for you to come backstage.’
He stood, moving through the crowd, past security and into a crowded dressing area. The noise was deafening. Models, models and more models, all in a state of undress. His eyes scanned the room, looking for only one. She was changed already, into a pair of skinny leather trousers and a silk camisole that showed the outline of her breasts and the slender fragility of her arms and shoulders. Her hair was loose around her face, just as he’d ached to see it.
‘Hi.’ There was a shyness to her as she saw him approaching and paused mid-way through unclipping an earring.
His first instinct was to tell her how well she’d done, that she’d been beautiful, that she’d been captivating, but he said none of those things. Surely she already knew them to be true? And saying them felt wrong, given what they were to one another.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’ she prompted, removing the earring and placing it on the glass shelf behind her.
Had he? He didn’t get a chance to answer. Two women came over and wrapped Jemima in their arms, the floral fragrance of their perfume almost overwhelming. ‘You ready, babe?’
Jemima’s voice stood out, so cultured and elegant. ‘I will be soon. Just give me five, okay?’
One of the other models turned to regard Cesare, her eyes inspecting him with slow curiosity.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Just a friend,’ Jemima rushed out, her cheeks heating with pink. He wondered at his impulse to contradict her—they weren’t even friends. Could he blame her for not knowing exactly how to define their relationship?
‘You should bring him along,’ the other one purred.
‘I might. Five minutes, okay? Tell Larry I’ll be out soon.’
‘Hurry. I need a Ginsecco.’
They disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived.
‘The after-party,’ Jemima explained.
‘Ginsecco?’
‘Prosecco and gin.’ She leaned closer, a smile making her face so familiar that his gut squeezed. ‘Half of one is enough to make me loopy.’
‘Jem?’ A male voice this time. Cesare turned around to see a man powering towards her. Not a model—he was too rugged and unkempt for that. ‘Bloody hell, it’s been an age. You killed it tonight, babe.’
Cesare took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, so he wasn’t even sure if the other man noticed him when he drew Jemima into his arms and pressed a kiss against her lips.
Her eyes flared wide, though, and flew to Cesare, so he had only a second to tamp down on his first instinct—to rip the other man off Jemima forcibly. With his fist. Was it possible that this was the guy she’d slept with after him? He certainly seemed comfortable with her; their body language could pass as that of lovers.
‘You’re coming, right?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah. Just for one drink.’ She lifted her finger in the air to gesture the solitary number and the other guy hooked his fingers around hers, pulling her hand to his chest. ‘One of these days you’re going to let your hair down. I hope I’m there to see it.’ He grinned, a grin that was pure lascivious flirtation, and then he kissed her again quickly, walking away. ‘See you at the bar.’
Jemima had the decency to look embarrassed as she closed the gap between them. She lifted a hand to Cesare’s chest, staring at it rather than him. ‘Sorry about Tim. He’s a photographer.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘The party’s just around the corner, in Knightsbridge. Do you want to come in our limo?’
‘No.’ The word was out before he could analyse it. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Oh.’ Her expression was crestfallen. ‘I have to go—it’s expected of me, contractually—but I generally only stay for one drink. Are you sure you don’t want to...?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ She looked away, turning towards the door where some other guy was waving to her, gesturing for her to join him. ‘Well, I can come to your place after,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll be an hour, hour and a half max.’