The words held alarm. He didn’t want ‘nice’. That wasn’t what this was about. He didn’t particularly deserve nice, given that he’d blackmailed her into becoming his mistress. Worse than that, he’d lied about his level of interest in the hedge fund, intentionally concealing the fact he knew Laurence had inadvertently bought into the next big thing at ground level. ‘Nice’ didn’t seem right.
‘Why?’
She hadn’t been expecting the question. Her face clouded with uncertainty. ‘I don’t know. I just thought...something different.’
He looked around the smoke-filled penthouse, quashing down the feelings her admission had aroused. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than a chef had cooked for him. Nor could he recall anyone, other than his mother, doing something ‘nice’ for him.
‘We can’t eat here,’ he said after a moment. ‘We’ll go out.’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘I guess we’ll have to. Just give me a minute to clean.’
‘Housekeeping will take care of it.’ He squeezed her hand then dropped it, taking a step back, physically putting distance between them as emotionally he did the same. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
The restaurant, right on the water, was one Jemima was familiar with. She’d come here several times, usually after a film festival event or following a shoot. It was the preferred haunt of models, actresses, billionaires—anyone
who was anyone in Cannes came here to eat, drink, dance and be seen. Which meant there was a slew of paparazzi out the front, waiting for their next pay-cheque photo.
She was prepared for it, but still she stiffened for a moment as the lenses clicked and the flashes exploded. Her smile was instinctive, so too her body language. She had been in the industry long enough to know how to walk in such a way as to avoid giving an unflattering angle shot. Cesare, beside her, barely seemed to notice the photographers’ attention.
Except, of course, he had noticed, as he did everything, and when they were seated a little while later he regarded her in that way he had, so watchful, so perceptive. ‘You don’t like being photographed.’
It wasn’t a question. His observation sparked surprise inside her. ‘I’m a model. It kind of goes with the territory.’
‘I mean by paparazzi. You flinched outside.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I felt it. I saw it. No one else would have noticed, but I was right beside you, and I did. You don’t like being photographed.’
‘I don’t like the paparazzi,’ she corrected, reaching for her drink and taking a sip. ‘I don’t like being photographed when I’m doing something as mundane as walking or grocery shopping or going for dinner.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I don’t like being chased through the streets when I’m going for a run or discovering my mail’s been opened in the hope they’ll find something scandalous. Do you know where one of those fake pregnancy stories came from?’ she asked curtly, her lips compressed.
He shook his head a little, silently encouraging her to continue. ‘I fell over and sprained my wrist. The doctor wanted to make sure there wasn’t a break, so he sent me to get it X-rayed. At a place that also did ultrasounds. The invoice was sent to my home address, a nosy pap saw the name and the next thing I knew I was pregnant. With twins.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So, yeah, it does make me a little wary, but I also understand it’s just a part of my life.’
‘I don’t think people going through your mail should ever be a part of your life, irrespective of what you do for a living.’
‘No,’ she agreed, her anger simmering in her body. ‘I hated that. To have your parents read that kind of story...’ As if they hadn’t already been through enough!
He was quiet for so long, she presumed he’d moved on. She turned her attention to the menu, reading it quietly, thinking ruefully of the badly burned dinner back at the hotel.
‘Do you dislike it enough to change professions?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I could change professions. There’s nothing else I’m trained for, and I don’t know if there’s anything else I’d be good at.’
‘Your parents must have had misgivings about your chosen career?’
‘I was fifteen,’ she said with a terse shake of her head. ‘They didn’t really have much choice in the matter.’ It was too much. She was betraying herself, her parents, the truth of her history. She pasted a bright smile on her face. She didn’t want to talk to Cesare about her life. Not because it was secret but because it was sad and she didn’t want to bring that into their evening.
‘Anyway, I’m really fortunate. It’s not an easy industry to survive in and I’m established enough now not to have to worry about my financial security. I’m pretty much guaranteed to get jobs and earn well.’
‘Not that you need to,’ he inserted silkily, and again she detected the faintest hint of mockery in the simple statement.
She kept her lips sealed. He obviously thought she was some incredibly wealthy heiress, and she couldn’t really blame him for having formed that opinion. Her lineage was as it was, and Almer Hall was hardly the kind of house one owned without being wealthy enough to support it.
He could have no way of knowing how the inheritance tax had depleted her parents’ capital—how Cameron’s death had killed her father’s career so that for a long time there was no money coming in and enormous bills piling up. He couldn’t have known that the promise of lucrative modelling income was the only way a teenage Jemima could see of ensuring her parents—and she—kept the roof over their heads.
There was no trust fund waiting for her when she turned twenty-five. And despite her years of excellent earning, there was no safety net of savings for a rainy day. Laurence’s hedge fund was the only hope she had that things would one day seem a little easier.