Zoe and the Tormented Tycoon (3 page)

Holly just shook her head. ‘Oh, darling, you don't need to take it out on
me
.' This was said with the perfect combination of reproach and pity that had Zoe swallowing a molten lump of fury. Holly patted her cheek. ‘I can only imagine how utterly difficult it must be. You can hardly hold your head up in England any more, can you? Not amongst anyone who matters anyway.' Holly clucked her tongue, and this time her voice carried all too well. ‘It's too, too sad. I suppose blood will out, though, won't it?'

To her horror Zoe found her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
Stupid.
Holly's remarks were childish and aimed to wound; how could she let them? And how could she cry
here
? She wanted to hold her head high and proud, as Oscar had said. She
did
. She just wasn't sure she could. She wasn't strong, no matter what he thought.

She could not, would not, cry now, not in front of Holly Mabberly, who would gloat and tell every soul and socialite from here to Paris, not in a room full of strangers who suddenly seemed no more than a gang of nosy eavesdrop
pers. Not here. Please, not here. She hadn't cried since she'd learned the news; she'd kept it together, her composure all too fragile but still intact. Why on earth would she break down in the middle of a party?

She'd been having fun, for heaven's sake.

‘Oh, Zoe…' Holly murmured, reaching out again, but Zoe avoided her grasping claw and took a stumbling step backwards.

‘Leave me alone, Holly. Just leave me alone.' The last came out in a strangled sob that made Zoe close her eyes in an agony of humiliation. She spun away from Holly, reaching wildly for another glass of champagne—anything to forget that wretched moment, her whole wretched, false life….

Half hiding behind a pillar, a few deep breaths—and sips—later, the threat of tears had mercifully receded and Zoe felt more like herself, although, she acknowledged, she hardly knew who that person was any more.

She surveyed the crowd, conscious of a new crop of speculative looks, a sly ripple of curious murmurs. Was everyone looking at her, or was she just imagining it in a fit of humiliated paranoia? If she left now, would it be so obvious that she was running away…again?

Her gaze fastened on a man in a corner of the room, his shoulder propped against a pillar, a glass of champagne in his hand. He was incredibly good-looking, with dark, cropped hair, olive skin and a towering physique that did more than justice to the expensive navy suit he wore. Yet it was the look on his face that appealed to Zoe; he looked beyond bored, totally uninterested in the party or anyone there, and the thought filled her with a strange, dizzy relief.

Here was a man who wasn't going to slip sly innuendoes into the conversation; he looked as if he didn't want to talk
at all. He certainly didn't want to be noticed, and he hadn't noticed her. Yet.

She ran a hand through her tousled hair, took a deep breath and straightened the silky jade-green halter top she wore. Smile now firmly in place, she sauntered over to the one man in the room she was quite sure had no interest in Zoe Balfour.

Perhaps, she thought, he would be interested in just Zoe.

H
E DIDN'T
see her coming; he felt it. A sudden charge in the atmosphere, a ripple in the air, like an electric current wired straight to his heart. The jolt reverberated through him and the little hairs on the nape of his neck prickled with awareness as his fingers instinctively clenched around his drink.

Please, no more pity.

‘Hello, there.' Her voice was pleasantly low, pitched to an inviting huskiness. Max thought he detected an English accent, which became more pronounced when she spoke again. ‘I had to come over here to see if you are as bored as you look.'

‘Even more so,' he returned a bit flatly. He turned his head to look at her, at least as much as he could. He saw a sweep of golden hair, the smooth, pale curve of a cheek and the glitter of green—her eyes as well as her top. She smelled faintly of rose water. His gut clenched with an unexpected spasm of desire.

‘Oh, dear. That
is
bad,' she returned with a little laugh that sounded like the tinkling of crystal bells. ‘Will another drink cure it, do you think?'

‘I've had too many already.' His voice came out brusque
again; he couldn't help it. What was the point in encouraging this little flirtation? If she knew…

‘Well, I haven't.' He saw her raise her arm, slender and pale, and soon a waiter hurried over. She plucked a glass from the tray and, turning back to him, took a sip. ‘If you're so monumentally bored, why did you come this evening?'

‘Because my company donated a quarter of a million dollars to fund these monstrosities on the walls.'

She paused for a tiny second, and then gave an abrupt and unpractised laugh; it was a wonderfully throaty gurgle, so different from her earlier calculated peal. His gut clenched again, and he found himself wondering if her hair was as soft as it smelled, if a smell could even be considered soft. His other senses, he realised, were heightened by his lack of sight. Was the faint smell of roses a perfume or soap? He inhaled it every time she moved, faint and yet so temptingly evocative.

‘Oh, of course,' she said, her voice still filled with laughter. ‘You're Max Monroe. The one with the thundercloud.'

‘That's the first time I've heard that,' he replied drily. For the first time in weeks he was enjoying himself, or close enough. He was actually not remembering.

‘Well, you haven't exactly been the life and soul of the party, have you?' she said, and he felt her shrug, felt the slippery feel of her silk top against her silken skin. How he could feel it, he didn't know; he certainly couldn't see it. Yet even though his eyes saw little more than blurred shapes, a bit sharper at the edges, his body felt something else. Every part of him prickled with awareness, with longing.

He
wanted
her.

He hadn't been with a woman since his accident, hadn't felt another's touch except for the cool, clinical hands of a doctor, and now suddenly he craved it. Needed to be close
to someone, to breathe her scent and feel her skin. And more than that. To move with her, inside her. To ease the emptiness, to not be alone.

Even if it couldn't go anywhere, even if only for a night. Even if it was with one of society's shallow darlings, as she surely must be.

‘I don't suppose I need to be the life and soul of this party,' he finally said, ‘with guests like you to give it some energy.' He knew her type, knew what kind of beautiful, confident woman walked over to a strange—and sulking—man and asked him for a drink. It was the kind of woman he pursued, the kind of woman he'd always wanted.

And he wanted her now. She didn't need to know he was almost blind; she wouldn't even stay the night. He'd make sure of that.

He felt her tense for a tiny moment, felt it like a shiver in the air. Then she shrugged and took another sip of champagne. ‘I can't deny I like to have fun,' she said lightly.

He shifted his weight; his leg, still recovering from the accident, was starting to hurt. ‘Are you having fun tonight?'

She gave another practised laugh. ‘No, I think I'm as bored as you are. I'm just better at not showing it.'

‘Right, I'm the one with the thundercloud.' He arched an eyebrow. ‘What is that supposed to mean?'

‘My friend Karen organised this event,' she explained, her tone breezy. ‘She was rather put out at how unhelpful you've been, you know. She said I'd recognise you by the thundercloud over your head. And of course—' She stopped suddenly and, even though he couldn't really see her, Max's eyes narrowed.

‘And?' he asked softly.

She paused. ‘The scar,' she said quietly. She lifted her hand and for a moment Max thought she was going to
touch him. He didn't move. Her hand—he could tell it was pale and slender, at least—hovered in the air for a moment before she dropped it back to her side. He felt as if everything had suddenly changed, the light, flirtatious banter turning dark and intimate and far too intense. He didn't want her pity, yet he craved her touch. ‘I suppose it's a bit like the elephant in the room,' she said, her voice quiet, rueful and perhaps a little sad. ‘No one ever talks about it. Were you in a car accident or something?'

‘Something.' Although he spoke tersely, Max felt a reluctant flicker of admiration for her candour. So few people he knew actually told him the truth, unvarnished and unpalatable. He was surrounded by sycophants and social climbers who only told him what they thought he wanted to hear.

And doctors. Doctors at least told him the truth.

‘I'm sorry anyway,' she said quietly, and he could tell she meant it. She surprised him, and he didn't want to be surprised. It was easier when she was shallow, when he could believe she was shallow. He wanted a bed partner, not a soulmate. It was too late for that, too late for him.

They were both silent for a moment, and Max wondered if she would walk away.
He
should walk away; he would, except he was afraid he might bump into a pillar or a waiter or God knew what else. He hadn't expected that unguarded moment, hadn't wanted it. Had he? She was a shallow, beautiful socialite; she'd said as much, and he wanted to take her at face value.

To take her, and then leave her, for surely he had no other choice.

‘So,' he said, and pitched his voice to a low, sensual hum that had her leaning closer to hear him. He breathed in the rose-water scent again. ‘Are you really as bored by this
party as I am?' There could be no mistaking his innuendo or his intent.

She was silent for a long moment, and he turned so their faces were close, so he could look directly at her, or as directly as he could, in the periphery of his vision. And for a moment, despite the floaters and spots and blurs, he felt he saw perfectly. Her eyes were vivid green, her mouth a perfect pink curve. She was smiling.

‘Yes,' she said softly, ‘I think I am.'

Resolve fired through him. ‘Good,' he said, placing his empty glass on a tray. ‘Then why don't we both get out of here?'

 

Zoe watched as Max started stiffly from his corner; he walked with careful, deliberate steps that made her wonder if he'd hurt himself in whatever ‘something' had caused that scar. He was clearly expecting her to follow him, and after a second's hesitation she did.

She didn't usually leave parties with perfect strangers. Despite her party-girl reputation, she wasn't quite the wild child her older sister Bella was. She didn't do one-night stands. She preferred to dance and laugh and flirt—and then go home alone.

Yet hadn't the rules changed? Hadn't
she
changed? She wasn't Zoe Balfour any more. She could do whatever she wanted. And she'd sensed in Max Monroe something she felt in herself, a darkness, a despair. Like called to like, she supposed, and she wanted to follow him.

She wanted to be with him.

Of course, there was no denying he was an attractive man. Her belly clenched, a coil of desire unfurling and spreading out through her limbs with sleepy warmth as she stared at his broad back and trim hips, his long, powerful
legs still taking their careful strides as he weaved his way through the party's crowd, and Zoe followed. She wasn't, she realised belatedly as they made it to the foyer, even conscious of the stares.

She handed her ticket to the woman at the coat check and took her filmy wrap. Max, she saw, had uttered a few terse instructions into his mobile. He slid it back into his jacket pocket and turned to her.

‘My car will be here in a moment.'

‘Brilliant,' Zoe answered, for lack of anything else to say. She was realising how little she knew this man, how tense and even angry he seemed.

Was this—could this possibly be—a good idea?

‘You don't have to come,' he said abruptly. Zoe started in surprise. ‘You seem nervous.'

She gave a little shrug. ‘No matter what you may think, this isn't my usual behaviour.'

‘Oh?' He arched one eyebrow, his expression one of slightly smug curiosity. He had her all figured out, Zoe supposed. Or thought he did. Well, she'd thought she had herself figured out too. She was only now realising she didn't. ‘So what is your normal behaviour?' He paused. ‘Who are you?'

The question startled her, for it was the question she had not been wanting to ask herself for these past three weeks. She stared at him in astonished silence until he clarified impatiently, ‘I just want your name.'

‘Zoe.'

He arched his eyebrow a little higher. ‘Just Zoe?'

‘Yes,' she said firmly. ‘Just Zoe.'

A limo pulled sleekly to the curb outside the gallery, and with one arm Max ushered her outside.

The air was balmy, the darkness soft around them. Zoe
glanced around, realising she was on a tiny side street in Soho with no idea where or how to find a cab if she even wanted one. The street was empty, the sidewalks deserted, and somewhere in the distance a car alarm set to a mournful wailing.

A man in a chauffeur's uniform jumped out of the driver's seat and opened the limo's door, gesturing for Zoe to enter.

‘Having second thoughts?' Max murmured in her ear. His breath, cool and scented with mint and champagne, tickled her cheek.

‘More like third thoughts,' Zoe quipped, and a tiny smile flickered across Max's face, easing the tension and lightening his features.

‘You're a beautiful woman, Zoe,' he said. His face was half averted to her, yet still he slowly, carefully reached out to brush a tendril of hair away from her bare shoulder, his cool fingers barely skimming her skin. She quivered under the tiny caress. ‘I'm sure any man in there would want to be in my position right now.'

‘Most assuredly,' she agreed lightly. Her heart had started to hammer and she felt suddenly, unreasonably, dizzy with longing. No single touch had ever affected her so much. Made her want so much.

Made her forget…if only for a moment, for a night.

He reached out again, this time letting his fingers caress her collarbone, barely brushing her skin, yet still making her quiver and ache deep inside with an unexpected and fierce longing. ‘It's up to you, of course.'

Slowly Zoe nodded. When Max Monroe touched her, every thought—every memory, every fear—went clean out of her head.
That
was what she wanted.

Not just passion, but oblivion.

Slowly, silently, she climbed into the car.

Max climbed in after her, and the chauffeur closed the
door. Within seconds they were speeding through the night, the darkness relieved only by the passing lights of an occasional taxi.

Zoe sat back against the plush leather seat, surveying the well-stocked minibar and contemplated downing most of its contents. Had she really just climbed into a car with a total stranger? An angry, bitter, sardonic stranger at that? Well, she thought, swallowing a bubble of nervous laughter, at least it was a limo.

‘Nice ride,' she said, and forced herself to relax—or at least seem relaxed—stretching her arms along the back of the seat, letting her head fall back as if she were utterly comfortable, completely in her element. ‘So where are we going?'

Although Max sat next to her, he suddenly seemed oceans away, his face averted from hers as he stared out the window at the darkness.

‘My apartment is in Tribeca. Unless you'd rather go somewhere else?' He turned to her, his smile—although it didn't quite
feel
like a smile—gleaming in the darkness.

‘And miss seeing your place? I'm sure it's something fabulous.' She gave him a breezy smile and shook her hair back over her shoulders.

‘And I'm sure you're quite used to fabulous,' he murmured, and she laughed, the sound husky.

‘Absolutely.'

They didn't speak again, lapsing into a silence that was tense with unspoken thoughts. Expectations.

Zoe smoothed her silky black trousers, nervously pleating the fabric between her fingers before she forced herself to stop, and affected an air of unconcerned insouciance once more.

The limo came to a stop, and Zoe slipped out after Max. They were on a patch of old cobbled pavement—murder
for her heels—in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse near the waterfront. Zoe's heart lurched against her ribs. Oh, Lord, what had she got herself into? She turned around; the limo had disappeared and there wasn't a soul in sight…except Max.

He stood on the uneven cobbles, looking almost frozen, as if he didn't know where he was going, or was actually afraid to move.

The look of uncertainty on his face visible in the sickly yellow glare of a street lamp banished Zoe's own fears and compelled her to ask gently, ‘Max…?'

‘This way.' He spoke brusquely, shaking off that strange, uncertain look, the way a dog shakes off water, before striding across the sidewalk with long, deliberate steps to the warehouse.

Of course, Zoe saw as they approached the building, it wasn't an abandoned warehouse at all. Perhaps it once had been, but as they came closer signs of its upscale refurbishment were clearly visible. Instead of what had first looked like broken or blank windows, Zoe saw they were merely tinted. The front doors were made of the same thick, tinted glass, with polished chrome handles. A doorman leapt to attention as they approached and swung the doors open. Max stalked through them, in an almost military march, with Zoe hurrying behind in her heels.