‘Not really. My mother’s family cut ties with her when she married my father and he got his hands on her inheritance. It was his modus operandi—fleecing his wives of their fortunes to fund his own ambitions.’
She was surprised at his honesty.
As if reading her mind, he said sardonically, ‘I’m not telling you anything that isn’t available online.’
‘So where did you grow up?’
‘Rome and Paris, mainly.’
At that moment they were interrupted by a young woman in a trouser suit, hair tied back. She looked at Zoe. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said. Then she looked at Maks as she handed him a small bag. ‘This is it, sir.’
He took it. ‘Thanks, Maria.’
The girl left and Maks handed the slightly bulky-looking bag to Zoe. ‘This is yours.’
She took it and her heart thumped as she felt the weight and shape of it. She looked at Maks as she opened the cloth bag and took out her camera. The rush of relief was almost overwhelming. As was the surge of emotion.
When she’d gathered herself she looked at him. ‘I thought you would have thrown it away.’
‘I almost did...but something stopped me.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ Her voice was husky.
‘It’s important to you. Clearly.’
She nodded. ‘It belonged to my father. He was a photographer...among other things.’
‘Would I have heard of him?’
Zoe avoided answering directly by saying, ‘He died a long time ago—that’s why this camera has such sentimental value for me.’
‘You’re a good photographer. Did you study?’
She shook her head, self-conscious now. ‘I’m self-taught.’
‘So you sneaked into that show to try and get some experience.’
Shame lanced her. She put the camera down. ‘Look, I’m so sorry—’
But he cut her off, saying gruffly, ‘When I saw your camera pointing at me I overreacted. I don’t tolerate invasions of privacy well. My sister and I...we were constantly hounded by the paparazzi while we were growing up, thanks to our parents’ very public affairs, fights and then divorce.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Maks shrugged. ‘It came with the territory.’
‘How old were you when they divorced?’
‘About fifteen. My mother is on husband number three now.’
Maks’s voice was hard and flat, brooking no further discussion. She could empathise with that. There was a lot she didn’t want to talk about either.
She picked up the camera again. ‘Thank you for this. It means a lot.’
‘Why did you take a photograph of me?’
Zoe felt heat rise into her face. She forced herself to look at Maks, even though she was squirming inside. She felt defensive under that cool grey gaze. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you you’re a good-looking man.’
‘There were infinitely better-looking men than me there that day.’
Zoe could have debated that point. She shrugged, trying to feign a nonchalance she wasn’t feeling. ‘You caught my eye... Everyone else was looking around, looking for attention, but you looked...contained.’ Zoe winced. How could she articulate the way he’d sent off such an aloof vibe...?
Maks’s mouth twitched. ‘I don’t tolerate small-talk well. Inane conversation, talk of the latest trends... I like to make my own judgements.’
His gaze narrowed on her and Zoe felt breathless all over again. A hazard with this man.
He said, ‘You caught my attention.’
Her heart thumped. ‘But... I’m nothing special.’
Maks knew she wasn’t fishing for compliments. She sounded genuinely perplexed.
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you for the past two weeks. I kept your camera. I looked through your photographs. There are none of you.’
‘Why would I take pictures of myself?’
‘You’re beautiful.’
Her expression shut down, and she avoided his eye. ‘You don’t have to say things like that. I know I’m not.’
Once again Maks fought the urge to tip up her chin, make her look at him. ‘You might not be seven feet tall and have the kind of outlandish traffic-stopping looks that models have, but, yes, you’re beautiful.’
Zoe glanced at Maks suspiciously. But he wasn’t laughing at her. She’d been given compliments before, and she’d found herself soaking them up like a flower responding to the sun’s rays, but soon she’d realised they were empty compliments, used to manipulate her.
This felt different. Which made it dangerous. Because she’d extricated herself from a situation with an ex-boyfriend who had been infinitely less in every way than the man in front of her.
Maks Marchetti left Dean Simpson in the dust. So how much more damage could a man like Maks do, if she left him in?
She didn’t want to answer that, because on the other side of fear was something she didn’t want to acknowledge: hope. She’d allowed herself to feel hope before and had learnt a harsh lesson. Did she really want to risk that again?
No.
‘Look, I’m under no illusions. Your industry celebrates perfect beauty, and we both know that I do not come close to that ideal. Not with a scarred face.’
Maks cocked his head to one side, looking at her. His gaze moved over her face and she felt hot again. She cursed herself for drawing his attention like this. She’d hoped mention of her scars, of the fact that she wasn’t perfect, might act as a deterrent. Remind him that she only intrigued him. Nothing more.
‘Perfection is overrated. Believe me. I’m far more interested in beautiful flaws. Everyone is flawed, Zoe, but most just hide it underneath a pseudo-perfect exterior.’
Zoe’s breath hitched. She really hadn’t expected to hear him say something like that. His words resonated deep inside her, where she held exactly the same sentiments.
Before she could respond, Maks was reaching for her hand and holding it up. Electricity short-circuited her brain.
He was frowning. ‘Your finger—is it okay?’
She looked at her hand stupidly and saw the plaster over her injured finger. She wasn’t sure if it was throbbing now because of him or because it hurt. She couldn’t pull her hand back.
‘It’s fine. It wasn’t a deep cut.’