The Innocent Behind The Scandal - Abby Green Page 0,1

a bit extreme, isn’t it?’

He put his hand on her arm and pulled her out of the photographers’ area and along the front row towards the main doors, on the opposite side of the room from where she’d entered. Her face burned with humiliation. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Acting like judge and jury? Crashing a fashion show was hardly the crime of the century!

Zoe could see people tucking their legs out of the way as they passed, and noted several iconic famous faces assuming looks of disgust and horror as she was all but hauled out.

When they were on the other side of the main doors she pulled free. She could see security guards approaching, but the man put up a hand and they stopped. She looked up, breathless. Adrenalin rushed through her system, and something else—something that felt disturbingly like excitement.

‘Who are you?’ She rubbed her arm, even though he hadn’t hurt her at all.

He didn’t answer, just reached for her camera, lifting it over her head before she could stop him.

She reacted instantly, reaching for it. ‘Hey, that’s my camera. You can’t just—’

But a hand planted squarely on her upper chest, holding her back, stopped her words.

She watched in dismay as he easily accessed and scrolled through the pictures, presumably finding the one of him, and the ones she’d taken outside.

He closed one hand around the camera and took his other hand down from her chest. ‘I’ll take this. You can go.’

Zoe went cold inside. ‘But you can’t just take my camera—that’s my property.’

Her most precious possession.

It had belonged to her father and it had gone everywhere with her since that awful—

She spoke rapidly to push down unwelcome memories. She didn’t need those now. ‘Are you Security? You can wipe all the pictures. I don’t care. Just please give me back the camera.’ She put out her hand. Panicking.

The man’s voice was incredulous. ‘You don’t know who I am?’

She looked at him. She wasn’t all that up to date on pop culture or gossip magazines, but she was fairly sure he wasn’t an actor or a singer. Although he did look vaguely familiar. Maybe he was a male model. He certainly had the looks. Although there was something raw about him—as if he would never do anything so submissive as pose for a photograph.

‘You’re not Security?’

‘I’m Maks Marchetti.’

He looked at her. She looked at him. Shock spread through her body.

Maks Marchetti.

He arched a brow. ‘The Marchetti Group? We own the fashion house whose show you just crashed.’

Zoe could feel the blood draining south from her face. Faintly she said, ‘I know who you are.’

The reason she hadn’t recognised him was because he was the most reclusive of the three Marchetti brothers, who had inherited the business from their father on his death some years previously.

The Marchetti Group was at the very top end of exclusive, and had become even more so in the years since Marchetti Senior’s death. It owned every major brand in the world—and if they didn’t own it they were busy acquiring it. The brands they didn’t own weren’t worth mentioning.

And this man was a Marchetti. Which meant he could buy and sell everyone in that room.

She could hear music starting now. Presumably the show was kicking off. That dark grey gaze was unnervingly direct. He seemed unconcerned that he was missing the start. Zoe recalled that sense of aloofness she’d picked up from him.

‘Shouldn’t you be inside? If you could just give me back the camera I’ll go and you’ll never see me again.’

Maks Marchetti looked down at the woman in front of him, more transfixed than he liked to admit. At first glance she was pretty average. Average height, average weight and build. Slim. Petite, actually. But there was something about her that kept him looking—that had caught his attention when he’d looked over and seen the camera raised to her face, pointing directly at him.

She had honey-blonde shoulder-length hair. Finely etched brows. A delicate jaw. Straight nose. Her eyes were an arresting shade of green and blue. Aquamarine. Pretty.

More than pretty, actually.

But she had a scar—an indentation that dissected her top lip on one side, almost an inch long. There was another scar too, that ran from one upper cheekbone to under her hairline. They piqued his interest.

As if sensing his gaze on her, she ducked her head and her hair fell forward, covering her face. ‘It’s rude to stare.’

Maks had to curb an impulse to reach