The Innocent Behind The Scandal - Abby Green Page 0,27
already owned a wardrobe of suitable clothes, or the kind of woman who would have jumped at the chance to obtain some free clothes on his tab. He should have anticipated this. He was too cynical.
‘I don’t expect you to pay for the clothes. I’ve invited you here and I’m asking you to these events.’
Her face grew redder. ‘But I won’t accept that. I’m not a charity case.’
His conscience kicked hard. ‘I know you’re not. Think of it as a loan. We’ll have the dresses cleaned and sent back before we leave.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course—no problem.’
An hour later, still feeling uncomfortable, Zoe was standing in one of the hotel’s very sumptuous boutiques with a stylist who was looking her up and down critically.
Imagining all sorts of meringue confections, Zoe said quickly, ‘I’m not really a girly girl. I don’t want anything too fluffy or flashy. Dark colours would be good. Simple, discreet...’
The stylist, blonde, tall and beautiful, smiled and said in a charming Russian accent, ‘Mr Marchetti warned me you’d probably say that.’
Indignation flashed through Zoe. ‘Oh, he did, did he? What’s the brightest coloured dress you have in here?’
A few hours later Zoe was severely regretting her impetuous behaviour. She looked at herself in the mirror and a svelte, groomed stranger looked back at her. In a bright canary-yellow dress. It had a low neckline, small capped sleeves, and hugged her breasts and torso. It fell from her waist in a swathe of material.
Above her hipbones were two small cut-outs, revealing her pale skin. She’d been about to protest when she’d tried it on in the boutique, but when she’d seen it in the mirror she hadn’t been able to get the words out to say no. It reminded her of a fairy tale dress, and she’d stopped thinking of fairy tales a long time ago... But not today.
A couple of women had arrived before she’d been able to leave the boutique and had proceeded to do things to her hair and face. And now...
Zoe’s chest hurt. She wasn’t a stranger to herself at all. That was the problem. She looked like an old picture she had of her mother. Her hair was down but in sleek waves, heavy over one side. Red lips. Her eyes looked huge and very green.
She was too distracted to think of her scars and wonder if they marred the picture.
There was a knock at her door. Too late to change now, or to make excuses. Or worry about her scars.
Full of emotions she’d successfully kept locked up for years, Zoe turned and picked up the small matching bag and wrap. She hoped Maks wouldn’t see how exposed she felt.
But when she opened the door every last thought, concern and emotion was incinerated to dust. Maks Marchetti in a classic black tuxedo was simply...breathtaking. Like...literally. She couldn’t breathe. The suit was moulded to his powerful body, as if a tailor had lovingly made it especially for him. Hugging muscles and accentuating the width of his chest.
She was barely aware of his grey eyes sweeping up and down, or the way his jaw clenched. Somehow she remembered to suck in oxygen as she raised her eyes to his face with an effort. ‘Hi.’
He was shaking his head, ‘You look...stunning, Zoe.’
Zoe was still in too much shock to take that in properly.
When he held out his arm and said, ‘Shall we?’ she put her arm through his and let him guide her down to the lobby, where people turned and stared at them.
She felt as if she was floating. The dress swirled around her legs as she walked—slightly gingerly in the high-heeled sandals. A car was waiting outside and the driver held open the back door, closing it behind her when she was in. Maks got in on the other side. They were cocooned in soft leather and tinted glass, making the world outside seem very far away.
The streets in St Petersburg were very wide. Summer was tipping into autumn, and Zoe noticed golden tinges on foliage appearing everywhere. She could only imagine how beautiful it would look when autumn descended fully.
She was trying to avoid looking directly at Maks. It was like looking at the sun. His beauty burnt her retinas.
They turned a corner and drove alongside a canal. ‘I didn’t expect so much water,’ Zoe remarked.
‘St Petersburg has been likened to Venice, with all its canals and the River Neva. There are over three hundred bridges here.’
She shifted in her seat, feeling acutely self-conscious beside