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.
âYes,â she said softly, âI think I am.â
Resolve fired through him. âGood,â he said, placing his empty glass on a tray. âThen why donât we both get out of here?â
Â
Zoe watched as Max started stiffly from his corner; he walked with careful, deliberate steps that made her wonder if heâd hurt himself in whatever âsomethingâ had caused that scar. He was clearly expecting her to follow him, and after a secondâs hesitation she did.
She didnât usually leave parties with perfect strangers. Despite her party-girl reputation, she wasnât quite the wild child her older sister Bella was. She didnât do one-night stands. She preferred to dance and laugh and flirtâand then go home alone.
Yet hadnât the rules changed? Hadnât she changed? She wasnât Zoe Balfour any more. She could do whatever she wanted. And sheâd 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, powerfullegs still taking their careful strides as he weaved his way through the partyâs crowd, and Zoe followed. She wasnât, 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.
âMy car will be here in a moment.â
âBrilliant,â 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 thisâcould this possibly beâa good idea?
âYou donât have to come,â he said abruptly. Zoe started in surprise. âYou seem nervous.â
She gave a little shrug. âNo matter what you may think, this isnât my usual behaviour.â
âOh?â He arched one eyebrow, his expression one of slightly smug curiosity. He had her all figured out, Zoe supposed. Or thought he did. Well, sheâd thought she had herself figured out too. She was only now realising she didnât. âSo what is your normal behaviour?â He paused. âWho are you?â
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, âI just want your name.â
âZoe.â
He arched his eyebrow a little higher. âJust Zoe?â
âYes,â she said firmly. âJust Zoe.â
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. Zoeglanced 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 chauffeurâs uniform jumped out of the driverâs seat and opened the limoâs door, gesturing for Zoe to enter.
âHaving second thoughts?â Max murmured in her ear. His breath, cool and scented with mint and champagne, tickled her cheek.
âMore like third thoughts,â Zoe quipped, and a tiny smile flickered across Maxâs face, easing the tension and lightening his features.
âYouâre a beautiful woman, Zoe,â