by Liz Fielding
‘Anyone can make a pretty image.’ He took the bone from her, replaced it on the bench. ‘I want to show what’s behind the power, the movement. Bones, sinews, heart.’
‘The engine rather than the chassis.’ Eager to avoid close eye contact, she walked around the beast, examining it from every angle, before looking across at Darius Hadley from the safety of the far side. ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? Show us the inside of things.’
‘That’s what’s real, what’s important.’
‘I saw your installation outside Tate Modern. The house.’ That had been stripped back to the bones, too.
‘You’ve done your homework,’ he said.
‘I was just walking past. I didn’t realise it was yours until I looked you up online. I thought it was…bleak.’
‘Everyone’s a critic.’
‘No… It was beautiful. It’s just…well, there were no people and without them a house is simply a frame.’
‘Perhaps that was the point,’ he suggested.
‘Was it?’ He didn’t answer and she looked back up at the horse. ‘This is…big.’
‘I’ll cast a smaller version for a limited edition.’
‘Just the thing for the mantelpiece,’ she said flippantly. Then wished she hadn’t. His work was more important than that. ‘I’m sorry; that was a stupid thing to say. I’m a bit nervous.’
‘I’m not surprised. Does Miles Morgan really think he can buy me off with a glimpse of your cleavage and a slice of cake?’
‘What?’ She checked her top button but it was still in place. Just. She’d worn her roomiest shirt but working ten, fourteen hours a day didn’t leave much time for exercise, or a carefully thought-out diet. And she’d moved less and eaten more in the last week than was good for anyone; it was definitely time to get out of the kitchen and back to work. ‘Miles didn’t send me. As for the cleavage…’ She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug that she hoped would give the impression that she was utterly relaxed. She was good at that. The most important thing she’d learned about selling houses was to create an image. Set the stage, create an initial impact that would grab the viewer’s attention then hold it. This time she was selling herself… ‘I’ve been on a baking binge and eating too much of my own cooking.’
‘And now you want to share.’
‘I thought something sweet might help to break the ice.’
Ice?
There was no ice as she bent forward to tug on the gauzy bow that exactly matched the shade of her lipstick, her nails; only heat zinging through his veins, making the blood pump thickly in his ears.
He’d been drawing her obsessively for a week, trying to get her out of his head, but while the two-dimensional image had been recognisable it lacked the warmth, the sparkle of the original.
Right now all he wanted to do was peel away her clothes, expose those rich creamy curves to the play of sunlight and shade.
He wanted to draw her from every angle, stripping away layer after layer until he could see her core. Until he could see what she was thinking, what she was feeling; transmute that into a three-dimensional image exposing the heart of the woman within.
He wanted a lot more than that.
‘What have you got?’ he asked.
‘I wasn’t sure which you’d like so I brought a selection,’ she said, looking at him. For a moment the air seemed to crackle and then she was looking down at the box, her eyes hidden by silky lashes. ‘There’s lemon drizzle, chocolate, coffee, sticky ginger and, um, passion cake.’
The scent of vanilla rose enticingly from the box, taking him straight back to his childhood—that sweet moment when he’d been allowed to lick the remains of the mixture from the spoon; when he’d sunk his teeth into a cake still warm from the oven.
He was no longer a boy but he resisted one temptation only to look up and find himself confronted by the reach-out-and-touch-me lure of warm breasts.
Was this how it had been for his father? An obsessive urge to possess one woman wiping everything from his mind. One woman becoming his entire world.
Stick to the cake…
‘You weren’t kidding when you said you’d been on a baking binge, Miss Gordon,’ he said, taking the first piece his fingers touched, anything to distract him. ‘Did the Fairview recommend it as occupational therapy?’
‘Tash, please. Everyone calls me Tash.’
‘I prefer Natasha,’ he said, sucking the icing from his thumb, and she blushed. Not the swift suffusion of heat that rose to her face in that moment when they’d confronted one another in Morgan’s office and seen how it would be if they ever let their guard down, but a real girlish blush.
‘Nobody calls me that,’ she said. ‘Only my mother. When I’ve done something to exasperate her.’
‘That would be your mother and me, then.’
‘Point taken.’ The corner of her mouth tilted upwards in a wry sketch at a smile. ‘I’d be annoyed with me if I were you. I’m pretty annoyed myself, to be honest. It wasn’t much fun having to phone my parents and warn them that they and their neighbours and everyone they knew would be reading about my breakdown in the evening paper. Warn them that they’d probably have reporters ringing them at home, knocking on the door. Which they did, by the way.’
‘No comment.’
The smile deepened to reveal a small crease in her cheek. She’d once had a dimple…
‘It’s not true, by the way. About the Fairview. In case you were in any doubt. Just so that we’re on the same page here, Miles Morgan and I parted company less than fifteen minutes after you left the office.’
‘He fired you?’ He should have waited. Gone back. Followed his gut instinct to grab her hand and take her with him… ‘I’m not big on employment law but I’m fairly sure he can’t have it both ways. He can’t dismiss you when you’re on sick leave.’
‘You’re probably right,’ she admitted, ‘but I refused to cooperate with his plan to have my sanity publicly questioned and hide away in the Fairview in the cause of saving the firm’s reputation.’
‘I saw the paper.’
‘Everyone saw the paper,’ she said. ‘I’m supposedly giving my brain a rest in the Fairview while I consider my future.’
‘You didn’t deny it,’ he pointed out.
‘Like that would have helped.’ She clutched at her throat with both hands. ‘I’m not mad. It wasn’t me. I was framed!’ she croaked out, rolling her eyes, feigning madness.
He was expected to laugh, but it was taking all his concentration just to breathe because she’d forgotten not to look at him. And then she remembered and he could see that it wasn’t just him. They were both struggling with the zing of lightning that arced between them.
‘Since Plan B was a threat to sue me for malicious damage…’ Her voice was thick, her pupils huge against the shot-silk blue; what would she do if he reached out and took her hand and held it against his zip, if he sucked her lower lip into his mouth? ‘…I didn’t think there was much point in hanging around.’
He turned away, crossed to the kettle, picking it up to make sure there was some water in it before switching it on. Any distraction from the thoughts racketing through his head. The same thoughts that had driven him from Morgan’s office amplified a hundred times.
He had no problem with lust at first sight. Uncomplicated, life’s-too-short sex that gave everyone a good time and didn’t screw with your head. This was complicated with knobs on. He should never have let her stay.
He could not have sent her away…
‘It’s a bit like denying Hadley Chase is riddled with woodworm,’ he said, tossing teabags into a couple of mugs, making an effort to bring the conversation back to the house—as effective as any cold shower. ‘Once it’s in print, who’s going to believe you?’
‘Exactly… Not that it is,’ she said, as eager as him to get back to business, apparently. ‘Riddled with woodworm. The house has been neglected in recent years, the roof needs some work, but the
structure is sound and the advertisement did get people talking about the house,’ she stressed earnestly, as if that were something to be welcomed. ‘My photograph was reprinted in all the weekend property supplements.’
‘Your photograph?’ He waved her towards the ancient sofa that he sometimes slept on when he’d worked late and he was too tired to stagger the hundred yards home. ‘Didn’t Morgan employ a professional?’
‘Oh, yes, and he did his best with the interior, but it was raining on the day he was there so, despite his best efforts with Photoshop, his exteriors weren’t doing the house any favours,’ she said, sinking into the low saggy cushions. ‘We were running out of time so, when the weather changed at the weekend, I grabbed the chance to dash down the motorway early on Sunday and take some myself.’
‘You’ve got a good eye.’
‘Oh, I took hundreds of pictures. That one just leapt out at me.’
It was more than that, he thought, getting out the milk, keeping his hands busy. She’d taken the trouble to go back in her own time. Given it one hundred per cent… ‘It’s a pity the property pages didn’t just stick to the photograph.’
‘That was never going to happen. It was too good a story to pass up on and it was a fabulous PR opportunity. If Miles hadn’t panicked…’ She paused, as if something was bothering her.
‘What? What would you have done?’
‘Oh… Well, first I’d have got in a firm of cleaners at the firm’s expense. Then I’d have invited the property editors to lunch at the Hadley Arms and, once I’d got them gagging at the perfect picture postcard village, I’d have driven them up to the house, slowly enough so that they could appreciate the view, that first glimpse as the house appears.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, obviously,’ she said, ‘I’d have got you an offer within the week.’
Her smile was bright and as brittle as spun sugar. He wanted the real thing. Not just mouth and teeth, but those eyes lit up, glowing…
‘Despite the dodgy staircase and the leaking roof?’ he pressed.
She tutted but it earned him a hint of what her smile could be. ‘It hasn’t rained all week.’
‘This hot spell can’t last.’
‘No, which is why we need to get cracking. Hadley Chase has so much potential,’ she continued. ‘I hadn’t realised the extent of the outbuildings until I went down by myself. The stables, the dairy and how many houses have got a brewery, for heaven’s sake?’
‘It was standard for big houses back in the day, when drinking small beer was safer than water. It hasn’t been used in my lifetime. Nor has the dairy.’
‘Maybe not, but they’re ripe for conversion into workshops, holiday accommodation, offices. Miles isn’t usually so slow…’ She let it go, a tiny frown buckling the smooth skin between her brows. ‘My mistake.’
‘Surely it was his?’
‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’
She propped her elbow on the arm of the sofa, chin on hand, giving him another flash of her assets. By way of distraction, he picked up the cakebox and offered it to her.
‘You do still want to sell the house?’ she said as she leaned forward and did an eeny-meeny-miny-mo over the cakes with a dark red fingernail before choosing one.
Some distraction.
‘I assumed you’d been sent by Morgan to persuade me to drop my suit,’ he said, helping himself to another look straight down the front of her shirt. She was wearing one of those lace traffic-accident bras and all the blood in his brain went south.
She looked up when he didn’t say any more. ‘Do you still think that?’
Thinking? Who was thinking… He shook his head. ‘No. You’re pitching for the business.’
She looked up, no smile now, just determination. ‘This isn’t business, it’s personal. What you do about Morgan and Black is your own affair, but my expertise won’t cost you a penny.’ She gave another of those little shrugs and, as she recrossed her legs, he switched from imperial to metric. A metre…
It had to be deliberate, but he didn’t care.
‘Of course, if you’d rather sit back and wait a year or two for the fuss to die down…?’ she offered before biting into a small square of lemon drizzle cake, her teeth sinking into the softness of the sponge. White teeth, rose petal lips…
Forget the inner woman, he wanted to draw her naked, wanted to mould that luscious body in clay, learn the shape with his hands and then recreate it. Wanted to taste the tip of her tongue as it sought out the sugar clinging to her lip…
‘You might be lucky,’ she said, cucumber-cool, apparently unaware of the effect she was having or of the turmoil raging within him. ‘It might be a big news week in the property business and they won’t dredge up the story all over again. Reprint the original advertisement.’ She finished the tiny square of cake, sucked the stickiness off a fingertip. It was deliberate and he discovered that he didn’t care. Just as long as she went on doing it. ‘I’ll leave you to imagine how likely that is.’
‘You seem to forget, Natasha, that I’ve seen your expertise at first hand.’
‘What you’ve seen, Mr Hadley, is me being stitched up by a man who wanted the promotion I’d worked my socks off for without the bother of putting in the hours.’ A fine rim of sugar, missed by her tongue, glistened on her upper lip.
‘Darius,’ he said, aware that a film of sweat had broken out above his own lip. Whatever it was she was doing, it was working. ‘Only my accountant calls me Mr Hadley.’
He expected her to come back with your accountant and me. Instead, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Darius. When I said it was a bit more complicated than you thought, I meant really complicated.’ She looked up, her eyes intent and just a touch desperate. ‘The mess-up with the advertisement wasn’t a mistake.’
‘Not a mistake?’
‘Not a mistake,’ she repeated, ‘but I was the target. You were just collateral damage.’
FOUR
‘Collateral…?’ Darius repeated, rerunning what she’d said through his head. ‘Are you saying this was all about some internal power play at Morgan and Black? That it was deliberate?’
‘I really am sorry,’ she repeated.
‘Not half as sorry as I am.’ Or Miles Morgan would be if it was true. ‘Did he get it? Your promotion?’
A sigh of relief rippled through her. ‘My promotion, my car and, as the icing on the cake, my reputation down the drain.’
The desperation had been fear, he realised. She’d been afraid that he would laugh out loud or call her a liar. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know what to think. It seemed preposterous and yet he’d already half convinced himself that she hadn’t messed up the ad. Apparently Freddie Glover wasn’t the only one susceptible to a pair of blue eyes and a great pair of—
‘The kettle seems to have boiled. Shall I make the tea?’ she asked.
‘You did volunteer.’ Tea was the furthest thing from his mind, but it gave them both a moment and, besides, he wanted to watch her move. The lift of her head, the unfolding of her legs, the muscles in a long shapely calf as she fought the clutches of the sofa. ‘Why did he want to destroy your reputation?’ he asked, reaching on automatic for his sketch pad, a pencil, working swiftly to capture the image. The lines of her neck, her shoulders as she clicked the kettle back on. Her back and legs as she bent to open the fridge. ‘Wasn’t your promotion enough?’
‘There was no other way of being certain I’d be history,’ she said, concentrating on opening a carton of milk. ‘I’m really good at my job.’
After an initial wobble when she’d looked as if she wanted to tear his clothes off, Natasha Gordon was doing a very good job of presenting herself as a woman totally in control of her emotions but her eyes betrayed her. A pulse was visible at her throat and if he slid his hand inside the open invitation of her shirt, laid his palm against her breast, he knew he would feel her heart pounding with rage.
The pencil h
e was holding snapped…
‘So are you looking for revenge?’ he asked.
‘I have my revenge,’ she said, losing patience with the carton and jabbing the end of a spoon into the seal as if stabbing whoever had done this to her through the heart. Milk shot over the sleeve of her jacket and, embarrassed, she laughed. ‘Okay, maybe I do have issues, but Miles Morgan was panicked into grabbing the first answer that presented itself. No doubt with a little prompting from…’ Catching herself, she slipped off the jacket and used a piece of kitchen paper to mop the milk from her sleeve.
‘From?’
Right at that moment he didn’t much care about the who or the why, he simply wanted to keep her looking like that, and the stub of his pencil continued to work as she shook her head and a wisp of hair escaped the prim little knot, floating for a moment before settling against her cheek.
She frowned. ‘I can’t be sure. It all happened so fast… Someone had it all worked out in advance and knew exactly which buttons to press.’ She pulled a face. ‘There’s nothing like a champagne celebration to show the world that it’s business as usual.’
‘Does this someone have a name? I’m sure my lawyer would like to know.’
‘No doubt, but I’m not here to help you bring them down,’ she said. Nevertheless, the tiny frown persisted. She wanted answers, too.
‘So you do want your job back,’ he pushed.
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘You won’t work for the man who took your job?’
She shrugged, managed a smile of sorts. ‘Never say never. Who knows how desperate I’ll get…? How do you like your tea?’ she asked, glancing across at him. ‘Weak, medium, stand up your spoon…’ She stopped. ‘Are you drawing me?’
‘Yes. Do you mind?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’ll stop if you insist,’ he said. ‘And strong. Dash of milk. No sugar. You think Morgan will regret it?’ he asked, dragging his gaze from his contemplation of her long upper lip just long enough to commit it to paper. ‘Grabbing the easy option?’