Breathless after hurtling down three flights of stairs, she stared at Luc and protested, 'B-but I've ordered a cab!'
'I know, I've just paid him off.' And when Sorrel began to splutter her indignation, 'I told you I'd collect you, and I have.' Tucking her hand under his arm he led her to his car.
The traffic was almost as heavy as it had been that morning, and after the second snarl-up Luc remarked, 'It looks as if we're going to be late, and all because of your silly scruples.'
Sorrel, who had decided a dignified silence was her best defence was provoked into snapping, 'Yes, I do have scruples, especially about hurting someone I like. How must Bianca have felt when she heard you ask me to dinner?'
'What gives you the impression she would be hurt?' he asked silkily.
Now he was making her feel as if she had read too much into his invitation—and into that kiss she still couldn't quite forget. 'Because I've seen the two of you together, heard her talking about you. You obviously have a close and long-standing relationship. Naturally she would be hurt to—to—' she floundered.
'To know I wanted to see you alone tonight? To know I very much want to make love to you?' he finished for her, and Sorrel's whole body burned with heated blood.
'You shouldn't say that!' she protested in a strangled voice.
'Why not, when it's true?' He sighed. 'Yes, Bianca and I are close. We are in fact, very fond of each other. But neither of us is of a jealous disposition—at least not about each other. And I think you'll find she will have been very happy to have had Hywel to herself for a while.'
Luc might feel that way, Sorrel thought, but she very much doubted if Bianca did, not when she remembered that flash of jealousy when Luc had apparently been admiring herself. But she held her tongue.
Indeed Bianca did seem happy enough in Hywel's company when Sorrel and Luc eventually arrived at the restaurant. She greeted them gaily, teasing Luc about his lateness, throughout the evening displaying not the slightest suspicion of jealousy, bantering with both men as if enjoying playing one off against the other. Only when Sorrel and Hywel got caught up in an enthusiastic account of their afternoon's progress did she fall silent.
For rather too much of the evening, Sorrel found herself comparing the two men. Hywel was really quite handsome in a rugged kind of way, and yet it was to Luc her eyes were irresistibly drawn. She and Hywel had a great deal in common; they were both creative, shared a common enthusiasm for their work and had discovered themselves to be mutually stimulating. Yet it was Luc, whose complexities she didn't think she would ever understand—let alone trust—of whom she was galvanically aware, noticing the strength of his large hands, the way the dark hairs on his wrist curled around the gold band of his watch, her eyes drawn often to the width of his shoulders beneath his well fitting dark suit, fascinated by his smile, though pretending to look elsewhere when it was aimed in her direction. It was not an awareness she welcomed, but she didn't seem able to escape from it.
'Is Luc taking you home, Sorrel?' Hywel asked when they had finished the dinner Sorrel could hardly remember eating.
'Of course he is,' Luc answered for her, accepting the return of his credit card from the waiter. 'It's my party and I brought her, so I get to take her home.'
Seeing Bianca looking tense again, Sorrel had a flash of inspiration. 'Why don't you all come? You said you wanted to see my place, Bianca.'
It was a bit of a squash, the two girls coiled into the narrow back seat, and somehow, each time Sorrel looked up, it was to meet Luc's eyes in the driving-mirror, eyes that seemed to promise retribution. A suspicion that was borne out when they arrived in Wapping and he whispered as he helped her out, 'You won't always be able to avoid me, Sorrel.'
But after visiting his office the following morning to sign her contract in the presence of Mr Forster, Sorrel did manage to avoid Luc for more than a week, spending her time with Hywel in his work-rooms coordinating her jewellery range with his Collection, taking each finalised design to Amoroso's production manager with details of the changes she wanted and discussing the gemstones needed. Whether Luc was in his office during her visits she never enquired but, remembering one of the conditions of her contract was that she keep him informed, she knew it couldn't last.
It was late on the Thursday night of the second week while Sorrel sat up rechecking some specifications, that the phone rang, and even before she answered it, she knew it would be Luc.
'Did I get you out of bed?' The gravelly voice invested an intimacy into the question that closed Sorrel's throat and dried her mouth.
At last she managed to croak, 'N-no, I was working.'
'At this time of night? My dear girl, I don't expect you to run yourself into the ground.' She could almost hear him frowning. 'Well, tomorrow you'll be taking the day off.'
'But I can't possibly—' she began.
'Oh yes, you can, I've cleared it with Hywel,' he contradicted. 'I've got something else lined up for you tomorrow—an interview with Miriam Gee, fashion editor of Lady Fair. I'll collect you at ten-thirty, well rested and ready to smile for the camera.'
'The camera!' Sorrel squealed in dismay, but he had already hung up. Dash the man for always wrong-footing her!
Talking about her work was something she could cope with, but this sounded as if it was going to be a much more personal interview if she had to be photographed, and worrying about the kind of questions she might be asked and how much of her background she should divulge kept her awake till the early hours. So naturally she had overslept and when the entry-phone buzzed she was still completing her make-up. Pressing the button she asked Luc to come up, and leaving the front door open, hurried back to her bedroom to brush her hair. Her choice of clothes that might be suitable to be photographed for a smart women's magazine was severely limited, and she had finally chosen the greeny-bronze dress.
She was just descending her spiral staircase when Luc appeared through her hallway. His gaze slid over her from head to foot, warm and somehow possessive, and Sorrel's nerves tingled in response, a similar rush of possessive feeling taking hold of her so that she had to grip the handrail to stop herself rushing down into his arms.
She was horrified at herself, and bewildered, too. She had never felt such a… proprietorial emotion about any man before, or such a savage sense of betrayal because this man would never grant exclusive rights to her or any woman. If a small part of him belonged to anyone, then it was to Bianca, whom he was still seeing. Only yesterday the gossip columns had featured them dancing in some nightspot, together with the surprising information that it was Luc who was providing the financial backing for Hywel Rees.
Some of her pain must have shown on her face, for he stepped forward, his hand outstretched. 'Sorrel? What's the matter?'
Getting a grip on herself she descended the rest of the steps. 'What should be the matter? she asked lightly, trying to avoid those outstretched hands by stepping round him.
But he wouldn't let her escape. Gripping her shoulders he turned her to face him. 'You feel it, don't you? This… recognition between us. It was there even the first time we met, when I thought you were a devious little schemer.'
Recognition. Yes, that was exactly what it felt like, as if there was the man who could fill all the empty spaces in her soul. And yet, how could she believe that his feelings in any way corresponded with her own?
'You don't believe me.' For a few moments she had been so disturbed her doubts were clear on her face. But even as he spoke, the mask of mocking amusement slid smoothly back.
'The same… recognition you've already experienced with any number of women? I may be green but I no longer believe in fairy stories.'
The only betrayal that her gibe had struck its mark came in the tightening of his hands on her shoulders. 'I get the feeling you don't believe in very much at all,' he said flatly. 'All right, that's disposed of me, but what about your feelings? And before you try to lie your way out of it, I saw your face as you were coming down the stairs.'
Behind her mocking mask Sorrel felt naked. 'Oh, I admit I find you attractive,' she said carelessly. 'The chemistry's strong.' It was a desecration of her true feelings to speak of them so slightingly, but better than laying herself open to this man's magic and finding it was fool's gold.
'And that's all it is? Chemistry?' he pressed softly.
'What else?' she derided. 'You're surely not going to pretend you fell in love with me on sight?'
She watched the beautifully chiselled mouth tighten, knowing that if she hadn't started this argument he would be kissing her by now. 'No, I never pretend,' he said. 'Which is more than I can say for you.' Then, abruptly turning her towards the door, 'Right, if you're ready?'
And as she locked the door and clattered down the stairs with him, she found herself wishing he had kissed her, wishing he had tried to pretend, if only for a little while. Which only went to show how illogical and inconsistent she was, she silently derided.
Sorrel had no idea where the editorial offices of Lady Fair were, so she wasn't really surprised when Luc drew up at a parking-meter in a side-street off Knightsbridge. What did surprise her was when he hurried her into a smart boutique and demanded of the assistant, 'Is Magda about?'
'This isn't a magazine office,' Sorrel said as the girl hurried off.
'Full marks for observation! But it is a necessary preliminary to launching Sorrel Valentine on an unsuspecting world.' He turned away as a tiny redhead emerged from the back of the shop and flung herself into his arms.
'Luc… darling…' She pulled his head down and kissed him lingeringly.
Sorrel looked away, shocked by the almost over-whelming urge to physically tear the two apart. It was one thing, she found, to know second-hand of Luc's reputation. It was quite another to actually see him with one of his women!
CHAPTER EIGHT
'That will teach you not to come to my party,' the prettily accented voice said playfully. 'Now, you may introduce me to your friend.'
Luc was grinning broadly as he obliged. 'Sorrel Valentine—Lady Magda Pendine. This wicked lady is very much married to a friend of mine,' he went on with pointed mockery as if he had read Sorrel's thoughts a few moments ago, and she felt herself colouring.
'But, of course, the jewellery designer!' Magda said warmly, holding out her hand. 'And we will drop the "lady", please, among friends. Bianca, she explained to me, and all is ready.' Not letting go of Sorrel's hand she drew her into a big fitting-room. 'Bianca described you well. I think you will like what I choose. You wait, Luc?' This she tossed over her shoulder.
'I wait,' Luc said.
As the curtain swished to Sorrel saw the rail packed with a wide range of clothes from casual wear to evening dresses, all, from their fabrics and cut, bearing designer labels and all patently expensive.
'You do realise that until a couple of minutes ago I had no idea I was buying clothes?' she complained. 'I could have on ragged underwear for all he knows.'
'Aah… you are not yet lovers, then?' Magda inquired interestedly.
Sorrel was taken aback and Magda shrugged dainty shoulders. 'If you were, you would not talk of ragged underwear.'
'No, we're not, and never likely to be,' Sorrel said crossly.
The mobile eyebrows rose, then Magda chuckled. 'I think you tease me, but anyway, I have plenty lingerie.' She lifted the lid of a box and while Sorrel goggled at the delectable froth of silk and lace, Magda slid down her zip and her dress slithered around her ankles.
For the next hour Sorrel climbed in and out of more clothes than she could remember seeing in her life before, and each one had to be modelled in front of an appreciative Luc. His final choice lay in a cotton jumpsuit of two shades of clear, zinging orange that made her legs look as if they began beneath her armpits, a sage green dress with a pencil-slim skirt and blouson top in the softest suede and two evening dresses, one stark black and clinging, high at the neck but with no back to speak of and the other more romantic, low-necked and clinging lovingly to her breasts before skimming straight down to her feet, suggesting rather than revealing, and in a subtle blend of colours from palest lilac to deepest purple. There was nothing she could quarrel with in his choice—they were all beautiful and admittedly did something for her—but she resented that it was he who was making the choice.
To make her position perfectly clear she said to Magda in Luc's hearing, 'Right, if you'll just make out my bill…' and was thankful she was carrying her credit card with her.
'Oh, but surely—Luc—' Magda looked helplessly at the man who had obviously given her other instructions.
'It is legitimate business expense, Sorrel,' he pointed out.
'Yes, to promote my business for my benefit,' she insisted stubbornly.
Inclining his head in acquiescence he said, 'Make out the lady's bill, Magda,' waiting until they got outside before admonishing, 'Independence is all very well, but it can be carried too far. I instigated this shopping spree and naturally I expected to pay for it.'
'And confirm Magda's suspicions?' She released her breath on a sharp sigh. 'Look, you know and I know I'm not your latest bed-mate, but rumours like that can hurt other people. Bianca, for instance.' She watched a frown put a deep crease between his brows and went on lightly, 'Don't look so worried, Luc. Although I don't usually indulge myself so extravagantly with clothes, it isn't going to make me bankrupt.'
Luc opened the boot of his car and tossed her packages inside. 'So I've discovered.' He laughed ruefully. 'I was way off-beam, wasn't I, suspecting you of trying to mend the family fortunes by a bit of confidence trickery? But I didn't know then—and you didn't tell me even later—that the godmother you spoke of was your father's cousin, Elinor Valentine, or that you inherited not only her considerable fortune but also her thirty per cent share in Valentine & Co! When I think about it! You've been a major shareholder since you were nine years old—equal to Marcia—and yet they've both ignored you. Haven't you played any part in the running of the firm? Been to a shareholders' meeting?'
Sorrel shrugged. 'My father held my proxy during my minority, and Mr Forster has acted for me since I came of age. And anyway…' She turned on him angrily. 'How do you know all this?'
'I made it my business to find out,' he said imperturbably.
'Oh lord!' Sorrel bit her lip. 'Was it easy to uncover?'
'It wasn't hard. Why?' He looked at her curiously, 'It's not some deep, dark secret, is it?'
'As a matter of fact, it is.' Still biting her lip she looked at him doubtfully, but as he knew so much already, perhaps it would be safer to fill in the whole picture. She sighed. 'You see none of the others at the craft centre know I'm… well off.'
Luc's eyebrows climbed steeply. 'They don't? Why not?'
'Because I—we're a community.' She struggled to find the right words. 'They think I'm a struggling craftsman just like themselves. If they knew, it might—almost certainly would—make a difference to the way they see me and I wouldn't be one of them any more. You see, they're sort of… my family. So I would be very grateful if you would treat it as confidential information,' she finished in a rush, looking at him pleadingly.
His face looked as if it was carved from teak. Only his eyes showed any movement, a kind of deep, slow burn, and it was several seconds before Sorrel recognised it as anger, though she couldn't imagine what she had said or done to cause it. He didn't explain, merely saying tightly, 'You have my word none of them will learn anything from me.'
'Thank you.' She moved to the passenger door, waiting for him to unlock it, but he took her arm, turning her away. 'Not yet.'
Still tight-lipped and silent, he hurried her along Knightsbridge before turning into another side-street and pausing before a well known hairdressing establishment. 'An appointment's been made for you here.' He looked at his watch. 'I'll be back in an hour,' adding as he pushed her through the door, 'If I'm delayed, wait!'
Resentful of that last dictatorial instruction she gave her name to the receptionis
t who passed her on to a slender young man who introduced himself as Kris with a K. 'Bianca insisted I saw you myself,' he said, seating her before a mirror. 'Mmm, she was right; beautifully thick and in pretty good condition, but darling, no style!' He ran his hands through her hair, tumbling it in all directions.
Bianca had obviously been busy on her behalf, Sorrel thought as a junior shampooed her and, back once again before the mirror, she looked apprehensively at the scissors Kris was wielding, wincing when russet-brown locks began to fall. However by the time he had finished there was still enough hair to put up if she wished, but it felt indescribably lighter, settling back into place even when she shook her head, the new shape seeming to throw her cheekbones into greater prominence and make her eyes look larger.
She was paying her bill, adding a generous tip for the wizard who had effected the miraculous change in her appearance, when Luc arrived. Whatever he had found to do while he waited, his earlier anger seemed forgotten, the dark eyes smiling in open admiration.
'Just time for lunch,' he announced, sweeping her out into the car to lose all sense of direction in the byways of Belgravia, eventually halting near an establishment that announced its presence only be a discreet plate beside a discreet door. 'I hope you like Italian food,' Luc said, his gaze running over her slender figure. 'At least you don't have to fear pasta putting on inches.'
'As a matter of fact,' Sorrel confessed with a gleam of humour, 'Apart from opening the odd can of spaghetti, I've never had any.'
The horrified exclamations of both Luc and the hovering Italian proprietor made her grin widely, and as she was seated and the menu thrust into her hands, she was advised from two directions what she should sample. Laughingly she left the selection to them, and was not disappointed. From the crisp antipasto, through the Zuppa alla Foubonne to the Pollo al Vino Bianco, all washed down with a smooth Italian wine with an unpronounceable name, it was a feast both for the eyes and the taste-buds.
'You've made a convert, Tonio,' she laughed as he tried to press on her chestnut fritters as a dessert, 'But I couldn't eat another scrap.'
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