by Jennie Lucas
Khalid had asked Ethan to discreetly check things out.
Ethan had pointed out the fact that nothing he did in New York City went unnoticed. But still, he had agreed to drop in at short notice and hopefully get a handle on what was going on. The fact that it was a mere assistant here to greet him scored the gallery its first black mark.
The fact that she was beautiful did not erase it.
‘Before I take you through would you care for a drink...?’ Merida offered.
‘Let’s just get started, shall we?’
He was brusque. Restless and impatient.
And he ignored the nibbles too.
Few did.
Merida had long since observed that at private viewings—even if guests staggered into the gallery after a three-course dinner—still most would sample the delicacies that had been laid on.
But Ethan Devereux didn’t feel the need to partake in a free glass of champagne or caviar-laden blinis and succulent chocolate-dipped fruits.
He, Merida decided there and then, had no fear of missing out.
‘Well, as I said, Reece is currently headed to Egypt. There he’ll meet with Aziza...’ Merida explained as they walked over to the first display. ‘She’s the designer of these exquisite dolls’ houses.’
Shoot me now, Ethan thought.
Having found out that his father was unwell, and would tomorrow be undergoing surgery, Ethan had flown from Al-Zahan to Dubai and then home—albeit on his own luxury jet. Still, he did not want to be looking at dolls’ houses—even if the walls were lined with hieroglyphics in gold.
Perhaps he should have some champagne—but that would only prolong things. He was running on empty and the jet-lag was really kicking in. He just wanted to cut the chatter and get to the amulets. But in order to glean as much as he could about the running of this gallery for Khalid he let her prattle on.
Well, not prattle, he conceded. Her voice was pleasant, in fact—prim and English—and her words were delivered with a throaty husk that made the topic almost bearable.
‘These dolls’ houses were kept for religious purposes,’ Merida explained. ‘They were never meant to be used as toys—certainly not for playing mummies and daddies.’
He didn’t smile at her tiny well-worn joke, and even though he listened quietly she could tell that he was as bored as a three-year-old in church as they moved on.
They came to an exquisite silk rug—made, Merida explained, by Bedouin artisans using the vase weave technique.
‘Ubaid, who oversees the making of every intricate piece, is a fierce protector of the craft.’
She started to explain about the natural dyes and the intricate patterns, and the endless hours that went in to creating such a masterpiece, but Ethan cut in.
‘Next.’
Ethan Philistine Devereux, she silently named him.
He certainly wasn’t the first dismissive or bored client that Merida had taken through the gallery. Often people came to private viewings under silent sufferance—perhaps sent by their place of work or as a bored partner tagging along. And then there was the type who just had to have been and seen.
Yet he was alone—and it was he himself who had insisted on this viewing.
Merida ploughed on, but his impatience was palpable. So, as she showed him a jewellery exhibit, she toned down the details somewhat. Perhaps not enough, though, because as she showed him a ring Ethan yawned.
And not discreetly.
‘Excuse me,’ Ethan said.
He knew he was being rude, but he was genuinely exhausted. It certainly wasn’t her fault that he had zero interest.
Or rather, zero interest in the displays.
The gallery assistant really was gorgeous.
Gorgeous.
There was an uptight quality to her that rather intrigued him, and something told him that despite her confident demeanour she was not quite as together as she seemed.
Her eyes were a deep mossy green, and as the tour progressed he noted how they repeatedly refused to hold his gaze.
She was slender, and her limbs were pale, with a dusting of pale freckles that had him wondering where the subtle golden trail led.
And as for that hair... It was like two of his favourite things—amber and cognac combined—and he tried to picture it free of its confines.
‘And now to my favourite display.’
She smiled an enigmatic smile that made him wonder. Ethan could usually read women exceptionally well, and yet he could not quite read her.
‘Which is...?’ Ethan asked.
‘The Amulets of Al-Zahan. We’re extremely fortunate to have them on loan to us.’
‘How long are they here for?’
‘We’ve got them for three more months,’ Merida said. ‘Although we’re hoping that can be extended. This way, please.’
Merida touched the switch that would turn on the lighting for the display and gestured with her head for him to head down the stairs.
‘After you,’ Ethan said.
For the first time—the only time—Merida wondered as to the merits of manners, for she found herself wishing that he had gone first.
The simple walk that she had made on so many occasions suddenly felt an impossible task. The velvet walls were too close, the lighting too dim, and she was utterly aware of him walking behind her.
The sensual darkness was for effect, of course. But it was having more of an effect on her than him.
Merida had undertaken the pinning of the velvet to the walls herself—the aim being to create a sort of portal...a sense of entering another time. However, she had never, as she’d stood on a stepladder and created this soft space, envisaged how it might feel to descend the stairs with a man like Ethan.
She trod more carefully than usual. She was nervous. Not so much aware that she might slip, more that if she did then it would be he who would steady her.
Merida had never reacted to anyone with such force. In fact she had never responded to a man in such a way.
She had wanted to. And she had tried on occasion—going along with a kiss while awaiting desire.
But it had never arrived and there had never been more than a kiss.
Merida had decided that her unwillingness must somehow be her fault—that there was something she was missing in her genes, or that her parents’ bitter divorce and its aftermath had left her too mistrusting to let down her guard.
Oh, she could fake it for an audience. On stage, she could put on a sensual display indeed.
In fact, she was acting now—pretending that she had it all together and that he did not move her so.
Yet when the weekend came around, and she was back on stage where she felt she belonged, Merida knew she would draw on how it had felt to be so close to him.
In the real world, though, Merida was new to these feelings.
New to all this.
Copyright © 2018 by Carol Marinelli
ISBN-13: 9781488083815
The Baby the Billionaire Demands
First North American publication 2018
Copyright © 2018 by Jennie Lucas
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