Part 7 (1/2)

For a second he sounded like a child unsure of his ground, desperate to please. She could feel his eyes on her back, burning a hole through her jacket, to her skin. Deliberately ignoring the sensation, she put her head on one side, looking around her, searching desperately for ideas. It was a man's s.p.a.ce. Functional, practical... s.e.xy...she curtailed that line of thought as rapidly as it had begun.

'You could bring in some Alessi brights; Stefano Giovannoni and Philippe Starck have designed some really funky kitchen accessories for them. A fuchsia plastic fruit bowl would be great, maybe a couple of bright stools, turquoise and lime? Electric colours will work really well with the monochrome backdrop to add a splash of colour. You can follow them through with a colour block clock and ap.r.o.ns and tea towels, to pull it all together.' She threw him a hasty glance over her shoulder, had to, could feel the mark his eyes had made on her back smouldering. But he didn't seem to be listening. He was nodding all right, but was looking at his feet.

On the other side of the counter, Sebastian was counting to twenty, struggling to keep his face blank while he fought the image of her fingertips running over the smooth stainless steel, fighting the red hot shot of desire that had routed direct from his groin to his heart the moment she had touched it. She was wearing a pure white guipure lace bra, as hazy as a mirage through the sheer cotton of her s.h.i.+rt, but as she had moved into the kitchen he had caught a glimpse of her cleavage out of the corner of his eye, the full curve of her breast cupped in lace, tantalisingly hidden where the s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned. And a waft of her perfume. Spicy. Exotic. s.e.xy. Very s.e.xy. And for a moment he was a teenager again, dizzy with desire, hormones pumping.

'That sounds fine.' What did? What had she been saying?

He turned away from her, suddenly conscious that his jeans might not be loose enough to hide his physical reaction. It wasn't just his mind she was messing with.

'Cool.' He cleared his throat, this wasn't going like he'd planned.

For some reason, he'd thought when he got her alone he would come right out and ask her, ask her why she'd left, why she'd just f.e.c.ked off and turned his life upside down. One minute they'd been getting sweaty on the backstairs, her m.u.f.fled cries reverberating off the plaster walls, her hand gripping the winding handrail, nails digging into her palm as she tried to keep a lid on her ecstasy, her denim mini around her waist like a belt, t-s.h.i.+rt pulled up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the nipple in his mouth as flushed as her cheeks. Then he'd heard footsteps on the stairs below and they'd scrambled to the top, to the doorway of the ballroom where he'd lifted her onto the windowsill, the chance of discovery heightening his pa.s.sion until her back had arched under him, his forehead pressed against the cold gla.s.s, shuddering with need as they climaxed together. And then she'd run, still wet from their union, yanking her t-s.h.i.+rt down, straightening her skirt, throwing a mischievous grin over her shoulder, lips swollen and bruised. Panting and laughing, he had fallen back on the windowsill, heard her heels on the parquet floor as she ran across the room and down the backstairs on the other side.

And the next day she had gone.

And the pain had been overwhelming, suffocating.

The first day, Tom had said she was out, had some college business to sort out. Maybe she'd forgotten to tell him; maybe it was a last-minute interview. But the next day she'd been out too, and the next. And there was no phone call, not even a note. Then, standing at the door of the two-storey stone cottage, his weathered face creased with worry, Tom had told him the truth. 'She's gone lad, packed her bags and left us. I don't know exactly where too. I'm sure she'll get in touch when she gets there. I'll tell her to call you.' And a part of him died right there. The part of him that knew she wasn't coming back.

And he'd been right. There had been no word, no explanation. Nothing. Not even a postcard. Then his parents had been killed and his world had turned totally and utterly upside down.

Did she have any idea how long he'd waited for her, how hard he'd tried to find her? He'd even persuaded his grandfather to hire a private detective to look for her, spinning a story about seeing her in the pub with some oaf who might have done her harm. No go. Her trail was cold.

And so was he. Losing interest in everything, his grandfather had had an easy job to persuade him to switch from architecture to business, had tried to fill his days with estate duties, giving him more and more responsibility in the running of his empire until, when he left university, Sebastian virtually held the strings single-handed. But what good was that when his heart was dead?

And now, after all this time, here she was, breezing right back into his life like nothing had happened.

Well two could play at that game, and right now, despite all his plans, despite the conversations he'd had a million times in his head since that day, he wasn't about to let her see the damage she'd done. No matter how tempting it was, he d.a.m.n well wasn't about to ask her what happened, ask her why she left, wasn't about to show her how much he hurt.

'What do you think you can do here, in the living room?' Sebastian still had his back to her, was standing squarely between the end of the breakfast bar and the gla.s.s wall, seemed unaware that he was blocking her way out of the kitchen. And after the last time she wasn't about to get into his s.p.a.ce, to try and squeeze around the end of the counter, get too near him. Glancing at his back, at the s.h.i.+rt straining across his shoulders, at the way his Levis gripped his b.u.t.t, Alex busied herself sliding her laptop case onto the counter, unzipping it noisily, pulling out a moleskin notepad and pen. He still hadn't moved, but she had a pretty good view of the room from where she was. It would do fine.

'Do you have floor plans?'

He nodded vaguely, looking around the room. 'She hates this room. Can't see what's wrong with it myself but then I don't spend much time here.'

Glancing at his profile, at the dimple in his cheek, Alex nodded, 'I'll have a look at those magazines. Get some ideas. We can soften some of the lines, make it more feminine, give it a focal point.'

Making a note on her pad, she fought the urge to reach out to him, stuck her pen decisively behind her ear. What they had was gone, they had both moved on.

'Where next?'

A glance into the study. Master bathroom next. Spare rooms. Each one looked like it had been decorated by the developer. Fas.h.i.+onable colours: terracotta, primrose, a mucky green. Natural surfaces. Wood, steel, stone. Impersonal, uninspiring. Like a trendy hotel.

Until they got to the bedroom.

He was inside before she realised what was coming next, was focusing on making notes, avoiding his eye as she followed him across the threshold. It took her a few moments to register where she was.

His bedroom...Alex could feel a blush hitting her face full force as she took in the chocolate raw silk curtains, luxuriously thick cream wool carpet, bronze satin bedspread and huge mahogany sleigh bed piled high with cus.h.i.+ons and bolsters, gold, chocolate and coffee silk organza, iridescent taffeta, smooth satins. But if these made her blush, they were nothing compared with the single item that dominated the room above the bed, a huge painting of a reclining nude ran almost the full width of the wall.

'Oh.' It slipped out before Alex had a chance to catch it. It was a fabulous painting, thick black brush strokes confident, yet somehow it was breathy, impressionistic. One of the girl's arms was thrown above her head, only her chin visible in the corner of the canvas, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s full, nipples a splash of red in a sea of pale skin tones, her legs parted, one knee raised. Writhing in ecstasy.

'Do you like it?'

He'd abandoned his coffee cup in the study, was leaning casually against the wall, hands hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his brow trapped in a speculative frown like they were in an exclusive gallery looking at a landscape he was about to buy.

'It's, it's...' searching for the right words, Alex glanced at him, glanced back at the painting, not sure where to look, her cheeks flaming.

This was excruciating...here she was trying to stay professional, to focus on him as a client, and here he was asking her to comment on a highly erotic painting of a nude, IN HIS BEDROOM. Wasn't this s.e.xual hara.s.sment? Really she should just shrug, nod curtly and back out, say something like, 'It's great. I think I've all I need now, I really must dash,' and make a rapid but graceful exit.

But somehow she couldn't. Somehow, transfixed, Alex felt like the painting was pulling her in with a peculiar, powerful magnetism.

It was beautiful; the subject seemed to jump off the canvas, had a life, a movement that left her almost as breathless as the model, who most definitely appeared to be on the brink of something earth-shattering. There was no one else in the painting, the girl's naked body filling the entire canva.s.s, but somehow you could tell that she wasn't alone. Perhaps it was the tiny shadow in the corner that suggested that someone was watching her, perhaps it was something about the way she was lying. One way or another, the implication gave the subject an electric charge that would have blown the fuses if it was plugged in.

Alex glanced sideways at Sebastian. He was watching her, his head on one side like he was looking for her approval. Why on earth? Panic fluttered in her chest, perhaps this was some sort of bizarre test...perhaps it was by some incredibly famous artist whose work she should recognise instantly...?

Pinp.r.i.c.ks of sweat breaking out down her spine, embarra.s.sed beyond belief at being trapped here looking at a painting that only fell short of p.o.r.nography because it was supposed to be art, Alex knew she needed to say something, could feel the silence growing, loaded with innuendo and half-forgotten moments: the feel of his touch, the scent of his body against hers...The CD had finished she hadn't noticed until now and she could feel his eyes on her, watching, waiting for her to comment. Waiting for her to say what? Beyond 'It's very nice' or 'great brush work' what could she say? You made me feel like that...

She felt like she was locked inside a bubble, running out of air.

Desperate to break the tension, to say something, anything, to break the silence, to get this whole charade back to what it should be a client consultation she suddenly had a devilish urge to say something flippant, to ask what his fiancee thought of it, anything to bluff him that whatever he'd been planning by showing her this picture wasn't working, that she was a professional, could cope with anything. Then she stopped herself.

And took a major double take.

Staring hard at the painting her mouth went dry, the hairs on the back of her neck standing rigidly to attention as a s.h.i.+ver paralysed her spine, and her eyes, locked on a small dark mole less than an inch from the model's navel. Alex's eyes widened in horror. Disbelieving, she shot a glance at Sebastian and back to the painting again it was definitely a mole, not a drip or an accidental splash of paint. And there was another on her breast, paler, less obvious...

'Oh my G.o.d...' The blood pounding in her ears, she felt herself hurtling back sixteen years, images of that summer flas.h.i.+ng past like she was looking out the window of a high-speed train.

The drawings.

Every afternoon for weeks. Him sketching, while she watched the clouds pa.s.s overhead, dreaming of the Mill House, about what they could do with it, making plans, castles in the sky. But she'd had her clothes on!

'How could you...?'

She didn't finish. Her train crashed, carriages concertinaing, piling up on each other with a force that even she couldn't control. Then, throwing him a look of pure venom, she turned on her heel and ran for the lift.

SEVENTEEN.

How could he have done it? How could he have taken those lovely drawings he'd done of her, quick pencil sketches, capturing the moment, practising his life drawing he'd said, and gone off and painted her naked?

And not only naked but with everything on show, and very obviously in the throws of an o.r.g.a.s.m that would affect anyone who looked at it. Leaving nothing to the imagination.

AND THEN he'd put it up over his BED. Where everyone could see it. Like his girlfriends. Like his fiancee. Making love with her above him, like he was really putting it up to her, like he was getting his own back every time he brought a new woman home.

Hiding her face in her hands Alex could feel her whole body blus.h.i.+ng, cringing with total humiliation. She'd been mortified when she'd seen it, then angry. Angry at his audacity. Angry that he could do something like that, that he could take those moments and exploit them, exploit her. But now she just felt sick. Exposed. Violated. He might as well have asked her to stand on the boardroom table and strip.