True Colours Page 10

  He paused for a moment, looking out over the Green but not really seeing it, his mind wandering. Was Caroline meeting someone? A pal for lunch or Sebastian? He hoped not. Because right now he wanted to see her again, and he certainly didn’t want to bump into her with her fiancé in tow.

  Rolling the idea around in his head, Peter pulled out his mobile phone. It was easy enough to check where Sebastian Wingfield would be at lunchtime. And if he wasn’t meeting Caroline, well...Brown Thomas was only a five-minute walk from this hotel...

  Last night had gone way better than he’d expected. Way better. And for a load of reasons that hadn’t been part of the original plan at all. In fact, last night had given the plan a whole new angle.

  From the moment he’d got into the cab with her yesterday he could see the attraction. She was gorgeous to look at, of course, he had expected that – gleaming poker-straight hair and model-like figure, the type of waist you could get your hands around. Very trim. And he’d never been attracted to women with big breasts, had always thought more than a handful was a waste. But the moment he’d pulled his door closed he’d realised she smelled delicious. And after a few looks from under those long eyelashes, he couldn’t help himself but ask her out for dinner. ‘Come-to-bed eyes’ they called them, well if anyone had come-to-bed eyes it was Caroline bloody Audiguet-O’Reilly.

  Peter had been expecting her to be an impossibly spoilt brat, an arrogant bitch who had nothing to talk about outside manicures and lunch and the latest celebrity gossip. And there was no question that she was all of those things, but what had surprised him more than anything was that she was actually very entertaining company, had a devilish sense of humour that had made him laugh out loud.

  And she was damned hot in the sack.

  He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t expected quite what the whole package had to offer. The fact that she hadn’t a bloody clue about Sebastian Wingfield’s business interests should have been a problem, but it wasn’t somehow. He shook his head, laughing at himself – somehow between getting into a cab with her yesterday and getting out of a Mercedes limousine last night, the goalposts had moved, big time.

  Last night had been something of an eye-opener all right.

  SIXTEEN

  Sebastian! Alex gasped, her eyes wide.

  Sebastian Wingfield was standing behind the black granite breakfast bar which separated the living area in his apartment from a huge open-plan kitchen tucked around the corner. Relaxed, his shirt open at the neck, nautical, red, white and navy stripes, he was pouring himself a cup of coffee from a generous chrome and glass cafetière.

  ‘I...’ it took a moment for Alex to catch her breath, ‘I thought I was meeting Jocelyn.’

  ‘Did you? Whatever gave you that idea?’

  Speechless, shock and irritation bubbling up inside her like a geyser, Alex watched as Sebastian padded out from behind the counter, navy cashmere socks silent on the wooden floor, and moved effortlessly to the window nearest him, his face creased in a frown as he glanced critically outside, like he was checking if the city had turned up to clock in.

  The apartment wasn’t the only thing that was impressive. There was something about his scowl that made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, a shiver head up her spine. His watch loose on his wrist, he had his sleeves rolled up again, the crisp cotton of his shirt pressed to a knife edge down the seams. And he obviously wasn’t planning on going to the office this morning –a pair of faded Levis hugged his hips, the thick woven leather belt emphasising his narrow waist. Gesticulating with his cup, he looked out the window as he spoke.

  ‘Bought it for the view. It’s always changing. Thought I’d hate anything modern but it’s very comfortable. No draughts or damp. And every possible gadget. “CLOSE.” He barked and without pausing for breath he turned to Alex and calmly took a sip of his coffee as a pair of huge navy silk curtains began to swish closed behind him.

  “OFF.” Every light in the room dimmed and flicked off.

  In a matter of seconds they were standing in total darkness.

  Alex’s light to dark vision had never been good. And he knew it. For a few seconds she was totally blind, utterly helpless. Paralysed in the middle of the room, she could feel his eyes on her, could feel him laughing. How many times had he shut her in the dark, in the pantry, in the stables, only to come lunging at her before her eyes had adjusted from the bright light outside? Pushing her up against a wall, plunging his hands down the back of her jeans, or searching for her breasts, his mouth silencing her laughter, his body hard and hot and hungry against hers.

  ‘OPEN,” as if reading her mind Sebastian gave the command and the curtains began to part . “ON.”

  As the light increased, Alex realised he had moved back behind the counter, was tipping out the old coffee, holding the empty cafetière up as if in question.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ Scalding hot and black was what she needed now, but her voice came out as a squeak. Clearing her throat, she tried again, louder, covering her embarrassment by crossing the room to the window and looking out, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her back to him while she fought to regain her composure. She should have guessed; why hadn’t she guessed? Now she was on the back foot AGAIN, feeling a fool, poised on the edge of the chasm of the past that gaped between them. She heard him fill the kettle, click on the switch to boil. Why the hell had she ever agreed to take on this job?

  Behind her, the kettle gurgling as it reached boiling point, Sebastian ran his eye over her hunched shoulders, over her neat buttocks, gripped by her jeans, down her legs. Her jacket was well cut, a slim fit, the briefcase slung over her shoulder, Ferrari-red leather, soft and supple. He could almost feel the tension radiating from her, sense her anger seeping from every pore. Brilliant red, just like her briefcase, like the colour of the blood rushing from his heart, pumping right around his body.

  Alex Ryan.

  After all these years, here she was standing in his living room. And, as if he needed confirmation after their previous meetings, she obviously hadn’t changed one bit, was just as spirited, just as cantankerous as she had been when she was seventeen. And the rain still made her hair go nuts.

  Half-smiling to himself, he spooned freshly ground coffee into the pot and sloshed the water over it. She still didn’t turn around, had her eyes fixed on some distant point like it was the most interesting thing she’d seen in years. He could tell she was mad, really mad. But not nearly as mad as he was.

  ‘Do you still take it black?’

  An almost imperceptible nod of her head.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  It was more of a command than a request and suddenly he was behind her, handing her a cup, his aftershave blending with the scent of coffee landing her straight back in her father’s kitchen that first time after they met. He’d turned up on the doorstep with a feeble excuse about getting a fence checked. Her father was out, up at the lake checking the stocks, as well he knew. ‘Coffee?’, ‘Great, if you’ve time.’ The pair of them awkward, self-conscious, tiptoeing around each other like a pair of peacocks in an elaborate courtship dance, their attraction electric.

  ‘Thanks.’ Exhaling, trying to still the tremble in her hand, Alex turned from the window, avoiding his eye. Sit down? And face his questions. That was the last thing she wanted to do. Right now she wanted to have a quick look around and get out. Tell him she needed to measure up, that was the thing, tell him she had another meeting and she need to measure up and get out.

  ‘I’m a bit pushed for time actually. I just need to get some measurements, a feeling for the light, and I can get down to the suppliers and start working out some ideas. I had hoped to have a chat with Jocelyn.’

  Stubborn to the last. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  He was standing a couple of feet from her sipping his coffee, one eyebrow raised. Where did she want to start? She winced involuntarily. With the truth…?

  ‘Here
would be fine. Is that the kitchen?’ Getting away from him as fast as she could Alex strode across to the breakfast bar, taking a slug of her coffee, putting down the cup a little too hard on the granite. The sound echoed in the open space, bouncing off the hard surfaces, the black marble floor, stainless steel appliances jarred against the violins serenading them from a hidden sound system, the orchestra frantic, building to a climax.

  ‘Do you want anything done in here?’ Focused, practical, raising her voice over the music, she stuck the tips of her fingers in her jeans pocket. She was safer talking about the job. The violins finished abruptly, the silence deafening.

  ‘I’ve no idea. You’re a woman, what do you think?’ His throwaway comment was like a knife between her shoulder blades. Ignoring the jibe, she took one hand out of her pocket and ran her fingertips over the stainless steel counter: spotless, brand new. The next track came on. Piano, soothing and melodic. Thank God.

  ‘Does your fiancée like to cook? This is a chef’s kitchen, it’s really well laid out, you’ve everything she could possibly need.’

  ‘I like it.’ He paused. Did she detect a sigh? ‘But I don’t think she knows what a saucepan’s for. She’s always had staff. Do you think it needs a bit more colour?’

  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 space. Functional, practical… sexy…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 aprons 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 shirt, 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 shirt buttoned. And a waft of her perfume. Spicy. Exotic. Sexy. Very sexy. 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 fecked off and turned his life upside down. One minute they’d been getting sweaty on the backstairs, her muffled 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-shirt pulled up over her breasts, 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 passion until her back had arched under him, his forehead pressed against the cold glass, shuddering with need as they climaxed together. And then she’d run, still wet from their union, yanking her t-shirt 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 damn 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 glass 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 space, to try and squeeze around the end of the counter, get too near him. Glancing at his back, at the shirt straining across his shoulders, at the way his Levis gripped his butt, 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. Fashionable 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.
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  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 cushions 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 breasts 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 sexual harassment? 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.