Forbidden or For Bedding? (3 page)

‘Good evening,' she said, her voice workmanlike, busying herself setting down her handbag. Then she lifted her eyes to the man seated opposite.

Could you hear the sound of a jaw dropping? she wondered, with some fragment of her brain that still functioned outside the complete fuzz that was suddenly her sole consciousness. Then another thought gelled.
Oh, hell, Imogen was right…

Because, like it or not, whatever her scepticism had been, one thing was completely and irrefutably incontrovertible about Guy de Rochemont. He really was—well…She flailed about in her brain, trying to find words. Failing. Visual impressions raced through her mind—and more. Guy de Rochemont hit places that were far more than visual.

Visceral.

How—she scrambled for sense—how could a mere arrangement of features common to every human being vary so much in their impact? How was it that a combination of things that everyone else had—eyes, nose, mouth—could be so…so…

Her eyes skittered over him, taking in everything and anything—the sculpted face, the slant of his eyebrows, the thin blade of his nose, the finely shaped mouth, the edged line of his jaw, the sable hair that was perfectly framed around his head. She drank him in, unable to do anything else but succumb to the impact.

Dimly she was aware that he had half-risen at her appearance, but had sat back again as she had already sat down, and was now sitting with a kind of lean grace that—again—she could viscerally register without conscious assessment, one long leg crossed over the other and arms resting on the curving contour of the tub chair, relaxed and completely at ease with himself.

That's the pose
, she felt herself think, feeling the familiar leap of conviction when the physical world arranged itself to perfection, ready for her to capture it to canvas.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her brain still processing what her eyes were conveying to her. There was a rushing feeling going through her, a breathlessness. She was used to getting the buzz of pre-creation, but this was different. Far more intense…

Different
.

She knew it was different—so different. She also knew she had never reacted in this way before in her life, but she pushed the knowledge to one side. She would deal with it later. Wonder about it later. Analyse it later. Right now… Right now all she wanted to do, all she
could
do, was simply let her eyes work over that extraordinary face, the incredible arrangement of features that just made her want to gaze and gaze and gaze at them.

Then, as if from far away, consciousness forced its way through. Awareness of what she was doing. Staring wordlessly at the man sitting opposite her. Who was
letting
her gaze at him.

And even as the consciousness came through she felt, as if in slow motion, a wave of reaction. More than consciousness—self-consciousness. Her jaw tightened, and she stiffened, deliberately blinking to cut off her riveted perusal of him, regain some normality again. But it was hard. All she wanted to do, she knew, was to go right back to gazing at him, working her way over and over his features.

What colour are his eyes?

The question seared across her brain, and she realised she couldn't answer. It sent a thread of panic through her that she didn't know his eye colour yet. Her gaze pulled to get back to his face, to resume its study. She yanked it back.
No!
This was ridiculous, absurd. Embarrassing. She
wasn't going to gaze at him gormlessly like a teenager! Or scrutinise him as if he were already sitting for her.

She straightened her spine, as if putting backbone into herself. Forced a polite smile to her mouth that was the right mix of social and business.

‘I understand you are considering having your portrait painted?' she said. Her voice sounded, to her relief, crisp and businesslike.

For just a moment Guy de Rochemont did not answer her—almost as if he had not heard her speak. He continued to hold his pose, quite motionless, as if he were still under her scrutiny. He didn't seem to think it odd, she registered dimly, and then wondered just how long—or how—briefly—she'd been gazing at him. Perhaps it hadn't taken more than few seconds—she didn't know, couldn't tell.

Then, with the slightest indentation of his mouth, matching the socially polite smile Alexa had just given, he spoke.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I've been persuaded to that ultimate vanity. The portrait will be a gift to my mother. She seems to consider it something she would like.' His voice was dry, and had a trace not just of an accent somewhere in his near perfect pronounciation, but of wry humour too. It also possessed a quality that, to Alexa's dismay, did very strange things to her. Things she busily pushed to one side. She gave a nod, and another polite smile.

‘One thing, Mr de Rochemont, that I always warn clients about—should you wish to commission me, of course—is the amount of time that must be set aside for portraiture,' she began. ‘Whilst I appreciate that calls on your time will be extensive, nevertheless—'

He held up a hand. It was, she saw, long, narrow, and
with manicured nails that gave the lie to a manicure being an effeminate practice.

‘What would you like to drink, Ms Harcourt?'

Alexa stopped in mid-sentence, as if the question had taken her aback. ‘Oh, nothing, thank you,' she said. ‘I really don't have time for a drink, I'm afraid.'

Guy de Rochemont raised an eyebrow. Alexa felt her eyes go straight there. Felt the same rush of intensity that she had felt when she had first seen him. The simple movement on his part had changed the angles on his face, changed his expression, given him a look that was both questioning and amused.

‘Dommage,'
she heard him murmur. His eyes rested on her a moment.

They're green,
she found herself thinking.
Green like deep water in a forest. Deep pools to drown in…

She was doing it again. Letting herself be sucked into just gazing and gazing at him. She pulled back out again—out of the drowning emerald pool—with another straightening of her spine.

‘Completion of the portrait will depend entirely on the number of sittings and the intervals between them. I understand it may well be irksome for you, but—'

Yet again, Guy de Rochement effortlessly interrupted her determined reversion to the practicalities of immortalising him for his mother on canvas.

‘So, tell me, Ms Harcourt, why should I select
you
for this task, in your opinion?'

The quizzical, questioning look was in his eye again. And something more. Something that Alexa found she didn't like. Up till now he had been the subject, she the observer—the riveted observer, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Now, suddenly, the tables were turned.

It was as if a veil had lifted from his eyes.

Emerald jewels…

Guy de Rochemont was looking at her. Straight at her. Unveiled and with full power.

It was heady, intoxicating—made her breathless! The words tumbled through the remains of her conscious mind, even as she felt the air catch in her throat.

Oh, good grief, he really is
…

Attempts at analysis, classification, evaporated. They couldn't do anything else, because all she was capable of doing was sitting there, letting Guy de Rochemont look at her.

Assess her.

Because that was what he was doing. It came to her fuzzily, through the daze in her brain from the impact of those incredible green eyes resting on her. He was assessing her.

Rejection tightened through her. It was one thing for her to study
his
appearance—she was supposed to capture it on canvas! But it was quite another thing for him to subject her to the same scrutiny. And she knew just why he was doing it. For the same reason any man would do so. And when the man in question was someone like Guy de Rochemont, with a banking empire in his wallet and the looks of a film star, well—yes, he would think, wouldn't he, that he was entitled to evaluate her to that end?

Her mouth pressed together, and a spark showed in her eye. She suppressed it. She would not show she was reacting to him…to his uninvited scrutiny, she amended mentally. Because of course she was
not
reacting to him—not in any way other than to acknowledge, quite objectively, that his looks were exceptional, and that she needed to study them in order to paint them. That was all.
All.

Yet again she recovered her composure, stifling her reaction to him, to those extraordinary eyes.

‘That isn't a question for me to answer, Monsieur de Rochemont,' she responded. ‘The selection of portraitist is entirely your own affair. If you wish to commission me, that is your privilege, and I will see whether my schedule is congruent with yours.'

She met his regard straight on. Her voice had been admirably crisp, which she was pleased about. All right, Guy de Rochemont was… Well, she wasn't about to run through the adjectives again—the evidence was right in front of her eyes! But that didn't mean she had to put up with being on the receiving end of his attention. Not that she had any reason to be concerned, anyway. There was only one outcome from his assessment. He would be seeing a plainly dressed, unadorned woman who was making not the slightest attempt to enhance her looks to please the male gender, and signalling thereby on all frequencies that she was not on any man's menu. Even that of a man who could quite clearly take his pick of the world's most beautiful women.

She wondered whether he would take offence at the way she'd responded to his question. Tough. She didn't need the commission, and if—and it was, she knew, a very big if—she took it and if—and that was probably an even bigger if, because a man like him wouldn't care to be answered off-handedly—he commissioned her anyway, she was most definitely
not
going to pander to the man. Yes, he would doubtless cancel sittings—because all her clients did to some extent or another—and that was understandable given the demands on his time because of his high-powered business life, and it was something she could cope with. But there was no way he was going to get the slightest pandering to, or her begging for the commission, or anything like that, thank you very much! She offered a service, a degree
of skill and artistry. If a client wanted to buy it, that was that. If not—well, that was that too.

She met his gaze dispassionately as she finished speaking. For a moment he did not answer. She did not break her gaze, merely held his, looking untroubled and composed. The brilliance of his eyes seemed veiled somehow, as if he were masking something from her.

His reaction,
she thought.
I can't tell whether he's annoyed, or indifferent, or what. I can't see into him.

Again, it wasn't something that was unusual for her, given the calibre of her clients. Powerful men were not transparent to the world, and indeed that air of elusiveness, of restrained power, was something that usually went into her portraits—she knew, with a slight waspishness, that it was a form of flattery by her, to portray them as inscrutable.

But with Guy de Rochement the masking was, she felt, more pronounced. Perhaps it was because his was such a remarkably handsome face, so incredibly, overtly attractive to women. Women—any women—would expect to see some sort of reaction to them in his eyes, even if it were only polite indifference. But with Guy de Rochement nothing at all came through of what he was thinking.

She felt a tug of fascination go through her—the eternal fascination of an enigmatic man—and then, on its heels, a different emotion, a more chilling one.

He keeps apart. He holds back. He shows only what he wants to show, what is appropriate for the moment.

Then, abruptly, he was speaking again, and her attention went to what he was saying. What his face was suddenly showing.

She could see quite plainly what it was.

It was amusement.

Not open, not pronounced, but there all the same—in
the narrowing of his eyes, in the indentation of his sculpted lips. And more than amusement there was something else, just discernible to her. Slight but distinct surprise.

Alexa knew why.
He's not used to being answered like that—and not by a woman.

She felt a sliver of satisfaction go through her. Then was annoyed with herself for feeling it. Oh, for heaven's sake, what did she care whether this man was or was not used to having someone answer him like that?

‘You do not believe in pitching, do you, Ms Harcourt?' The subtly accented voice was dry.

Alexa gave the slightest shrug. ‘To what purpose? Either you like my work and wish to engage me, or you do not. It's a very simple matter.'

‘Indeed.' The voice was a dry murmur again. One narrow, long-fingered hand reached out to close around the stem of a martini glass and raise it contemplatively to his mouth, before lowering it to the table again. His regard was still impassively on her. Then, as if reaching a decision, he got to his feet.

Alexa did likewise.
OK
, she thought,
that's it. No deal. Well, so what? Imogen will be cross with me, but actually I'm glad he's decided against me
.

She wondered why she felt so certain of that, but knew she did. She'd work out later just what that reason was. Then it came to her.

Because it's simpler. Easier. More straightforward.

Yet even so she felt her mind sheering away. And necessarily so. Now was not the time to analyse why a feeling of relief was going through her
not
to be painting Guy de Rochement's portrait—or why the feeling running just beneath the surface of that relief was something quite, quite different.

Regret…

No! Don't be absurd,
she admonished herself sternly.
It's just a commission, that's all. You've done dozens, and you'll do dozens more. Just because unlike all the others this one is young and ludicrously handsome, it means nothing at all. Nothing.