‘As a matter of fact, I can do a lot better than “smarty-pants”.’ She was leaning in again, the gaping bag seemingly forgotten. ‘I happen to have a thesaurus for a brain.’

‘So come on, I’m game. Lay some words on me,’ he invited. ‘I can take it.’

Her mouth started to open. He waited, intrigued …

But nope. She leaned back out and gave her head a firm shake. ‘The crying thing. I really don’t cry. Generally, I mean. But in this instance, there are extenuating circumstances.’

‘Which are?’

‘Not interesting.’

‘But they must be interesting if you don’t generally cry and yet you were crying.’ He looked at the phone in her hand. ‘Even more interesting is why you threw the phone.’

Eyebrow up. ‘This is a new Samsung Galaxy! I didn’t throw it.’

‘Does that mean an old Samsung Galaxy would have been fair game?’

‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. No!’

‘I see, multiple choice. So … what? Am I supposed to pick one?’

Another tiny choke. ‘If you must know—’

‘Yes, I do believe I must.’

‘—I was trying to sneak out without you knowing I was in here. Throwing a phone across a concrete floor kind of defeats that purpose.’

‘But if it were an old phone and I wasn’t here, you might have thrown it?’ he mused. ‘Interesting.’

‘Not interesting. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And I didn’t throw it, because I just don’t care enough to do that. I don’t care, I don’t—’

Another choke, but different this time. Not laughter. Tears. Sudden, gleaming tears. Well, tears didn’t scare him and wouldn’t deter him. He calmly slid a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, extracted his handkerchief and held it out with exemplary sangfroid.

‘Why are you even carrying a handkerchief?’ she asked, blinking ferociously as she took it. ‘I mean, a real one—not one of those pretty pocket squares.’ She nodded at the red and grey scrap of silk peeking out of his left breast pocket.

‘I always carry a real handkerchief because you never know when you’re going to need a good cry,’ David said, straight-faced. ‘A pocket square is the equivalent of a new Samsung Galaxy in such situations. No snot allowed.’

And there was the choked-off laugh again, the tears gone like magic. ‘From the look of you, I’d say you haven’t got snot on anything since you popped out of the womb.’

‘Well, not often,’ he conceded, and watched her as she took a deep breath, resetting her equilibrium, and—damn!—looking towards the exit again before he could manoeuvre himself back into blocking position. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, Sarah?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ she countered.

‘It’s what my ex-wife calls my White Knight Syndrome.’

‘That’s not a real condition!’

‘Sure it is. My ex-wife is a psychologist—she knows these things.’

‘What is it exactly?’

‘An inability to see a damsel in distress without wanting to throw her across the saddle of my trusty steed and gallop her out of trouble. Metaphorically speaking, since I don’t have a steed currently at my disposal.’ He gave her a small smile—enough for the dimples to twitch, because time was a-marching and he figured he’d better intensify his assault. ‘What can I say? I’m a nice guy.’

‘What’s that old adage about nice guys finishing last?’

‘Oh we do, we do,’ David agreed fervently.

She slanted a narrow-eyed look at him. ‘You see, I have a feeling you don’t finish last. Ever. I’d go so far as to say you finish first. Always. And people who finish first all the time are generally not very nice. They’re generally cold, ruthless, uncompromising—’

‘Argh, not the thesaurus!’ he interrupted, throwing up surrender hands. ‘Stop, stop, I beg you!’

And yes! There it was. He’d made her laugh without choking it off. And the relaxed sparkle of it confirmed that laughter was indeed her default setting. It was strangely appealing.

‘I can see you’re going to need a character reference,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Let me get Margaret on the phone.’

‘Margaret?’

‘My ex-wife.’ He reached into his pants pocket. ‘Do you want to call her or shall I?’

‘Hey, no!’ Sarah cried, and then she sucked in a breath that was half-outrage, half-laugh. ‘Oh, you … you villain! I believed you!’

‘Smarty-pants. Villain. What next, thesaurus girl? Meanie-beanie?’

‘How about knave?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Dastard.’

‘Better.’

‘Rapscallion.’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘You weren’t really going to call her.’

‘No, but I promise Margaret really does think I’m nice. So come on, cheer me up: take advantage of me.’

She blinked at him. ‘Take what?’

‘Take advantage of me. Of my niceness. Indulge my White Knight Syndrome.’ He gave her his most innocent look. ‘Why, what did you think I meant? Do you want to take advantage of me in some other way?’ He flexed his dimple-power again. ‘I’m game if you have designs on my virtue.’

‘You’re being deliberately disingenuous.’

‘Disingenuous!’ he said admiringly. ‘Can you give me a really hard word, and use it in a sentence? Like, really, really hard?’

Another of those chokes, but she straightened her shoulders and picked up the gauntlet. ‘“Absquatulate”. Sarah Quinn had been trying to “absquatulate” from the storage room for quite some time!’

‘I’m such a sucker for a girl with words. Sorry, but you can consider your fate sealed. You’re not absquatulating from the storage room, Sarah Quinn—not without giving me my White Knight fix. I’m saving you whether you want me to or not.’

‘You’ve ably discharged your White Knight duty by offering me your handkerchief.’ She smiled, proffering his handkerchief on one upturned palm. ‘Which I hereby return to thee with gratitude, Sir David, unused and snot-free.’

Damn! He was losing her. ‘Yeah, you might want to use it before you face the crowd,’ he said, thinking fast.

She started to wave that suggestion away—but he twisted his face into a theatrical wince, and that stopped her.

‘Oh, how could I forget?’ She dropped the phone into her open evening bag and pulled out a compact. ‘It’s why I was trying to sneak out in the first place. Instead, here I am, standing around, talking to you. All I can say is thank God you’re not him.’

‘Er … not who?’

‘Him. The man of my dr— Oh, never mind!’ She started to open the compact. ‘It’s bad enough that even you should see me looking like— Oh. My. God!’ She stared in horror into the little round mirror for one frozen moment. And then she started manically dabbing at her cheeks with his handkerchief. ‘I need to invest in some waterproof mascara.’

‘Even though you don’t generally cry?’

‘Oh, you!’

‘Here,’ he said, taking the compact off her. ‘I’ll hold it while you do the repair work.’

‘I can manage.’

‘Hey, I’m a nice guy, remember?’

‘Sorry but I’m not sold on the whole “nice guy” thing,’ she said, but she let him hold the compact while she recommenced dabbing at the black-streaked tear tracks on her cheeks. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, but shouldn’t you be out there mingling with the bank’s clients?’

‘I’ve done my quota of mingling.’

‘Then shouldn’t you be out there looking at the paintings?’

‘I looked at the paintings out there. Now I’m looking at the paintings in here.’

‘And you got a bonus—Edvard Munch’s The Scream come to life.’

‘Except you didn’t scream.’

‘I was speaking figuratively. I generally don’t scream.’

‘Generally don’t scream. Generally don’t cry. Don’t throw phones—new ones, anyway. And you know big words. I might be falling in like with you.’

‘I have more than enough people in like with me already, thank you.’ She dipped into her bag again and pulled out a lipstick. She smeared on a layer of what looked like glossy rust, then rubbed her lips together. ‘It’s the other part I’m missing.’

‘Other part?’

‘Never mind.’ She turned her head to one side, then the other, assessing her face in the mirror. ‘I’m going to have to put on more mascara.’

‘You look fine without it.’

‘I’m blonde, in case you haven’t noticed. Which means my eyelashes are almost invisible.’ She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. ‘Mind you, you’re blond, too. How did you manage to score such dark eyelashes? Are they tinted?’

‘No they bloody well are not.’

‘Hey, there’s no shame in an eyelash tint.’ She examined his face. ‘Or a facial.’

‘My eyelashes are the result of genetics. And so is my skin, so do not mention the word “facial” to me again if you value your life.’

‘Oooh, touchy,’ she said, and her eyes were doing what he’d never thought possible and dancing. ‘Seriously, though, do you know how much it hurts when a guy gets that combination? Blond, with dark eyelashes?’

‘Yes. Margaret, who is also blonde, used to tell me all the time. Which is how I know I’m not going to win the mascara fight. So go right ahead and slap it on.’

Sarah dug in her bag again and pulled out a tube of mascara. David was starting to think that tiny bag of hers had mystical qualities, given how many objects went in and came out of it. She brushed on the mascara with the speed and accuracy of an expert cosmetician. ‘There,’ she said, putting the tube in her bag along with his handkerchief. She batted her eyelashes at David as she retrieved the compact he’d been holding for her, popped it in with everything else and snapped the bag closed.

‘Hang on, there’s a clump at the corner,’ he said, and reached out to pinch one of her outer eyelashes between his thumb and forefinger. Did she jump a little? He wasn’t sure, but he thought—hoped?—she had. He stood back to examine her. ‘Better.’

‘Your ex-wife teach you that?’

‘Let’s just say I know my way around a tube of mascara.’

‘Oh you do, do you?’

‘Not from personal use, brat!’

‘If you say so,’ she sing-songed, and tried to move past him.

‘Hey—what about my handkerchief?’

She stopped. ‘You want it back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though it’s not a Galaxy-esque pocket square?’

‘Even so.’

‘Fine. I’ll wash it and … and … Oh.’ Her eyes widened. Surprise? Fear? No—guilt! ‘I’ll wash it and give it to Lane for you.’

Ah. Lane. The fly in his ointment. ‘I’d prefer you to wash it and bring it back to me yourself.’

Sarah eyed him warily. ‘Why?’

Out of options. ‘Because I want you to pose for me.’

And at last he had her full attention. Which had him questioning why he hadn’t led with that straight off the bat. But he knew why: the possibility of being turned down flat. Her initial animosity had been almost palpable, whereas now, he had something to work with. He’d work with anything she gave him to get her to agree.

‘Can you repeat that?’ she asked.

‘I want you to pose for me.’

‘What does that mean? “Pose”?’

‘Pose as in for a painting. As in I’m entering the Langman Portrait Prize and I want you to be my model.’

‘But you’re a banker.’

‘Who also paints.’

A moment of staring, and then she sucked in a breath and … and bristled? Yes, bristled. ‘Oh, I see!’

‘Oh, you see what?’

‘You want to paint me naked, don’t you?’

‘Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of—’

‘Lane mentioned your interest in paintings when she introduced us, remember?’

What the hell? ‘Lane doesn’t know I paint.’

‘Or should I say your “etchings”? I’ve heard nudes are your favourite kind.’

David could actually feel a blush start to heat his face. And he never blushed. Talk about old pick-up lines coming back to haunt a guy! ‘That’s different.’

‘Are you telling me you don’t want to get Lane naked?’

‘Yes, I’m telling you that.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Let me put it in context,’ he said. ‘I did want to get Lane naked, but now I don’t. It’s what you might call a past-tense situation.’

‘That sounds like an obfuscation to me. Only an hour ago, I saw you look at Lane in that … that way. And an hour isn’t exactly past tense!’

‘I may well have looked at her in that “way” an hour ago. But fifty-nine minutes ago, she introduced me to your brother Adam, and it became very clear to me that nobody except him was going to be seeing her naked from now on.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said darkly—and she was looking at him like he was the enemy again. Ah well, one step forward, two steps back.

‘If you want to talk about people looking at each other in a certain “way”, let’s talk about the way your brother looked at me,’ he said. ‘Like he was visualizing tearing me limb from limb with his teeth.’ He gave an extravagant shudder. ‘I have the strongest objection to being gnawed on by jealous men.’

She looked at him for the longest time, and then said, ‘What if I told you Lane likes you better?’

‘I’d say you’re wrong.’

‘What if I’m right?’

‘You’re not.’

‘They—Adam and Lane—have a very specific relationship.’

‘Which has nothing to do with me.’

‘It might have something to do with you.’

‘It doesn’t.’

She made a huffing sound. ‘Look, can you give me something to work with here?’

Something to work with? One step forward. ‘All right. I’ll say to you that whatever the case, however Lane feels about Adam, or about me, I’m no longer interested in her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that would complicate things between you and me.’

She pursed her lips, looking uncertain. ‘You mean …? What do you mean? That painting me is better than having sex with Lane?’

‘I haven’t done either yet, so that’s impossible to answer.’

‘Aha! You said “yet”! That’s a prevarication.’

‘Obfuscation. Prevarication. You’re a tough nut to crack, thesaurus girl. I’ll tell you what. If you’re going to be obsessed with my sex life, there’s an easy solution: have sex with me yourself.’

She gaped at him. ‘You— I— That—’

‘That way, I won’t have the energy to think about Lane, and Lane can concentrate on Adam, and all four of us will be happy.’

‘How do you know I’ll be happy?’

He gave her his best sultry smile. ‘Because I know.’ Pause, while he let that sink in. ‘So, how about it? Will sex with me get you over the line?’

She was laughing, but it was more like a splutter of disbelief. ‘Thanks, but I can have sex any day of the week.’

‘Enough people in like with you, enough people to have sex with. Geez. What’s the missing ingredient?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Tell me the missing ingredient and I’ll get it for you. I’ll get you anything, if you’ll agree to let me paint you. Whatever you want.’

‘Whatever I want,’ she repeated slowly. Her tongue came out to touch the perfect cupid’s bow of her top lip. One, two, three seconds. And then she popped her tongue back in and took a breath. ‘Whatever I want?’ A question this time.

‘Whatever you want.’

‘It’s a very simple thing, really.’

‘Name it, and it’s yours.’

‘I want you to break my curse.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I see,’ David said—so calmly, Sarah wondered what it would take to freak him out. A zombie apocalypse?

‘You said you’d do whatever I wanted, and that’s what I want.’

‘The thing is, my experience of curse breaking is a trifle limited. What are we talking about? Stealing nail clippings? Burning hair? Sticking pins in effigies? Dancing around cauldrons? Eye of newt and toe of frog? That kind of thing?’

She laughed—couldn’t help it. ‘Not quite that.’

‘You relieve my mind.’

‘More White Knight Syndrome, less black magic.’

‘So, I’m saving you.’

‘Yes.’

‘From what?’

‘Spinsterhood.’

‘You want to get married?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘In that case, there’s a problem,’ he said, all apologetic. ‘I’m not the marrying kind. It’s a been-there-done-that kind of thing for me.’

Sarah stared at him for a moment, not comprehending. And then: ‘Oh, I don’t want to marry you. No, no, no, no!’

‘No?’

‘No! Aside from anything else, I couldn’t do that to Lane.’

‘I’m very slow this evening, it seems. So let’s leave Lane out of where she doesn’t belong, and perhaps you could simply give me the specifics of what you want me to do.’

‘Okay, specifically, I want you to analyse why I keep getting dumped, and teach me how to stop getting dumped.’

‘Getting dumped is the curse I have to break?’

‘Yes. Tonight was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’

‘You got dumped tonight?’

‘It’s why I was crying. Although I wasn’t crying over him, you understand.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It’s just that the time frame from the start of a relationship to the finish is shrinking. It used to happen at the three-week mark, and that was bad enough! Really, really bad enough. But then three weeks became two, and two weeks became one, and now this last one? Six days. Six discouraging, disappointing, depressing days! How much abbreviation can a girl take? Soon I’ll be the one-night stand girl, and I will die if that happens!’

‘I can see how dying after a one-night stand would make marriage difficult, but I’m not sure a divorced man is the advocate you need.’

‘I regard the fact you’ve been married as valuable augmentary experience. It gives you an extra insight.’

‘Oh, I’ve got insight into marriage all right.’

‘And into women. I mean, you know a lot about women, don’t you?’

‘There’s no way I can answer that without sounding like an egomaniac.’

She giggled. ‘You do know using the word “egomaniac” unprompted in association with yourself on that subject basically gives the game away, don’t you?’

‘Damn, you got me. Yes, I’m an egomaniac, a boaster, a narcissist.’ He gave a what-can-I-say? shrug. ‘And I do, in fact, know women.’

‘I’ll bet you know men, too.’

‘Not in the biblical sense, I assure you.’

‘Stop making me laugh! I mean you know what men like when it comes to women.’

‘Thank God! I thought you were going to start talking about facials and eyelash tints again.’

‘Not all gay guys do that stuff, you know, and not all straight guys don’t. Talk about stereotyping! But if I promise not to ever mention your eyelashes again, will you help me?’

‘Will you let me paint you?’

‘I’ll even pose naked—that’s how desperate I am.’

‘Naked will not be required.’

‘Okay, not naked. To tell you the truth, that’s a relief.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice, despite them being the only two people in the room. ‘I’m not what you’d call Rubenesque.’

He leaned in too. ‘That’s okay—I’m not Rubens. Nevertheless, I’d prefer you to keep your clothes on.’

She straightened and thrust out her hand. ‘Then we have a deal?’

He took her hand, but instead of shaking it he turned it palm up, examining it as he rubbed his thumb across the base of her fingers. ‘The only mistake you’re making is choosing the wrong guys. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘There can’t be that many wrong guys in the world,’ she said, and peered at her palm. What was so interesting about it? Nothing that she could see, although something about the movement of his thumb was disturbing. So much so, she found her fingers curling up over his thumb to stop it.

‘I’m starting to think there are a lot of very stupid ones,’ he said softly.

‘I suppose you’ve never been dumped,’ she said.

‘Kelly Greaves when I was fifteen. Janet Clarke when I was … How old was I? Eighteen? Yes, eighteen. And then …’ He trailed off.

‘And then?’

He let go of her hand. ‘Rebel, when I was twenty-five.’

‘Rebel …’ Sarah realized she still had her hand held out, and dropped it, rubbing it surreptitiously against her thigh to try and stop its strange prickling. ‘Unusual name.’

‘Unusual woman.’

‘What about Margaret, who says you’re so “nice”? Because you know “nice” is how they describe you right before they dump you.’

‘Margaret and I weren’t a dumping in either direction. We were a parting of the ways—or in today’s parlance, a conscious uncoupling.’

‘So basically you’ve been dumped three times in your whole life, whereas I’ve been dumped three times in the past two months?’

‘Er …’

‘Really?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, let me tell you something: it’s no fun. I’ve been dumped in person, over the phone, in quiet corners, at large gatherings, at home, from abroad, and now by text.’

‘Text?’

‘Text! Next time it happens, I’ll probably find out via Facebook. And if that happens, I’ll be entering a nunnery and taking a vow of silence.’

‘Yeah, I think the vow of silence might actually kill you.’

‘And how will you live with that on your conscience, knowing you could have helped me to— Wait! What? Are you saying I talk too much?’

‘Weeeell …’

Long, staring moment. ‘Oh my God, you’re right, I do! You know, Adam’s tried to tell me that but he’s my brother so it doesn’t count. The truth is, though, that I even talked to Clarence—’ gesturing to the bronze head on the shelf ‘—when I was in here on my own.’ She beamed at David, delighted. ‘See? You’re already helping me! I believe you when you say I talk too much!’

He started laughing. He was also shaking his head.

‘Please, David, help me.’

He looked down into her face, and the laughter faded. He lifted his hand, touched his index finger to her right eyebrow, tracing it all the way down to the little black dot at the end. Half-laugh, half-sigh. ‘What the hell.’

‘You mean you’ll do it?’

‘I’ll do it. Sign me up.’

Squealing, she launched herself at him.

David stiffened as her arms came around him, but it was only for a fraction of a second—and then his arms were circling her, tightening, bringing her harder against him. She heard, felt, him breathe in once, deeply, then slowly out. She became aware of the scratch of his jacket against her cheek. A waft of scent, dark and unsafe. A flood of warmth transferring from him to her. And then, the other feeling, the hardness of him against her belly.

The shock of it had her arching into him, head tipping back, eyes colliding with his—only where hers, she just knew, were wide and awed, his were narrowed and watchful, as though gauging her reaction to him. The alertness of that look, while she’d been all about the heat and sensation, reminded her that David Bennett was a man who knew women very, very well. She’d have to be on her guard. The plan was to use him, not fall for him.

‘Right, then,’ she said, pulling out of his arms and readjusting the strap of her now slightly squashed evening bag. ‘That’s a perfect example of something that needs to be fixed. The way I flew at you just then. Too impulsive.’

‘Really? Because I kind of liked it.’

‘Yes, I could tell,’ she said dryly.

‘You sure I can’t persuade you to have sex with me instead of all this other stuff?’

‘Tempted as I am, sex isn’t that missing ingredient you promised to get for me. I can use you much more effectively as my … What would you call it? My male girlfriend?’

‘Er … no. Do not use the word “girlfriend” to describe me!’

‘For a man who doesn’t look like he’d have any insecurities about his sexuality, you really are touchy.’

<1 2 3 4...6 >

На страницу:

Перейти

2 из 6