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He relaxed slightly, an amused smile slightly curving those sculptured lips. ‘I see now why I found you so intriguing that night,’ he murmured softly.
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Not here. Not now.
She had spent the first week after his departure back to New York in a frenzy of self-recrimination, with a deep-felt need for Nick to call her to nullify all those negative thoughts.
She was in love with him, totally physically enthralled with him—and this was the twenty-first century, for goodness’ sake, not the Dark Ages, where a woman’s wants and needs weren’t considered as important as a man’s, she had chided herself.
She had done nothing wrong by spending the night with a man she found so attractive and who had wanted her too!
But as the days and weeks had passed those assurances hadn’t meant a whole lot.
And now standing here looking at Nick, they meant absolutely nothing.
She grimaced. ‘I think it might be better if we both just forgot about that, don’t you?’
It was a statement rather than a question, and Nick found himself deeply irritated by her easy dismissal.
Okay, so he hadn’t been able to wait to get her out of his apartment that morning six weeks ago, and he hadn’t called her as he said he would, but it was a bit of knock to his ego to realise that she was willing to dismiss the memories of him as easily as he had tried to dismiss her.
Or was she…?
He took a step towards her, lids lowered as he looked down at her with dark blue eyes, trailing one caressing finger down the smooth curve of her cheek. ‘Am I so easy to forget, Hebe?’ he murmured seductively, knowing that this was probably another mistake, but finding her coolness infuriating as hell. ‘Was our lovemaking easy to forget too? Or has it kept you awake nights, thinking of all the ways we touched and aroused each other?’
She gave him a startled look even as the colour entered her cheeks, her lips parting slightly as her body swayed towards his.
‘I thought so…’ He murmured his satisfaction with her response, his wandering fingers parting her lips slightly, caressing that softness, before trailing the length of her throat down to the deep vee of her blouse and the creamy swell of her breasts. All the time his challenging gaze continued to hold hers.
How could this be happening? Hebe inwardly protested, even as she felt herself responding to his touch. The arousal of her breasts was instant, the nipples hard and sensitive, as she reached out instinctively to cling tightly to the broad width of his shoulders, her legs seeming in danger of melting beneath her.
But as suddenly as he had touched her she found herself thrust away from him, and Nick was stepping back, that devilishly handsome face now set in scathing dismissal.
‘You really are a sexy little thing, aren’t you?’ he mused as he leant back against his desk, his blue gaze considering now, as he looked at the firm thrust of her breasts against her cream blouse.
‘Mr Cavendish—’
‘Oh, come on, Hebe,’ he drawled tauntingly, shaking his head slightly, those blue eyes alight with mocking laughter. ‘You can hardly go back to calling me that after sharing your body with me,’ he reminded her, with a challenging rise of that square, uncompromising chin.
Hebe felt the colour warm her cheeks at his deliberate taunting. Why was he doing this to her? What perverse pleasure did he get out of humiliating her in this way?
She straightened defensively, glaring at him. ‘At the same time as you shared your body with me!’ she came back, with all the fury of her humiliation, uncaring now if this was just his way of trying to get her to resign from her job at the gallery.
Fine. Let him sack her. She was quickly reaching the point where she didn’t care.
His smile was derisive. ‘I’m flattered that amongst all your other lovers you’ve even remembered me.’
All her other—! What was he talking about? She had had one relationship before him, and that had been five years ago; ancient history rather than recent.
‘Let’s stop playing this game, shall we?’ Nick said impatiently as he stood up.
‘Gladly!’ she agreed tautly. ‘Can I go back to work now?’ If she didn’t get out of here soon she was very much afraid the humiliating tears that blurred her vision would escape and begin to fall hotly down her cheeks!
‘No, you damn well—’ Nick broke off abruptly, drawing in controlling breaths as he realised she had to be deliberately baiting him.
Because he knew of her relationship with Andrew Southern?
Probably, he accepted scathingly. Okay, so as an artist the man was a legend in his own lifetime, but he was still a man aged in his fifties, and Hebe was only in her mid-twenties. And Nick had wondered if he was too old for her!
‘Okay, Hebe,’ he began reasoningly. ‘I accept that your affair with Andrew Southern is none of my business—’
‘My what?’ she gasped incredulously, gold eyes wide with disbelief.
‘It’s past history, I realise that—’
‘Past—!’ Hebe gave a dazed shake of her head. ‘But I told you. I don’t even know Andrew Southern!’ she protested indignantly.
‘Evidence proves the contrary—’
‘Evidence?’ she repeated disgustedly. ‘Look, Nick, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She shook her head, that amazing silver-blonde hair moving silkily against her creamy cheeks. ‘Maybe you have jet-lag, and it’s affecting your judgement. I don’t know, but—’
‘I came back from New York last week, Hebe,’ he told her softly, his gaze narrowing as she looked at him sharply. ‘I’d received information that there was a possibility of a hitherto unseen Andrew Southern coming up for sale in the north of England.’ His mouth twisted. ‘As you can imagine, I had no intention of letting anyone but Cavendish Galleries own that painting.’
‘For Cavendish Galleries read Nick Cavendish!’ she came back scathingly.
‘Exactly.’He smiled in acknowledgement of her derision. ‘Imagine my surprise when I saw the subject of the painting!’
Hebe gave a dazed shake of her head. She had no idea what this conversation was about, or where it could possibly be going. But Nick, it seemed, had been back in England a week already. A week during which he had neither telephoned her nor tried to see her again.
Until today. When he had done nothing but humiliate and embarrass her.
But he had taken her in his arms too…
To prove a point. Nothing else. And he had proved it too, hadn’t he? She responded to him even when she didn’t want to.
Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she didn’t hate him rather than love him!
‘The subject of the painting…?’she prompted frowningly.
‘Yes.’ Nick was looking at her with narrowed eyes now. ‘A portrait. A woman. A very beautiful woman, in fact.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders as if that point was indisputable.
‘It’s one of his earlier paintings then—?’
‘No,’ Nick cut in with certainty. ‘I can categorically say this work is recent. The last five years or so, I would say,’ he added consideringly.
‘But I thought he didn’t paint portraits any more—’
‘Obviously this woman inspired him to do so,’ Nick cut in dryly.
Hebe didn’t like the way he was looking at her now, as if critically dissecting every part of her body.
A body he had come to know intimately six weeks ago…
Except he hadn’t seemed to find anything to critisise about it then, had he?
She shrugged. ‘As far as I’m aware, Andrew Southern hasn’t painted a portrait for over twenty years.’
‘Are you doubting my expertise, Hebe?’ Nick snapped tautly.
No, she wasn’t doing that. Not in any way! She knew only too well what an masterful lover he was. And he hadn’t built up the prestigious worldwide reputation of the Cavendish Galleries by not being extremely knowledgable about art. He knew his subject equally as well as he knew how to be a lover!
Nick was growing tired of Hebe’s prevarication. He strode forcefully across his office to flick the covering from the painting displayed there, his piercing gaze never leaving Hebe’s face as he did so. He wanted to see her reaction to the portrait.
Her eyes widened as she stared blankly at the portrait, her body tensing rigidly.
Not surprising, really, Nick thought with hard amusement.
The painting was of her. Sitting sideways on a chair, wearing a clinging dress of midnight-blue, her hair a glorious curtain of silver down the long length of her spine.
And that was where the formality of the portrait began and ended!
Because her expression could only be called sultry, with a knowing smile curving those pouting, kissable lips, and her eyes, those wonderful golden eyes, half closed as if in arousal. Her breasts were thrust slightly forward beneath the blue dress, the material clinging so closely to those long silken limbs that it was impossible to believe she wore anything beneath it.
That Hebe wore anything beneath it.
Because the woman was most certainly her.
Nick had kissed those same lips six weeks ago. Seen that arousal in her eyes. Caressed the proud tilt of those breasts. Suckled on those rosy nipples. And those long silken limbs had been wrapped around him more than once that night too.
‘Who is she…?’
Nick turned sharply back to look at Hebe as she spoke in a whisper, his frown deepening as he saw how pale she was, her eyes like golden orbs in that pallor.
But they both knew her question was totally unnecessary. ‘Oh, come on, Hebe.’ He sighed his impatience as he moved to stand beside her. ‘It’s you, damn it!’ He would have reached out and shaken her, except that she looked as if she might disintegrate at the slightest touch.
No doubt she had never thought this portrait—a portrait painted by a man who had obviously put the love he felt for its subject into every brushstroke—would ever be seen by the general public. That was the reason for her obvious shock. In fact, it was pure luck that it hadn’t gone into a local auction with a lot of other things from a house cleared out by relatives after the death of its owner, consequently disappearing back into the realms of obscurity.
Luckily enough, the autioneer had been experienced enough to know the Andrew Southern signature—a swan with the single letter S beside it—and had called a friend of his in London to see if any of the big dealers were interested in coming to look at it. Nick most certainly had been, getting the man’s promise that he would let no one else view it until he had flown in from New York to see it.
One look at the painting, at the almost luminous style that marked it as Southern’s work and not some pale imitation, and Nick had known he had to have the painting. At any price.
It had taken some time and considerable skill to negotiate that price with the new owner and the auctioneer before bringing his prize back to London this morning, and his first priority had been to talk to Hebe Johnson.
Undoubtedly the woman in the portrait.
And, at the time of the painting, Andrew Southern’s lover.
Something she seemed to be denying most strongly!
Hebe moved forward as if in a dream, her hand moving up to touch the painting, her fingers stopping only centimetres away from the canvas, trembling slightly. Her breathing was shallow.
‘Who is she?’ she repeated emotionally.
Nick stepped forward. ‘For God’s sake, Hebe, it’s you—’
‘It isn’t me!’ She turned to look at him, able to feel the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat. ‘Look at it again, Nick,’ she told him shakily, pleadingly, turning to look at the painting, a gut-wrenching pain in her chest as she did so.
‘Of course it’s you—’
‘No,’ she cut in quietly again. ‘She has a birthmark, Nick. Look. There.’ She pointed to the rose-shaped birthmark on the swell of one creamy breast, visible above the low neckline of the deep blue dress. ‘And look here.’ She pulled aside the open neck of her cream blouse, revealing her own creamy breast.
Completely bare of that rose-shaped birthmark…
Whoever the woman in the portrait was it most certainly wasn’t Hebe.
She knew it wasn’t.
But if it wasn’t her, who—?
No, it couldn’t be!
Could it…?
And that was when everything went dark…
CHAPTER THREE (#u973dc111-b9aa-500a-ad24-486d2487f7b9)
NICK inwardly cursed as he leapt forward to catch Hebe before she hit the carpeted floor, swinging her up in his arms to carry her over to the leather sofa at the back of the room.
He had been expecting some sort of reaction to the portrait, but it certainly hadn’t been this!
Embarassment, perhaps—because it was obvious that Andrew Southern had been Hebe’s lover. And surprise that Nick actually had possession of the portrait had also been a possibility.
But he certainly hadn’t expected Hebe to faint as she denied she was the woman in the portrait!
That birthmark apart—a pretty rose-shaped mark—there was no one else it could be but her.
He laid her down on the sofa, and Hebe started to groan slightly as she came back to consciousness, finally opening her eyes to look up at him as he bent over him.
And instantly closing them again, as if even the sight of him was too much for her.
‘Hey, come on, Hebe. I realise I’m no oil painting, but I’m not that bad either!’ he mocked as he moved back slightly.
The painting, Hebe remembered with a pained wince, trying to collect herself. But to come to terms with the enormity of what she had seen, and what she was thinking, was going to take longer than the few seconds she’d had so far.
She swallowed hard, not sure how she felt about any of this. If that portrait really was who she thought it was, then—
‘Here.’
She opened her eyes to find Nick holding out a glass of water.
