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This appeared to be the room of a man with eclectic tastes, a man who preferred his surroundings to be both simple and elegant.
On the walls several stark and dramatic snow scenes by Jonathan Cass rubbed shoulders with the vibrant colour and slumberous warmth of Tuscan landscapes by Marco Abruzzi.
Frowning a little, she studied them. With such diverse techniques and subject matter, they shouldn’t have been hung together. But somehow the contrast worked, highlighting them both.
It seemed that Zane Lorenson was a man who knew precisely what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to try the less obvious.
Her mother had always said that one could get a good idea of a person’s character from what kind of books they read so, taking a deep breath, Gail moved closer to the bookcases and looked at their contents.
Classics and poetry, travel and adventure, mysteries, biographies, autobiographies, the best popular paperback fiction and Booker Prize winners jostled for space.
She had picked up a copy of a recent Booker Prize winner when, glancing up, she met a pair of brilliant dark eyes.
He was leaning negligently against the door jamb, his tough, good-looking face shrewd, calculating, an arrogant tilt to his dark head.
Wearing a smart light-weight suit, a crisp shirt and tie and handmade shoes, he looked every inch the billionaire businessman. He also looked fit and virile and dangerous.
Though she had braced herself to see him again, the shock hit her like a blow over the heart and in that instant her heartbeat and her breathing, the very blood flowing through her veins, seemed to stop.
She had remembered how he looked—of course she had, his face had haunted her for years—and, apart from an added maturity, he looked much the same now as he had then.
But in the intervening years she had almost forgotten just what a powerful impact his physical presence had on her.
While she stood rooted to the spot, endeavouring to pull herself together, he continued to stand and study her in unnerving silence.
It seemed an age, but could only have been seconds, before she released the breath she was holding and her heart began to beat again in slow, heavy thuds.
How long had he been standing there quietly watching her while she’d nosed amongst his personal belongings?
She felt herself shrivel inwardly. Her one consolation was that the cool green gaze fixed on her face held no sign of recognition. But she had known it wouldn’t.
As soon as she had managed to regain some semblance of composure, she thrust the book she was holding back on to the shelf and said unevenly, ‘I’m sorry; I was just…’
‘Taking a look at what I read? What conclusion did you come to?’
His voice was low-pitched and attractive. It was a voice she had never forgotten. A voice she would have known amongst a million. A voice that could have called her back from the grave.
Shaken afresh, she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘That you have interesting tastes.’
‘Really? Do you?’ he drawled nonchalantly.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘What about the pictures?’ He nodded towards the impressive artwork.
So he had watched her studying those as well. ‘I like them.’
His gaze narrowed. ‘Do you know who painted them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
She raised her chin, trying to give an air of authority and calm. ‘Though these are clearly originals, and I can only afford prints, Jonathan Cass and Marco Abruzzi are two of my favourite artists.’
He raised a dark, level brow. ‘My, my, we do seem to have a lot in common. Wouldn’t you say so?’
Clenching her teeth at the blatant mockery, she said nothing.
‘So I take it you have the same pictures hanging in your living room?’
Aware that he thought she was making the whole thing up to curry favour, she answered briefly, ‘No.’
‘Ah, now you disappoint me. Do you actually have any by either of those artists?’
‘I have two of Cass’s and—’
‘Which two?’
‘Snowfall and Winter Journey.’
‘Any of Abruzzi’s?’
‘Three,’ she replied quickly.
‘And they are?’
‘Olive Groves, Sunset and Fields of Sunflowers,’ she said, listing her three favorites.
‘Do they all hang in the same room?’
‘No…I would never have had the nerve to hang them together.’
‘What do you think of the result?’
She wanted to say she hated it but, unable to frame the lie, she admitted, ‘It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.’
‘I’m pleased you think so,’ he told her sardonically. ‘Well, now we’ve established that when it comes to books and paintings we’re practically soulmates, suppose you sit down and we’ll see how you measure up on the business side.’
But she had had enough. If Zane Lorenson had realized who she was, he couldn’t have been more unkind and derisive.
‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’ve decided I don’t want the position after all, so there’s no point in staying for the interview.’
Appearing totally unruffled, he asked, ‘Why have you changed your mind?’
She had nothing to lose by speaking the truth. Lifting her chin and bravely meeting those green eyes, she told him, ‘I don’t like the way you’re making fun of me. It’s not businesslike and—’
‘You can’t bear to be teased?’
‘I can’t see the necessity for it.’
‘As a matter of fact, how a person reacts to being teased tells me quite a lot about his or her character. Now sit down.’
Though he spoke quietly, his voice cracked like a whip and, against all her inclinations, she found herself obeying a will stronger than her own.
CHAPTER TWO
AS GAIL sank into the nearest armchair, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she felt sure it must be audible, he commented, ‘That’s better.’
Then, with exaggerated politeness, ‘How do you like your coffee, Miss North?’
Her empty stomach was churning and, about to say she didn’t want any coffee, she thought better of it and answered, ‘A little cream, no sugar, thank you.’
‘Exactly how I like mine,’ he observed. Adding provokingly, ‘Now, isn’t that strange?’
Refusing to rise to the bait, she put her bag on the floor and sat in silence while he filled two cups with the dark fragrant liquid and added a dash of cream to each of them.
Passing her a cup, he sat down opposite and looked at her with a gleam in his eye that showed he enjoyed being master of the situation.
Watching her bite her lip, he queried, ‘Do I take it you’re vexed because of a little gentle teasing?’
Without answering, she looked at him stonily.
‘OK.’ He sat back with a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Let’s keep this strictly business—where are you from?’
Still riled, she answered quickly. ‘I was born in the northeast—’
The moment the words were out, she could have bitten her tongue. She shouldn’t have told him that. Rona had always teased her unmercilessly about her Geordie accent and it was the one thing that he might possibly remember.
She risked a quick glance at him and the little flare of satisfaction in those handsome eyes made her heart sink.
Had he guessed her identity?
No, surely not. It must be because he had managed to provoke her into speech.
His expression bland now, he asked, ‘Whereabouts in the north-east?’
‘Tyneside,’ she answered reluctantly, certain he was still mocking her.
When he nodded, clearly absorbing the information, Gail looked up at him and cautiously studied his handsome profile. She had forgotten just how devastatingly attractive his white smile was, and her heart lurched crazily.
Not that she was still attracted to him, she told herself hastily. It was just remembering the past that had affected her so strongly.
While she tried to steady herself, she made a pretence of sipping her coffee.
She was hoping that he had let the subject drop when he asked casually, ‘How long did you live in the north?’
‘We left when I was twelve.’
‘Why?’
She paused, worried about how much information to reveal but replied honestly. ‘My father died when I was ten, and two years later my mother remarried.’
Everything she had told him so far was the exact truth, but if he wanted to delve any further into her family background, rather than admit that her stepfather had been American and they had moved to the States, she would have to resort to lies.
However, to her relief, he changed tack by saying, ‘So fill me in on your personal details—full name, age, where you live, previous work experience…’
‘It’s all in my CV.’
He leaned back and crossed his ankles, perfectly at ease. ‘I dare say it is, Miss North. But I’d prefer to hear it from your own lips…’
It was so in keeping with his attitude that she should have expected it.
‘You can start by telling me your Christian name.’
‘Gail.’
‘Short for Abigail?’
‘Yes.’ She had been praying that he would take the name at face value and not make the connection.
Her parents had always called her Abbey, but after pointing out that in books Abigail was usually a servant’s name, her stepsister Rona had used her full name, apparently in an unkind attempt to belittle her.
It was one of the reasons that, when she and her mother had returned to England, she had started to call herself Gail.
‘A nice old-fashioned name,’ Zane Lorenson commented after a moment. ‘So how do you come to be called Abigail?’
‘It was my maternal grandmother’s name.’
‘Would you believe me if I told you my maternal grandmother was named Abigail?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said shortly.
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, at least you’re honest. But, in this case, mistaken. It happens to be the truth.’
Her mouth went dry as he added, his tone reflective, ‘It’s quite an unusual name these days. You don’t meet many Abigails.’ His gaze held hers as if suggesting there was more meaning to his words.
So he had known who she was all along, and that was why he’d treated her the way he had.
If it had been at all possible she would have made a run for it, but her old fear of him was back in force and she was frozen into immobility, unable to either move or speak.
Quite a few seconds had passed before she appreciated that his lean, tanned face showed no sign of the anger or hostility she would have expected had he known who she was. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. She had to keep calm.
His expression held a kind of studied patience as he waited for an answer to a question she hadn’t even heard.
‘I—I’m sorry,’ she stammered.
‘I asked how old you were.’
