by Anne Mather
‘Kyle?’ Her tremulous voice stopped him in his tracks as he reached the door.
His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’
‘Thank you.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine…really.’ He turned and sprinted down the steps.
Chapter Three
‘GET me some coffee, Megan, would you?’
Not please, or would you mind—just ‘get’. Megan glanced away from her computer screen up at the severelooking blonde, with her navy-blue power suit and incongruous slash of cherry-red lipstick, and pursed her lips with the effort of remaining calm.
Lindsay Harris was an ambitious thirty-something bank executive, as cool and unemotional under fire as any senior member of the SAS, and in five years of being her assistant Megan had never seen so much as a hairline crack in the woman’s impressive armour. She was doggedly singleminded, and her career was everything to her. Anyone who knew her quickly formed the impression that anyone less dedicated was somehow undeserving of respect. The woman rarely smiled—apart from when she was liaising with someone higher up the pecking order in the bank hierarchy—and it was a standing joke in the office that Lindsay had had a sense of humour bypass.
Just Megan’s luck to be promoted to her office when sweet old Melvin Harding had retired. Megan’s job had been a breeze then. If the work hadn’t been as stimulating as she could wish, at least her boss had been kind and fair. It had made it easier to deal with her see-sawing emotions where Nick was concerned, and if Melvin had ever caught her crying or upset in any way he had always been the absolute soul of consideration and discretion. Working for Lindsay had made things tougher all round for Megan.
When she had been in hospital, nursing her broken leg, almost everyone else in her immediate office had visited her with sympathy and commiserations. Lindsay hadn’t bestowed her presence even once. Not that Megan had minded. She wouldn’t have wanted to deal with her boss’s stony face when she was feeling at her lowest ebb. It hadn’t taken a genius to detect that Lindsay was sulking because her assistant was away and she ‘couldn’t be doing with’ teaching someone temporary the ropes. Megan’s ‘accident’ had been a colossal inconvenience to her, and she’d let her assistant know it the minute she’d returned to work.
Megan turned her brown eyes up to Lindsay now, striving valiantly to keep her voice level. ‘Just give me a minute or two to finish dealing with this report and I’ll get one for you.’
‘When I tell you to get me a cup of coffee I expect you to do it straight away! Not in a minute or two, not later, not tomorrow, but now!’
Lindsay’s pale hands were curled into fists at her sides and Megan stared at the older woman, warring with herself as to how best to respond to this totally uncalled-for fit of pique. One thing was certain: she’d be crazy if she responded to such a demand with head-down acquiescence.
‘I’m sorry, Lindsay, but this report has to be faxed across to the New York office as a matter of urgency. Your coffee will have to wait.’ When the words came out of her mouth—over a plateau that was as dry as the Sahara desert—Megan could hardly believe she’d said them. From the look in Lindsay’s pale blue eyes, she couldn’t either. It really was possibly the first hint of dissent she’d ever received from her meek, hard-working assistant.
Ignoring the tension in her stomach, Megan shuffled some papers into order on her desk and deliberately refocused on her computer screen.
Barbara, a fellow PA from an office down the hall, passed by and called out cheerily, ‘Hi, Meg—still meeting after work for drinks? Don’t forget it’s Sue’s birthday. See you then.’
Lindsay spun round with a glare at the young redhead. ‘No wonder we don’t get any work done around here! You’re all too busy organising your social lives!’
‘Pardon me for breathing,’ quipped Barbara, unabashed, and sailed on regardless out of the office.
Megan bit her lip. She really wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, because Lindsay’s behaviour beggared belief. Instead she began typing for all she was worth, determined not to let her boss see that she was rattled.
‘Right, Megan. As soon as you’ve sent the damn fax I want to see you in my office, pronto! I really don’t know what’s come over you lately, but your professional attitude leaves a lot to be desired!’ And with that Lindsay stormed off into the connecting room, slamming the door behind her for all she was worth.
Megan stopped typing and slowly let out a long breath. Something had clearly unsettled her usually cool-headed boss, and no doubt her assistant was going to have to bear the brunt of it. Only she didn’t feel like bearing anything she didn’t have to today. Today, for some reason, she felt ridiculously rebellious.
Whether it was anything to do with the heady experience of being with Kyle and letting her feelings about passion explode onto the canvas last night, she couldn’t be sure. But one thing was certain. Something inside was slowly but surely awakening, like the proverbial sleeping tiger. Something that wouldn’t let her stay the same old scared, putupon Megan Brand. Something that, at last, made her want to stand up for herself and fight back…
Kyle dried his damp waving hair with a towel and for the umpteenth time since Megan had left last night stared at the painting on the canvas in front of him. All of a sudden he wished he hadn’t given up smoking, and it had been five whole years since he had experienced such a heartfelt urge. Right now he needed something—anything—to help contain the surge of runaway adrenalin that kept flooding through him like white water every time he glanced at Megan’s painting.
He’d told her to paint passion and by God the woman had done just that. He’d left her alone for two hours, save for bringing her in a cup of coffee and leaving it on a small side table by the door. When he’d returned to the summerhouse later that night the untouched cup of coffee had still been on the table where he’d left it. For two hours Megan had painted out all the stormy feelings, heartbreak and latent rage she felt inside, and the result was a blinding revelation of hot colour and fire that tore at Kyle’s soul and left him questioning his own ability to create anything as powerful. Even to a layman’s eye the painting had something magical about it—something hard to imitate that marked it out as special.
Every torrid emotion and sensation was contained in that picture—from sex to love, violence and pain. She had painted a woman in a vivid red dress with her head in her hands, long dark hair shielding her face from view. All around her feet were white roses stained with blood, pulled violently away from their branches, while up above a pale blue sky was rent with thunderclouds coloured grey and black. The woman’s feet were bare and a thorn from one of the violated roses was embedded in the bottom of one pale foot. When he’d examined it more closely Kyle had noticed the glint of something gold on the ground, almost hidden by one of the roses. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a wedding ring.
‘Mother of God.’
His comment was a savage blend of anger, admiration and awe. He wasn’t a religious man, nor given to overly religious expressions, but Megan’s painting had moved him deeply on a soul level. He sank down onto his haunches, the white towel draped carelessly round his neck, his hard-muscled torso bare and gleaming with droplets of moisture from his shower. He drove his fingers twice through his tousled chestnut hair cursing softly beneath his breath.
Megan’s husband—wherever he was—should be publicly hung, drawn and quartered. If he ever got his hands on him he’d…He had to stop himself from going there. Bad enough that he was eaten up with fury at the thought of him putting his hands on Megan in such a violent way—in any way, as a matter of fact. The thought of her sleeping with such a man damn near drove him crazy.
Her painting had spoken to him. She had shown him in a way that no words could adequately express just how much she hurt inside. Anyone with eyes to see and a heart that was still beating would see it, too, when they looked at her work.
Inhaling a deeply shuddering breath, Kyle got to his feet. Megan had told him she
hadn’t painted in years, and he had no reason to disbelieve her, but whichever way you threw the dice the woman was a talent waiting to happen. The extent of her ability was almost too scary to contemplate. If she could demonstrate such indisputable skill this fast, with barely any time to prepare or ponder her subject, just what could she achieve under far more conducive circumstances?
Under his tutelage—under any good artist worth his salt—she could go far. Fortunately, Kyle had the connections to make that future for her more than just a possibility and he would, too…if she would let him.
The need to see her again suddenly became an imperative, and the sense of urgency made his heart race. The idea took hold like a match to a fire. Glancing down impatiently at his platinum diver’s watch, he saw that it was just after twelve. He wondered what time she went for lunch. He knew where she worked because he’d made a point of asking her. All he had to do was jump in a cab and show up. There were lots of good restaurants and wine bars in the locality, so he’d take her to lunch and…and what?
Damn it all to hell! She was supposed to be a client—would she think his approach just a little unethical? Too bad. He’d never played by the rules in the whole of his life, even when he was at school—he’d be damned if he was going to start now…
‘Megan Brand, you dark horse.’ Megan glanced up distractedly from her computer at Barbara, who’d balanced her steaming paper cup of coffee on the edge of her friend’s cluttered desk.
‘What now?’ Megan quirked a smile, convinced her colleague was going to rib her about her earlier rebellion against Lindsay. The thing was, she didn’t mind in the least—she could stand a little ribbing, the way she was feeling.
Lindsay hadn’t even been able to intimidate her during their little ‘talk’ in her office either. Everything she’d accused Megan of was pointless, trivial and totally unfounded, and her assistant had taken her courage in both hands and told her so. Their meeting had ended with Lindsay sighing like the most misunderstood woman in the world and ordering her to ‘Go and do some work…please!’ A small victory, then, but a victory nonetheless.
‘There is one drop-dead gorgeous man waiting in Reception, asking to see you.’ Barbara’s eyes twinkled with mischief and admiration and all the blood seemed to rush to Megan’s head.
Could it be Nick? A wave of nausea rolled through her at the thought. But Barbara knew her ex-husband so it couldn’t be him. Feeling slightly weak as the stab of shock subsided Megan stared mystified at Barbara, not knowing whether she was joking or serious.
‘For me?’
‘Little old you,’ Barbara teased. ‘He was waiting in the foyer talking to that man-eater Lucy Draper on the desk, and naturally I wandered over and asked if I could help. Imagine my surprise when he asked for you! No wonder you kept him quiet!’
‘Did he—did he say who he was?’
Megan started to get up from her desk. There was only one other man she personally might refer to as ‘drop-dead gorgeous’—but it couldn’t be him, could it? Once upright, she smoothed a nervous hand down her fitted black skirt, then ran her fingers anxiously over her hair to try and restore some sort of order.
At home she normally wore her long hair down, but at work she tied it back in a black velvet band or butterfly clip. Inevitably, by lunchtime, some of the silky black strands had worked themselves free to drift softly around her face. Lindsay was a stickler for etiquette when it came to dressing for the office, and anything even slightly what she called ‘frivolous’, such as long hair left loose, was frowned upon.
‘Kyle. That’s all. Is that his first name or last?’ Barbara wanted to know.
Megan hardly heard the question. Every cell in her body was flooded with adrenaline at the thought of her handsome tutor waiting downstairs in the lobby to see her.
Why had he come? He hadn’t looked at her painting before she left because when she’d finished she’d suddenly realised how late it was and had had to go. But he’d obviously seen it now. She exhaled a shaky little breath. What if he thought it too much? Too over the top for what he’d asked? What if he’d come to tell her not to bother coming again?
Get a grip, Megan. Scolding herself silently, she limped across to the coat-stand to retrieve her matching tailored black jacket. Her leg was throbbing as if someone had held a branding iron to it, making her limp slightly more pronounced than usual. She’d had her intense physiotherapy session first thing at the hospital, and the idea of coming face to face with Kyle feeling as she did was really testing her mettle to the limit.
With hands that weren’t exactly steady she slipped on her jacket, then turned to her friend. Lifting her shoulders uncertainly, she asked, ‘How do I look?’
‘Like you’re about to break some poor man’s heart. But then again, with that face and that figure, how could you not?’
‘You’re good for my ego, you know that? Not that I believe a word of it for a second.’
Barbara waved her away. ‘I speak as I find. Go on. Don’t keep loverboy waiting…’
‘He’s not my—’ Megan squirmed with discomfort. Lucky for her Barbara Palmer was a decent sort. Not the type to relay anything Megan didn’t want her to to anyone else in the office. That was why they were friends as well as colleagues.
‘Anyway, if Lindsay comes looking for me, tell her I’ve gone to lunch, will you?’
‘Sure. I might even tell her you’ve taken an extended one.’
Kyle did a double-take when he saw Megan stepping out of the lift. Dressed in a dark understated linen suit, with a white camisole underneath, her gorgeous glossy hair pulled back from her face in some sort of elegant ponytail, she looked cool, stylish and unexpectedly efficient. That was until she caught sight of him, blushed beguilingly, then limped slowly towards him.
Kyle’s heart went out to her. Every difficult painful step she took reminded him of how she had come by her injury, and rage filled him anew.
When she drew level he smiled down into her uncertain brown eyes and instinctively touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Oh? That rather makes me feel like a schoolgirl who’s about to be ticked off by the head teacher.’
She blushed, hoping she didn’t sound as gauche or as out of her depth as she felt, but the truth was her brain had imitated the spin cycle on a washing machine as soon as she’d set eyes on him.
Kyle chuckled, a warm, honeyed sound that worryingly made her think of bedrooms and moonlight, and her mouth went instantly dry.
‘Can you take a lunch-break?’ he asked. ‘We need to talk.’
Megan felt her hand clasped warmly in his and inhaled the clean, tantalising scent of his cologne as she was pulled into closer proximity to that hard masculine body, her senses dulled to anything else but his strong, vital presence and the glint of gold in those gorgeous hazel eyes.
The man looked good enough to eat. He was wearing his black leather trousers with a tan leather flying jacket over a black cashmere sweater, easily transmitting mystery and excitement as well as an undisputed male virility that drew every female eye in the room. Lucy, the trendy young receptionist with a penchant for anything with a designer label, was practically gaping at him with her mouth open, and two female execs from the fourth floor—both in their forties—were stealing the kind of hot glances that you wouldn’t find in the boardroom.
Megan retrieved her hand, looking almost everywhere else around the large plush lobby, with its highly polished floor and floor-to-ceiling windows, before finally letting her warm brown gaze drift anxiously back to Kyle.
‘What do you want to talk to me about? It must be important if you took the trouble to seek me out at work. It’s nothing—nothing bad is it?’
‘No, Megan. Don’t immediately assume the worst. It can become a habit.’
‘Now you’re wearing your therapist hat.’ She grinned, because seeing him again just made her feel good. As if he cared.
‘I want
ed to talk to you about your painting. The one you did last night.’
The way he said it seemed to make it abundantly clear it was nothing personal. Sharp disappointment replaced her previous elation, but she did her best to disguise it.
‘Didn’t you like it?’ Almost automatically she fell into the trap of unconsciously needing his approval, and silently cursed the response that had become more like a reflex since she’d met and married Nick Brand.
‘You’re doing it again,’ Kyle admonished, his gaze serious. ‘Liking it or not doesn’t come into it. I told you to paint what you felt about passion. You did. It was a revelation, and I don’t mean that lightly. Let’s find somewhere to eat, shall we? Then we can talk.’
He put his hand beneath her elbow and guided her from the faceless glass high-rise that housed the network of offices belonging to the bank, his mind as certain as it could be that the passionate young woman by his side did not belong in such a vast soulless atmosphere any more than he did.
‘You’ve got cream on your chin.’ Before she could respond, Kyle reached across the small intimate table, past the melted-down candle jammed into an empty wine bottle, and carefully wiped off the small stain with the edge of his napkin.
Megan wished for the umpteenth time since they’d entered the charming little Italian restaurant tucked away in a little Soho side street that her heart would stop pounding as though she were about to be thrown off the highest diving board into the deep end of the swimming pool.
‘If there’s an elegant way to eat spaghetti carbonara I’m afraid it’s passed me by.’ Her lips parted in a self-deprecating little smile.
Elegant or not, Kyle thought, growing hard, it was damned erotic watching her eating it. It had taken an almighty effort on his part to restrain himself from leaning over just then and licking the spot of cream off her chin with his tongue; only he wouldn’t want to stop at her chin…
