For His Eyes Only

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Will I be a limited edition bronze?’ she asked. ‘On display in a gallery window? Like the horse.’

  ‘It’s possible. If your interior lives up to the promise of the packaging.’

  ‘My packaging!’

  ‘It’s very attractive packaging.’

  ‘An excessive amount of packaging, I think you just said. Will you give me a couple of months to shed ten pounds?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said, taking the pad from her. ‘Are you concerned that you’ll be recognised?’

  ‘Recognised?’ The tension evaporated as she laughed at the idea of any of his subjects being recognised in the finished sculpture. ‘Unlikely, I’d have thought.’ She hoped. If anyone found out, she knew what interpretation they’d put on it. ‘I might have to make it a condition.’

  ‘It’s all about trust,’ he said, not joining in, and for a moment she was afraid that she’d offended him. ‘So? Do you have any more problems?’

  Problems?

  Only one. The fact that she was more interested in the man than his house. She’d forgotten why she was here, that her future depended on getting this right. That problem.

  ‘How about the fact that you’ll be making money out of your side of the bargain while I’ll be working for nothing?’ she suggested in an attempt to bring them both back to the reason she was here.

  ‘We might both be wasting our time, Natasha,’ he said, pushing away from the stepladder, suddenly much too close. ‘But if I discover depths in you that are worth exploring I’ll…’ His eyes suggested that his thoughts were a long way from art.

  ‘Yes?’ The word was thick in her throat. Not just his thoughts—her own were on a much lower plane…

  ‘I’ll give you a first casting.’

  ‘So that I can put my “depths” on the sideboard for everyone I know to look at?’

  ‘You’ll love every minute of it,’ he said. ‘All those horny men running their hands over cold bronze, imagining the warm, living flesh.’

  ‘No…’ There was only one man she wanted running his hands over her flesh and he was right there, in front of her.

  ‘Every woman longs for something in her past with which to scandalise her grandchildren,’ he said. His face was all shadows, his eyes leaden, his voice so soft that it was barely audible.

  ‘How would you know that?’ she whispered.

  He lifted his hand in what felt like slow motion and grazed her cheek with the roughened tips of his fingers and, as he drew them down the line of her jaw, a jolt went through her body as if it had been jump-started.

  Her nipples tightened, puckering visibly beneath the heavy silk of her shirt, sending twin arrows of heat to the apex of her thighs, a bead of sweat trickled down her back and Darius, his thumb teasing the corner of her mouth, smiled darkly.

  Question asked and answered.

  She was finding it difficult to breathe, speech was beyond her; they both knew that she couldn’t wait to have her depths thoroughly explored in every conceivable way, so she did the only thing left to her.

  He didn’t take his eyes from her face as she slipped the tiny pearl buttons of her shirt one by one until the silk parted and then, her eyes never leaving his, her parted lips swollen, burning, she turned her head to suck his thumb into her mouth.

  Her tongue swirled around it, licking it, tasting clay and cake, sugar and something spicy that hadn’t come out of a jar. She whimpered when he took it from her. Whimpered again when he dragged its moist, broad pad across her lips.

  ‘Shush…’ he murmured and there was a moment of perfect stillness when the world centred on that small contact, balanced on a knife-edge. Then he slowly lowered his mouth to hers, retraced the path of his thumb with his tongue and she nearly fainted from the hot burst of pleasure that flooded through her. It was only his arm supporting her that kept her on her feet as her lips parted and his tongue embarked on a meltingly slow dance of exploration.

  She reached for him, cradling his head as the kiss deepened and her senses were bombarded from all directions. His hair tangled in her fingers, stubble tickled her palms. The scent of metal and clay and the oiled wooden handles of the tools he used clung to him, earthy and elemental. His hands tugged her shirt from her waistband and slid up her back, his thumbs nudged her breasts. The hard bulge of his erection butted into her hip.

  He leaned back to look at her as he swept aside silk and lace, his calloused fingers lifting her breasts free of her bra, grazing the tender skin. And then his tongue swept over the rock-hard tip of her breast and her knees buckled.

  There was a crash as he swept bones, tools aside and, without apparent effort, lifted her bodily onto the bench.

  Yes…

  The word spiralled through her, triumphant, exhilarating, liberating. She might have shouted it, but all she could hear was the sound of blood pounding in her ears as her pulse went off the scale. All she could feel was the heat of his mouth trailing moist kisses down her throat, his teeth, razor stubble grazing the swollen, sensitive skin of her breast, his suckling tongue sending a lightning bolt to her throbbing, swollen core.

  ‘Darius…’ It was a breathless, desperate plea and his hand was between her thighs, pushing aside the flimsy barrier to greet the liquid fire that flashed to meet first one and then two of those deliciously long fingers driving into her.

  She reared to meet them, wanting more, demanding more as the furnace, lit in the very first moment she’d set eyes on him, hit meltdown. She’d wanted it then, wanted it as she’d beaten butter and sugar into submission, wanted him inside her…

  She clutched at hard shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh through the soft cloth of his shirt as his knuckle hit the sweet, screaming spot. She had no breath to scream, urge him on; all she could do was make small desperate sounds as she arched upwards, demanding more, as he made her wait, taking his time, stroking, tormenting, teasing her throat, her breasts, her stomach with his teeth, his tongue, keeping her on the limit of endurance with his fingers, the subtle pressure of his thumb until her body, lost in bliss, slipped from her control and became entirely his. Only then did he release her in a shattering orgasm that went through her like a tornado, lifting, spinning, dumping her dazed, slicked with sweat and clinging to him like a life raft.

  Her head was a dead weight against his shoulder, her limbs like sun-warmed putty, and if he hadn’t been holding her she would have slithered to the floor in a boneless heap.

  FIVE

  For a long moment the only things moving in the room were dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming in from above. Then Darius eased back a little.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  Okay? Okay?

  ‘Give me a minute to locate my bones and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Hang on…’ He slid an arm beneath her knees and, lifting her clear of the bench, carried her to the sofa.

  ‘Mmm…’ She let out a contented sigh as she stretched out on the cushions, looking up at him from beneath lids too heavy to lift. She reached for his belt, planning to hook her fingers under it and pull him closer so that she could get at that deliciously flat belly beneath the baggy T-shirt, do a little nibbling on her own account. Ease the pressure of what had to be a very painful bulge against the zip of his jeans.

  He caught her, wrapping his hand around her wrist, keeping her from her goal.

  His eyes were burning her up and he held her tightly for a moment before, with a visible effort, he released her and then, taking care not to let his fingers touch her skin, lifted the lace of her bra and carefully replaced it over her breasts.

  ‘Darius?’

  He didn’t answer but began to refasten her shirt buttons with all the concentration of a bomb disposal officer defusing an unexploded bomb. One wrong move, one touch…

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. Then, as the reality began to sink in, ‘No…’

  ‘I work here, Natasha, and I meant it when I said I don’t
have sex with my models.’

  ‘I’m not a model…’

  ‘No.’ A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘A professional model would never undress in front of an artist but, unless you’re carrying a stash of condoms in that bag, we’re done.’

  The implication that she went to work armed and ready for action was like a bucket of cold water. Did he think she did that with everyone who needed a little encouragement to use her services?

  Well, why wouldn’t he? He knew she was desperate—desperate enough to sit naked so that he could draw her.

  She’d completely lost the plot, forgotten that this was just business…

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, swinging her legs to the floor and forcing him to step back. ‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t get down and dirty on the job,’ she said, frustration making her snippy. ‘Sex with a client is definitely off the agenda.’

  ‘Just as well I’m not a client, then. Unless you’ve changed your mind about waiving your fee for selling the Chase?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘A deal’s a deal. I’ll settle for the perks.’

  ‘Perks?’

  ‘The chunk of bronze to go on the mantelpiece, the hand job. Thanks for that, by the way; it’s been too long…’ The words were out before her brain was engaged… ‘Give me a call when you want me to strip naked for you,’ she added, putting some stiffeners in her legs so that she could stand up. Get out of there. ‘You’ll find my number inside the lid of the cakebox.’

  ‘Most people find a business card more convenient,’ he said, flipping it open and glancing at the label on which she’d printed her name, telephone number and email address as he searched for a phone amongst the scattered tools and bones on his workbench and programmed in the number. ‘You can carry more than one at a time.’

  ‘Unfortunately, my card is out of date and since I had no way of knowing if you’d listen to me…’ She swallowed. He’d done a lot more than listen and she’d done a lot more than talk. ‘In my experience, men don’t throw away home-made cake, no matter where it’s come from.’

  ‘You were confident that once I’d tasted it I’d want more?’

  The scent of sex hung in the air as thick as paint and they both knew that the taste he was referring to had nothing to do with confectionery.

  No, no, no… ‘Oh, please!’ she said. ‘When I have all those horny men queuing up at my front door for my lemon drizzle.’

  Take that, Mr Hadley…

  ‘Really?’ He sucked on the tip of his thumb. ‘Personally, I prefer my sugar light on the lemon, heavy on the spice.’ A hot flush raced from her navel to her scalp as she realised that he was tasting her. ‘Sticky ginger…’ he said, volley intercepted and returned. Point won… ‘I’ve sent you my number. In case you run into any problems.’

  ‘Problems. Right.’ There wouldn’t be any problems. She’d make sure of that. But first she had to get out of here before she spontaneously combusted.

  Jacket…

  Where was it?

  She looked around, knowing that she should be grateful that she wasn’t crawling around on her hands and knees looking for her underwear.

  She should.

  Really.

  Darius spotted her jacket lying on the floor beside the sofa and, beating Natasha to it, scooped it up. She took a nervous step back, keeping him at arm’s length. She was mad at him. The condom remark had been crass, deliberately so—a bucket of cold water on an overheated situation that had got out of hand. Unfortunately, all it had done was create steam. They were both still on a hair trigger and playing Russian roulette which was why, instead of following her excellent example and tossing it to her, he shook her jacket out and held it up, inviting her to turn around and slide her arms into the sleeves.

  She could have ignored him, said she’d carry it, but after the slightest hesitation she turned, holding her arms towards him so that he could ease it on. She smelled of spice and sex and, with a groan he couldn’t stifle, he slid his hands down from her shoulders to cup her lovely breasts, pulling her against him while he breathed a kiss against her neck. She leaned back into him with a whimper that was half despair, half bliss and for a moment he just held her, before summoning the willpower to give her a gentle push towards the door.

  ‘Go,’ he said.

  She turned in his arms and looked up at him, her eyes liquid, appealing.

  ‘Now,’ he said, his forehead touching hers, her breasts brushing against his chest. He was wood and there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Please.’

  She took a breath. ‘Right. Yes… This was so not what I intended.’ She took a step back, picked up her bag, made it as far as the door, then paused. ‘I won’t bother you again until I have some news.’

  ‘I won’t be holding my breath.’

  Wrong on both counts.

  He’d been bothered the minute he’d set eyes on her. Unable to get her out of his mind. And breathless ever since she’d walked into his studio with that mesmerising sway of her hips.

  ‘How will you get there?’ he asked. A tiny frown puckered her smooth forehead. ‘The Chase. Now that the devious Denton is driving your Beemer?’

  ‘Oh…’ She shook her head, as if clearing it. ‘I’ll hire something.’

  ‘A waste of money. You’d be better off putting a deposit on a van,’ he said. ‘That way you can put your name on the side and use it as free advertising. Sell the house and I’ll design you a logo.’

  Things were safer than feelings…

  ‘If I sell the house,’ she pointed out, ‘I won’t need one.’

  ‘If you sell the house, Natasha, you won’t need to work for anyone else. It won’t only be eager estate agents, and horny men pining for you, but desperate vendors who’ll be beating a path to your door.’

  ‘Thanks, but self-employment doesn’t figure in my five-year career plan.’

  ‘I think we’ve established that right now you don’t have a career or a plan.’

  ‘The career is temporarily on hold. The plan is a work in progress,’ she said and, as if to underline the fact that—perks notwithstanding—this was strictly business, she offered him her hand.

  Despite the danger to his simmering libido, he was unable to resist taking it. Small, soft, with perfectly groomed nails, it lay like a touch of velvet against his clay-roughened palm evoking X-rated thoughts and he needed to get her out of his studio before common sense went to hell in a hand basket.

  ‘Please go,’ he said.

  Her lips parted as if she was going to say something. Clearly she thought better of it and, having opened the door, she stepped through into the street and closed it behind her without another word.

  He slipped the latch before Patsy decided to pop in and give him the third degree, leaning his forehead against it while he called the estate executor to update him on the situation.

  Brian Ramsey spluttered and protested at the inappropriateness of allowing Natasha access to the house, but Darius cut him short.

  ‘You chose Morgan and Black to handle the sale. They messed up,’ he said. ‘Now we’ll do it my way. Please make sure that Gary Webb is available tomorrow to let her in.’

  ‘Mr Webb is on sick leave and really, in the light of recent events, I have to insist that Miss Gordon is accompanied by someone responsible. Tell her that if she comes in the office later this week I’ll check the diary and see when someone is available.’

  Oh, right. Next month some time. Maybe. This was the man who’d conspired with his grandfather to ensure that a Hadley remained at the Chase for another generation.

  ‘What’s the matter with Gary?’ he asked.

  ‘He had a fall.’

  *

  Tash walked away on legs that were all over the place, her stomach churning with every kind of emotion imaginable.

  She needed to sit down. Needed coffee. Ice cream…

  For heaven’s sake, she was a grown-up and smart enough to know that leaping on a man you bar
ely knew was never going to end well, especially when it was supposed to be strictly business. Especially when her entire life plan depended on it being strictly business.

  What on earth had she been thinking?

  Scratch that. No one had been thinking, least of all her. Apparently she still wasn’t because she couldn’t wait for the return match and next time she’d have more than cake in her bag…

  She was grinning, helplessly, at the thought when her phone began to ring. She checked the number, ultra cautious since her name had been plastered all over the evening papers. Journalists might believe that she was safely tucked up out of harm’s way in the Fairview where they couldn’t get at her, but it hadn’t stopped them trying her number, leaving sympathetic messages, wanting her side of the story. As if she was going to fall for that.

  It wasn’t a journalist. It was Darius.

  ‘Text me your address,’ he said, before her brain could unscramble itself and deliver a simple hello.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The caretaker is in hospital and the legal lot insist that you’re accompanied by a responsible adult.’

  ‘That’s very, um, responsible of them.’ She’d bet the house that wasn’t all they’d said. They would have had a dozen good reasons why he should pull out of their deal. Given a minute, she could probably come up with at least that many herself. But he hadn’t… ‘What’s the matter with Mr Grumpy?’

  ‘He fell off a ladder. Broken leg, broken wrist, bruises.’

  ‘Oh…’ How to go from feeling great to feeling about two inches high in ten seconds. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And she was. He’d been a grouch but he didn’t deserve that. ‘Is he going to be okay?’ Then, as an awful thought struck her, she said, ‘He wasn’t trying to fix that window, was he?’

  ‘Is that a guilty conscience I can hear, Miss Gordon?’ Darius asked. ‘Maybe you should take him some of your cake.’

  ‘Darius!’

  He laughed. ‘Relax, Sugarlips. This is not your fault—he was clearing a blocked gutter at the village hall, but you’re right, it needs fixing. I’ll get it sorted.’