by Robyn Donald
Literally breathtaking; she had to force her lungs to drag in some air, and beneath her ribs her heart set up a wayward rhythm that echoed in her ears.
‘Sable,’ he said with a devastating half-smile. ‘How are you?’
Hearing Poppy take a swift indrawn breath, Sable hastily said, ‘Hello, Kain. Can I help you?’
‘You can show me the pictures that will be sold in the charity auction.’
The Russell Foundation held an annual art auction, and because one day she planned to work as an events manager, Sable always volunteered her services to organise the evening. This year it was to be held in the ballroom of a huge modern mansion, the perfect place to show off the avant-garde pictures and sculptures now waiting in the Foundation’s warehouse.
Her first impulse was to hand Kain over to Poppy, but the slight emphasis on the first word of his answer made her hesitate and look up at him. The moment her eyes met his warning gaze she realised he understood what she intended to do—and was warning her against it.
Poppy was young and untried enough to be hurt by rejection. And although the paintings and sculpture weren’t yet officially on exhibition, Kain Gerard knew—as Sable did—that no one would refuse to show them to him.
Money talks, she thought, unable to show her chagrin, and big money talks big.
Evenly, her voice aloof, Sable replied, ‘Yes, of course.’
Heart skipping into an uneven rhythm, she closed the computer and straightened up to walk towards him, glad that she’d worn a dress in the bold, clear red that gave colour to her pale skin and made her eyes dark and deep and—she hoped—impossible to read.
She was fiercely aware of Kain on a level so basic she had no command over it. Every cell seemed to recognise him, as though his touch had imprinted her for life.
And that ridiculous overreaction scared her.
‘Come this way,’ she said in her most modulated voice, hoping that he hadn’t noticed her tension.
Silently he surveyed the exhibition with an impassive face. This year the committee that oversaw the choice of artists had chosen those with postmodern credentials, and because the exhibition and auction gave them excellent publicity most had really let themselves go.
Sable kept her features controlled. Somehow, she didn’t think Kain would be impressed—unless he was buying an investment. You didn’t have to like investments.
He surprised her by asking, ‘What do you think of them?’
‘My opinion isn’t worth anything,’ she evaded.
‘You don’t like them.’
How had he noticed that? Uneasily she said, ‘I don’t know anything about this sort of art so my personal opinion means nothing. I can get an expert to discuss them with—’
He stopped her with a glance and a single word. ‘No.’
For the next half hour he strolled along the row of pictures, standing back occasionally to get a better view, looking more closely at others. Sable wondered just what was going on behind that handsome face.
Finally he said, ‘Tell me what you really think.’
Exasperated by his persistence, she returned shortly, ‘The only useful comments I could make would just be parroting what I’ve heard.’
‘I don’t want that—I want your opinion. You must have some idea—wasn’t your father an artist? Angus Martin? The Art Gallery has several of his pictures and one stunning watercolour.’
Touched—and made extremely cautious by the fact that he’d heard of her father—she said, ‘If you’ve seen it you’d know that he didn’t paint like this.’
‘But you must have heard him discuss art.’
Oh, yes, endless discussions that had degenerated into maudlin regrets that his skills no longer matched his vision, that he’d drunk away whatever talent he’d once had…
Faced with a determination that matched her own—and because Kain Gerard might be prepared to spend a lot of money on this very good cause—she said reluctantly, ‘I don’t understand the artists’ visions or their objectives, and I don’t know enough about art to relate to their techniques.’
‘Why does that annoy you?’
You annoy me, she thought, irritated with him and with herself for being so affected by him.
Shrugging, she returned lightly, ‘Because I feel as though I’m missing out on something—on some secret that others understand.’
He pinned her with a considering stare that lasted two seconds too long, then nodded. ‘Fair enough. Did you see our photograph in the newspaper?’
She’d very carefully avoided looking at the social pages. ‘No, I didn’t.’
His smile told her he didn’t believe her. ‘A pity. I’m afraid it won’t garner Maire Faris good publicity—the dress doesn’t show to advantage. However, her name is mentioned.’
Something in his tone made her uncomfortable. She said stiffly, ‘I’m glad.’
Fixing his gaze on a canvas that to Sable looked like a too-dramatic representation of a bad headache, he asked with casual interest, ‘Have you heard from Brent lately?’
‘No.’ She stole a glance at his profile, strong and commanding. Something very strange happened to her stomach—no, her heart.
Ignore it, she told herself sturdily, and said with brittle composure, ‘Apparently he’s not going to be able to contact anyone for a month or so. Rather ironic that a man whose life is focused on the internet should deliberately leave himself without access to it.’
‘I think he’s ready to go cold turkey for a while,’ Kain said. He delivered a low-wattage version of that killer smile. ‘Thank you for showing me around.’
She said formally, ‘I hope we’ll see you at the auction.’ He’d been invited; she’d have to check to see if he’d accepted.
‘Possibly.’
Her complete ignorance had probably blown any chance of a good sale, she thought with wry resignation and accompanied him back to the reception area.
Poppy looked up, her pretty face awed. With some surprise Sable noted the smile he bestowed on the younger girl. Friendly, appreciative, it showed none of the antagonism that seemed to underlie his attitude to her.
In response, Poppy blushed brilliantly, melting without any visible sign of resistance.
Afterwards Sable had to endure the younger woman’s sighing comments, relieved when lunchtime came—only to find herself being warned during the meal by Maire.
‘Kain’s nothing like his cousin,’ the older woman said, eyeing the huge muffin she’d chosen. ‘Brent’s a nice boy—bright too, and he obviously has a good business brain when it comes to the internet—but he doesn’t have Kain’s charisma.’
‘No,’ Sable agreed, touched in some secret part. She’d been on her own since she was seventeen, and the only womanly influence in her life had been her father’s neighbour Miss Popham, an elderly woman whose brisk, practical attitude hadn’t encouraged confidences.
Don’t go there, she thought and hurriedly transferred her attention back to Maire. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall for either of them.’
‘It’s not always that easy,’ the designer said shrewdly, ‘especially as you’re living with Brent.’
‘I’m not—I’m staying in his apartment until I find a suitable flat.’ Because it was important, she emphasised, ‘We aren’t lovers—or even possible lovers.’
Maire lifted incredulous brows.
Harried, Sable expanded, ‘He’s years younger than me, for heaven’s sake, and I feel positively ancient when I’m with him. We haven’t got that sort of relationship—haven’t even exchanged so much as a kiss!’
‘But he wants to,’ Maire said pragmatically.
Sable sighed. ‘It’s not going to happen. He knows that now.’
‘So why did you move in with him?’
Normally she wouldn’t have considered it, but one weekend while Sable was away her flatmate had held a party, a wild affair that had led to a wholesale trashing of the villa they shared.
Briefly she ex
plained, and Maire tut-tutted. ‘Your name was on the lease, was it?’
‘Yes.’ It hadn’t surprised Sable when she and her repentant flatmate had been asked to leave, but she’d been horrified to discover that her landlady—an elderly widow—had let the insurance lapse.
Because, she’d informed Sable, she’d considered her to be a responsible person who’d look after the place. And perhaps because she’d just forgotten. Legally, of course, Sable wasn’t obliged to pay for the damage, but for her own peace of mind she needed to. The landlady had been kind to her, and she hated to leave with a stain on her conscience—already stained enough, she thought grimly. Repayment had emptied out her bank account and left her feeling intensely vulnerable.
Firmly changing the subject, she said, ‘As for Kain, he’s not the sort of man I’m comfortable with.’ She paused, then added with some irony, ‘I find him too overwhelming.’
‘You must be the only woman in New Zealand to feel that way.’ Maire sighed and slathered some butter on her muffin. ‘All right, I’ve had my say. If I remember anything of my far-distant youth, it’s how unwelcome advice can be.’
‘I didn’t mean to sound abrupt—’
Maire laughed. ‘You didn’t. I was just being meddlesome. I’ve known Kain since he was a kid and even then he was the most self-sufficient person I’ve ever come across. Just as well—he was only twelve when his parents were killed, and at eighteen he took over the family business because it was going under. He had to grow up really fast.’
Interested in spite of herself, Sable said, ‘He and Brent don’t seem to have anything in common.’
‘Pretty much nothing beyond brains and genes.’ She sighed. ‘I really, really wanted to get my hands on the woman young Brent was with last year. She had a great body and she was good-looking, but if she’d come to me I’d have steered her away from cleavage and clothes so tight you could see the pores of her skin under the fabric. Not that Brent seemed to mind,’ she said wryly, adding, ‘Kain, on the other hand, goes for class and intelligence and sophistication in his lovers.’
‘So who’s the present incumbent?’ Sable tried to make her voice only mildly interested.
‘Oh, he hasn’t lived with any of them.’ Maire shot her an amused glance. ‘And even though he must be ten or so years older than his cousin, he’s probably had fewer lovers than Brent. Their attitudes differ; Brent treats women like buying from a chain store, whereas Kain chooses a more select wardrobe from a designer.’
But he knew infinitely more about women than Brent, Sable thought, an inward shiver tightening her skin.
She stopped herself from asking more questions because she most emphatically was not interested in Kain Gerard’s love life.
‘Of course there was a six-month period when he and that film star—Jacie Dixon—were a very hot item. They kept it discreet and low-key, but the photos in the tabloids just about smoked off the pages.’
Sable hoped that her amused smile hid an ignoble pang of something that most emphatically was not envy. ‘I wouldn’t have picked you for a keen follower of the tabloids.’
‘I’m not, but my granddaughter is obsessed with celebrities.’ Her companion sighed again. ‘I know far more about the secret lives of Hollywood stars than I care to, believe me. Fiona’s a sucker for a good-looking man, and she has a secret stash of photos of Kain Gerard.’
‘Well, she’s got taste,’ Sable said lightly. ‘How old is she?’
‘Fourteen. Why?’
‘Because that sort of thing usually passes by the time they hit sixteen. It will be pop stars then.’
Maire gave her look, part horror, part resignation. ‘I hope not. At least Kain’s a good role model—no drugs, no run-ins with the cops, no drunken outings splashed across the newspapers, and a decent discretion in his affairs.’
Sable changed the subject, but later that night she wondered why Maire had felt it necessary to bring up the subject of Kain Gerard.
Surely she hadn’t discerned the surprising sensations he roused in Sable, that sharp, powerfully—and entirely—physical response that brought a rush of adrenaline to heighten her every sense?
Possibly; Maire was astute and one of the reasons she was a good designer was her instinctive understanding of people.
Grimacing, Sable put Kain Gerard out of her mind.
Later that week she dressed for the first display of the art, a warehouse affair to show appreciation for the artists, the committee who’d worked so hard, and the various patrons of the Foundation, not to mention the organisations that would benefit from the auction. The following morning the pictures would be transferred to the Browns’ mansion.
Mentally going over her list to make sure she’d left nothing undone, Sable slid into a pair of black trousers bought from a second-hand shop specialising in designer cast-offs. It was two years since they’d been a fashion item, but the cut was timeless and they fitted her perfectly.
No more clothes until she’d paid off the debt she owed to her landlady, she thought, getting into a collarless red shirt cut so that it hugged her body. Tiny silver buttons arrowed from her throat to her waist. The mock-coral arm cuff and her high-heeled boots repeated the colour of the shirt and her lipstick.
‘Too much of a muchness?’ she wondered, staring at her reflection.
Then she shrugged. What did she care? As she’d be on duty she didn’t want to look overdressed, but she certainly didn’t need to fade into the background either.
Poppy and her mother were checking the arrangements when she walked in. The younger woman came racing across.
‘You look terrific!’ she gushed, eyes darting to take everything in. ‘I really, really like the way you put your hair up—how does it stay so burnished and silky looking?’
‘Willpower.’ Sable grinned at her. ‘That’s a super dress. Love the necklace.’
Poppy grimaced. ‘Thanks, but I’d give anything to look as glam as you. I’m like Mum—doomed to prettiness.’
Laughing, Sable shook her head at her. ‘Millions of women and girls long for a similar fate.’
‘I’d give anything for style,’ Poppy said earnestly.
Her mother came over, gave Sable an assessing look that smoothed into approval and said, ‘Everything seems to be under control, Sable. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Just keep an eye on everyone and let me know if you see any problems.’
The older woman frowned, then hastily relaxed her face. ‘Mark’s afraid some of the artists might drink too much and start arguing. Remember the barney that erupted last year?’
Sable shrugged. ‘I’ll be alert, but it’s a help to have someone ready to move in on any argument that looks as though it might get out of hand. If you could keep an eye on anything that might erupt I’d be grateful. I find that introducing someone else—especially someone who looks as though they might be a buyer—usually stops people getting too passionate. It should be fine.’
It was. Everyone behaved themselves, the rich and the social made appropriate noises when confronted by the pictures they’d theoretically come to see, and as the evening was winding down a famous rugby front-row player, a figurehead for a prominent charity, astounded everyone by expounding with insight and appreciation on the use of symbolism in one of the more outrageous pictures.
‘Learning anything?’ a deep, dark voice said from behind Sable.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing up straight, Sable drew in a quick breath and composed her expression. Only then did she turn her head to meet Kain Gerard’s darkly hooded eyes. In the stark black-and-white elegance of evening clothes he looked—utterly gorgeous…
How, in those supremely civilised clothes, tailored for him by a genius, did he also manage to emit a hard-edged aura of danger?
Her dancing heartbeat shocked her, but she met the cool challenge of his survey with slightly raised brows as she answered, ‘Somewhat to my surprise, yes.’
‘Guilty of stereoty
ping, Sable?’ He stretched her name, lengthening it into a lazy drawl that came close to a caress. Or a taunt…
Whatever, it did amazing things to her body, summoning a wildfire heat. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said crisply. ‘In future I’ll remember that rugby players can be intelligent as well as athletic.’
‘Why Sable?’ When she stared at him he elaborated smoothly, ‘It’s an unusual name.’
‘When I was born I had a cap of black hair about the same length and texture as my father’s brushes. He decided to call me Sable.’ She noticed his empty hands and seized an opportunity to regroup her defences. ‘Let me get you a drink and something to eat.’
Kain looked around the room; within seconds a waiter materialised with a salver of champagne, followed immediately by another carrying a tray of delicious titbits.
Made even crosser by this indication of Kain’s innate presence, Sable decided to assert herself. ‘Do have some champagne. And if you like mushrooms, I can heartily recommend those stuffed ones.’
He said, ‘Thank you,’ and managed the acceptance of glass and mushroom with deftness. ‘How about you? Your glass is almost empty.’
Her father’s addiction had made Sable wary; she rarely drank more than one glass of wine. With a quick smile she said to the waiter, ‘Nothing, thank you.’
But the wretched man glanced at Kain, waiting for his short nod before moving away. Amused but resigned, she accepted that any good waiter would recognise an alpha male when he saw one!
And Kain was certainly a number one alpha.
‘How nice that you came,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you spoken to Mark—Mark Russell?’
‘I came to see you.’
Startled, she looked up. Although a smile curved that sculpted mouth, his pale eyes were burnished and unreadable. ‘Why?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Do you want it spelt out?’ he asked softly, his narrowed eyes holding hers.
Heat flared in the pit of her stomach when he finished, ‘Not here, I think. How much longer before you can get away?’
Many of the guests had already left, but quite a few were still busily networking. Excitement pulsing hotly through her, Sable tried and failed to catch Mark’s eye. ‘I don’t—not until everyone’s left.’
