by Diana Palmer
“Not by a long shot,” he said. “He publishes a magazine all about the news of the financial world. It’s one of the most respected publications in the field. Women just swoon when he walks into a room, but he won’t even look back.”
“A woman-hater?” she asked.
“Not quite,” he told her. “He just doesn’t get emotionally involved, that’s all.”
“I can hardly wait to meet him,” she said drily, her black eyes twinkling as she looked up at him. “Will I get to, tonight?”
“I imagine so,” he sighed. “You’ll fall, just like all the others, I’m afraid. But let me introduce you, please. He may be ready to bite after he sees this painting. That will give you time to see if you’d like to escape before he starts chewing on you. He doesn’t like artists, you see. He thinks they lead a licentious and parasitic life.”
“I’ll find something suitably decorous to wear tonight,” she told him. “Or—” she grinned “—how about if I come nude?”
“Fine,” he agreed quickly. “I’ll cancel all the other invitations...”
“Crazy man. Tony, thanks for all the trouble you’ve gone to on my behalf,” she added softly. “This will be my first really big show, you know.”
“I do know. That’s why I took on Nick,” he said, as if it were really a sacrifice. “See you at seven.”
“I’ll be there!”
Several hours later, she was admitted to Tony’s elegant apartment and shown into the shag-carpeted living room. She was wearing a gold lamé dress, the perfect foil for her blond hair and black eyes, with spaghetti straps and a bodice that dipped precariously in front and had hardly any back at all. It was chic and sophisticated and she already regretted the impulse that had made her buy it. She was already angry at Nick whaťs-his-name for trying to cheat her out of her exhibit, and this was her way of living down to his image of her. It was probably a mistake, anyway, she thought as Tony came forward, grinning, to take her hands.
“Just the girl,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Oddly enough, Nick was impressed with the painting, Mount Olympus and all. He wants to meet you.”
That was good news indeed. She followed him through the crowd of sophisticated art lovers and dealers and somewhere along the way she acquired a glass of champagne. Then they stopped, and she lifted her eyes from a black dinner jacket and white silk shirt and black tie to a face that was horribly familiar.
“Domenico Scarpelli, this is my latest find, Miss Jolana Shannon,” Tony said proudly.
Jolana stared at the arrogant Roman face with undisguised anger, and it was returned full force.
“You’ll understand if I don’t shake hands?” she asked him with cold venom.
His eyes went up and down her body in the sheath of gold lamé. “I don’t recall offering to,” he said arrogantly. “So, you’re Tony’s artist. How sad that he never mentioned your name.”
Jolana gave Tony her glass of champagne. “Lovely party. So sorry I have to leave,” she told her host with a forced smile. “I feel a violent headache coming on. Must run.”
“Take one step toward that door,” Nick said coldly, “and you can forget your one-woman show.”
She froze midstep with her back to him. “I thought I was already expected to do that,” she laughed bitterly. “There are other galleries, Mr. Scarpelli, and I’m a determined woman. I can always wait on tables if things get too tough. Good ni—”
Nick took her arm firmly and guided her past Tony’s stunned face into what was obviously a bedroom. He closed the door firmly behind them.
She backed away from the big Italian, coming up against the curtained window, her eyes wide with dread.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Nick advised. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “I’m not that desperate.”
She glared at him. “Why did you bring me in here, then?”
“To talk. It wasn’t possible out there.” He moved into the room and sat down gracefully in a chair by the king-size bed. “Sit down, for God’s sake, I won’t bite.”
She moved hesitantly to a chair on the other side of the bed and eased down into it.
“Some call girl,” he scoffed. “Why wear a dress like that when you’re terrified of bedrooms?”
“To get even with you,” she managed unsteadily. “Tony said...you didn’t want to let me have my show, and that you didn’t like women...”
“Tarts,” he corrected. “Yes, that does figure. What you were wearing at your apartment was hardly provocative gear. I didn’t think about the paint on you until later, and even then I didn’t make the connection. There are a lot of Sunday painters in New York.”
“I’m not a Sunday painter,” she said with dignity.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed. “You have a great talent. Despite Tony’s disgusting use of it in that painting,” he added.
“He said you wouldn’t like it.”
“But, I did.” He leaned back in the chair and smoked his cigarette quietly. “How long have you been painting?”
“Since I was old enough to hold a crayon,” she said simply. “Mr. Scarpelli, I’m sure you didn’t bring me in here to hear the story of my life.”
“That’s right, I didn’t.” He studied her quietly. “For reasons I won’t go into right now, I need an escort for a party in Manhattan next Friday night. Come with me and I’ll forget about challenging that flimsy contract Tony made you sign.”
Her face flamed. “I told you, I’m not a call girl!”
“And I told you that I know that,” he replied coldly. “I need a woman. Not in my bed, just on my arm, for a few hours. Yes or no?”
She caught her breath and considered all the angles. He had her right where he wanted her and they both knew it, so why pretend?
“All right,” she sighed, weary of the whole thing.
“It’s going to involve a little acting on your part,” he added, pressing his advantage.
“How?”
He studied the tip of his cigarette. “I want you to act like a woman in love with me.”
She stood up. “That,” she told him flatly, “is it. I’d rather peddle my paintings on street corners...”
“Better them than your body. You’d earn more,” he interrupted coolly, rising from his chair. “Now shut up and listen to me.”
“Have I got a choice?” she asked, affronted.
“There’s going to be someone at that party who thinks I’m carrying a torch for her,” he said quietly. “I want to disabuse her of the notion, you understand?”
“Then ask one of your girlfriends,” she replied.
“I am, as the saying goes, between women,” he said curtly. “And the kind of woman I usually associate with wouldn’t convince anybody that she was capable of decent emotional involvement. I don’t want to take a hooker to my mother’s home.”
“You have a mother?” she asked with mock surprise. “Will wonders never cease?”
He glared at her. “You irritate me, Miss Shannon.”
“Thank God I don’t attract you,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’ll pick you up at five on Friday afternoon,” he told her. “And you won’t tell Tony anything about the arrangement.”
“Is that an order, Your Worship?” she taunted. “My, my, you do bear a resemblance to pictures of Roman centurions I’ve seen.”
“My ancestors were fond of taking slave girls into their beds,” he reminded her.
“I’d rather be thrown to the lions,” she said with a sweet smile. “Are you through talking? I’d like to leave.”
“No more than I,” he assured her with a hard glare. He opened the door. “After you.”
She lifted her head proudly and walked out of the bedroom ahead of him.
“By the way,” he murmured, “where did you learn that interesting g
esture you showed me in the hall yesterday? I thought well-brought-up young Southern ladies were more reserved.”
She blushed to her blond roots and couldn’t look at him. She walked away stiff-backed and melted into the crowd.
Although she’d planned to leave the party to get away from him, he solved that problem for her by leaving himself. And the minute he was out the door, Tony was after Jolana.
“What was that all about?” he asked quickly, drawing her over by the punch bowl.
“I lost my purse yesterday,” she muttered. “He found it.”
“And?” he prompted.
She shrugged wryly. “He thought I was a hooker.”
“You!” He burst out laughing, and shook his head. “Boy, did Nick have a wrong number!”
“I told him as much,” she said shortly. “Has he always been that horrible, or is it an acquired characteristic?”
“Nick’s had a hard life, honey,” he said. “But he doesn’t usually go off half-cocked.” He lifted his chin and pursed his lips while he studied her. He smiled slowly. “You must have made an immediate impression.”
“I guess,” she sighed. “He asked me out.”
“He did? My God, that’s a new one. I thought he was going to moon over...never mind, that’s none of my business. But watch your step,” he cautioned, unusually solemn. “Don’t get too involved with Nick. He could hurt you badly.”
“I’ve been hurt by experts,” she replied lightly, but she meant it. “Don’t worry. He won’t get close enough to do any damage.”
He frowned slightly. “You are going out with him voluntarily?”
Sure, and the Sahara was going to freeze over any day now, she thought.
“Of course,” she replied with a cool smile. “And now, I think I’d better go home. It’s been a long day, and I’m rather tired.”
“What long day?” he burst out. “You haven’t done anything except come here!”
“That’s what I mean,” she responded.
He chuckled. “Oh. I see. Nick does act a little like a steamroller, I guess. When am I getting the rest of those canvases for the show?”
“By the end of next week, okay?” she asked, knowing it was going to mean working half the night every night.
“Fine!”
“But I may ask for a slight extension. Until 1998?” she teased.
He snorted. “Tell me another one. Go home. Sleep.”
“Anything you say.”
“If only I believed that,” he sighed. “Good night.”
She waved her hand and left. But once she got outside into the cool night air, all she could think about was Nick Scarpelli. No man she’d ever met had made such an immediate impression on her. And that odd request... Why would a man who looked like that need a woman to pretend to be in love with him?
She walked back to her apartment as people around her hailed taxis and caught buses. It was comforting to have companionship, Jolana thought, even that of people she didn’t know.
It was a brisk walk from Tony’s apartment, and she let herself in with a sigh. It was going to take her a while to figure out Domenico Scarpelli’s motive for the polite blackmail. Meanwhile, she had an exhibit to prepare for and no time to lose. She changed into her working clothes and got out her brushes.
CHAPTER TWO
AS JOLANA HAD EXPECTED, the paintings kept her up late for the next several nights. But Friday morning, she delivered them to Tony.
“Beautiful,” he exclaimed as he sorted them. “Beautiful. This, especially.”
He held up a landscape with Van Gogh-ish overtones and smiled at it. “Now, where have I seen that style before?” he asked, lifting an amused eyebrow.
“Sorry,” she laughed. “I couldn’t help it. The others are all my own style, though, aren’t they?”
“Most definitely. I think you’ll be pleased with the results of this show,” he said.
“Oh, I hope so,” Jolana responded, a small note of anxiety in her voice.
“I’ll send them over to the framers today.”
She smiled. “Fine! I can’t wait to see what they look like matted and framed.”
“You look beat, honey. Better go home and sleep for a few hours.”
“That’s exactly what I plan to do,” she told him. “Talk to you later.”
“You bet you will, you gorgeous creature.”
She walked slowly back to the apartment, remembering and dreading what was coming later in the day. That terrible Italian would be on her doorstep at five sharp to take her to the party. She didn’t know what to wear, she didn’t feel like going. If it hadn’t been for his threat about the show that she was killing herself to get ready for, she’d have locked him out and ignored him.
But that was impossible. So she napped for two hours and sorted out her closet. Would it be formal or not? She sighed over two dresses. One was long and risqué. The other a dream of an original in a soft, white sweater knit with long sleeves, a modest V-neckline and a princess waist. It would be a safe bet, since it would do for most any formal occasion without being overly dressy.
She put it on, liking the way it complemented her fair complexion. It made her black eyes blacker, her long, thick hair blonder. She added white accessories and the effect was dynamite. It might even turn Domenico Scarpelli’s head. Although, of course, she wouldn’t want to, she reminded herself.
At exactly five o’clock, the intercom buzzed and the doorman announced that Nick was on his way up.
If Jolana was hoping for any reaction from Nick, it didn’t come. When she answered the door he gave her a cursory appraisal and checked his wristwatch.
“You’re ready, I assume?” he asked politely.
“Yes.” She had her purse in hand. She turned out the lights and locked the door behind her, oddly irritated that he hadn’t even commented on her choice of clothing. He was wearing dark evening clothes, which made him look darker than ever. And more formidable. He wasn’t a heavyset man, but his height made him seem wider than he was. That, and the set of his broad shoulders and his thick, curling hair.
“You just bubble with bright conversation, don’t you, Mr. Scarpelli?” she asked sweetly as she followed him into the elevator.
“I don’t see any need to put on false fronts, Miss Shannon,” he replied coolly.
Which puts me precisely in my place, she mused, glancing toward him.
He seemed restless on the way to the party, as if his nerves were suffering. If he had nerves. Jolana had her own ideas about that. She remembered what he’d told her about the woman who thought he was carrying a torch for her, and she wondered if it had something to do with her. Steamroller he might be, but he was an attractive man as well as a very wealthy one. She could see why women would chase him.
“Where are we going?” she asked when she was seated beside him in the plush interior of his white Jaguar.
“Not far,” he said quietly, easing into traffic. “But I thought you might prefer driving to walking, in those.”
He nodded toward her shoes and their three-inch heels.
“You’re very courteous,” she said politely. “But I’ve walked in them before.”
“And gone barefoot the rest of the evening?” he murmured.
She thought she’d heard a note of amusement in his tone, and she remembered that the second time he’d seen her, in her apartment, she’d been barefoot.
“I don’t really like shoes, you see,” she admitted.
“Why?”
“I can’t feel the carpet through them,” she said, tongue in cheek.
He glanced at her, and his dark eyes sparkled with humor. It changed him, made him younger and more companionable. His complexion was olive and smooth as silk. She wondered if it felt like silk, with that shadow that obviously meant he could grow a heavy beard if
he wanted to.
“Where does your mother live?” she asked.
“An apartment in the East Eighties,” he said quietly.
“Is it some special kind of party?”
“An engagement party, for the daughter of some friends of ours.”
“Will there be a lot of people?” she persisted.
He glanced at her again. “Afraid of crowds?”
“Yes,” she said bluntly. “Terribly.”
His heavy eyebrows went up, as if he hadn’t expected that. “No, there won’t be a crowd. Just my mother and stepfather, my brother and some friends. And they don’t bite, even if they are Italian.”
She looked out the window. “Is that how I sounded?”
“No,” he said after a minute. His dark, elegant hands gripped the wheel hard. “I’m on edge. It doesn’t happen often, and I don’t like it.”
“Why did you bring me?” she asked quietly. “And why...”
“You should have been a reporter, lady, you’re nosy,” he said quite frankly. “I’m through answering questions. All you need to know is that your exhibit depends on how well you pull this off tonight.”
“I’ve never been much good as an actress,” she said.
“You’d better learn. Look loving.”
“Cling to your sleeve, bat my eyelashes and breathe, ‘Oh, Domenico,’ in my sexiest voice?” she volunteered.
“Everyone calls me Nick, except my enemies.”
“What do they call you?”
“Guess.”
She laughed softly. “I fell right into that one,” she said.
“Where are you from? Somewhere in the South, judging from that molasses accent.”
“That isn’t a good way to get acquainted,” she told him with a hard glare. “And you’re one to talk about an accent!”
“Don’t start bristling. I like the way you talk.”
“I’m glad you like something about me,” she answered darkly.
“Are you?” He sounded surprised. “I didn’t think I was your type.”
“You aren’t.”
“I wonder.”
She wouldn’t look at him. Her life was complicated enough, and she remembered all too well the perils of getting involved with a man. It was a mistake she’d already made one time too many, and she wasn’t making it again.
