by Maggie Cox
She realised she was definitely apprehensive that Blaise could potentially turn out to be like that. No doubt her friends would be more than impressed with his dazzling good-looks, achievements and wealth if they were in her shoes—but then they still thought that money and fame were some kind of Holy Grail to instant happiness while Maya sadly knew different.
With a sigh that was part relief at getting away from that horrible weekend party and—shockingly disturbingly—part lingering regret that she’d more or less indicated to Blaise that she wasn’t at all interested in going out on a date with him, she let herself into the tiny studio flat, dropped her bags onto the rush-matted floor and moved across the room to open the window and let in some fresh air.
As she turned back to survey the small domain that was both her living room and her sleeping quarters, when she turned down the functional bed-settee each night, Maya’s gaze alighted on the medium-sized portrait hanging on the opposite wall. It was a painting of herself at fourteen… Her dark hair was in thick plaited ropes, and there was an expression in her eyes that easily reflected the painful shadows in her teenage heart. It had been painted at her father’s insistence, during one of his more mellow periods. A rare time when he hadn’t been drinking and partying into the early hours and had perhaps had an inkling of his daughter’s deep unhappiness at his neglect of her.
‘Smile, darling!’ he had coaxed from behind the easel that had been permanently set up in what had once been the dining room of the grand Georgian residence they’d lived in. The space had been commandeered as her father’s studio due to the exceptional quality of the light that had flooded in through the huge windows.
‘I don’t feel like smiling,’ Maya had answered, in typical sulky teenage fashion but with an ache in her heart big enough to fill an ocean.
The portrait had turned out to be the last picture her father had ever painted.
After that, more late-night drug- and drink-fuelled parties had beckoned, with his so-called ‘friends’, and there had been no more mellow periods ever again. Three years after that he’d taken his own life, and at seventeen Maya had lost her home as well as her father.
Impatient at the deeply disturbing memories that made her feel heavy as lead, she glanced at the time on her watch, making a decision. She would forgo unpacking her stuff and instead go into Camden Market and have a coffee at her friend Diego’s coffee bar. She’d sit and scan the Sunday newspapers, deliberately bypassing the doom-laden stories for the lighter ones, and instead of letting her mind be racked with regret and pain she’d watch the endlessly interesting characters that came and went in the market, imagining what their lives were like instead of dwelling on her own, and the day could just unfold however it willed…
‘What do you mean, give her a job?’ Jane Eddington—Blaise’s quick-minded, sharp-suited American agent—threw Blaise one of her most piercing and suspicious glances over the top of her high-fashion reading glasses.
‘Someone really has stirred your sugar, honey, haven’t they? You’ve never gone this far before in order to get a woman into bed! Don’t tell me there exists in the world a female who can actually resist your charms, Blaise—myriad and devastating though they are?’
‘Your encroaching years are making you cynical, Jane…and it doesn’t suit you,’ Blaise countered with a scowl.
‘I’ll ignore that distinctly ungentlemanly remark and simply say this: you’ve just spent the past twenty minutes verbally blasting Jonathan Faraday again for being an out-and-out sleaze and a snake for trying to coerce this girl into bed against her will, and now you’re doing the same…albeit more covertly…by asking me to give her a job just so you can conveniently call on her whenever the mood takes you!’
‘Please don’t insult me by suggesting I’m remotely like that poor excuse for a human being! He’s put Maya in an untenable position and practically forced her to resign. She really does need a job and I want you to hire her. You’re always saying you need extra help around here.’
‘Maya? Is that her name?’
With a mocking little smile, Jane adjusted her glasses and met the piercing azure glance of the answer to every woman’s prayer currently perching his Savile Row-suited, perfectly taut male bottom on the edge of her desk.
‘You know that name means illusion, don’t you? Perhaps you’ve dreamt the lady up out of pure sexual frustration and the fact that it’s been…what? At least six months since your last affair?’
With an impatient sigh Blaise shook his head and pushed to his feet. ‘You know far too much about me, and it’s not healthy.’
‘Look, darling…I really would like to help you out, but I hired a girl only just last week. She starts on Monday.’ With a glance that was perfectly guileless, Jane removed her glasses, laid them down amongst the detritus of paperwork on her desk and with the air of an old-fashioned headmistress folded her arms.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Blaise.
‘I forget. I know I’ve written it down somewhere…’ She waved her hand vaguely towards the pile of paperwork in front of her.
‘Hmm…Well, if you won’t do me this one small favour and employ Maya at the agency then I’ll simply have to suggest that she comes and works for me personally. No doubt there are at least a dozen jobs she can do to help me out. As you know, I’ve started the new play, and so as long as she has an inkling of how to do research, type and make the odd cup of coffee she’ll probably work out just fine.’
‘And that’s really all that you want her to do for you, is it, Blaise?’
Despite the impatience that had been building inside him like a pressure-cooker for the last few days—because it had been that long since he’d last set eyes on Maya and no phone call from her had been forthcoming—he sensed a devilish smile hitch the corners of his lips upwards. ‘Darling,’ he drawled sarcastically, ‘I really don’t think it’s any of your damn business!’
Glasses perched firmly back on her nose again, Jane shot to her feet with a deep frown between her perfectly arched slim brows.
‘You mean you’d really take her to the wilds of Northumberland with you? In the five years I’ve been your agent I’ve never known you to take a woman up there—especially when you’re working!’
For answer, Blaise tunnelled his fingers through the sleek strands of his dark gold hair and strode casually across to the door.
‘They say there’s a first time for everything. I’ll be in touch. Hope your new girl works out okay. I’ll look forward to meeting her when I get back to London.’
With a knowing little smile and a mocking salute, he abruptly turned and went out through the door…
‘Oh…it’s you!’
Staring back into the deep blue eyes of one of the country’s finest playwrights as he stood casually on her doorstep, looking for all the world as if he made a habit of calling on her at odd hours of the day or night, was like being hypnotised. Maya sensed her heart clang loudly in alarm. Clutching the sides of her short towelling robe tightly together, and with her long hair still dripping from her shower, she hardly knew what to say or think. She couldn’t deny that the man had been on her mind pretty much constantly since he’d given her a lift home that disastrous weekend, but quite frankly finding him on her doorstep was as startling as if Prince William or Harry had unexpectedly made her a visit!
‘Yes, it’s me.’ He grinned, unabashed. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m—I’m fine…surprised to see you, that’s all.’
He considered this for a long moment, before flashing Maya another disturbing smile. ‘And you don’t like being taken by surprise, I take it?’
‘I don’t know. I mean—’
‘I’d like a word with you, if I may? Can I come in?’
‘Well, I—’
‘You’re not about to leave for work, are you? I thought as it was after ten you would have left by now if you were going.’
‘I wasn’t planning on going anywhere today other than the supermar
ket, for some groceries. And as for going to work…Jonathan Faraday decided not to wait for Monday to accept my resignation, but rang me on Sunday night instead, to suggest that I didn’t bother to go back at all.’ Shrugging off the wave of anger that arose inside her at the crude, almost aggressive way Jonathan had spoken to her, as if this whole sorry mess was her fault, Maya stood up a little straighter as she sensed her shoulders start to slump.
‘Anyway, I decided to give myself the week off to take stock of things. I’ve told the agency I’ll start back at work next Monday.’
‘You know you could doubtless sue him for unfair dismissal, citing sexual harassment?’
‘And give myself even more grief?’ Maya shook her head with a bitter little laugh. ‘He’s probably done me a favour. At least I won’t have to put up with his sleazy behaviour any more!’
The implacable look on her visitor’s mesmerising face gave her no clue as to his thoughts right then, and Maya sensed her stomach sink. Did he think she was a fool for not putting up more of a fight for her rights than she had? Right then she could have wept at the injustice of it all. No matter how hard women had fought for equality it was still a man’s world when all was said and done—and didn’t birds of a feather flock together?
‘I’d still like to come in, if that’s okay? I promise this won’t take long. I can see that my timing could have been a bit better.’
‘I was in the shower when you rang the bell.’
‘So it appears.’
His definitely interested gaze made a casually bold appraisal of Maya’s partially clothed state. It was as though the beam of a red-hot laser touched her everywhere at once. In contrast, an icy drip of water slid down the back of her neck from her wet hair and caused a convulsive shiver.
‘You’d better come up, then. You’ll have to let me finish dressing and drying my hair before we talk.’
‘Don’t feel you have to do that on my account.’
His huskily voiced drawl made another wave of heat submerge Maya, and she quickly turned back inside the house, before he could witness the fierce, revealing blush that scorched her cheeks, and headed up the stairs. Her teeth nibbling worriedly on her lower lip, she wished she could relax about Blaise being right behind her, but it was seriously challenging knowing his gaze was doubtless lingering on the natural sway of her shapely hips, and he would be fully aware that beneath her robe she was as bare as the day she was born…
Having reluctantly watched his very diverting hostess disappear into a bathroom on the landing, and having been directed by her to enter the room next to it, Blaise breathed out to try and ease some of the inevitable tension that had gathered inside his chest. He knew he was taking a risk, forcing the issue rather than waiting for Maya to ring him, but damn it he was going back up north the day after tomorrow, and he simply couldn’t wait any longer for a phone call that—going by the deafening silence of the week—was probably not even forthcoming. It wasn’t his style to chase a woman, but it was as if something stronger than his own will—some force of nature he could not ignore—was now in charge where this girl was concerned. It compelled him all the more to find out why.
Noticing a little pottery vase of yellow and white freesias on the mantelpiece above a small fireplace swept meticulously clean, Blaise briefly bent his head to sniff their distinctive piquant scent. Glancing round, he interestedly examined the rest of the room. Not that there was a lot to see. A simple light brown couch, submerged beneath a veritable bazaar of silky cushions in varying shades of purple and red, faced an armchair that looked like a refugee from a charity shop. With its frayed arms and flattened seat, it had definitely seen better days. Apart from a small pine wardrobe tucked away in a corner, and a stout oak bookcase with its shelves literally crammed with paperbacks and hardbacks, Maya’s furniture was very slim pickings indeed.
He sensed a frown forming. He knew stagehands at the theatre who lived more luxuriously than this! As he released a sigh, his gaze inadvertently collided with the most stunning portrait of a young girl. Apart from a couple of film posters it was the only picture in the room. Even at a distance he could see it was a sublime work. Moving closer, Blaise realised two things that made his heart almost jump out of his chest. Firstly, the portrait was of a teenaged Maya—a very vulnerable-looking and beautiful Maya, on the cusp of young womanhood—and secondly, the artist who had painted it, confirmed by the scrawled name at the very bottom right-hand corner, was only one of a handful of British artists whose work could literally command millions.
Blaise should know, because he was the envied owner of one of his paintings himself. A searing, frank depiction of a well-known actor his father had mentored, it had captured him on stage during dress rehearsals for the play that had made his name. It had been left to Blaise by his parents after they’d passed away, and it hung in pride of place at his house in the North. He could have sold it a thousand times over, such was the worldwide demand for this particular artist’s work. and he’d long craved to own another one.
Rubbing a troubled and curious hand round the back of his shirt-collar, he felt the skin between his brows pucker again. How had Maya come to know such an acclaimed artist and sit for him? More than that, why was she living in a one-roomed studio flat in a hardly prosperous area of Camden when she had in her possession a portrait that was without a doubt…priceless?
The noisy whirr of a hairdryer briefly distracted him. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Blaise returned his stunned attention back to the portrait. Captivating didn’t come close to describing it. Even if you didn’t know the girl whose cat-like almond-shaped green eyes gazed back at you with the kind of wounded glance that made a man feel personally responsible for whatever had hurt her, and broke something open inside him that he’d probably prefer not to have disturbed, you’d know you were witnessing something quite extraordinary.
The door opened and the sitter for the portrait—now clothed in light blue denims and an ethnic patterned silk top, with her pretty feet disturbingly bare—ventured an uncertain smile in his direction. The second her shy glance met his, a deep, magnetic tug of pure, undiluted sexual awareness made everything inside Blaise clench hard.
‘This is you…right?’ Fielding the sensual heat that now gripped him with a vengeance, he indicated the painting he’d been studying. Her tentative smile vanished.
‘Yes.’
‘The artist is world renowned…how did you come to sit for him? Was he a friend of your family’s, perhaps?’
Maya’s ensuing heavy sigh was laced with irritation.
‘People are always so impressed by fame and celebrity, aren’t they? It doesn’t always follow that the person concerned is the best example of a decent person you could know or even like. Why don’t people ever think about that? Because in my book that’s the thing that really counts.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I HEARD that Alistair Devereaux had his challenges. He must have had to take his own life.’
Maya winced. ‘So you know about that?’
‘He was probably one of the most inspirational and influential artists of his generation. How could I not have known that he’d killed himself?’ Blaise’s brow creased. ‘But you still haven’t told me how you came to sit for him.’
Eight years he had been gone, but the pain never seemed to lessen… Maya experienced the familiar tumult of despair and shuddering shock that she always felt when the subject of her father’s death came up, and she restlessly linked and unlinked her hands as she mentally stumbled to stay upright against the great swell of hurt that surfaced in her heart. She could see that Blaise was clearly puzzling over how on earth someone like her could have sat for one of the country’s most illustrious artists, and she couldn’t help resenting the unspoken judgement that out of habit she naturally assumed.
‘He was my father.’ An edge of defiance underlined her tone.
‘Your father?’ Genuinely taken aback, Blaise stared.
‘That�
��s right.’
‘I wasn’t aware that he’d left children behind.’
‘Well, he did…me.’
‘But your name’s Hayward, isn’t it?’
‘After he died I started using my mother’s maiden name.’ Maya lowered herself into the armchair because her legs suddenly felt disconcertingly wobbly. Visitors to her humble little home inevitably remarked on the portrait—why should Blaise Walker be any different? The picture was the only beautifully crafted thing in the room, and therefore it was bound to draw attention. But most of her friends didn’t even know who the artist was, and Maya had not been in a particular hurry to enlighten them.
Now, linking hands that were suddenly icy, she watched silently as her enigmatic visitor lowered his tall, fit frame onto the couch, moved cushions out of the way to get comfortable, then briefly speared his fingers through his hair.
‘Why? Because it was difficult to live with the attention from the press and the public?’ Blaise speculated.
‘Something like that.’
‘What about your mother? Presumably she must have outlived him?’
‘No. She died when I was four. I hardly remember her.’
‘That’s tough.’
Silence, then…‘So you were left on your own?’
‘I managed.’ Embarrassment was crawling over her skin with debilitating heat, and Maya shrugged. Then, riding the crest of her unease, she observed her handsome visitor with a steely look. She’d had enough of this awkward exchange, and the truth was after the week she’d just had she was in no mood for playing games with anyone—least of all with another man who was possibly only after one thing.
