by Primula Bond
Where had that thought come from? She hadn’t noticed men’s arses for ages. Correction, she hadn’t noticed men for ages, not in that context anyway. She was off men. She was off relationships and why the hell was she thinking about relationships? He had said he wanted to discuss her work. That’s what this lunch was about.
Yet all she could think about was him looking up at her painting, and even though she hadn’t seen his eyes she had felt the heat of his gaze travelling over her breasts. She had felt him wondering about that hand, the pleasure the fingers could give. And right now, beneath her thin blouse, she felt her nipples hardening in response to her thoughts, in response to the man, who was now heading back to the table. Lord, she had to get a grip.
Unnerved by her churning thoughts she picked up the menu, knocking the salt pot over in the process, which spilled a little on the laminate table top. She bent forward to clear up the resulting mess. He arrived as she was sweeping it off the table with the side of her hand.
‘That’s supposed to be unlucky, you know.’
‘I know.’ She felt another little shiver as his eyes met hers. Not fear – but something equally disturbing. ‘You’re supposed to throw it over your left shoulder or something, aren’t you? But it’s a bit crowded in here. I don’t want to get us thrown out.’
‘That would be unlucky, being as this is the last table.’ He sat down. He was bigger than she thought, not so much physically, but he filled the space; he had a presence. He wasn’t the sort of man you could ignore. Maybe that’s why she’d agreed to lunch with him.
‘You’re wondering why you agreed to come to lunch with me,’ he said softly.
Now she really did feel unnerved. It hadn’t even been a question; it was just as though he’d reached into her mind and hooked out a thought.
‘You said you wanted to discuss my work,’ she said, matching his soft tones. ‘That’s why I’m here.’ It was time to claw back her self-composure. He was a prospective client – OK, so he was pretty damn attractive too, and he was having an extreme effect on her usually well-behaved heart, but that was no reason to be acting like a shy virgin. Which she most certainly was not.
‘Indeed,’ he said, dropping his gaze to the menu, a little smile crinkling the corners of his mouth. ‘Shall we eat first?’
She ordered a crab salad – hopefully there wouldn’t be too much of it. Her appetite had left at around the same time as her composure. Well, her appetite for food anyway. She watched his hands, imagining his long fingers trailing across her skin, leaving goose-bumps of pleasure in their wake.
‘Penny for them?’ he said.
‘I was wondering if you played the piano,’ she said without missing a beat. ‘You have piano-playing hands.’
‘Is that right?’ He laughed. ‘Well, yes, I have been known to play the piano in my time.’
‘You’re a musician?’
‘I’m a composer.’
‘Wow.’ The uncool word was out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop it. ‘I’ve never met a composer before. What sort of things do you ... compose?’
‘All sorts. I used to work for Meridian television, writing jingles, that kind of thing. I mostly do commercial work. Even the weather has a theme tune, these days, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
‘Of course,’ she said, although she’d never actually thought about it. ‘And you write those?’
‘Not any more, sadly, as Meridian no longer exists. I do freelance work, these days, for various companies. Have done for the last ten years.’
‘And do you make a living doing that?’ For the second time since they’d met she could have bitten out her tongue. ‘Sorry, that’s a really rude question – what I mean is –’
He covered her hand with his, and the shock of his touch sent her looking up into his eyes.
‘Please don’t apologise.’ He was smiling again. ‘It pays the bills, yes. But more importantly, I love it.’
She couldn’t breathe. He still had his hand over hers and suddenly the busy restaurant didn’t exist. They were trapped in a bubble of time, just them, and his fingers on her skin seemed to have a direct link to her stomach, which churned in excitement. The excitement didn’t stop at her stomach, but went lower, causing a pulse to beat madly between her legs. What the hell was happening here? No one – not even Patrick – had ever made her feel like this so quickly.
He knew exactly what effect he was having on her – she could see it in his eyes – and she knew in that moment that they would be in bed together before the day was out.
‘We’re supposed to be talking about your work, not mine.’ His voice and the gentle withdrawal of his fingers broke the spell.
She told him about Anton. ‘We met at art college. I was a dewy-eyed 19-year-old and he was one of our lecturers – he’d had enough of teaching though, he wanted to start up as an agent. When I finished college he took me on as one of his first clients.’
‘That was a smart move.’
She blushed. ‘He’s been brilliant. These “Meet the artist” exhibitions were his idea; this is the first one we’ve done in Bournemouth. The shop we’re using belongs to Mick, one of Anton’s friends – it used to be an estate agent’s but that went bust and now it’s up for sale, so Mick said we might as well make use of it. There’s a fully furnished flat above. We’re using that too. Just until the end of July when the exhibition finishes.’ She was blabbering. She slowed to a halt, but he didn’t look fazed.
‘It sounds perfect,’ he said. ‘You’re based in London, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’ She smiled into his eyes – the internet was a wonderful thing. ‘Are you from round here?’
‘A born-and-bred Bournemouth man,’ he said, and she was surprised. She’d expected him to come from somewhere exotic.
‘Not married?’ Why had she asked him that? It was hardly relevant to him wanting to discuss her work.
He shook his head and suddenly there were shadows in his eyes. And she wished she hadn’t brought up the subject – especially when he turned the tables on her.
‘How about you?’
‘Divorced,’ she said. ‘Two years ago.’ Messily and painfully, she could have added, but he didn’t pursue it.
She was relieved that the waiter arrived at that moment with their lunch: crab salad for her, a deliciously scented tomato and olive pasta for him.
When they had taken their first mouthfuls and had exchanged comments on the high quality of the food, he said, ‘I want to buy a painting.’
‘Did you see one you particularly liked?’
‘I saw several. But I would really like your advice.’
‘Of course.’
She was back on solid ground again. ‘Is the painting for you or for someone else? A lot depends on where it’s going to be – people sometimes don’t consider when they buy a painting that they are going to spend a long time living with it – well, hopefully they are – and where it will be is very important –’
‘It’s for me,’ he said, stopping her in mid flow. ‘It will have pride of place in my home – and I’m rather hoping you will agree to come and look at precisely where it will hang and then give me the benefit of your expert advice.’
She felt herself blush. She had no idea why. It wasn’t an unusual request. Her clients often asked her exactly the same thing. As if he were aware of her hesitation, he went on slowly, ‘I am not a timewaster, Natalie.’ It was the first time he’d said her name and even the sound of it on his lips was charged with sexual tension. ‘I will buy a painting.’ He paused and his eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and something harder to define. ‘I take it – as there was no price tag on it – that your beautiful nude is not for sale.’
She shook her head. ‘It is not for sale at the moment. No.’
‘But one day you might change your mind – you might decide you are OK with the idea of a man, because it will be a man, I imagine, looking up at your naked beauty, day after day.’<
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Now his voice was honeyed gold and again she felt the throbbing heat between her legs responding to him. It was as if he was a puppeteer and she danced on the strings of his suggestions.
‘One day I might change my mind.’ Her voice was half gasp, half whisper and Will leant back in his chair, eyes brighter and darker than the sea beyond the plate glass window behind him.
‘I will look forward to that day. In the meantime, Natalie Crane, I will content myself with one of your Lighthouse Series – they are a very good investment, I am told.’
She nodded. He knew he had her – anything in the Lighthouse Series was twice the price of the rest of her collection.
‘So will you come? You can bring your minder if you’re worried about being alone with me.’
‘I’m not worried about that,’ she lied, meeting the challenge in his eyes with a coolness she did not feel. ‘And, yes, I will come. When would you like me?’
‘No time like the present.’ He gestured for the bill, and insisted on paying it. ‘Would you be free tonight by any chance?’
‘You are out of your tiny mind, what if he is an axe murderer?’ Anton said, when she told him her plans. Despite the intensity of their meeting she had only been with Will for an hour or so and she was back in the gallery just after two.
‘He is not an axe murderer, honey. He is a respected composer and musician.’
‘Pah – that is probably some line he was spinning to entice you into his lair where he will blindfold and gag you and do all manner of heinous things to your innocent girlish body.’
Natalie felt the pulse between her legs throb at the suggestion of being blindfolded and gagged by Will – not that he would need to restrain her to do anything, heinous or otherwise, she thought with a little ache of longing. One touch of his fingers in a crowded restaurant and she’d been helpless. God only knew what it would be like when she was alone in his flat with him – on his home ground, so to speak.
‘How do you know he’s a composer?’ Anton interrupted her lascivious thoughts and she shot him an irritated look.
‘I checked him out on my BlackBerry – he has a website, he’s on LinkedIn. There are quite a few mentions of him, actually.’ She brandished her phone triumphantly.
‘Anyone can have a website, innocent girl.’
‘Yes, but not all the other things, Anton. I can look after myself. Besides, I don’t think Bournemouth is the serial killer capital of the south, do you?’
‘Never underestimate seaside towns – haven’t you read any Agatha Christie?’
She laughed. ‘If you’re that bothered, you can come with me. You can sit outside in the car and call the police if I’m not out in a suitably decent time. Shall we say 28 minutes and 30 seconds precisely – how does that sound?’
‘I’m busy tonight.’ He frowned and glanced at her, and she saw concern in his eyes and she felt guilty for mocking him.
‘I’m sorry. I will take care. Of course I will. And he did say he wanted to buy one of the Lighthouse Series.’
Looking slightly mollified, Anton said, ‘Text me when you’re home again. If you do not, I will be forced to come looking for you.’
‘You’re not planning on coming home yourself tonight, then?’ she hedged, because he’d have known what time she got back if he was.
‘Possibly not. I’m seeing Mick. I’m taking him out to dinner to say thank you for the loan of his premises. There was talk of us getting a taxi to the restaurant so we could drink more wine.’ He paused. ‘You are welcome to join us after your rendezvous.’
‘Thanks, but don’t worry. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.’ To appease him, she gave him Will’s address, watching as he scanned the card, before conceding that at least it was in a decent enough area.
‘I will text you, as soon as I’m home,’ she promised. But I don’t know why you’re so worried. He’s just the same as any other client.’
‘He’s not like any other client, though. He’s dangerous,’ Anton said, only half-jokingly. ‘Never trust a man with a shaven head, my angel.’
Chapter Two
Much later, when she was strolling up to Will Falcon’s door, she wondered what Anton had meant. He was fond of throwaway lines, but often they had some core of truth in them somewhere. She must remember to ask him.
Will lived on the ground floor of a converted house in Queens Park, which was one of the nicer suburbs of Bournemouth, Anton had said. On her way here she’d driven past a golf course, where players were taking advantage of the late sunshine, and the road she’d fetched up in was wide and tree-lined with houses set back a little, most with front gardens and drives and some with big gates.
She’d dressed carefully and she was confident she’d achieved a mix of professional and date – the professional bit being a cream linen jacket over one of her favourite “Meet the artist” chocolate and cream strappy dresses. Cool but feminine. There was really just a hint of “date” in her fuchsia pink shoes, which had high heels, so she would be on eye level with Will, which would make her feel more confident.
As she waited for him to respond to her ring on the bell she breathed in the scent of roses. There was a bush of pale cream ones to her left and they smelt glorious. Beyond them were borders of peonies and petunias. Someone looked after this pretty front garden; she wondered if it was Will.
And then he was in front of her. ‘Good evening.’ He greeted her with a smile. ‘Welcome to my home.’ He stood back courteously while she stepped over the threshold into a spacious hall with wood block flooring and a large mirror in a gold surround on one wall. Very minimalist, very chic. She hadn’t been expecting that for some reason.
‘May I take your jacket?’
He was still close enough for her to catch the scent he wore, something spicy. She slipped off her jacket and gave it to him. There was no reason not to, except that suddenly she became conscious of her bare shoulders and the dress, which, although it swung freely around her knees, clung to her waist and hips with revealing closeness. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good choice after all.
‘You look nice,’ he said. So maybe it had.
‘So do you.’ He wasn’t wearing the shorts and T-shirt he’d been in earlier, but olive chinos and a dark brown polo shirt that made him look even more tanned.
‘Have you just been on holiday?’ she asked.
‘No, I just have the type of skin that tans easily. And I can work outside, just as easily as inside. Please – come through. Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Wine? Something else?’
‘Coffee will be great.’
While he made it she looked around his lounge. Like the hall it was big for a flat – it had high ceilings with a cornice around the top of the room and an elaborate pattern above. A squashy cream leather sofa ran along one wall and a matching armchair faced the wide-screen telly. A round glass-topped coffee table with a wagon wheel inset just below the glass caught her attention and she went over to look at it.
‘I bought that in Africa, do you like it?’
She hadn’t heard him come back into the room, but suddenly he was beside her.
‘I love it. It’s very unusual.’
‘I thought so too.’ He bent to put a tray on the table, which held a cafetière of coffee, two oversized cup and saucers and a silver sugar bowl, and she caught another waft of his scent – spicy, exotic, dangerous. She remembered what Anton had said and shivered slightly.
Straightening, Will glanced at her in concern. ‘You’re not cold, are you?’
She shook her head – not sure what to say – and for a moment he studied her, before clearing his throat, almost deferentially. ‘While our coffee brews, perhaps you would like to see where I plan to hang your painting?’
‘Yes, that would be marvellous. It’s why we’re here.’ Why was she gabbling? Dry mouthed, she was suddenly sure he was going to take her into his bedroom. Oh Lord.
He was moving towards the lounge door, and she followed him across the
hall. There were four doors. Which one was likely to be the bedroom? Not the one nearest the front door surely – that was probably the bathroom. It was most likely the door opposite the lounge where they had just come from. There was no way she could cope with going in his bedroom and not touching him. The chemistry between them was raging like a forest fire.
Maybe she should leave – say she had suddenly remembered she was supposed to be somewhere else. She felt like a cat on scalding bricks – so jumpy that the slightest touch would send her blood pressure soaring into orbit. Her heart was already beating too fast. Touch me, touch me, touch me, it yelled in a relentless pounding rhythm.
Or maybe it was just her – she knew it wasn’t just her. When he’d asked her if she was cold, his gaze lingering on her bare shoulders, his pupils had been so large his eyes were almost black. He might be acting like an impartial prospective client but she knew he fancied her as much as she fancied him.
‘Just through here,’ Will said, and opened the door opposite the lounge.
She was so close behind she almost cannoned into him when he stopped just inside the doorway. So much for running away. She couldn’t wait to get into his bedroom.
‘I thought maybe –’ He turned and their faces were so close that ...
‘Sorry.’ She was in his personal space – or was he in hers? All she knew was that they were not in a bedroom. She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. They were in a big L-shaped room full of musical equipment: speakers; a keyboard; wires that snaked across the floor from a plug to an amplifier. And was that a grand piano in the bay window? The air smelled of something spicy and exotic – no, that was him. So close. So close, so close. But in that heartbeat of a second it no longer mattered which room they were in, because in the next moment they were in each other’s arms. She didn’t know who had engineered it – maybe her, maybe him. She only knew it didn’t matter. It felt right that they were in each other’s arms.
