Freefalling

by Zara Stoneley

Nope, she could do it; what did he think he was, totally irresistible? OK, he was nearly, but not totally. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh Hayley.’ He had the faintest quirk to that strong, straight mouth that made her want to stretch up and kiss him. ‘You really don’t know who I am, do you?’

  Why the hell should she know who he was? He was Tom, the guy whose eyes had seemed to follow her round the gallery, the one man in the room who’d drawn her to him like a magnet. The light in the dark that she couldn’t resist because she’d known it was impossible. Fate.

  ‘Thomas Holah?’

  Nope, try again, mate. Maybe he was famous and she’d missed it – some B-list actor. Let’s face it, she didn’t even recognise the A-list stars if she bumped into them, so what chance did he stand? Though with looks like that she was so sure she’d have instantly known him if she’d seen him before.

  ‘I’m your client, Miss Tring, the mystery guy who’s commissioned the paintings? I’m the man you’ve just told me is the most important person in the world right now.’

  ‘No, that was that man with you, that guy who –’

  ‘That guy was my PR man, Hayley, the guy who insisted I take a look at your work.’

  Shit. That was bad. That messed things up on a major, out of this world scale. How could she keep her emotions to herself if she had to work for a man who she had an insatiable urge to lick and nuzzle all over?

  Chapter Two

  ‘Calling planet Tom, anyone there?’

  Tom glanced up with a guilty start and met the quizzical stare of his PA. ‘Sorry, I was …’

  ‘Miles away, I’d say, and I guess you’re not going to explain where?’ She cocked one eyebrow and waited, still holding out a pile of papers patiently. Hanging on with reluctance when he tried to take them.

  ‘Correct, Annie, you know me so well.’

  ‘You can be so boring, Thomas Holah.’

  ‘Boring by name and boring by nature.’ He grinned. ‘And don’t you forget it, Annie Marshall.’ Annie had worked for him since he’d started up, and she knew practically everything there was to know about him, but this was one time he wasn’t talking. ‘You’re worse than my mother, you know.’

  ‘I know, ’cos you can’t talk to her about your woman issues.’

  ‘Annie!’

  She grinned knowingly. ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘I don’t have woman issues, I never have woman issues.’

  ‘First time for everything, sunshine.’ She winked. ‘You really look like you could do with a decent night’s sleep, you know. Too much bed and not enough sleep?’

  He would have liked to scowl and send her away with a sarcastic comment, but she was right. ‘Out.’ He’d not had enough sleep, and for all the wrong reasons. Like thinking, and trying to work out why, for the first time he could remember, he wanted a woman and she didn’t want him.

  The door clicked shut quietly behind his PA and he leant back in the leather chair, swivelling round to look over London from his prime office spot. He didn’t have woman issues, ever – or he thought he didn’t, until one in particular had bounced into his life. One that had kept him awake last night, having the kind of dirty thoughts that shouldn’t be allowed.

  Hayley Tring had stopped him in his tracks. He hadn’t needed Simon to point her out as the artist because he hadn’t cared who she was. She just glowed, centre stage, and he hadn’t been able to look at anyone else all night. Everywhere he looked she’d been on the periphery of his vision, a bright beacon of visible energy. Totally different to every woman he’d ever slept with, but totally everything his body wanted the moment he’d seen her.

  She was slim, slender to the point of untouchable, and yet he’d wanted to, needed to, reach out and feel her. His fingers itched to glide over those elegant cheekbones, and he wanted to see if the burnished gold skin stretched flawlessly over every tantalising inch of her body. He’d wanted to feel that curtain of silken red hair brush over him, wanted to sweep the heavy fringe to one side so that he could look into the depths of those deep green eyes. And he’d wanted to strip her totally bare and explore every inch of what was underneath.

  Which was romantic tosh, seeing as he didn’t know her from Adam.

  She’d been restrained when they’d been introduced, but just the lightest touch of those cool fingers had sent a rush of blood to his groin. And when he’d bumped into her on the way to the cloakroom he hadn’t been able to help himself. She’d practically jumped on him like an excited puppy, and so he’d done what came naturally. And then he’d wanted to do it again.

  No woman had ever fallen so magically apart as she came, never cried out his name as though it mattered. Never screamed and begged and laughed and cried and made him wish he’d got the energy to keep going all night.

  But there again, no woman had ever thrown him out in the morning, leaving him with throbbing balls and an instant hard-on every time he thought about her. He thought she knew who he was, but that look of horror and the “well, that really is the icing on the cake” comment before she’d practically pushed him out of the door knocked that notion on the head and left him bloody confused. So it certainly hadn’t been a gratitude fuck. But the way she’d touched him and wept what looked like real tears made it hard to believe that it had just been a quick shag for her.

  He turned back to his desk and stared blankly at his laptop. He’d only agreed to go to the exhibition because he didn’t trust Simon to drag his tired image into the 21st century for him. Simon scared him. And art bored him, until he’d seen the paintings and, for the first time ever, actually felt something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Although he could pinpoint exactly what he’d felt when he set eyes on the artist. And it had a lot to do with the current ache in his groin.

  Drumming his fingers on the desk wasn’t helping either; he stopped abruptly and put his hands behind his head, willing the tension out of his body. Making sure she hung about long enough to produce the pictures he wanted was all about proving to the PR company that he knew his business better than they did, but stopping her shutting him out was more than that. For some reason she’d convinced herself that dating and drawing didn’t mix. And he wanted to know why. And he wanted her.

  And the fact that she didn’t want him made him even more determined. Even if it might be more than a little bit selfish.

  The buzz of the intercom made him start guiltily; he was being irrational. She was supposed to be the flighty, arty one, wasn’t she? He was the sane, sensible, boring one who dealt in black and white. The one who put business first and knew when a deal was worth chasing.

  ‘A Ms Tring just called, Tom.’

  ‘Put her through.’ Every part of him stiffened, jumped to attention, even though he’d given his dick strict orders to stay out of this.

  ‘She isn’t on the line.’

  ‘Well, why the hell not? Get her back on.’

  ‘She said she didn’t want to talk to you, she was just returning your call and wanted to leave a message.’

  Shit. ‘What do you mean she doesn’t want to talk to me?’ She really did think she could just walk away, just dump the commission …

  ‘She said …’ There was a shuffle of papers as though Annie was checking her notes, but there was a smile in her voice which said she knew exactly what she was doing to him. ‘She said she’s available for lunch to discuss business at 12.30, The Gallery.’

  ‘The Gallery? As in the art gallery?’

  ‘The Gallery is what she said. I told her you had a prior engagement, which –’

  ‘You told her what?’

  ‘That you had a prior engagement –’ Annie’s calm tones washed over him ‘– but I’d be able to rearrange. And I have done.’

  This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

  ‘I knew it was woman trouble.’ The warm sound of satisfaction ran through her voice. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Just an artist I’ve commissioned.’

  ‘Just? She’s
made you very jumpy.’

  ‘It’s business, it was Simon’s idea.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Do you want to know when I’ve rearranged your other lunchtime appointment for?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve put it in the diary.’ At least common sense had won over and she was prepared to do the paintings, which meant that, like it or not, she’d have to talk to him. And he’d be able to see her again.

  ‘I have. And Tom?’

  He forced the image of her naked body out of his head reluctantly. ‘Yes, Annie?’

  ‘Don’t forget to sign these letters before you go, will you?’ The tinkling laugh was cut off as she flicked the intercom switch. She’d baited him for years about his inability to commit, teased him remorselessly when he’d refused to let a woman become more important to him than his work, and now it seemed that womanly sixth sense was working overtime.

  He was in a suit, which, if anything, was sexier than the jeans he’d worn to the exhibition. It made him look smooth, sleek, and dangerous, which wasn’t what Hayley wanted at all. She wanted boring and ordinary. Grey.

  ‘I’m glad you changed your mind.’ He grinned in a boyish way that made her want to wrap her arms round him, and bury her head in his chest and … Bugger.

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’ She ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips and tried to avoid his eyes, which meant staring at his broad chest, and down to his hard, lean thighs, and big, warm hands. Boy, they’d been warm; she could still feel the heat he’d generated in her as he’d stroked his way over every inch. Stop it; she had to stop it. ‘I, we, I need to talk to you about the paintings.’ She paused as Maisie, one of the assistants at the gallery, carefully unwrapped a plate of sandwiches. Waited the lifetime it took to slowly peel the clingfilm off, to painstakingly straighten the individual triangles. They were sandwiches, for God’s sake. It didn’t matter. ‘If you still want me to do them, that is.’

  ‘Talk away, then.’ He sat down, smiled a brief thank you at Maisie and ignored the makeshift lunch. He was making her nervous the way he was just sitting, staring at her in that curious searching way he had. Bloody nervous. And hot. All over.

  ‘I wish you’d stop looking at me.’ He grinned. ‘You’re putting me off.’

  ‘I know.’ The grin broadened, reaching his eyes until they crinkled slightly at the corners. ‘You’re gorgeous when you get agitated, you know.’

  ‘Bugger.’ Bugger, bugger, bugger. So much for being calm and professional. Concentrate. Talk business. This was business, and all she had to do was keep it that way. Talk. And stop looking at him, do not look at him.

  She picked up one of the sandwiches and studied it, peeled a corner up. ‘Cress? Do people still put cress on sandwiches? Look I’m sorry, but it’s just I can’t …’ The words froze as he leant forward, pulled the sandwich from her fingers, and dropped it back onto the platter.

  ‘I still want you to paint for me, Hayley, and I still want to take you out.’ She couldn’t avoid those eyes any longer, and he seemed to be seeing straight into her soul. It wasn’t the words but the way he said them that sent goosebumps down her arms. ‘I don’t know anything about art, but I know everything about doing what you believe in.’

  ‘You could find someone else.’ Please.

  ‘I’ve already found you.’

  ‘If I’m going to paint then it’s got to be …’ He raised an eyebrow, which, for some reason, made her even more nervous.

  ‘All business, no pleasure?’

  ‘Something like that. I can’t paint if we’re, well, you know, involved,’

  ‘We can just shag, no involvement?’ His eyes were crinkling at the corners even if he was keeping his face straight.

  ‘It’s not funny, Tom.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘Why did you come to the exhibition? I mean, you’re not really into art, are you?’

  ‘Whoa, quick change of direction.’ He was giving her that lopsided smile again. ‘Is it that obvious? The me and art thing?’ He leant back a bit, which at least took him further away from her twitchy fingers. ‘I guess it is from that silence. Well, I was told you were the perfect antidote to my boring, dull existence. Or rather, your paintings would be. I’ve been told –’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially ‘– I need livening up, a bit of colour in my grey life, would you believe it?’

  ‘You were lively enough the other night.’ Bugger. She shouldn’t have said that; it slipped out in normal Hayley fashion a nanosecond before her brain caught up and told her it was a bad idea.

  ‘See, it’s working already. OK, OK.’ He held up a hand at the look she threw him. ‘But I don’t get why we can’t have fun while you’re doing the work. Surely a bit of fun can’t do any harm, can it?’

  ‘But it’s not always fun and when it’s not fun I can’t paint happy and I paint happy best. I’m shit at painting tortured.’ There, she’d said it, and from the look on his face she could imagine the confusion rattling round his brain. But she’d learned her lesson from Chris; too many high and lows, too little time to paint. And then the low. The real deep-down low when painting a black canvas would have been all she was capable of. With a splash of stupid regrets.

  ‘I don’t want tortured, I can do that on my own.’ He had picked up one of the sandwiches, was turning it round and studying it, and for the first time she could remember he wasn’t looking at her. ‘I want fun and happy. Your paintings kind of light up a room, you know. Something about them just kind of grabbed me.’ He sounded slightly surprised, as though it was the first time he’d thought about it. ‘Though that’s a crap way of saying it. But my life is all about work and winning, very dry.’ His voice had a strange edge and he still wasn’t looking at her, then he took a bite of the sandwich and pulled a face. ‘Bit like these.’

  Hayley laughed at his expression and something caught in her chest.

  ‘That was a bit of a speech, wasn’t it?’ He dropped the rest of the sandwich back down. ‘We could keep it light?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good friends rather than lovers?’

  ‘No.’ She fought a losing battle with the smile that was trying to find a way out. ‘I need time, my own space.’

  ‘Fuck buddies?’

  ‘Tom!’ Laughter bubbled up in her throat.

  ‘Well, I thought we fitted together quite well. Shame to waste it.’

  She squirmed, trying not to remember just how well they’d fitted together, and failing. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘So you’ll do your stuff as long as I keep my hands to myself, is that what you’re saying?’

  Oh, if only it were that simple. ‘Shall we just see how it goes?’ The words she was trying not to say jumped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  ‘Sounds like a plan to me.’ He grinned. ‘Celebratory snog?’

  God, why was she agreeing to this? What part of her brain thought it was a good idea? ‘Who exactly said you were grey and boring?’

  ‘Oh, my mother, sister, PA, you name it – oh, and of course Simon, my wonderful PR guru, who is trying his best to give me a makeover. I’m officially Mr Boring; I never do anything without a plan, you know. I could ruin your life.’

  Which is what I’m afraid of. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re not that bad.’

  ‘These sandwiches are, though. Can’t we go and grab a proper lunch, please?’

  ‘No snogging.’

  He sighed. ‘God, you’re a hard woman, Hayley. OK, no snogging.’

  ‘You can tell me what you want from me –’ She’d done it again, that look on his face said it all. ‘What you want me to paint.’

  ‘Then after that, can I tell you what I really want from you?’ He laughed; a full, deep laugh that echoed deep inside her, making her stomach clench and her pussy twitch. Maybe they could just have fun. Maybe she could do that, enjoy the moment and not want more, not get involved. Or maybe not.

  ‘Sod off.’ She grinned. ‘Lunch. That’s what I want, I’m starving
and you, my dear rich benefactor, can pay.’ And when he swatted her rear as they headed for the door, it was nice, and friendly. And moreish. And made her think she’d need to stock up on very long-lasting batteries for her vibrator if she was going to survive this.

  He wasn’t grey and he wasn’t boring. But she already knew that.

  ‘You choose.’ He smiled at her over the menu.

  ‘Me? How am I supposed to know what you want?’

  ‘Men do it all the time.’

  ‘True. But it always seemed a bit daft to me.’

  ‘Guess.’ His mouth twitched. ‘And I’ll make you eat what I don’t like.’

  He’d picked the perfect place, even if he didn’t want to pick the food. She loved tapas, quick mouthfuls of fresh flavour, each one a different explosion on her taste buds. ‘How did you know I’d like it here?’

  ‘I guessed. Go on, pick, I trust you. I thought you were hungry.’

  ‘Sure?’ A grin twitched at her mouth; she liked spice, she liked variety, and she guessed from the way he’d shagged her that he might be the same. But who knew? So she went the full hog from sweet crab to spicy pimiento, from garlic to ginger, and everything in between. At least he wouldn’t want to kiss her after that lot.

  ‘You look like a naughty schoolgirl.’ His eyes had darkened. ‘Which might not be a good thing from your point of view. You’ve not got a uniform still hidden away at the back of your wardrobe?’ He really was going to test every last bit of her self-control. ‘I take it from that look that I’m just supposed to eat and stop talking?’

  He ate it, all of it, including the big chilli that was decoration, which he stuck in his mouth whole.

  ‘You’re changing colour, you know,’ she observed. He was so moreish, even if he was turning a funny shade.

  ‘Not grey and boring?’ He choked on the words, tears streaming from his eyes, which made him kind of hard to resist.

  ‘Pink, as in lobster pink.’ She really shouldn’t laugh at him. Really. He was just too easy to – well, to connect with. ‘Is that how you want your paintings?’

  ‘I want –’ He topped up their wine glasses and dabbed at his eyes with his napkin. ‘Fuck, I want to be able to breathe again.’ She watched transfixed as he took a long swig of water, could sense it rippling its way down his throat. She could kiss her way down that neck; feel that Adam’s apple move under her tongue. ‘I want you. In the paintings, I mean. I want colour and life and spontaneity and fun, everything my boring predictable life hasn’t got. Is that stupid?’