A Prize Beyond Jewels. Кэрол Мортимер
in for the displaying of the Palitov jewellery collection. He turned now to look at the young lad who had just spoken to him so abruptly.
He seemed to be in his teens, and a couple of inches under six feet tall, dressed in the same faded denims and bulky black sweatshirt as the other workers, and wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face.
A face that was a little too pretty for a boy, Rafe realised: arched dark brows above eyes the green of fresh moss, and surrounded by long and thick dark lashes, a pert nose with a light smattering of freckles, high cheekbones above hollow cheeks, with full and lush lips above a pointed and determined chin.
Yes, he was a bit too pretty, Rafe acknowledged ruefully, although he didn’t seem to be having any trouble helping to wheel the display cases into place.
Rafe had arrived at the gallery at eight-thirty as usual, only to learn from his assistant manager that the Palitov crew had been here since eight o’clock. ‘I was just looking for—’
‘If you wouldn’t mind moving now?’ the boy repeated huskily. ‘We really need to bring in the rest of the display cabinets.’ Two of the more burly workmen had moved to stand beside and slightly behind the younger man, as if to emphasise the point.
Rafe frowned his irritation with that muscled presence; where the hell was Dmitri Palitov’s daughter?
Those green eyes widened as Rafe still made no effort to shift out of the doorway. ‘I don’t believe your employer would approve of your lack of cooperation.’
‘It so happens I’m only here because I’m looking for your employer,’ Rafe replied in frustration.
A wary expression now entered those long-lashed dark green eyes. ‘You are?’
‘I am,’ Rafe confirmed with a hard smile. ‘It was my understanding that Miss Palitov would be here herself this morning to oversee the installation of the display cabinets.’ He raised mocking and pointed brows.
The boy looked even less certain of himself now. ‘And you are?’
His mouth thinned with satisfaction. ‘Raphael D’Angelo.’
The boy winced. ‘I had a feeling you might be.’ The youth straightened. ‘Good morning, Mr D’Angelo. I’m Nina Palitov,’ she added as he made no effort to take her outstretched hand.
Nina had the satisfaction of seeing the man she now knew to be Raphael D’Angelo, one of the three brothers who owned the prestigious Archangel galleries, briefly lose some of his obviously inborn arrogance as those golden eyes widened with disbelief, the sculptured lips parting in surprise.
It gave Nina the chance to study the man standing in front of her. He was probably in his mid-thirties, or possibly a little younger, with long and silky ebony-dark hair styled rakishly to just below his shoulders, and with the face of a fallen angel. He had predatory golden eyes, sharp blades for cheekbones beneath that olive-toned skin, his nose long and aristocratic, sensuous lips that looked as if they had been lovingly chiselled by a sculptor, his jaw square—and at the moment tilted at an arrogantly challenging angle.
The perfectly tailored charcoal-grey suit and snowy white shirt did nothing to hide the muscled perfection of his taller than average frame—rather, it had no doubt been tailored to emphasise that masculinity! A suit that Nina belatedly realised had probably cost as much as a month’s rent on any number of exclusive Manhattan penthouse apartments. The white shirt was of the finest silk, as was the pale silver tie knotted so meticulously at his throat, and his black leather shoes were obviously of the finest Italian leather.
As if all of that weren’t enough of an indication of who he was, that softly modulated and educated English accent should have been the giveaway, added to which this man’s olive complexion showed he was obviously of Italian descent.
Nina’s gaze swept back up to that arrogant—and breathtakingly handsome—face. ‘I’m guessing from your expression that I’m not quite what you were expecting, Mr D’Angelo?’ she murmured ruefully.
Not what Rafe was expecting?
That had to be the understatement of the decade; it was bad enough that he had thought he was talking to a too-pretty boy, but discovering that boy was in fact a beautiful young woman, and Dmitri Palitov’s daughter, was a little hard to accept. Palitov was almost eighty years old, and the woman now claiming to be Nina Palitov could only be in her mid-twenties at the most.
Or maybe Nina was Palitov’s granddaughter, and for some reason was here in place of her mother?
Rafe forced the tension to ease from his shoulders.
‘Not what, who,’ he excused lightly, deciding to keep the ‘pretty boy’ mistake to himself as he finally briefly shook the hand she held out to him. A warm and artistically slender hand, the fingers long and delicately tapered, the nails kept short.
She looked up at him quizzically with those moss-green eyes. ‘And exactly who were you expecting, Mr D’Angelo?’
‘Your mother, probably,’ Rafe dismissed dryly. ‘Or possibly your aunt?’
She gave a rueful smile. ‘My mother is dead, and I don’t have an aunt. Or an uncle, either,’ she added dryly as Rafe would have spoken again. ‘Or any other family apart from my father,’ she said softly.
Rafe blinked, eyes narrowing as he attempted to process the information this woman had just given him. No mother, no aunts or uncles, just her father. Which meant...
‘I’m the Miss Palitov you were told to expect, Mr D’Angelo,’ she confirmed huskily. ‘I believe I’m what some people might describe as being a child born in the autumn years of my father’s life.’
And Rafe would be one of those people!
He’d had no idea that Dmitri Palitov’s daughter would be so young. Had Michael known? Probably not, otherwise his brother would never have suggested that Rafe charm her! It was unusual for his big brother not to have all the facts, but this just went to prove that not even the meticulous Michael was infallible.
And this woman’s identity probably also explained those two muscle-bound men now standing as silent and watchful sentinels at Nina Palitov’s back. No doubt Daddy Palitov kept a very close guard over his young and beautiful daughter.
As if those bodyguards, and the information that this young woman was Dmitri Palitov’s daughter, weren’t disconcerting enough, she now reached up and swept the baseball cap from her head, releasing a waterfall of fiery red curls that framed the beauty of her face and cascaded over the slenderness of her shoulders before flowing riotously down almost to her waist.
And leaving Rafe in absolutely no doubt that she was a woman.
Rafe’s preference in women had always been towards pocket-sized blondes, but as he saw the rueful amusement—at his expense—in those moss-green eyes, the slightly mocking curve to those lushly full lips, evidence, no doubt, that Nina Palitov found his discomfort amusing, he knew that he would enjoy nothing more at this moment than to take this beautiful woman in his arms before kissing that amusement from the sweet curve of those lush and pouting lips.
A move on his part that would no doubt cause those two muscle-bound sentinels to move with lightning speed in her defence.
Nina eyed Raphael D’Angelo beneath lowered lashes, knowing, by the glance he briefly gave at Rich and Andy as they stood behind her, that he had now realised helping to move display cases wasn’t their only reason for being at the Archangel gallery.
She had been surrounded by the same bodyguards for most of her life, had grown so accustomed to having at least two of them watch over her day and night that she rarely noticed they were there any more. She now treated the eight men who made up her security detail more like friends than people employed by her father to ensure her safety.
Which was a sad reflection on what her life had become, Nina realised with a frown.
Admittedly her father was a wealthy and powerful