Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress. Sabrina Philips
but at least it was too brash and too noisy for there to be any danger of lingering conversation over an intimate table for two.
Leon looked up, to see a young couple tumble out of the door and begin devouring each other up against the window, and he stifled a grin.
‘It looks good to me.’
Cally did a double take, doubting he was serious. Then she wished she hadn’t, because the sight of his impossibly handsome face beneath the soft glow of the street lights made her whole body start with that ridiculous tingling again.
‘Fabulous. And my hotel is only two streets away,’ she said, as much to convince herself that after one drink she could return to the safety of her room as to remind him.
‘What could be better?’ he drawled, the look in his eyes explicit.
She swallowed down a lump in her throat as they passed the couple, who were yet to come up for air, and entered the bar.
It was dark inside, the sultry vocals of a female singer stirring the air whilst couples absorbed in one another moved slowly together on the dance floor. Oh yes, great idea, Cally. This is much safer ground than a quiet bar.
‘So what will it be, a Screaming Orgasm or a Pineapple Thrust?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Cally swung round and was only partially relieved to see that Leon was reading from a cocktail menu he’d picked up from the bar.
‘I’ll just have a mineral water, thanks.’ Leon raised his eyebrows in disapproval before the words were even out of her mouth. ‘OK, fine,’ she retracted, briefly running her eyes down the menu. ‘I’ll have a…Cactus Venom.’
When was the last time she’d had a drink? A glass of wine at her nephew’s christening in January. God, she really did need to get out more.
Leon slipped off his jacket and ordered two of the same, somehow managing, she noticed, to look exactly like he fitted in. She, on the other hand, crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest, feeling horribly overdressed and self-conscious.
‘So, don’t tell me—you come here all the time.’ Cally said, marvelling at how quickly he seemed to have got the waitress’s attention, although on second thoughts she could guess why.
‘Well, you know, I would, but I live in France. What’s your excuse?’
She laughed, relaxing a fraction as they found themselves a table and sat down. ‘I live in Cambridge.’
‘You mean you didn’t know that the Road to Nowhere was waiting just around the next corner?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Cally shook her head, remembering the auction and thinking that the bar’s name was altogether too apt.
Leon seemed to sense her despondency and raised his glass. ‘So, what shall we drink to?’
Cally thought for a moment. ‘To discovering hard work doesn’t pay off in the end, so why bother?’
Something about his company, the atmosphere, made her realise that maybe she did need to talk about it after all. She hoped it was that, and not that she couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning work.
‘Sorry,’ she added, suddenly aware of how discourteous that sounded. ‘To…the Road to Nowhere.’
Leon chinked his cocktail glass against hers and they both took a sip of the yellow-green liquid, smarting at the sour taste.
‘So, tonight didn’t exactly go to plan for you?’ Leon ventured.
‘You could say that. The London City Gallery promised me the restoration job on the Rénards if they won them. They didn’t.’
‘Maybe you should offer your services to whoever did.’
‘According to the guy manning the phone, it was an anonymous private collector.’ Her voice rang with resentment.
‘Who’s to say a private collector won’t commission you to complete the restorations?’
‘Experience. Even if I could find out who he or she is, they’ll either choose someone they know or the team who can get it done fastest. The rich treat art like a new Ferrari or a penthouse in Dubai—an acquisition to boast about, instead of something everyone deserves to enjoy.’
Leon went very still. ‘So if you were approached, your morals would stop you from working on them?’
Cally turned away, emotion pricking at the backs of her eyes. ‘No, it wouldn’t stop me.’
She was aware how unprincipled that sounded—or more accurately how unprincipled that actually was—but it wasn’t just because of the opportunities that working on them was bound to lead to. It was because she could never turn down the opportunity to work on the paintings that had determined the direction of her entire life, even if that life now seemed to be one big road to nowhere. She shook her head, too mortified to admit as much.
‘I’d be a fool to turn it down if I ever got the opportunity. If I worked on the Rénards, I’d be known across the world.’
Leon gave a single nod. So, whatever impression she’d given at the pre-auction, what she wanted was renown. But of course, he thought cynically, what woman didn’t? And, going by her protestations that she didn’t want to talk about work, followed by her emotional outpouring on the subject, she didn’t seem any more capable of sticking to her word than the rest of her sex. Well, there was one way to be sure.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘So, was the pre-sale the first time you’d seen Mon Amour par la Mer?‘
Cally shivered. ‘I…I didn’t think you’d noticed me that day.’
He waited for her eyes to lift and meet his. ‘On the contrary, that was when I decided that I wanted to make love to you. In fact, that was why I came back to the auction.’
Cally gawped in shock at his nerve, whilst at the same time a treacherous thrill zipped up her spine, which surprised her even more than his words. Words which told her that, unbelievably, he had wanted her when she’d been dressed like Cally, not just tonight when she felt like she was playing dress-up to fit in with the art world. The world which, contrary to her initial impression, he wasn’t a part of either. He who had only been there tonight because of her. How was that possible? Wasn’t it obvious that she lacked that sexual gene, or whatever that thing was that most other women had? She didn’t know, but suddenly all the reasons she’d amassed for loathing him toppled over, taking her defences with them.
‘I ought to walk out of here right now.’
‘So walk.’
‘I…I haven’t finished my drink.’
‘And do you always do exactly what you say you are going to do, Cally?’
She was sure he turned up his accent when he said her name on purpose, sure he knew it made her stomach flip. Even surer that she didn’t have the strength to walk away.
‘I hate people who go back on their word.’
‘As do I.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘However, there were some parts of this agreement we didn’t specify—like whether this drink included a dance, for instance?’
Cally drew in a sharp breath as she looked to the grinding mass of bodies on the dance floor, now slowing to a more languorous pace as the soloist with the heavy eyeliner and the husky voice began a rendition of Black Velvet.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Why not? Isn’t seizing the moment one of life’s beauties that art celebrates?’
Art, Cally thought. It was a celebration of life. But when was the last time she’d actually stopped to remember that and allowed herself to live it? She drank him in—his dark blond hair falling over his forehead, his eyes smouldering with a fire that both terrified and excited her—and