‘Because that sort of thing usually passes by the time they hit sixteen. It will be pop stars then.’
Maire gave her look, part horror, part resignation. ‘I hope not. At least Kain’s a good role model—no drugs, no run-ins with the cops, no drunken outings splashed across the newspapers, and a decent discretion in his affairs.’
Sable changed the subject, but later that night she wondered why Maire had felt it necessary to bring up the subject of Kain Gerard.
Surely she hadn’t discerned the surprising sensations he roused in Sable, that sharp, powerfully—and entirely—physical response that brought a rush of adrenaline to heighten her every sense?
Possibly; Maire was astute and one of the reasons she was a good designer was her instinctive understanding of people.
Grimacing, Sable put Kain Gerard out of her mind.
Later that week she dressed for the first display of the art, a warehouse affair to show appreciation for the artists, the committee who’d worked so hard, and the various patrons of the Foundation, not to mention the organisations that would benefit from the auction. The following morning the pictures would be transferred to the Browns’ mansion.
Mentally going over her list to make sure she’d left nothing undone, Sable slid into a pair of black trousers bought from a second-hand shop specialising in designer cast-offs. It was two years since they’d been a fashion item, but the cut was timeless and they fitted her perfectly.
No more clothes until she’d paid off the debt she owed to her landlady, she thought, getting into a collarless red shirt cut so that it hugged her body. Tiny silver buttons arrowed from her throat to her waist. The mock-coral arm cuff and her high-heeled boots repeated the colour of the shirt and her lipstick.
‘Too much of a muchness?’ she wondered, staring at her reflection.
Then she shrugged. What did she care? As she’d be on duty she didn’t want to look overdressed, but she certainly didn’t need to fade into the background either.
Poppy and her mother were checking the arrangements when she walked in. The younger woman came racing across.
‘You look terrific!’ she gushed, eyes darting to take everything in. ‘I really, really like the way you put your hair up—how does it stay so burnished and silky looking?’
‘Willpower.’ Sable grinned at her. ‘That’s a super dress. Love the necklace.’
Poppy grimaced. ‘Thanks, but I’d give anything to look as glam as you. I’m like Mum—doomed to prettiness.’
Laughing, Sable shook her head at her. ‘Millions of women and girls long for a similar fate.’
‘I’d give anything for style,’ Poppy said earnestly.
Her mother came over, gave Sable an assessing look that smoothed into approval and said, ‘Everything seems to be under control, Sable. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Just keep an eye on everyone and let me know if you see any problems.’
The older woman frowned, then hastily relaxed her face. ‘Mark’s afraid some of the artists might drink too much and start arguing. Remember the barney that erupted last year?’
Sable shrugged. ‘I’ll be alert, but it’s a help to have someone ready to move in on any argument that looks as though it might get out of hand. If you could keep an eye on anything that might erupt I’d be grateful. I find that introducing someone else—especially someone who looks as though they might be a buyer—usually stops people getting too passionate. It should be fine.’
It was. Everyone behaved themselves, the rich and the social made appropriate noises when confronted by the pictures they’d theoretically come to see, and as the evening was winding down a famous rugby front-row player, a figurehead for a prominent charity, astounded everyone by expounding with insight and appreciation on the use of symbolism in one of the more outrageous pictures.
‘Learning anything?’ a deep, dark voice said from behind Sable.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing up straight, Sable drew in a quick breath and composed her expression. Only then did she turn her head to meet Kain Gerard’s darkly hooded eyes. In the stark black-and-white elegance of evening clothes he looked—utterly gorgeous…
How, in those supremely civilised clothes, tailored for him by a genius, did he also manage to emit a hard-edged aura of danger?
Her dancing heartbeat shocked her, but she met the cool challenge of his survey with slightly raised brows as she answered, ‘Somewhat to my surprise, yes.’
‘Guilty of stereotyping, Sable?’ He stretched her name, lengthening it into a lazy drawl that came close to a caress. Or a taunt…
Whatever, it did amazing things to her body, summoning a wildfire heat. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said crisply. ‘In future I’ll remember that rugby players can be intelligent as well as athletic.’
‘Why Sable?’ When she stared at him he elaborated smoothly, ‘It’s an unusual name.’
‘When I was born I had a cap of black hair about the same length and texture as my father’s brushes. He decided to call me Sable.’ She noticed his empty hands and seized an opportunity to regroup her defences. ‘Let me get you a drink and something to eat.’
Kain looked around the room; within seconds a waiter materialised with a salver of champagne, followed immediately by another carrying a tray of delicious titbits.
Made even crosser by this indication of Kain’s innate presence, Sable decided to assert herself. ‘Do have some champagne. And if you like mushrooms, I can heartily recommend those stuffed ones.’
He said, ‘Thank you,’ and managed the acceptance of glass and mushroom with deftness. ‘How about you? Your glass is almost empty.’
Her father’s addiction had made Sable wary; she rarely drank more than one glass of wine. With a quick smile she said to the waiter, ‘Nothing, thank you.’
But the wretched man glanced at Kain, waiting for his short nod before moving away. Amused but resigned, she accepted that any good waiter would recognise an alpha male when he saw one!
And Kain was certainly a number one alpha.
‘How nice that you came,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you spoken to Mark—Mark Russell?’
‘I came to see you.’
Startled, she looked up. Although a smile curved that sculpted mouth, his pale eyes were burnished and unreadable. ‘Why?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Do you want it spelt out?’ he asked softly, his narrowed eyes holding hers.
Heat flared in the pit of her stomach when he finished, ‘Not here, I think. How much longer before you can get away?’
Many of the guests had already left, but quite a few were still busily networking. Excitement pulsing hotly through her, Sable tried and failed to catch Mark’s eye.
