Imogen wailed. ‘Honestly, if you just knew how hard I’d worked to get you set up there! Hey-ho—I’ll just have to suck up to the bovine PA and get another meeting sorted.’
She was back ten minutes later, cock-a-hoop. ‘Jackpot! He’s dining at Le Mireille tomorrow evening, and has agreed to meet you in the bar at seven forty-five before-hand.’ She gave a trill of glee. ‘Ooh, it’s almost like a date!’ she gushed. ‘I wonder if he’ll fall for your gorgeous English rose looks and be smitten in a coup de foudre? You must make sure you’re looking absolutely stunning!’
Fortunately for her friend’s blood pressure, Alexa made sure Imogen did not see her before she set off, with deep reluctance, to the ultra-fashionable watering hole the next evening. The moment she walked in she was extremely glad she had chosen to wear what she had. Every female there was in a number that screamed Look at me! By contrast, Alexa knew that her grey blouse and grey pencil skirt, with grey low-heeled shoes and matching bag, together with no make-up and hair repressed into a tight, businesslike bun, was designed to minimise her looks.
She gave her name—and that of the man she was due to meet—to the snooty-looking greeter inside the entrance. The woman’s eyebrows lifted palpably as Alexa said Guy de Rochemont’s name, and cast a sceptical glance over her unassuming appearance. Nevertheless she despatched a minion into the hallowed interior of the premises, where only the select few were permitted. The look of scepticism increased when the minion returned with a nod to indicate that, unlikely as it was, someone as dull looking as Alexa was of the slightest interest to such a man as Guy de Rochemont.
‘It’s a business appointment,’ she said crisply, and then wished she hadn’t—because why on earth did she care what a snooty greeter in a place like this thought one way or the other?
As she was led into the bar area—already crowded and filled with people noisily sounding off about themselves—her mouth tightened. This was not a place she’d have spent a single penny, even if she’d had the hundreds it required to dine here. It was showy, flash and superficial.
Was that what her prospective sitter was going to be like? Briefly she flicked her eyes around, looking for someone who might look like the way Imogen had so gushingly described him. There were certainly plenty of candidates. If egos had mass, the collective weight of self-regard in the room could have sunk the Titanic, Alexa thought waspishly. And doubtless Guy de Rochemont’s ego would be a prime contributor. So which one was he? It could be any of them, Alexa acknowledged, for all the men looked sleek, rich, and unswervingly pleased with their own existence.
‘M’sieu de Rochemont?’
The minion had halted, and the rest of what he said disappeared into French too fast for Alexa to follow. It was addressed to someone sitting at a low table. She could only see his back, shadowed by the minion’s body. As the minion spoke to him he nodded briefly, and the minion beckoned her forward. She walked stiffly up to the unoccupied chair on the far side of the table, and sat down without waiting for either invitation or instruction.
‘Good evening,’ she said, her voice workmanlike, busying herself setting down her handbag. Then she lifted her eyes to the man seated opposite.
Could you hear the sound of a jaw dropping? she wondered, with some fragment of her brain that still functioned outside the complete fuzz that was suddenly her sole consciousness. Then another thought gelled. Oh, hell, Imogen was right…
Because, like it or not, whatever her scepticism had been, one thing was completely and irrefutably incontrovertible about Guy de Rochemont. He really was—well…She flailed about in her brain, trying to find words. Failing. Visual impressions raced through her mind—and more. Guy de Rochemont hit places that were far more than visual.
Visceral.
How—she scrambled for sense—how could a mere arrangement of features common to every human being vary so much in their impact? How was it that a combination of things that everyone else had—eyes, nose, mouth—could be so…so…
Her eyes skittered over him, taking in everything and anything—the sculpted face, the slant of his eyebrows, the thin blade of his nose, the finely shaped mouth, the edged line of his jaw, the sable hair that was perfectly framed around his head. She drank him in, unable to do anything else but succumb to the impact.
Dimly she was aware that he had half-risen at her appearance, but had sat back again as she had already sat down, and was now sitting with a kind of lean grace that—again—she could viscerally register without conscious assessment, one long leg crossed over the other and arms resting on the curving contour of the tub chair, relaxed and completely at ease with himself.
That’s the pose, she felt herself think, feeling the familiar leap of conviction when the physical world arranged itself to perfection, ready for her to capture it to canvas.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, her brain still processing what her eyes were conveying to her. There was a rushing feeling going through her, a breathlessness. She was used to getting the buzz of pre-creation, but this was different. Far more intense…
Different.
She knew it was different—so different. She also knew she had never reacted in this way before in her life, but she pushed the knowledge to one side. She would deal with it later. Wonder about it later. Analyse it later. Right now…Right now all she wanted to do, all she could do, was simply let her eyes work over that extraordinary face, the incredible arrangement of features that just made her want to gaze and gaze and gaze at them.
Then, as if from far away, consciousness forced its way through. Awareness of what she was doing. Staring wordlessly at the man sitting opposite her.
Who was letting her gaze at him.
And even as the consciousness came through she felt, as if in slow motion, a wave of reaction. More than consciousness—self-consciousness. Her jaw tightened, and she stiffened, deliberately blinking to cut off her riveted perusal of him, regain some normality again. But it was hard. All she wanted to do, she knew, was to go right back to gazing at him, working her way over and over his features.
What colour are his eyes?
The question seared across her brain, and she realised she couldn’t answer. It sent a thread of panic through her that she didn’t know his eye colour yet. Her gaze pulled to get back to his face, to resume its study. She yanked it back. No! This was ridiculous, absurd. Embarrassing. She wasn’t going to gaze at him gormlessly like a teenager! Or scrutinise him as if he were already sitting for her.
She straightened her spine, as if putting backbone into herself. Forced a polite smile to her mouth that was the right mix of social and business.
‘I understand you are considering having your portrait painted?’ she said. Her voice sounded, to her relief, crisp and businesslike.
For just a moment Guy de Rochemont did not answer her—almost as if he had not heard her speak. He continued to hold his pose, quite motionless, as if he were still under her scrutiny. He didn’t seem to think it odd, she registered dimly, and then wondered just how long—or how—briefly—she’d been gazing at him. Perhaps it hadn’t taken more than few seconds—she didn’t know, couldn’t tell.
Then, with the slightest indentation of his mouth, matching the socially polite smile Alexa had just given, he spoke.
‘Yes,’
