mother. She seems to consider it something she would like.’ His voice was dry, and had a trace not just of an accent somewhere in his near perfect pronounciation, but of wry humour too. It also possessed a quality that, to Alexa’s dismay, did very strange things to her. Things she busily pushed to one side. She gave a nod, and another polite smile.
‘One thing, Mr de Rochemont, that I always warn clients about—should you wish to commission me, of course—is the amount of time that must be set aside for portraiture,’ she began. ‘Whilst I appreciate that calls on your time will be extensive, nevertheless—’
He held up a hand. It was, she saw, long, narrow, and with manicured nails that gave the lie to a manicure being an effeminate practice.
‘What would you like to drink, Ms Harcourt?’
Alexa stopped in mid-sentence, as if the question had taken her aback. ‘Oh, nothing, thank you,’ she said. ‘I really don’t have time for a drink, I’m afraid.’
Guy de Rochemont raised an eyebrow. Alexa felt her eyes go straight there. Felt the same rush of intensity that she had felt when she had first seen him. The simple movement on his part had changed the angles on his face, changed his expression, given him a look that was both questioning and amused.
‘Dommage,’ she heard him murmur. His eyes rested on her a moment.
They’re green, she found herself thinking. Green like deep water in a forest. Deep pools to drown in…
She was doing it again. Letting herself be sucked into just gazing and gazing at him. She pulled back out again—out of the drowning emerald pool—with another straightening of her spine.
‘Completion of the portrait will depend entirely on the number of sittings and the intervals between them. I understand it may well be irksome for you, but—’
Yet again, Guy de Rochement effortlessly interrupted her determined reversion to the practicalities of immortalising him for his mother on canvas.
‘So, tell me, Ms Harcourt, why should I select you for this task, in your opinion?’
The quizzical, questioning look was in his eye again. And something more. Something that Alexa found she didn’t like. Up till now he had been the subject, she the observer—the riveted observer, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Now, suddenly, the tables were turned.
It was as if a veil had lifted from his eyes.
Emerald jewels…
Guy de Rochemont was looking at her. Straight at her. Unveiled and with full power.
It was heady, intoxicating—made her breathless! The words tumbled through the remains of her conscious mind, even as she felt the air catch in her throat.
Oh, good grief, he really is…
Attempts at analysis, classification, evaporated. They couldn’t do anything else, because all she was capable of doing was sitting there, letting Guy de Rochemont look at her.
Assess her.
Because that was what he was doing. It came to her fuzzily, through the daze in her brain from the impact of those incredible green eyes resting on her. He was assessing her.
Rejection tightened through her. It was one thing for her to study his appearance—she was supposed to capture it on canvas! But it was quite another thing for him to subject her to the same scrutiny. And she knew just why he was doing it. For the same reason any man would do so. And when the man in question was someone like Guy de Rochemont, with a banking empire in his wallet and the looks of a film star, well—yes, he would think, wouldn’t he, that he was entitled to evaluate her to that end?
Her mouth pressed together, and a spark showed in her eye. She suppressed it. She would not show she was reacting to him…to his uninvited scrutiny, she amended mentally. Because of course she was not reacting to him—not in any way other than to acknowledge, quite objectively, that his looks were exceptional, and that she needed to study them in order to paint them. That was all. All.
Yet again she recovered her composure, stifling her reaction to him, to those extraordinary eyes.
‘That isn’t a question for me to answer, Monsieur de Rochemont,’ she responded. ‘The selection of portraitist is entirely your own affair. If you wish to commission me, that is your privilege, and I will see whether my schedule is congruent with yours.’
She met his regard straight on. Her voice had been admirably crisp, which she was pleased about. All right, Guy de Rochemont was…Well, she wasn’t about to run through the adjectives again—the evidence was right in front of her eyes! But that didn’t mean she had to put up with being on the receiving end of his attention. Not that she had any reason to be concerned, anyway. There was only one outcome from his assessment. He would be seeing a plainly dressed, unadorned woman who was making not the slightest attempt to enhance her looks to please the male gender, and signalling thereby on all frequencies that she was not on any man’s menu. Even that of a man who could quite clearly take his pick of the world’s most beautiful women.
She wondered whether he would take offence at the way she’d responded to his question. Tough. She didn’t need the commission, and if—and it was, she knew, a very big if—she took it and if—and that was probably an even bigger if, because a man like him wouldn’t care to be answered off-handedly—he commissioned her anyway, she was most definitely not going to pander to the man. Yes, he would doubtless cancel sittings—because all her clients did to some extent or another—and that was understandable given the demands on his time because of his high-powered business life, and it was something she could cope with. But there was no way he was going to get the slightest pandering to, or her begging for the commission, or anything like that, thank you very much! She offered a service, a degree of skill and artistry. If a client wanted to buy it, that was that. If not—well, that was that too.
She met his gaze dispassionately as she finished speaking. For a moment he did not answer. She did not break her gaze, merely held his, looking untroubled and composed. The brilliance of his eyes seemed veiled somehow, as if he were masking something from her.
His reaction, she thought. I can’t tell whether he’s annoyed, or indifferent, or what. I can’t see into him.
Again, it wasn’t something that was unusual for her, given the calibre of her clients. Powerful men were not transparent to the world, and indeed that air of elusiveness, of restrained power, was something that usually went into her portraits—she knew, with a slight waspishness, that it was a form of flattery by her, to portray them as inscrutable.
But with Guy de Rochement the masking was, she felt, more pronounced. Perhaps it was because his was such a remarkably handsome face, so incredibly, overtly attractive to women. Women—any women—would expect to see some sort of reaction to them in his eyes, even if it were only polite indifference. But with Guy de Rochement nothing at all came through of what he was thinking.
She felt a tug of fascination go through her—the eternal fascination of an enigmatic man—and then, on its heels, a different emotion, a more chilling one.
He keeps apart. He holds back. He shows only what he wants to show, what is appropriate for the moment.
Then, abruptly, he was speaking again, and her attention
