was amusement.
Not open, not pronounced, but there all the same—in the narrowing of his eyes, in the indentation of his sculpted lips. And more than amusement there was something else, just discernible to her. Slight but distinct surprise.
Alexa knew why. He’s not used to being answered like that—and not by a woman.
She felt a sliver of satisfaction go through her. Then was annoyed with herself for feeling it. Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she care whether this man was or was not used to having someone answer him like that?
‘You do not believe in pitching, do you, Ms Harcourt?’ The subtly accented voice was dry.
Alexa gave the slightest shrug. ‘To what purpose? Either you like my work and wish to engage me, or you do not. It’s a very simple matter.’
‘Indeed.’ The voice was a dry murmur again. One narrow, long-fingered hand reached out to close around the stem of a martini glass and raise it contemplatively to his mouth, before lowering it to the table again. His regard was still impassively on her. Then, as if reaching a decision, he got to his feet.
Alexa did likewise. OK, she thought, that’s it. No deal. Well, so what? Imogen will be cross with me, but actually I’m glad he’s decided against me.
She wondered why she felt so certain of that, but knew she did. She’d work out later just what that reason was. Then it came to her.
Because it’s simpler. Easier. More straightforward.
Yet even so she felt her mind sheering away. And necessarily so. Now was not the time to analyse why a feeling of relief was going through her not to be painting Guy de Rochement’s portrait—or why the feeling running just beneath the surface of that relief was something quite, quite different.
Regret…
No! Don’t be absurd, she admonished herself sternly. It’s just a commission, that’s all. You’ve done dozens, and you’ll do dozens more. Just because unlike all the others this one is young and ludicrously handsome, it means nothing at all. Nothing.
He was speaking, and she cut short her futile cogitations.
‘Well, Ms Harcourt, I think we have reached the end of our necessary exchange, don’t you?’
Guy de Rochemont was holding his hand out to her. She made herself take it, ignoring the cool of his touch and dropping it again the moment social convention permitted.
‘Quite,’ she agreed crisply. She picked up her bag, ready to turn and leave.
‘So,’ Guy de Rochemont continued, ‘I will have my PA phone your representative and arrange my first sitting—should it prove possible within the restraints of our respective diaries.’ He paused a moment. Just the fraction of a moment. ‘I trust that meets with your approval, Ms Harcourt?’
Was that amusement in his voice again? A deliberate blandness in his gaze? Alexa found her lips pressing together as her thoughts underwent a sudden and complete rearrangement.
‘Yes—thank you,’ she answered, and her voice, she was glad to hear, was as crisp as ever.
‘Good,’ said her latest client, as if the word closed the transaction. And then, as if Alexa had just ceased to exist, he looked past her. His expression changed.
‘Guy! Darling!’
A woman sailed up to him, ignoring Alexa’s presence as if she were invisible. A cloud of heavy scent surrounded the woman even as her slender braceleted arms came around Guy de Rochemont to envelop him. Alexa caught an impression of tightly sheathed black silk, long lush black hair, and a tanned complexion. Moreover, the woman’s features were definitely familiar. Who was she? Oh, yes, Carla Crespi—that was it. An Italian femme fatale film actress who specialised in sultry roles. Alexa hadn’t seen any of her films, as they weren’t to her taste, but it would have been hard not to have heard of the woman at all.
She turned to go. It was par for the course that a male of Guy de Rochemont’s calibre would have a woman like that in tow. Someone high-profile, high-maintenance, who would, above all, adorn him. A trophy woman for an alphaplus male.
She heard the woman launch into a stream of rapid Italian, pitched too loud for private conversation and therefore, Alexa assumed, designed for public consumption—drawing attention to herself, to the man she was with. Tucking her handbag firmly under her arm, Alexa left her to it and departed.
She felt strangely disconcerted.
And it annoyed her.
She would have felt even more disconcerted, and certainly more annoyed, had she realised that behind her Guy de Rochemont had disengaged himself from Carla Crespi and was looking after Alexa’s departing figure as she threaded her way across the room.
His eyes were very slightly narrowed and their expression was speculative. With just a hint—the barest hint—of amusement in their long-lashed emerald-green depths.
Imogen was, predictably, cock-a-hoop at Alexa’s triumph. Not that Alexa saw it in that light at all—not even when Imogen disclosed the fee she had negotiated, which was considerably higher than Alexa had yet commanded.
‘Didn’t I tell you you’ll be made after this?’ Imogen demanded. ‘You’ll be able to name your own price, however stratospheric. It’s all fashion—you know that!’
‘Thank you,’ Alexa said dryly. ‘And there was I thinking it was my talent.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Imogen. ‘But brilliant artists are ten a penny and starving in their garrets surrounded by their masterpieces. Look, Alexa, art is a market, remember? And you have to work the market, that’s all. Stick with me and one day you’ll be worth squillions—and so will I!’
But Alexa only shook her head lightly, and forebore to discuss a subject they would never see eye to eye on. Nor did she discuss her latest client, even though Imogen was ruthless in trying to squeeze every last detail out of her.
‘Look, he’s just what you said he was, all right? A jaw-droppingly fantastic-looking male, rich as Croesus. So what? What’s that got to do with me? I’m painting him, that’s all. He’ll turn up late to sittings, cancel more than he makes, and somehow or other I’ll get the portrait delivered, get my fee paid, and that will be an end of it. He’s having the portrait done for his mother, and presumably it will hang in her boudoir, or the ancestral hall, or one of them. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ll never see it again and that will be that.’
‘Mmm,’ said Imogen, ignoring the latter half of Alexa’s pronouncement and rolling her eyeballs dreamily. ‘All those one-on-ones with him. All that up-close-and-personal as he poses for you. All that—’
‘All that cool, composed professional distance,’ completed Alexa brusquely.
‘Oh, come on, Alexa,’ her friend cried exasperatedly. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t swoon if he made a pass at you. Of course you would—even you! Mind you…’ Her eyes targeted Alexa critically. ‘Dressed like that you won’t get the chance!’
