She collected herself, clamming up.
The dark eyes rested on her. She hadn’t a clue what was going on in them. Didn’t care, anyway. Why should she? If he wanted to make stupid conversation with her, she didn’t have to make it back. Couldn’t anyway. She knew that. Knew she knew nothing. And didn’t care either.
I just care about getting this job.
He was speaking again, taking another considered mouthful of wine. ‘That’s rare, these days, even for the British,’ he observed.
Kat shrugged.
‘You never went abroad on holiday as a child, with your parents?’
‘No.’ She’d never been on holiday, period. As for her parents—a junkie, prostitute mother and an unknown, could-be-anyone father didn’t really cut the mustard when it came to taking their darling daughter off on foreign jaunts …
Anger spiked through her suddenly. Anger at what this man was digging out of her. She turned it towards him to get rid of it—the quickest way she could. ‘Look, what is this?’ she demanded belligerently. ‘What’s it to you whether I’ve ever been abroad or not? I haven’t—OK? Is that some kind of crime in your book?’
The hard features hardened abruptly. ‘I told you I don’t tolerate attitude,’ he bit out at her. ‘Do you really have no idea how to conduct yourself? Because, if so, perhaps I should reconsider my decision.’
He watched with satisfaction as emotion jabbed in her eyes, then subsided.
He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s better.’
He resumed eating. Was the girl really worth the trouble, after all? Yet even as he questioned himself his eyes were going back to her. Taking in those high cheekbones, the luminous skin, the extraordinary eyes focused once more on picking at her salad, the jagged blonde hair edging the sculpted line of her chin. Raw, rough, resistant—yet she drew the eye. And not just his.
He could see it in the other diners. Females were glancing at her, and not just because she was dining with him. He could see she was making them feel as if they themselves were overdressed, fussy, with too much make-up, too elaborate a hairstyle. As for the men—they were looking at her because she was completely, supremely, not paying them attention.
And that quality—that ability to draw eyes—was all that mattered about her. Not her rudeness, her insolence, her thinness, her ignorance.
She’d started to eat finally, forking the green salad mechanically. How the hell she lived on such a diet he couldn’t imagine. But presumably she did it because she had to—competition amongst models was ferocious, and she was right: the camera did add weight. Did she really not do drugs? he mused. His eyes glanced at her arms, but they were unblemished—though that was hardly proof positive. She’d seemed adamant, however, and anyway drug usage was an instant termination of contract clause for models.
As she ate, she made no attempt to talk to him—didn’t even look at him, or anywhere else. Illogically a flicker of annoyance went through him. The last thing he wanted was the girl getting any ideas, yet at the same time being so totally blanked by her made his mouth tighten. He reached for his wine again, taking another contemplative mouthful as his eyes rested on her. For a moment he found himself wondering whether, by some remote chance, the girl had any hidden depths to her. It was extremely unlikely, of course. Nevertheless, having insisted on her presence, he should interrogate her for the purpose he’d stated.
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