his gaze had reached into the deep shadow of ripe cleavage revealed by her corseted bodice. An unwelcome shudder ran through him. Someone ought to explain to this little hussy how to dress for a business meeting.
He dragged his mind from her attractions. This remained business, no matter how outlandish or desirable the company’s representative might be. Commerce had always struck him as a sordid affair and until recent years, he’d rarely engaged in it. This afternoon’s only objective must be the promise of a large amount of easy money to top up his funds so he could continue renovations on the house. The fact Miss Armstrong oozed the sex appeal of a lively whore had nothing to do with it.
Business. That’s all. He’d spent too long in control of things to let them slip now.
“Well, Mr. Johansson?” She looked over her shoulder, arched a smooth dark eyebrow, shook her small digital camera at him and followed up with an encouraging little smile. “You are going to show me around, so I can make some notes and get a few shots?” The way her lip curled up at the corner tore at him. The tiny movement invited him to so much more.
“Yes, of course. As you are so late in your arrival,” he said, unable to resist the challenge.
Yet she simply shrugged the one naked shoulder and gave him a sultry smile.
“I suggest we start in the ballroom. It’s the largest room in the house, and you might find it the thing your company wants. If you’ll follow me, Miss Armstrong.”
A pity she had to walk behind him. There would have been a kind of pleasure in watching her walk before him. The short tutu skirt would flick and entice with her swaying steps.
His effort to banish such thoughts brought a film of sweat to his upper lip. Her heels tapped a call to arms as he led her down the corridor to the double doors of the ballroom. Perhaps too busy looking at the ancestral portraits, so far, she’d not uttered a word.
He opened the doors and heard the soft catch of her breath as he ushered her through. This room instilled such reactions. How many times had he seen it? And still he marveled at the symmetry and glory of the gilded decoration.
Mirrors lined three of the walls, giving him the added discomfort of being able to view all of her as she stepped forward. The red bolero clung to her small, narrow back and enclosed the contours of her well-rounded breasts, which the tight-laced bodice did nothing to disguise. A hint of the outline of her nipples against the silken fabric made him roll his tongue against his teeth.
If he’d found her in St. James’s Square in his youthful wanderings, she’d have cost five guineas, maybe more.
“Good God, I’d not expected anything like this,” she said.
He nodded. How could she have expected perfection like this?
The panel of French windows onto the terrace did not give enough light on such a gray day. While she stood wide-eyed, he flicked on the switch so the eight crystal chandeliers sprang to golden life.
“Will this room suit your purposes?” He posed the question as she busily scribbled notes. She held the thick stylus at an unusual angle in her lace-clad hand. Long, square tipped nails, shiny with crimson gloss, sent his pulse pounding. He licked his lips and forced the ache down to a manageable level. Her visit must be a short one, for he could bear her company no longer. A flash from her small camera startled him back to her presence.
“We can get at least a half a dozen good shots in here, a masked ball type thing,” she murmured, speaking almost to herself. “Do those doors open?” She strode across the polished floor to the doors, pausing briefly to snap another photograph.
“Yes, they lead to the terrace and there are steps down to the formal gardens.” He followed her quick pace. “Would you like to see?” At last, something which gave him some illusion of a business arrangement.
She gave a little sigh, as though he were too slow to understand what she wanted. “Please, Mr. Johansson. I do have a job to do. Not that I want to make you feel as though we’ll invade your home, but I need to get the schematic for this over to Franklyn before the end of the month.” She quickly thrust one of the French windows open. He ignored her jibe, but added it to her list of imperfections. Late, dressed like an expensive trollop, she must be the most unprofessional individual he’d ever met, and appeared far too swift in her assumptions.
“Of course, Miss Armstrong, forgive me. When one has lived in a home so long, one feels every guest should be given time to enjoy its delights.”
Her eyes narrowed. The pink lips pursed, yet she nodded. “I’m sure. However, my job is to find if it’s suitable for a music video shoot, Mr. Johansson. I’m not here to assess the individual merits of your home or its decor.”
She stepped out onto the terrace, despite the rain, and made her way over to the large, ornamental terra-cotta pots standing at the top of the steps leading down to the bowling lawn. Rain drops gathered like tiny pearls on her glossy red shoes.
“These are good. I could probably use them,” she said, nodding toward the sweep of the steps and taking more photographs. “Do you have a maze?”
“No, I have never felt the need for one.”
“Pity, I could have done something with one. Never mind. Is there anything more you think would be suitable? Remember, we are looking for gothic horror, at this point. Though of course, things can change.” She headed back into the ballroom.
He followed and did his best to maintain his composure. This young woman seemed to have no qualms at suggesting his home might not suit.
“May I suggest the library?” he said as he closed the French windows behind them.
“Sure, lead on.” Her heels tapped across the floor, and he caught up to her. As they walked out of the ballroom and he led her down the corridor to the next room he believed would be suitable for the project, he noted one of his strides matched two of hers.
“Excellent. Now this is something special.” She patted the Louis XIV desk in the library before taking a shot.
“I’m pleased you approve.”
She ignored his words, took three more pictures and made notes. “I’d like to see the kitchens?”
The request startled him. “Why? You don’t intend to use them, do you?”
“Please, don’t plan my job for me. The kitchens, Mr. Johansson? Which way?”
“Very well, follow me.” Irritation prickling, he led her out of the library. Her conversation proved nil and she bordered on rude. He ought to have guessed the true magnificence of the house would be wasted on these music industry types.
They descended the green, wrought iron spiral staircase to the kitchens. The rain-dampened ringlets of hair moved as she paced quickly through the door he held for her. The image of those lustrous coils wrapped tight around his hand as he tilted her head back to taste her mouth hovered. Swiveling around to face him, she seemed to pick up his thought, and a further widening of her pupils sent an electric hot flash to his groin. She blinked slowly.
Interesting. The barrier she drew against him when she closed her eyes proved surprising. Whether she knew it or not, she’d raised her hackles. Well, that wouldn’t last long should he choose to take her.
A
