number, Sabina hadn’t returned any of them.
‘I would stay away from my Uncle Richard, if I were you,’ David Latham had informed him ruefully at the party last week once the other man and Sabina had left. ‘He’s a collector of priceless items—and he considers Sabina part of that collection. He also brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “black-sheep of the family”,’ David had added with a grimace.
Richard Latham wasn’t the one Brice was interested in. Although, as he was quickly learning, there seemed to be no other avenue to reach the beautiful Sabina…
For such an obviously public figure, she was actually quite reclusive, was never seen anywhere without the attentive Richard, or one of his employees, at her side.
Brice knew, because he had even attended a charity fashion show the previous weekend with his cousin Fergus, and his designer wife, Chloe, at which he’d known Sabina had been making an appearance. Only to have come up against the brick wall of what had appeared to be a bodyguard when he’d tried to go backstage after the show to talk to Sabina.
She hadn’t joined the champagne reception after the show either, and discreet enquiries had told Brice that Sabina had been whisked away in a private car immediately after her turn on the catwalk had been over.
Sabina brought a whole new meaning to the word elusive—and, quite frankly, Brice had had enough.
He was also pretty sure that Richard Latham would have no idea Sabina had been avoiding his calls; the other man had been so determined to have Brice paint Sabina.
It wasn’t too far to drive to Richard Latham’s Mayfair home, the single car in the driveway, a sporty Mercedes, telling him that someone was at home. At this particular moment it didn’t matter whether it was Richard Latham or Sabina—he intended getting that promised appointment from one of them!
He didn’t know why, but he had been slightly surprised the previous week when Richard Latham had informed him that he and Sabina shared a home—and presumably a bed? There was something untouchable about Sabina, an aloofness that held her apart from everyone around her. Obviously that didn’t include Richard Latham!
‘Yes?’
Brice had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t been aware of the door being opened to his ring on the bell, the elderly woman now looking up at him enquiringly obviously the housekeeper he had spoken to on the telephone over the last week.
‘I would like to see Sabina,’ Brice stated determinedly.
The woman raised dark brows. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
If he did, then he would have no reason to be here!
Brice bit back his anger with effort. After all, it wasn’t this woman he was angry with. ‘Could you just tell Sabina that Mr McAllister would like to see her?’ he rasped curtly.
‘McAllister?’ the woman repeated with a frown, giving a backward glance into the hallway behind her. ‘But aren’t you—?’
‘The man who has telephoned half a dozen times this last week to speak to Sabina? Yes, I am,’ Brice confirmed impatiently. ‘Now could you please tell Sabina that I’m here?’ He knew he wasn’t being very polite, that it wasn’t this woman’s fault Sabina was giving him the brush-off, but at the moment he was just in too foul a mood to be fobbed off any longer.
Because he was utterly convinced, after that slightly furtive glance back into the house by the housekeeper, that the sporty Mercedes in the driveway belonged to Sabina, that she had been at home earlier when he’d telephoned, as she was at home now. She was just choosing not to take his calls.
‘But—’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Clark,’ Sabina assured smoothly as the door opened wider and she suddenly appeared beside the housekeeper in the doorway. ‘Would you like to come through to the sitting-room, Mr McAllister?’ she invited coolly.
He nodded abruptly, afraid to speak for the moment—he might just say something he would later regret. Strange, he had never thought he had much of a temper, but this last week of having Sabina avoid him had certainly tried his patience.
She looked different again today, was wearing faded denims and a white cropped tee shirt, her long hair secured in a single braid down her spine, her face appearing bare of make-up. Brice had no idea how old she was, but at the moment she looked about eighteen!
‘You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid.’ She indicated her casual appearance with a grimace as she turned to face him once the two of them were alone in the sitting-room. ‘I’ve just got back from the gym.’
Brice raised dark, sceptical brows. ‘Just?’
She met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ he refused dryly. ‘I’ve telephoned you several times this last week,’ he added hardly.
Her gaze shifted slightly, no longer quite meeting his. ‘Have you?’ she returned uninterestedly.
Damn it, this really shouldn’t be this difficult. Richard Latham was the one who had come to him with this commission—Brice hadn’t even wanted to do it.
Until he’d seen Sabina…
‘You know damn well I have,’ he snapped impatiently.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been so busy this week. A trip to Paris. Several shows here. A photographic session with—’
‘I’m not interested in what you’ve been doing, Sabina—only in why you’ve been avoiding my calls,’ he rasped harshly.
‘I’ve just told you—’
‘Nothing,’ he bit out tersely. ‘Even if you haven’t been here—’ of which he was highly sceptical ‘—I’m sure the efficient Mrs Clark has informed you of each and every one of my telephone calls.’
‘Perhaps,’ Sabina conceded noncommittally. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you any tea?’
‘I’m absolutely positive,’ he bit out between clenched teeth. A neat whisky would go down very well at the moment, but as it was only four o’clock in the afternoon he would give that a miss too for the moment. But the coolness of this woman was enough to drive any man to drink! ‘Now, about that appointment—’
‘Please, do sit down,’ she invited lightly.
‘Thanks—I would rather stand,’ he grated harshly, this woman’s aloofness doing nothing to alleviate his temper.
Sabina shrugged off his refusal before sitting down in one of the armchairs. ‘Strange, but I was under the impression you were an artist of some repute?’ she murmured dryly.
Brice eyed her guardedly. ‘I am.’
‘Really?’ she mused derisively. ‘And do you usually go chasing after commissions in this way?’
She was meaning to be insulting—and she was succeeding, Brice feeling the tide of anger that swept over him.
But
