the long-legged, flame-haired beauty. She wore long shorts and an oversize T-shirt; perfectly respectable attire—until it got wet. Quinn turned the air-conditioning dial down a couple of notches and undid the top two buttons of his shirt.
For the first time in many years, he wanted, with a savage unrelenting intensity. He was certainly not celibate, but preferred older, cultured and financially independent women. Women with similar interests and social mores as he. Danielle Hammond looked to be mid-to-late twenties and certainly had the wealth of the Blackstones behind her, but they were light-years apart.
It was totally undignified to stand at a window, salivating over the sights of wet fabric clinging lovingly to a fine pair of breasts, and of water streaming down well-toned, lightly tanned legs. He was much too discriminating to crave the slide of her wet, spiralling curls on his burning skin. Wasn’t he?
He returned to his desk, pushing aside the unwelcome intrusion. This wasn’t supposed to be a holiday, he chided himself. The next Famous Paintings auction was only days away. It was frustrating to be stuck here for such an important date on his professional calendar, but at least he had a contact to inspect a very special lot number for one of his most important clients.
Clearing his head one final time, he refocussed his attention where it belonged. On his work. He remained at his desk until Danielle interrupted him, after the dinner hour. Apparently she was ready to work and wanted the diamond to be brought to the workroom.
Quinn set it up on the workbench and watched her circle the desk, her small digital camera clicking and whirring as she took snapshot after snapshot.
He was totally absorbed by her concentration, not to mention her lithe form bending and stretching, and the interesting strain of fabric across her rump and thighs as she crouched and circled. So when she suddenly straightened and looked at him, he was a few seconds behind the eight ball.
Her finely arched brows seemed to mock him. “What’s she like?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your lady friend. The one you’re giving the diamond to.”
“Like?”
She looked at the ceiling briefly. “Her height and build. I don’t want to design something dainty for a big strapping girl. Or vice versa.”
Quinn hesitated. It wasn’t an unreasonable request.
Tonight she wore flowing baggy summer pants of an indeterminate colour that fell between pewter and light brown. A purple lacy top accentuated her shape, which was, he conceded, a work of art. A strip of matching fabric tied bandanna-style kept her forehead free of springy curls, and lime-green beads circled her throat. “Five nine, five ten.” He shrugged. “Slender but strong-looking.”
Dani held the camera up, checking the images. Quinn noted with surprise that her nails were short and some of them jagged, as if she chewed them.
“Pale or tan?” she asked distractedly.
“Lightly tanned,” he told her. “Freckles.”
Click, click. “Okay. Hair?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she lowered the camera and frowned at him. “What colour is her hair?”
Several superlative responses came to mind, but while he was deciding which best described her vibrant curls, her frown gave way to sarcasm. “You’re a little unobservant, Mr. Everard. Do you have a photo, perhaps?”
His mouth quirked. “Red. Dark red.” He pursed his lips, wondering when she would twig. “Curly.”
Her brows arched up to kiss the edge of the bandanna.
“Rather multifaceted in style,” Quinn went on, warming to his task. “Unconventional, definitely. Some would say bohemian, but that’s not it … She’s like no one else.” And that was the truth. Her use of colour, breaking all the fashion rules, should have offended a conservative like himself, yet somehow, it charmed the hell out of him. Living with Danielle Hammond, he knew, would never be boring.
Dani pursed her lips sternly. “You have good taste in women, Mr. Everard,” she told him smartly, and put the camera down with a sharp thud. “Contemporary bling, then, for the lady.”
“Knock yourself out.” Quinn pushed himself away from the doorjamb, trying not to be horrified about her terminology in reference to this diamond. He’d spent hours trying to talk his client out of this, citing Danielle’s age and inexperience.
Surprisingly though, he smiled all the way down the hall, pleased with himself, and with her. Maybe the next few weeks wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Dani Hammond had a bite to her. She seemed smart—almost street-smart—and Quinn knew all about that.
But how did she, with her luxurious upbringing?
Sightings of Dani were scarce the next couple of days as she immersed herself in her design. She worked late and rose late. Mid-morning she would request he bring the diamond to the workroom. He restored it to the safe on his way to bed. He kept the refrigerator stocked and was thankfully spared the ignominy of standing by the window like a Peeping Tom, because she didn’t use the pool again. Most of the food he prepared went to waste as she said she was too busy to be hungry. Despite himself, and without seeing any tangible results yet, he was impressed by her dedication.
The third night, she joined him for dinner, an impressive meal catered by one of Port Douglas’s surprisingly fine restaurants.
“Why me?” she asked over coffee. “You must know twenty world-class designers who would gnaw off their right hand to ingratiate themselves with you.”
He tapped his teaspoon lightly on the cup, giving a brief smile. “But not you.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll mess up your precious diamond out of spite since you’re blackmailing me?”
“Then I would have to mess up your reputation.”
“Haven’t you already?” She raised and crooked her two index fingers in a parody of speech marks. “‘Ms. Hammond has passable talent but chooses to use it working for chain stores….’”
Quinn rubbed his ear, amused. That was one of his missives in the DiamondWorld Monthly about a year ago. She’d had the cheek to respond in the next issue. He’d retaliated by saying she was “one step up from a Sunday-market vendor in a one-horse town, pandering to the tourist buses.”
“A mere dent, which doesn’t seem to have harmed you at all. Although, why you would shut yourself away up here in the middle of nowhere is anyone’s guess.”
“Another snobby Sydney-sider,” she sighed, giving him the impression this wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation. “I like the tropics.”
“What’s to like? A beach you can’t swim in because of the stingers …”
“Only for a few months …”
“Insufferably hot and sticky weather …”
“I like it probably for all the reasons you don’t. Especially now in cyclone season.”
So the lady was into sultry, steamy nights. He sniffed and rubbed his jaw,
