ever imagined finding someone like him. And it wasn’t just the fact that he currently resembled the human equivalent of a jungle cat—a dark and potentially dangerous predator who had temporarily taken refuge in one of the beautifully worn leather chairs. No, it was more than that. It was the subtly pervasive scent of him invading her nostrils, which was coming from the soft scarf he’d draped around her neck. And hadn’t she felt a whisper of pleasure when his fingertips had brushed against her skin, even though it had been the most innocent of touches? Hadn’t it made her want more, even though experience had taught her that she always froze into a block of ice whenever a man came close?
She looked into the gleam of his eyes. ‘By seeing sense, I presume you mean I should do exactly what you say?’
‘Well, you could give it a try,’ he said drily. ‘Since we’ve seen what happens when you do the opposite.’
‘But I don’t know exactly what it is you’re offering me, Conall.’
Conall stiffened. Was he imagining the provocative flash of her eyes—or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Was she aware that when she looked at him that way, his veins were pulsing with a hot, hard hunger and he could think of only one way of relieving it? She must be. Women like her ate men like him for breakfast.
He needed to pull himself together, before she got an inkling of the erotic thoughts which were clogging up his mind and started using her sexual power to manipulate him. ‘I’m offering you a role as an interpreter.’
‘Not interested,’ she said instantly, with an emphatic shake of her head. ‘I’m not sitting in some claustrophobic booth all day with a pair of headphones on, while someone jabbers on and on in my ear about something boring—like grain quotas in the European Union.’
Conall failed to hide his smile. ‘I think you’ll find my proposal is a little more glamorous than that,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
She had perked up now and his smile died. Of course she had. Glamour was her lifeblood, wasn’t it?
‘I’m having a party,’ he said.
‘What kind of party?’
He picked up his brandy glass and took a sip. ‘A party ostensibly to celebrate the completion of my country house. There will be music, and dancing—but I’m also hoping to use the opportunity to sell a painting for someone who badly needs the money.’
‘I thought you’d decided that, with my lack of experience, I would be useless when it came to selling paintings.’
‘I’m not expecting you to sell the paintings,’ he said. ‘I just want you to be there as a sort of linguistic arm candy.’
‘What do you mean?’
He hesitated, wondering if her father would approve of the offer he was about to make to her. It would probably be more sensible to give her a lowly back-room job somewhere in his organisation— preferably as far away from him as possible. But Conall could see now that it would be as ineffective as trying to pass fish paste off as caviar, because Amber Carter wasn’t a back-room kind of woman. No way could someone like her ever fade into the background. So why not capitalise on the gifts she did have?
‘The painting in question is one of a pair,’ he said. ‘Two studies of the same woman by a man called Kristjan Wheeler—a contemporary of Picasso and an artist whose worth has increased enormously over the last decade. Both pictures went missing in the middle of the last century and only one has ever been found. That is the one I am trying to sell on behalf of my client, and...’
She looked at him as his words tailed away. ‘And?’
‘I believe the man who wants to buy the painting is in possession of the missing picture. Which means that the one I’m selling is part of a set, and naturally that makes it much more valuable.’
‘Can’t you just ask him outright whether he’s got it?’
He gave the flicker of a smile. ‘That’s not how negotiation works, Amber—and especially not with a man like this.’ He watched her closely. ‘You see, the prospective buyer is a prince.’
‘A prince?’
Conall watched as she sat bolt upright, her fingers tightening around her glass. Her lips had parted and he could see the moist gleam of her tongue. He thought she looked like a starving dog which had been allowed to roam freely around a kitchen and a quiver of distaste ran through him. He took another sip of his brandy. Had he really thought that the chemistry which sizzled between them was unique? Or was he naïvely pretending that she wasn’t like this with every man she came across, and the higher that man’s status and the fatter his wallet, the better?
And yet surely that would make her perfect for what he had in mind—didn’t they say that Luciano of Mardovia had a roving eye where women were concerned?
‘That’s right,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I want you to come to the party and be nice to him.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘How nice?’
The inference behind her question was clear and Conall felt a wave of disgust wash over him. ‘I’m not expecting you to have sex with him,’ he snapped. ‘Just chat to him. Dance with him. Charm him. I shouldn’t imagine you would find any of that difficult, given your track record. He will be accompanied by at least two of his aides and he will converse with them in any language except English. Just like you he speaks Italian, Greek and French and he certainly won’t be expecting a woman like you to be fluent in all three.’
A woman like you.
It was odd how hurtful Amber found his throwaway comment, especially when for a minute back then she had been lulled into a false sense of security. Secretly, she had enjoyed the way he’d turned up and taken her away so masterfully. He’d brought her here—to this club, which was the epitome of elegance and comfort—and she couldn’t deny that she was enjoying watching him sitting bathed in flickering firelight, while he sipped at his brandy. He was very easy on the eye.
But she needed to remember that for him she was just a burden. A problem to be dealt with and then disposed of. No point in starting to have fantasies about Conall Devlin.
‘So what you’re saying, in effect, is that you want me to spy on this Prince?’
He didn’t seem particularly bothered by her accusation, for he responded with nothing more than a faintly impatient sigh.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Amber. If I asked you to have a business meeting with a competitor, I would expect you to find out as much information as possible. So if the Prince should happen to comment to one of his aides in, say, Greek that the wine is atrocious, then it would be helpful to know that.’
A smile flickered over her lips. ‘You’re in the habit of serving atrocious wine, are you, Conall?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m thinking...no.’
‘Look, I’m not asking you to lie about your language skills, but there’s no need to advertise them. This is business. All I want is to get the best price possible for my client—and Luciano can certainly afford to pay the best price. So...’ His midnight gaze swept
