determination she kept her gaze averted from the dark stare of the stranger and focused all her attention on the auctioneer.
‘Lot four-six-five,’ he announced in a bored voice, as if he wasn’t about to sell a momentous piece of Bella’s family history. ‘Charming amateur oil on canvas of a beautiful French manor house. Who’ll start the bidding at twenty pounds?’
There was a shuffling of feet on the front row. A woman with dyed red hair raised her hand wearily.
‘Twenty pounds at the front here. Thirty with you, sir…’
A rapid flurry of bids followed, raising the price to ninety pounds. Since leaving art college and going to work for Celia in her Notting Hill antique shop Bella had become something of an expert at auction tactics, and knew to wait for the right moment before joining the bidding. It came a second later when the auctioneer asked for a hundred pounds and the woman in the front row shook her head.
‘A hundred pounds anywhere?’
Decisively, Bella raised her hand.
She was immediately outbid by a dealer she recognised two rows in front of her.
‘One hundred and twenty?’ asked the auctioneer. Bella nodded, and could have shouted with elation when she saw the dealer give a cursory shake of his head as the auctioneer upped the bid.
‘One hundred and twenty pounds then, with the dark-haired young lady. Going once at one hundred and twenty…’
Bella thrust her hands into the pockets of her black linen jacket and crossed her fingers so tightly that it hurt. She couldn’t afford to go much higher.
‘Going twice…’
Just get on with it… she begged silently.
‘For the third and final—’ The auctioneer broke off in surprise. ‘Sir? Just in time, thank you. That’s one hundred and thirty pounds from you, sir?’
Bella didn’t have to look to know who had made the bid.
Somehow she just managed to bite back the extremely un-calm shriek of frustration that sprang to her lips. Glaring down at the floor, she uncrossed her fingers and balled them into tight fists. There was no point in resorting to superstitious good luck charms in a situation like this.
No.
This called for a skilful combination of bluff and bravery.
Tipping her head back she resisted the temptation to turn and fix the man with a death stare, instead focusing all her attention on assuming an attitude of supreme confidence, tinged with a hint of bored irritation. She’d seen this happen before. Utter insouciance was key. She had to look as if she was buying at any price; as if she was the kind of woman who was used to getting what she wanted.
Fortunately, there was no time to dwell on the bitter irony of that.
‘One forty.’
Was that really her voice? Excellent. She actually sounded as if she knew what she was doing, and the realization brought a small smile to her face.
The moment of euphoria was very short-lived; his response was instant.
‘Two hundred.’
Feeling her mouth fall open in helpless and no doubt deeply unattractive outrage, Bella couldn’t stop her head from being pulled round in the direction of his voice. It was low and husky and completely indifferent—in fact, everything she had intended to convey herself, only genuine. He was looking straight at her.
She felt herself stiffen as her eyes locked with his.
‘Miss? Do I have two ten?’
For a second Bella had forgotten about the auctioneer. And the picture. In fact, in that moment she would have been hard pushed to remember her own name. The man’s eyes were dark—incredibly dark—and even at this distance she could detect a dangerous glitter in their depths. As she stared at him she saw one of his eyebrows move upwards a fraction. Questioningly. Challengingly.
‘Yes.’
‘Two ten with the—’
‘Three hundred.’
Bella closed her eyes for a second as the man’s voice cut through the auctioneer’s patter. He said the words quietly, almost apologetically, as if her defeat was a foregone conclusion. But there was boredom and an edge of impatience there too, and she sensed that he wanted this whole business over and done with as quickly as possible.
‘Three ten.’
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was futile—that much was obvious from the impeccable cut of his dark suit and the indefinable aura of wealth that enveloped him like expensive cologne. But his palpable indifference caused a sensation like a thousand red-hot needles piercing her skin.
He’d barely even glanced at the painting. He couldn’t want it as she wanted it. Which left the possibility that he was doing this just to annoy her, and two could definitely play at that game.
‘Five.’
‘Sir?’ The auctioneer was flustered by this unexpected turn of events and his sudden loss of control. ‘Is that three hundred and fifty-five?’
‘Five hundred.’
His mouth was quite incredible, she thought distractedly. It was a good thing his chin was exceptionally firm and square as his lips were so full and finely shaped they were almost feminine. As she watched they twitched into a smile which he quickly suppressed. It was as if he was enjoying some kind of private joke.
With her.
She felt as if she’d been hypnotized. Part of her mind remained aware, rational, firmly sceptical, while the rest of her threw off all inhibition and common sense and plunged into the thrill of the unknown without hesitation.
A ripple of interest ran through the room, like a sudden sharp breeze in a still summer field. Bella could feel eyes on her as people in the rows in front of her turned round to look. Only the man leaning against the wall remained supremely unruffled, his gaze fixed on hers, his face an impassive mask that was almost insolent.
Adrenalin burned and fizzed in Bella’s veins. Tearing her gaze away from the stranger, she found the painting again. She had learned enough in the two years before she dropped out of her course at art school to be well aware that this was not an exceptional piece—there was a heavy-handed, painstaking quality about it that strictly limited its value. But it was the subject that mattered. This anonymous, half-forgotten painting depicted her grandmother’s ancestral home. It was part of her heritage, and the thought filled her with renewed purpose.
‘Five hundred and fifty.’
As if in slow motion she turned back to look at him, and saw his shoulders rise and fall slightly as he sighed. ‘Six hundred.’
‘Six fifty.’
‘Seven hundred.’
There was something mesmerising about his voice
