glamour, the clothes, the diamonds in those rings…’
‘So what you’re saying is that she’s a classy “broad” rather than a product of the finishing school, debutante system? Now I’m afraid to ask what I owe to nature as opposed to nurture.’
It was the height of the rush-hour and Max, sensing approaching quicksand, used the excuse of looking around for a cruising cab to avoid her direct gaze.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’
‘Oh, please…’
‘It’s not something I could put into words,’ he said.
How could you possibly quantify the smoke and mirrors of sex appeal? Pin it down, list the components. Item: hair, the colour of ripe wheat rippling in the wind. Item: two eyes, blue-grey, unless she was angry, when they were like storm clouds threaded with lightning. Item: one mouth…
He found himself staring at her mouth. Parted slightly, as if she were on the point of saying something outrageous. On the point of laughing. Dark, rich, enticing. The colour of the small sweet plums he picked in his Italian grandmother’s family home on rare and treasured holidays, when he’d been taken along to keep his half-brother Jack from getting into mischief. To give his father time to spend with wife number three…
‘Do you think there’s any chance we’ll find a taxi at this time of day?’ he asked, abruptly.
She lifted a hand and, as if by magic, a black cab materialised alongside them.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as he opened the door.
We? That was promising.
‘Mayfair. My office,’ he said, taking advantage of the opportunity she’d given him. ‘I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
‘Oh, this should be good,’ she said, climbing in without argument.
Something of a first, that, but he was too busy enjoying the view to comment on it. Item: one pair of finely boned ankles that drew the eye upwards in an appreciation of her long legs…
Pulling himself together, he told the driver to take them to Berkeley Square, the home of the Mayfair Bella Lucia and the company offices, and then climbed in beside her.
She was glowing, he thought. Happy. A transformation from her arrival at the gallery. She hadn’t seen him, but he’d arrived before her, seen how tense she’d looked. The meeting with her mother had gone well. Maybe that was a good thing. Patsy lived in London…
‘What do you think it will take?’ she asked, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m interested in what you believe you’ll have to offer, before I can’t refuse?’
‘If I told you that, you’d know more than I do.’
‘No, Max. I already know what it’ll take. You’re the one who has to find the perfect combination.’ She was smiling, but her face offered no clues. ‘I hope you’ve got nothing else planned for the rest of the evening.’
He tried to forget the mountain of paperwork on his desk as he said, ‘I cleared my diary. I’ve got as long as it takes.’
To say that her expression changed would have been an exaggeration, but for a split second he thought he’d found the key. Then, she glanced out of the window, as if the passing traffic was of more interest than anything he had to offer. Then, ‘Try, Max.’
‘Try?’ he repeated, confused. She wanted him to open negotiations here, in the back of a taxi?
‘To put it into words. What I owe to Patsy.’ She turned to face him. ‘What I owe to nature.’
He had the uncomfortable feeling that she was playing with him. That she knew exactly what she wanted and that when she was ready she would tell him; in the meantime she was enjoying making him sweat a little.
‘Sorry, Lou,’ he said. ‘I have an aversion to having my face slapped.’
‘I would never slap your face, Max.’ Her lashes swept down as she did her best to hide a satisfied little smile, demonstrating beyond any doubt that sex appeal was so much more than the sum of its parts. Describing it was like trying to catch mist. Or trying to explain a smile when the difference between the mechanics—some magic movement of muscles that lifted the mouth and went all the way up to the eyes—and the combined effect were so utterly indescribable…
‘You were quite prepared to throw a fully loaded vase at my head,’ he reminded her.
‘That was a long time ago, Max. And I didn’t actually hit you.’
‘Only because your aim was so lousy. As it was you wrecked the table behind me. Dinner and dry-cleaning bills on the house, for eight.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t deduct the cost from my wages when you fired me.’
‘My mistake. Dad took the damage out of mine.’
She shook her head, biting on her lower lip to stop herself from laughing. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He wanted to tell her to stop, pull her lip free, kiss it, bite it…
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Believe me, it was worth every penny to get you out of my hair.’
‘Careful, Max…’
‘You were a terrible maître d’, Louise. Be honest. I did you a favour.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose you did.’ Then, ‘I can’t even remember what you said that made me so mad.’
‘Everything I said made you mad.’
‘True.’ Suddenly sobered, she said, ‘So why are you so anxious to have me come and work for you?’
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