on the chair, and was so busy examining it that she didn’t hear him come into the room. It was only when she turned around to find herself being studied intently by a pair of dark-blue eyes that Fran realised he was standing watching her.
Still holding onto the cushion, she blinked. As well as taking the phone call, he must have washed his face and swiftly shaved the blue-black blur of shadow away from the square chin. And run a comb through the dark tangle of his hair. He had put a dark sweater on too, and the soft navy cashmere clung to the definition of broad shoulders.
Suddenly, his blue eyes looked even bluer, so that their soft brilliance seemed to cut right through you, like a sword. Oh, my goodness, she thought weakly, he really is gorgeous. Fran clutched the cushion against her chest, like a breastplate, and saw him frown.
‘Planning to take that home with you?’ he queried softly.
Fran stared down at the cushion in her hands. On one side the single word Sam was embroidered, in a heart-shaped frame made of tiny scarlet flowers. On the other side was an intricately crafted message which said, A love given can never be taken away.
‘This is beautiful,’ she said politely, wondering who the maker of the cushion was. Someone who obviously adored him. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
So why did his face close up so that it looked all shuttered and cold?
‘Yes,’ he said repressively. ‘It is.’
Part of her job was asking questions; making connections. If she saw something she liked she tried to find out where it came from, because you never knew when you might want one just like it. ‘Do you mind me asking where you got it from?’
His eyes narrowed and Fran was surprised by the sudden appearance of pain which briefly hardened their appearance from blue to bruise. So he could be hurt, could he?
‘Yes, I do mind! I told you that I had a plane to catch,’ he said coldly. ‘Yet you seem to want to spend what little time we have discussing soft furnishings.’
Feeling slightly fazed at the criticism, Fran quickly put the cushion back down on the sofa and looked at him expectantly. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said lightly. ‘Force of habit.’
He didn’t even acknowledge the apology. ‘Why don’t we just get down to business.’
Standing there, with her sheepskin coat making her feel distinctly overdressed, Fran felt hot and out-of-place and very slightly foolish. He could have done with a crash course in common courtesy, she thought. ‘Mind if I take my coat off first?’
‘Feel free.’
She noticed that he didn’t attempt to help her remove the heavy, fur-lined garment and was irritated with herself for even caring. He was a future client—hopefully—not somebody she would be taking home to meet her mother!
She draped the coat over the arm of a chair and stood in front of him, feeling slightly awkward, and not in the least bit confident. So now what did she do? She found herself wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes of his. And what he saw when he looked at her in that curiously intent way of his.
Her clothes were practical and comfortable, in that order—it went with the job. Very short skirts which meant you couldn’t bend over without inhibition were out. So were spindly and unsafe heels designed to make legs look longer. But although Fran was a little curvier than she would have ideally liked, she was also tall enough to carry off most clothes with style. Today, her brown woollen skirt skimmed her leather-booted ankles and the warm, cream sweater cleverly concealed the thermal vest which lay beneath.
She glanced at him to see if there was any kind of reaction to her appearance, but Sam Lockhart’s expression remained as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. Now why did that bother her? Because the arch-philanderer didn’t think she warranted a second look? For heaven’s sake, woman, she told herself—you’re here to avenge some broken hearts—not join their ranks!
‘So are you going to sit down?’ he murmured. ‘I’d prefer to stretch my legs before my flight, but there’s no reason why the interview should be uncomfortable for you, is there?’
‘Er, no, I’ll stay standing,’ she stumbled. ‘W-what interview?’
‘The interview which helps me decide whether to give you the job or not.’ A mocking look. ‘What else did you think this was going to be? A tea party? I have to decide whether I want you to work for me and you have to decide whether or not you could bear to.’ Another mocking look. ‘Or did you think the job would be yours the moment I stared into those great big golden-green eyes of yours?’
Fran blinked with astonishment. So, beneath that cool exterior he had been noticing the way she looked! ‘No, of course I didn’t!’ she retorted, feeling slightly reassured that he had started to flirt with her. It kind of reinforced what Rosie had told her to expect. ‘I’m a professional through and through and I’d never use sex appeal to sell myself!’
‘Not consciously, perhaps?’ he challenged softly. ‘But most women use their sex quite ruthlessly—in my experience.’
‘And that’s extensive, is it?’ she challenged in return.
‘That depends on your definition of extensive,’ came the silky reply. ‘But I would advise against making assumptions like that about a man you’ve only just met.’
There was nothing to be gained by irritating him, and clearly she was irritating him. Very much. ‘Sorry,’ she backtracked hastily.
‘So can I see your portfolio?’ he asked.
‘My…portfolio?’
‘You do have a portfolio showing me examples of your work?’
‘Of course I do,’ she said. She just hadn’t been planning on using it…‘But unfortunately I had to leave it with a client in Ireland. Anyway, word-of-mouth is the best recommendation—and the only way you can assess my work is to speak to some of the people who’ve hired me in the past.’
‘I already did.’
She shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was. ‘Who?’
‘Cormack Casey. His was the only name you gave me. Fortunately he’s the kind of man I trust.’
Fran blinked. On the phone he had said that he knew Cormack, but the warmth in his voice suggested a deeper relationship than mere acquaintanceship. ‘You mean you’re friends?’
‘Yes, we are. What’s the matter?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You sound surprised?’
Well, she was. Because Cormack, for all his good looks and sex appeal, was fiercely loyal to his wife, Triss. A one-woman man. A man with morals. So how come he was matey with the arch-heartbreaker Sam Lockhart?
‘What did Cormack tell you about me?’
‘That you were good.’ There was a pause. ‘Very good.’
‘Now you sound surprised!’ she observed.
He shrugged. ‘People who are good don’t usually have to go out looking for business. Not in your line of work. Cormack was a little taken aback when I told him
