she was sure this man could see straight into hers!
What would he see? she wondered. Warmth and kindness, she hoped. Humour and laughter, too. Loyalty and honour. Apprehension and fear—
No! She was careful to keep those emotions under lock and key. Although that wasn’t so easy to achieve when she was alone. Which was why she very rarely allowed herself to be alone with her thoughts any more…
‘Your fiancée and I were just discussing the possibility of my painting your portrait,’ Brice McAllister bit out evenly.
Sabina gave a perplexed frown as she turned to look at Richard. He hadn’t mentioned anything about having her portrait painted. And she already knew, from the little time she had spent in Brice McAllister’s brooding company, that he was the last man she wanted to spend time with!
‘I’m afraid Brice has just ruined my surprise.’ Richard laughed dismissively, giving her shoulders a warm squeeze before turning to look challengingly at the younger man. ‘You’ve decided you would like to paint Sabina’s portrait after all?’ he drawled mockingly.
Sabina looked at Brice McAllister, too, gathering from Richard’s comment that the question of painting her portrait hadn’t been as cut and dried as the artist had just implied it was…
If not, why had he changed his mind?
If he had…
Brice McAllister shrugged unconcernedly. ‘It’s a possibility,’ he replied noncommittally. ‘I would need to do a few preliminary sketches before making any definite decision.’ He grimaced. ‘But I should warn you now, I don’t do chocolate-box likenesses of people.’
The implication being that she had a chocolate-box beauty! Not exactly the most charming man she had ever met, Sabina acknowledged ruefully, although he was at least honest.
But maybe that was what he meant about not doing ‘chocolate-box’ likenesses of people, Sabina realised with a faint stirring of unease; he liked to capture what was inside the person as well as a physical likeness. Maybe her instinct had been right after all and he really could see into her soul…?
‘A “warts and all” man,’ Richard realised dryly. ‘Well, as you can clearly see, Sabina doesn’t have a single blemish.’ He looked at her proudly.
Sabina looked at Brice McAllister, only to look quickly away again as she saw the open derision in his expression at Richard’s obviously possessive praise. But the intensity of the artist’s attention on her didn’t seem to allow him to see Richard’s possession for exactly what it was: simply pride in ownership of an object of beauty.
‘I think you could be slightly biased, Richard,’ she told him huskily. ‘And I’m sure we must have taken up enough of Mr McAllister’s time for one evening…’ she added pointedly, wanting to get away from the intensity of that probing green gaze.
She didn’t like Brice McAllister, she decided. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel uncomfortable. And the sooner she and Richard distanced themselves from him, the better she would like it.
‘If I could just have your address and telephone number…’ Brice McAllister drawled questioningly. ‘Perhaps I can ring you, and we can sort out a time convenient to both of us for those sketches?’
Sabina swallowed hard, very reluctant for Brice McAllister to know any more about her than he already did.
‘That’s easy, they’re the same as mine,’ Richard informed Brice mockingly even as he took one of his personal cards from his wallet and handed it to the other man. ‘If neither Sabina nor I are at home when you call, my housekeeper can always take a message,’ he added lightly.
Sabina could feel the increased intensity of that dark green gaze now as Brice McAllister digested the knowledge of her living at Richard’s Mayfair home with him. His mouth had thinned disapprovingly, those green eyes cool as his gaze raked over her assessingly.
Sabina challengingly withstood the derision now obvious in Brice McAllister’s expression as he looked at her, although she had no control over the heated colour that had entered her cheeks.
Damn him, who did he think he was to stand there and make judgements about her behaviour? She was twenty-five years old, for goodness’ sake, quite old enough to make her own choices and decisions. Without being answerable to anyone but herself. And she was quite happy with her living arrangements, thank you!
If a little defensive…?
Maybe. But Brice McAllister didn’t know of the understanding she and Richard had come to when they’d become engaged several months ago, could have no idea that engagement was only a front, that their engagement was based on liking, not love. A protective shield for her from the fear she had lived with the last six months, in exchange for that object of beauty—herself!—that Richard wanted so badly in his life. And, strangely enough, she had realised over the last few months, that was all he wanted from her…
No doubt to a third person their arrangement would seem odd in the extreme, but it suited them. And it was certainly none of this man’s business!
‘I’ll call you,’ Brice McAllister drawled derisively, putting Richard’s card in the breast pocket of his jacket before giving a dismissive nod of his head. Leaving them, he strolled over to join a couple sitting in the corner of the room cooing over a very young baby.
‘Brice’s cousin, Logan McKenzie, and his lovely wife Darcy,’ Richard murmured softly at her side.
Sabina didn’t care who the other couple were, or what relationship they had to the arrogant Brice McAllister; she was just glad to have him gone. She could breathe easily again now!
In truth, she hadn’t even realised she had been holding her breath until he’d left them, and then she had been forced to take in a huge gulp of air—or expire!
One thing she did know—she had no intention of being at home if Brice McAllister should choose to telephone her.
And, in the meantime, she intended doing everything she could to persuade Richard into changing his mind about wanting Brice McAllister to paint her…
CHAPTER TWO
‘BUT I’m afraid Miss Sabina isn’t at home,’ Richard Latham’s housekeeper informed him for what had to be the half-dozenth time in a week.
Actually, Brice knew exactly how many times he had telephoned and been informed ‘Miss Sabina isn’t at home’. It was the fifth time, and his temper was verging on breaking-point. Mainly, he knew, because he was sure he was being given the run-around by the beautiful Sabina.
He had known by the expression on her face at Paul Hamilton’s house the previous week, when told that Richard wanted Brice to paint her portrait, that Sabina didn’t share that desire.
Which, if he were honest, only made Brice all the more determined to do it.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Brice answered the housekeeper distractedly, wondering where he went from here. Telephoning to make an appointment to sketch Sabina obviously wasn’t working!
‘I’ll tell Miss Sabina you rang,’ the woman informed him before ringing off.
A
