found herself ushered into a large sunny room with an off-white and mint-green decor and an ornate plaster ceiling. To the left, a door into a neighbouring room stood slightly ajar.
Between two sets of windows was a desk with an impressive array of the latest electronic equipment and a black leather chair.
Apart from the businesslike desk, the room was furnished as a lounge.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?’ Mrs Bancroft suggested with a friendly smile. ‘Mr Lorenson knows you’re here. He’ll be with you in a minute or so.’
When the other woman had gone, too nervous to sit and cravenly grateful for even this short breathing space, Gail looked around curiously.
Along with some lovely antique furniture, there were a couple of comfortable-looking couches, several soft off-white leather armchairs and a large round coffee table.
A thick-pile smoke-grey carpet covered the floor and on either side of a beautiful Adam fireplace, which was filled with fresh flowers, there were recessed bookcases, their shelves overflowing.
Considering how very strongly she had felt about Zane Lorenson, aside from his appearance, she had known hardly anything about the man himself, what he was really like, what his tastes were.
This appeared to be the room of a man with eclectic tastes, a man who preferred his surroundings to be both simple and elegant.
On the walls several stark and dramatic snow scenes by Jonathan Cass rubbed shoulders with the vibrant colour and slumberous warmth of Tuscan landscapes by Marco Abruzzi.
Frowning a little, she studied them. With such diverse techniques and subject matter, they shouldn’t have been hung together. But somehow the contrast worked, highlighting them both.
It seemed that Zane Lorenson was a man who knew precisely what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to try the less obvious.
Her mother had always said that one could get a good idea of a person’s character from what kind of books they read so, taking a deep breath, Gail moved closer to the bookcases and looked at their contents.
Classics and poetry, travel and adventure, mysteries, biographies, autobiographies, the best popular paperback fiction and Booker Prize winners jostled for space.
She had picked up a copy of a recent Booker Prize winner when, glancing up, she met a pair of brilliant dark eyes.
He was leaning negligently against the door jamb, his tough, good-looking face shrewd, calculating, an arrogant tilt to his dark head.
Wearing a smart light-weight suit, a crisp shirt and tie and handmade shoes, he looked every inch the billionaire businessman. He also looked fit and virile and dangerous.
Though she had braced herself to see him again, the shock hit her like a blow over the heart and in that instant her heartbeat and her breathing, the very blood flowing through her veins, seemed to stop.
She had remembered how he looked—of course she had, his face had haunted her for years—and, apart from an added maturity, he looked much the same now as he had then.
But in the intervening years she had almost forgotten just what a powerful impact his physical presence had on her.
While she stood rooted to the spot, endeavouring to pull herself together, he continued to stand and study her in unnerving silence.
It seemed an age, but could only have been seconds, before she released the breath she was holding and her heart began to beat again in slow, heavy thuds.
How long had he been standing there quietly watching her while she’d nosed amongst his personal belongings?
She felt herself shrivel inwardly. Her one consolation was that the cool green gaze fixed on her face held no sign of recognition. But she had known it wouldn’t.
As soon as she had managed to regain some semblance of composure, she thrust the book she was holding back on to the shelf and said unevenly, ‘I’m sorry; I was just…’
‘Taking a look at what I read? What conclusion did you come to?’
His voice was low-pitched and attractive. It was a voice she had never forgotten. A voice she would have known amongst a million. A voice that could have called her back from the grave.
Shaken afresh, she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘That you have interesting tastes.’
‘Really? Do you?’ he drawled nonchalantly.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘What about the pictures?’ He nodded towards the impressive artwork.
So he had watched her studying those as well. ‘I like them.’
His gaze narrowed. ‘Do you know who painted them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
She raised her chin, trying to give an air of authority and calm. ‘Though these are clearly originals, and I can only afford prints, Jonathan Cass and Marco Abruzzi are two of my favourite artists.’
He raised a dark, level brow. ‘My, my, we do seem to have a lot in common. Wouldn’t you say so?’
Clenching her teeth at the blatant mockery, she said nothing.
‘So I take it you have the same pictures hanging in your living room?’
Aware that he thought she was making the whole thing up to curry favour, she answered briefly, ‘No.’
‘Ah, now you disappoint me. Do you actually have any by either of those artists?’
‘I have two of Cass’s and—’
‘Which two?’
‘Snowfall and Winter Journey.’
‘Any of Abruzzi’s?’
‘Three,’ she replied quickly.
‘And they are?’
‘Olive Groves, Sunset and Fields of Sunflowers,’ she said, listing her three favorites.
‘Do they all hang in the same room?’
‘No…I would never have had the nerve to hang them together.’
‘What do you think of the result?’
She wanted to say she hated it but, unable to frame the lie, she admitted, ‘It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.’
‘I’m pleased you think so,’ he told her sardonically. ‘Well, now we’ve established that when it comes to books and paintings we’re practically soulmates, suppose you sit down and we’ll see how you measure up on the business side.’
But she had had enough. If Zane Lorenson had realized who she
