to the cramped town house-cum-studio in Cambridge. Another year of sporadic restorations which would barely cover her mortgage, because on the rare occasions a career-altering piece like this came up it only ever seemed to matter who you knew and never what you knew.
‘You look like you could use a drink.’
The accented voice was French, and to her surprise it sent an even more disturbing tremor through her body than the sound of the auctioneer’s hammer. Perhaps because she knew immediately who the voice belonged to. Though she had told herself that if he came near the alarming effect he had on her would inevitably diminish, the reality was that it seemed to double in strength. She ran her hands through her hair as if she’d really just been fixing it all along and turned around to face him.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
Fine? Cally laughed inwardly at her own words. Even if she’d been asked to restore every painting in the auction she doubted it would have been possible to describe her mental state as ‘fine’, with all six-foot-two-inches of him stood before her, filling her body with sensations she barely even recognised and which she certainly had no desire to confront.
‘I’m not convinced,’ he said, looking at her altogether too closely.
‘And who are you, Crawford’s post-auction psychologist?’ Cally replied, unnerved by his scrutiny. ‘Brought in during the final ten lots ready to mop up the disappointed punters after the show?’
A wry and thoroughly disarming smile crossed his lips. ‘So you did notice me as soon as I walked in.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Cally retorted, colouring.
‘So I didn’t.’
Cally scowled. There was only one thing she hated more than people who oozed wealth, and that was people who were selective with the truth. She picked up her handbag and zipped it shut.
‘Thank you for your concern, but I have to get back to my hotel.’ She turned to walk towards the open doors at the back of the room.
‘I’m not,’ he countered. ‘A psychologist, that is.’
She turned, no doubt just as he’d known she would. It was arrogant, but at least it was honest. ‘Then who are you?’
‘I’m Leon,’ he replied, stepping forward and extending his hand.
‘And?’
‘I’m here in connection with my university.’
So, he was a uni lecturer? Her first and utterly shameful thought was that she should have done her degree in France. The art professors she’d known had all been pushing sixty, and had looked like they hadn’t seen a razor, and smelled like they hadn’t used a can of deodorant, for just as long. Her second was pure astonishment; he seemed to exude too much wealth and sophistication. But then all Frenchmen were known for being stylish, weren’t they? And it did explain why he’d simply been observing, not buying. She castigated herself for being too quick to judge.
‘Cally,’ she said, extending her hand in return, then wondered what the hell she’d been thinking when the touch of his fingers made her inhale so sharply that speech deserted her.
‘And are you a disappointed punter?’ He raised one eyebrow doubtfully.
‘You think I’m not the type?’ she rebounded defensively, finding her voice again, though she didn’t know why she was arguing with him when as a lecturer he was no more likely to have the spare cash to buy a priceless painting than she was.
‘I think you didn’t make a single bid.’
‘So, you noticed me right back?’ Cally replied with more pleasure than she ought to have felt. He hadn’t given her a second glance two days ago, when she’d been wearing her usual work clothes instead of dolled up as tonight’s occasion demanded. Besides, why should it matter if he had noticed her? It would only be a matter of time before he noticed someone else.
He nodded. ‘Indeed. And, since you haven’t answered my question about whether or not you are a disappointed punter, it seems we’re even.’
She stared at the wall where the paintings had been only moments before and was hit by a renewed sense of failure. ‘It’s complicated. Let’s just say tonight should have changed my life for the better. It didn’t.’
‘The night is young,’ he drawled with a supremely confident grin.
Cally dragged her eyes away from his lips and made a show of looking at her watch, horrified to find that she was almost tempted to find out what he meant. Ten-fifteen. ‘Like I said, I have to get back to my hotel.’
She turned to walk towards the door.
‘Do you have a better offer waiting at your final destination, or are you just the kind of woman who is scared of saying yes?’
Cally froze, not turning round.
‘No. I’m the kind of woman who is well aware that asking someone you’ve only just met out for a drink is really asking for something else entirely, and I’m not interested.’
Leon whistled through his teeth. ‘So you prefer a man to cut to the chase? Detail exactly what he has in mind before you agree?’
She blushed. ‘I would prefer it if a drink only meant a drink.‘
‘So you are thirsty, chérie?‘
Cally swallowed, her mouth going inconveniently dry. Was she the kind of woman who was scared of saying yes? she wondered, suddenly both horrified and aggrieved that he might actually be right. No, she justified, she wasn’t afraid—she’d just learned from experience that that kind of yes inevitably led to disappointment. Which was why—unlike other girls she knew, who invariably spent their evenings making out with random guys in clubs—she’d spent the last seven years sitting at her desk into the early hours of every morning memorising the chemical make-up of conservation treatments, practising each and every technique for the sake of her precious career. But look where it had got her now! Precisely nowhere.
Cally took a deep breath. ‘Yes’ might very well lead to disappointment, but right now it didn’t get much more disappointing than the thought of returning to her hotel with nothing but her misery and the overpriced minibar for company. At least accepting the offer of one drink with a perfectly normal man for once in her life would take her mind off what had just happened.
‘On one condition, then…’ she began confidently, but the instant she raised her eyes she caught sight of his devastating smile, and remembered too late that there was absolutely nothing remotely normal about the way he made her feel. If anything, that was what she should be afraid of. ‘The topic of work is off the agenda.’
‘Done,’ he answered decisively.
‘Right.’ Cally’s head began to spin. ‘Then…where did you have in mind?’
Chapter Two
LEON didn’t have anywhere in mind. He hadn’t had anything on his mind for two full days—except her. He’d come to Crawford’s to view the pre-auction
