hair, who’d been transfixed by the paintings he’d suddenly forgotten he’d come here to see. The wave of desire had come out of nowhere, for it was certainly unprovoked. Though the luscious curves of her figure were obvious, she couldn’t have been dressed any less provocatively, in a drab, crinkled blouse and olive-green skirt that reached her ankles. He’d wanted to dispose of them both there and then.
And he would have done, if he’d known who she was and that she could be trusted to be discreet. But he hadn’t. Standing there, all misty-eyed before the paintings, she’d looked—most inconveniently—like exactly the kind of woman who would cloud everything with emotion and make discretion an impossibility. But the knot of heat in his groin had demanded he find out for certain. How fortuitous, then, that when he’d asked a few discreet questions of hisown it turned out that she was the London City Gallery’s choice to restore the Rénards. For once in his life, a twist of fate had amused him. She would have to be fully vetted anyway. Suddenly it made perfect sense for him to stay on for the auction and undertake the investigation personally.
Leon watched her as she walked beside him, oblivious to the sound of taxicabs and buses that filled the tepid June evening. To his pleasure, she looked a world away from the olive-green drabness of just over forty-eight hours before; she was luminescent in black silk, the halter neck revealing an ample cleavage, and her striking hair, which had previously been tied back, now fell over her shoulders in waves. Tonight she looked exactly like the sort of woman capable of the kind of short and mutually satisfying affair he had in mind.
‘Lady’s choice,’ he said, realising they had reached the end of the street, and he still hadn’t answered her question as to where they were headed.
Cally, whose nerve was evaporating by the second, looked around the street and decided that the sooner this was over the better. ‘The next bar we come to will be fine, I’m sure. After all, its only requirement is that it serve drinks, is it not?’
Leon nodded. ‘D’accord.’
As they turned the corner of the street, Cally heard a low, insistent drumbeat and saw a neon sign illuminating darkness: the Road to Nowhere.
‘Perfect,’ Cally proclaimed defiantly. It might look a little insalubrious, but at least it was too brash and too noisy for there to be any danger of lingering conversation over an intimate table for two.
Leon looked up, to see a young couple tumble out of the door and begin devouring each other up against the window, and he stifled a grin.
‘It looks good to me.’
Cally did a double take, doubting he was serious. Then she wished she hadn’t, because the sight of his impossibly handsome face beneath the soft glow of the street lights made her whole body start with that ridiculous tingling again.
‘Fabulous. And my hotel is only two streets away,’ she said, as much to convince herself that after one drink she could return to the safety of her room as to remind him.
‘What could be better?’ he drawled, the look in his eyes explicit.
She swallowed down a lump in her throat as they passed the couple, who were yet to come up for air, and entered the bar.
It was dark inside, the sultry vocals of a female singer stirring the air whilst couples absorbed in one another moved slowly together on the dance floor. Oh yes, great idea, Cally. This is much safer ground than a quiet bar.
‘So what will it be, a Screaming Orgasm or a Pineapple Thrust?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Cally swung round and was only partially relieved to see that Leon was reading from a cocktail menu he’d picked up from the bar.
‘I’ll just have a mineral water, thanks.’ Leon raised his eyebrows in disapproval before the words were even out of her mouth. ‘OK, fine,’ she retracted, briefly running her eyes down the menu. ‘I’ll have a…Cactus Venom.’
When was the last time she’d had a drink? A glass of wine at her nephew’s christening in January. God, she really did need to get out more.
Leon slipped off his jacket and ordered two of the same, somehow managing, she noticed, to look exactly like he fitted in. She, on the other hand, crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest, feeling horribly overdressed and self-conscious.
‘So, don’t tell me—you come here all the time.’ Cally said, marvelling at how quickly he seemed to have got the waitress’s attention, although on second thoughts she could guess why.
‘Well, you know, I would, but I live in France. What’s your excuse?’
She laughed, relaxing a fraction as they found themselves a table and sat down. ‘I live in Cambridge.’
‘You mean you didn’t know that the Road to Nowhere was waiting just around the next corner?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Cally shook her head, remembering the auction and thinking that the bar’s name was altogether too apt.
Leon seemed to sense her despondency and raised his glass. ‘So, what shall we drink to?’
Cally thought for a moment. ‘To discovering hard work doesn’t pay off in the end, so why bother?’
Something about his company, the atmosphere, made her realise that maybe she did need to talk about it after all. She hoped it was that, and not that she couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning work.
‘Sorry,’ she added, suddenly aware of how discourteous that sounded. ‘To…the Road to Nowhere.’
Leon chinked his cocktail glass against hers and they both took a sip of the yellow-green liquid, smarting at the sour taste.
‘So, tonight didn’t exactly go to plan for you?’ Leon ventured.
‘You could say that. The London City Gallery promised me the restoration job on the Rénards if they won them. They didn’t.’
‘Maybe you should offer your services to whoever did.’
‘According to the guy manning the phone, it was an anonymous private collector.’ Her voice rang with resentment.
‘Who’s to say a private collector won’t commission you to complete the restorations?’
‘Experience. Even if I could find out who he or she is, they’ll either choose someone they know or the team who can get it done fastest. The rich treat art like a new Ferrari or a penthouse in Dubai—an acquisition to boast about, instead of something everyone deserves to enjoy.’
Leon went very still. ‘So if you were approached, your morals would stop you from working on them?’
Cally turned away, emotion pricking at the backs of her eyes. ‘No, it wouldn’t stop me.’
She was aware how unprincipled that sounded—or more accurately how unprincipled that actually was—but it wasn’t just because of the opportunities that working on them was bound to lead to. It was because she could never turn down the opportunity to work on the paintings that had determined the direction of her entire life, even if that life now seemed to be one big road to nowhere. She shook her head, too mortified to admit as much.
‘I’d
