had already received. But he was going to put the woman down verbally and publicly, so neither she nor the assembled crowd would be left in any doubt as to his low opinion of her.
Charlotte Summerville deserved to be shown up for the avaricious bitch she was.
No trace of his true feelings showed on his hard dark face as he watched Ted look around and then point to a woman at the far side of the room.
‘That’s Charlotte, the blonde over there in black—standing by the portrait you’ve just bought, as it happens. Come on, I’ll introduce you. I can remove the painting at the same time and have it sent to your home as we agreed.’
Musing on the vagaries of the artistic world, Charlie was totally unaware of the interest she had aroused in one particular male patron of the arts.
In life her father had been a modestly successful landscape artist, and it was only after his death that his private collection of nude portraits had come to light. Suddenly Robert Summerville was famous—or perhaps infamous was a better word, as it was rumoured he had been the lover of all the ladies he had painted.
It was probably true. Because, much as she’d loved her dad, there was no escaping the fact that he had been the most self-absorbed, self-indulgent man she had ever known. Tall, blond and handsome, with enough charm to woo a nun out of her habit, he had lived the life of the bohemian artist to the full. But he had never truly loved any woman.
No—she was being unfair. Her father had loved her, she knew. After her mother had died when she was eleven, her dad had insisted she spend a few weeks’ holiday every year with him at his home in France. And he had left her everything he owned.
Charlie had known about one of the nude portraits, but she had discovered the rest when clearing out her dad’s studio with Ted. It had come as something of a shock, but no great surprise. That was partly because, on her first visit to her father in France after the death of her mother, she had met Jess, his then lady friend, and liked her. But when Charlie had walked into his studio uninvited one day and found her dad naked with Jess, and saw the portrait he was working on, her dad had reacted with shame and fury. From then on he had always sent his current lover away when Charlie spent time with him. For a man of his morals to be so protective of his daughter was ironic, to say the least.
Ted had taken one look at the portraits and suggested arranging an exhibition. He’d advised Charlie to open it, to add human interest and help the sale of her father’s work even more than his sudden death at the age of forty-six had done.
At first Charlie had flatly refused. She did not need the money. She had earned her own living for the past six years, when after the death of her grandfather she had taken over the running of the family hotel in the Lake District that had been their business and her home for all her life. But she knew thousands of people who did need the money.
Eventually she had spoken to Jess and offered to give her the painting she had posed for. Jess had been in favour of the pictures being exhibited, and approved of Charlie’s idea to give any money made to charity, and Charlie had finally agreed to Ted’s proposal.
At least something good would come out of her father’s death, she thought with a tinge of sadness as she proceeded towards her goal.
Almost at the exit, the last canvas arrested her attention for a moment. The lady portrayed had incredibly long dark hair curving over one shoulder and falling almost to her thigh. But it was the face of the woman that really disturbed her. The artist had captured the love, the need in the dark eyes to a point it was almost painful to see.
Poor fool, Charlotte thought with a rare cynical smile twisting her full lips. How had the woman never realised what a philanderer Robert Summerville had been? Of the thirty paintings in the gallery, ten were nude studies of women. With a wry shake of her head she turned to walk away.
Jake d’Amato’s narrowed gaze never wavered from the woman Ted had indicated as he moved through the elegant crowd at Ted’s side.
She was about five eight, he judged: shapely with long legs, a simple black wool dress moulding her figure, outlining high, firm breasts and the gentle curve of her hips and thighs. Her hair was ash blonde and swept up in a twist on top of her head. Jake’s dark eyes glittered with primitive male appreciation, and surprisingly he found himself drawing in a stunned breath. She wore little make-up and yet she was quite beautiful. She had obviously inherited her father’s good looks but in an innocent, understated way.
Then his body tensed, and his dark eyes flared with barely leashed rage. Anna had been right. Charlotte Summerville had refused to meet Anna in life, and in death her disdain for her father’s last lover was obvious in the knowing cynical smile that twisted her full lips, followed by a dismissive shake of her head as, with a sexy sway of her hips, she turned away from the portrait. As for innocent—he doubted a woman with a body like hers even remembered the meaning of the word.
‘Charlotte, darling.’ Ted’s voice rang out loud and clear. ‘I have someone here who wants to meet you.’
Charlie stiffened, cursing under her breath. Dwelling on the past, she had left it too late to escape. Reluctantly she lifted her head, resigned to wasting yet more time being polite to some wealthy fat old man who got off on looking at paintings of nude women. All in pursuit of the great god Mammon. Bare mammary glands were obviously a great money-spinner. Her lips curved up in a naughty smile at the thought.
‘Allow me to introduce you to Jake d’Amato. He is a great admirer of your father’s work, and has just bought this painting.’
Charlie’s blue eyes, still lit with humour, met Ted’s. ‘Yes, of course.’
Privately she thought the man must be mad or blind. In her opinion her dad had been a much better landscape painter than portrait—apart from the last one; that did have character in the face. But she let nothing show on her face as, lifting her hand, she raised her eyes to the man at Ted’s side.
There her gaze stuck as though hypnotised by the sheer physicality of the man. He wasn’t the fat old man she had thought—anything but.
From his bronzed skin taut over high cheekbones to the straight nose and the firm mouth beneath, and finally to a hard, square jaw, the man was devastatingly attractive. Tall, something over six feet, and broad of shoulder, he exuded an aura of supreme confidence and masculine power that eclipsed every other man in the room. With his well-groomed black hair falling casually over his broad brow and his dark good looks he was clearly of Mediterranean descent. He was the most compellingly attractive man she had ever seen, and he was smiling down at her.
‘Charlotte. I am delighted to meet you, and may I say how sorry I am at your sad loss?’
Somehow Charlie found her small hand enfolded in a strong male grasp, and he did not let it go. Not for him the brief handshake; and the piercing quality of the dark eyes that held hers was almost frightening in its intensity. She felt the power of his overwhelming masculinity like a blow to the heart, and her breath lodged in her throat.
A black brow quirked in amused enquiry as the silence lengthened and belatedly Charlie managed to respond with a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. ‘Thank you, Mr d’Amato.’
‘Oh, please, call me Jake. I do not want to stand on formality with you.’ He lightly squeezed her hand. ‘I too have recently lost a member of my family and I know exactly how you feel.’
Charlie fervently hoped not, because the warmth of his hand holding hers was sending an incredible surge of
