really neither could Bree; this man seemed to be able to insult people, be rude to them, even totally ignore them and still they came back for more!
Because he was Jerome Jackson Beaumont, world-renowned photographer, whose work hung on the walls of royal palaces as well as in galleries all over the world. What was a little rudeness, the odd insult, a snub or two, when in the end you could own an original Jerome Jackson Beaumont?
The way he looked didn’t do him any harm either—especially where women were concerned. Six feet two inches of lean, tanned muscle, emphasised by the fitted T-shirts and denims he habitually wore—a blue T-shirt today, and black jeans—with eyes as clear and blue as the sky on a cloudless summer’s day, strong, high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, and a mouth that was so wickedly sensual it should have a warning label attached to it.
As if that wasn’t enough Jackson had long silky hair that reached almost to his shoulders in a raggedly windswept style, and it was the colour of golden honey and molasses—neither gold nor brown but somewhere in between—the same burnt-sugar colour that women paid hundreds of pounds to achieve in exclusive salons all around the world!
Within minutes of meeting Jackson for the first time Bree had realised he was exactly as everyone described. Unique. A perfectionist. And utterly brilliant. He was also, she had registered in those same few minutes, totally and utterly impossible!
She had heard the rumours, of course—who hadn’t read about the eccentricities of Jerome Jackson Beaumont in the gossip columns of every newspaper? The employment agency had warned her too, telling her of the three other assistants they had sent to him in the previous month, two of whom had returned as gibbering emotional wrecks, and the third of whom had not come back at all.
Bree had taken those warnings in her stride. The job not only paid well, but also offered immediate rent-free occupation of the self-contained basement flat beneath the London mansion where Jerome Jackson Beaumont lived and worked. For Bree, who had been homeless at the time, the apartment had provided her with more than enough incentive to make up her own mind about her notorious new boss.
Yes, Bree had very quickly discovered Jerome Jackson Beaumont to be every bit as arrogant and impossible to work with as people had warned. With one exception.
His six-year-old son, Daniel.
Considering Jackson had never been married, Danny’s mother remained something of a mystery. A mystery Jackson had repeatedly refused to shed light on when questioned by members of the press about the one-year-old son he had brought to live with him five years ago.
As the woman was obviously no longer present in either Jackson’s or Danny’s life, her identity didn’t affect Bree on a day-to-day basis. That didn’t mean Bree didn’t feel a certain curiosity about her—mainly because Bree wondered how any woman could have just handed her son over to his father like that. Especially when that father was the charismatic Jerome Jackson Beaumont!
Danny was tall for his age, with hair of corn-gold, eyes the same clear blue as his father’s, and a sweetly mischievous disposition. And he was, without a doubt, his father’s one saving grace.
Bree had fallen in love with him on the very first day she’d come to work at Beaumont House.
The son, not the father.
She had already paid—and paid dearly—for loving the wrong man, and had no intention of repeating that painful experience!
This had turned out to be a wise decision, considering there had been legions of women flitting in and then quickly out of Jackson’s life over the past year. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, and every shade in between—all of them tall and beautiful.
Bree knew there was no danger of Jackson ever seeing her as anything more than his capable assistant: she was only a little over five feet tall, passably pretty rather than beautiful, and had a slender figure that men found all too easy to dismiss—something Bree knew only too well after her engagement had come to a traumatic end just over a year ago.
Just over a year ago …?
Oh, God! What was the date? Surely it couldn’t be—?
It was, Bree realised heavily, the colour draining from her cheeks.
‘You aren’t really concerned about my conversation with Roger Tyler, are you?’ Jackson frowned down at his assistant as he noticed her face growing paler.
Bree blinked before looking up at him.
‘Not if you aren’t, no,’ she dismissed in her usual brisk, no-nonsense tone.
Jackson was always taken by surprise by Bree’s long dark lashes and smoky-grey eyes: remarkable eyes in an otherwise unremarkable face. Bree had a smooth brow, with a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, and a mouth that was usually thinned in disapproval above a small but determined chin. Her hair was the rich blue-black of ebony, but as it was always scraped back and secured with a clasp on the crown of her head even after a year Jackson had no idea as to its length.
He didn’t want to know either. Jackson had made a point of never taking a personal interest in any of the women who had been his assistants over the years—much to the annoyance of some, he acknowledged ruefully.
But not Bree. At twenty-six years of age, Sabrina Jones was cool, calm and totally unflappable. From the beginning she had made it absolutely clear that she had no personal interest in him either. Which was probably the reason they had lived and worked together so harmoniously for almost a year now. Put just one little spark of sexual intent or innuendo into that mix and the whole thing would fall apart. And as Bree was the best personal assistant Jackson had ever had, as well as being only too happy to sit with Danny in the evenings if Jackson wanted to go out, he had no intention of stepping over that line. Even if that steady calmness of hers did occasionally tempt him to do something to shake her out of her cool complacency!
‘I wouldn’t waste my time worrying about a man like Tyler,’ Jackson replied drily, standing up to snag his leather jacket from the peg on the wall on his way to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Bree demanded as he shrugged into the jacket.
Jackson straightened. ‘Out.’
‘What about your appointment with Mr Tyler?’
He raised a mocking brow. ‘What about it?’
‘He’s due at the studio in just over an hour,’ she pointed out impatiently.
Jackson gave an indifferent shrug. ‘When he phones back in a couple of minutes, reschedule him for some time after Christmas.’
‘But you just told him to cancel his other engagement so that he could make this afternoon’s appointment with you,’ Bree pressed.
Jackson grinned unabashedly. ‘Sometimes greatness needs reminding that not everyone is here to jump at its beck and call.’
Bree breathed deeply. ‘I believe that statement could just as easily apply to you!’
He gave it some thought. ‘You’re right, it could.’ He finally nodded in agreement. ‘And?’
‘And I’m flattered that you think I’m great, Bree,’ he drawled mockingly.
Bree’s
