dismissing their night together as the satisfying of a brief, mutual attraction, before going on to talk about Andrew Southern—an artist of phenomenal reputation, and known as a complete recluse, who had been so for almost thirty years.
Making her realise just how little she understood Nick Cavendish.
She eyed him coolly now. ‘Is that all?’
‘No, of course—!’ He broke off to draw in a deeply controlling breath. ‘Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?’ He looked at her with narrowed eyes.
She gave a mocking lift of her eyebrows. ‘I seem to be doing that without trying!’
He relaxed slightly, an amused smile slightly curving those sculptured lips. ‘I see now why I found you so intriguing that night,’ he murmured softly.
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Not here. Not now.
She had spent the first week after his departure back to New York in a frenzy of self-recrimination, with a deep-felt need for Nick to call her to nullify all those negative thoughts.
She was in love with him, totally physically enthralled with him—and this was the twenty-first century, for goodness’ sake, not the Dark Ages, where a woman’s wants and needs weren’t considered as important as a man’s, she had chided herself.
She had done nothing wrong by spending the night with a man she found so attractive and who had wanted her too!
But as the days and weeks had passed those assurances hadn’t meant a whole lot.
And now standing here looking at Nick, they meant absolutely nothing.
She grimaced. ‘I think it might be better if we both just forgot about that, don’t you?’
It was a statement rather than a question, and Nick found himself deeply irritated by her easy dismissal.
Okay, so he hadn’t been able to wait to get her out of his apartment that morning six weeks ago, and he hadn’t called her as he said he would, but it was a bit of knock to his ego to realise that she was willing to dismiss the memories of him as easily as he had tried to dismiss her.
Or was she…?
He took a step towards her, lids lowered as he looked down at her with dark blue eyes, trailing one caressing finger down the smooth curve of her cheek. ‘Am I so easy to forget, Hebe?’ he murmured seductively, knowing that this was probably another mistake, but finding her coolness infuriating as hell. ‘Was our lovemaking easy to forget too? Or has it kept you awake nights, thinking of all the ways we touched and aroused each other?’
She gave him a startled look even as the colour entered her cheeks, her lips parting slightly as her body swayed towards his.
‘I thought so…’ He murmured his satisfaction with her response, his wandering fingers parting her lips slightly, caressing that softness, before trailing the length of her throat down to the deep vee of her blouse and the creamy swell of her breasts. All the time his challenging gaze continued to hold hers.
How could this be happening? Hebe inwardly protested, even as she felt herself responding to his touch. The arousal of her breasts was instant, the nipples hard and sensitive, as she reached out instinctively to cling tightly to the broad width of his shoulders, her legs seeming in danger of melting beneath her.
But as suddenly as he had touched her she found herself thrust away from him, and Nick was stepping back, that devilishly handsome face now set in scathing dismissal.
‘You really are a sexy little thing, aren’t you?’ he mused as he leant back against his desk, his blue gaze considering now, as he looked at the firm thrust of her breasts against her cream blouse.
‘Mr Cavendish—’
‘Oh, come on, Hebe,’ he drawled tauntingly, shaking his head slightly, those blue eyes alight with mocking laughter. ‘You can hardly go back to calling me that after sharing your body with me,’ he reminded her, with a challenging rise of that square, uncompromising chin.
Hebe felt the colour warm her cheeks at his deliberate taunting. Why was he doing this to her? What perverse pleasure did he get out of humiliating her in this way?
She straightened defensively, glaring at him. ‘At the same time as you shared your body with me!’ she came back, with all the fury of her humiliation, uncaring now if this was just his way of trying to get her to resign from her job at the gallery.
Fine. Let him sack her. She was quickly reaching the point where she didn’t care.
His smile was derisive. ‘I’m flattered that amongst all your other lovers you’ve even remembered me.’
All her other—! What was he talking about? She had had one relationship before him, and that had been five years ago; ancient history rather than recent.
‘Let’s stop playing this game, shall we?’ Nick said impatiently as he stood up.
‘Gladly!’ she agreed tautly. ‘Can I go back to work now?’ If she didn’t get out of here soon she was very much afraid the humiliating tears that blurred her vision would escape and begin to fall hotly down her cheeks!
‘No, you damn well—’ Nick broke off abruptly, drawing in controlling breaths as he realised she had to be deliberately baiting him.
Because he knew of her relationship with Andrew Southern?
Probably, he accepted scathingly. Okay, so as an artist the man was a legend in his own lifetime, but he was still a man aged in his fifties, and Hebe was only in her mid-twenties. And Nick had wondered if he was too old for her!
‘Okay, Hebe,’ he began reasoningly. ‘I accept that your affair with Andrew Southern is none of my business—’
‘My what?’ she gasped incredulously, gold eyes wide with disbelief.
‘It’s past history, I realise that—’
‘Past—!’ Hebe gave a dazed shake of her head. ‘But I told you. I don’t even know Andrew Southern!’ she protested indignantly.
‘Evidence proves the contrary—’
‘Evidence?’ she repeated disgustedly. ‘Look, Nick, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She shook her head, that amazing silver-blonde hair moving silkily against her creamy cheeks. ‘Maybe you have jet-lag, and it’s affecting your judgement. I don’t know, but—’
‘I came back from New York last week, Hebe,’ he told her softly, his gaze narrowing as she looked at him sharply. ‘I’d received information that there was a possibility of a hitherto unseen Andrew Southern coming up for sale in the north of England.’ His mouth twisted. ‘As you can imagine, I had no intention of letting anyone but Cavendish Galleries own that painting.’
‘For Cavendish Galleries read Nick Cavendish!’ she came back scathingly.
‘Exactly.’He smiled in acknowledgement of her derision. ‘Imagine my surprise when I saw the subject of the painting!’
Hebe
