do the let’s-hold-hands-and-save-the-world type. He did blondes. Big blonde hair, big blue eyes and personalities that soothed rather than challenged.
Rose Tremain was about as soothing as a pit bull.
And yet... His eyes lingered and his inconvenient erection refused to go away. The blood surging in his veins was hot with a type of dark excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time. If ever.
‘Come again?’ He realised that she had said something.
‘Your line of work? What is it?’
‘I dabble.’
‘Dabble in what?’
‘How much time have you got to spare? Could take a while.’
‘Could take a while covering your many talents? Well, you’re far from modest, aren’t you?’ She raised her eyebrows, amused and mocking, and Art smiled back slowly—deliberately slowly.
‘I’ve never been a believer in false modesty. Sign of a hypocritical mind. I prefer to recognise my talents as well as my...er...shortcomings.’
‘Well, whatever you do is your business—’ she shrugged and stood up ‘—but if you’re good at everything, which seems to be what you’re implying, then you’re going to be very useful to us.’
‘How so?’ Art followed suit and stood up, towering over her even though she was tall. ‘Useful in what respect?’
‘Odd jobs. Nothing major so no need to sound alarmed.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Everyone lends a helping hand when they’re here. It’s not just a case of people painting slogans on bits of cardboard with felt tip pens. Yes, we’re all protesting for the same reason, but this is a small, close community. The guys who come here do all sorts of jobs around the house. They know I’m representing them for free and they’re all keen to repay the favour by doing practical things in return. There are a couple of plumbers behind us and an electrician, and without them I have no idea how much money I would have had to spend to get some vital jobs on the house done.’
‘So this is your house?’ Art thought that it was a bit hypocritical, clamouring about rich businessmen who wanted to destroy the precious space around her so that they could line their evil pockets when she, judging from the size of the house, was no pauper.
Accustomed to storing up information that might prove useful down the line, he sensed that that was a conversation he would have in due course.
‘It is, not that that’s relevant,’ Rose said coolly. ‘What is relevant is that most of the town is behind us, aside from the local council, who have seen fit to grant planning permission. I’ve managed to really rally a great deal of people to support our cause and they’ve all been brilliant. So if you’re a jack-of-all-trades then I’m sure I’ll be able to find loads of practical ways you can help, aside from joining the sit-in, of course. Now, shall I take you to the scene of the crime...?’
‘YOU HAVE A nice house,’ Art commented neutrally as they exited the cluttered kitchen, out into the main body of the house which was equally cluttered. ‘Big. You rent out rooms, I take it?’ He detoured to push open the door to one of the huge ground-floor rooms and was confronted with an elderly man holding court with an image of a bunch of flowers behind him on the wall. The image was faded and unsteady because the projector was probably a relic from the last century. Everyone turned to stare at Art and he saluted briskly before gently shutting the door.
‘If it’s all the same to you, Mr Frank, I’ll ask the questions. And please refrain from exploring the house because, yes, other organisations do avail themselves of some of the rooms and I very much doubt they want you poking your head in to say hello. Unless, of course, you have something to impart on the subject of orchid-growing or maybe some pearls of wisdom you could share with one of our Citizens Advice Bureau volunteers?’
‘I’ve never been into gardening,’ Art contributed truthfully. He slanted his eyes across to Rose, who was walking tall next to him, her strides easily matching his as they headed to the front door. The walls of the house were awash with rousing, morale-boosting posters. Voices could be heard behind closed doors.
‘You’re missing out. It’s a very restful pastime.’
Art chuckled quietly. He didn’t do restful.
‘Wait a minute.’ She looked at him directly, hands on her hips, her brown eyes narrowed and shrewdly assessing. ‘There’s one little thing I forgot to mention and I’d better be upfront before we go any further.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know who you are. You’re not from around here and I’m going to make it clear to you from the start that we don’t welcome rabble-rousers.’
Stunned, Art stared at her in complete silence.
He was Arturo da Costa. A man feared and respected in the international business community. A man who could have anything he wanted at the snap of an imperious finger. Grown men thought twice before they said anything they felt might be misconstrued as offensive. When he spoke, people inclined their heads and listened. When he entered a room, silence fell.
And here he was being accused of being a potential rabble-rouser!
‘Rabble-rouser,’ he framed in a slow, incredulous voice.
‘It’s been known.’ She spun around on her heel, headed to the door and then out towards a battered navy blue Land Rover. ‘Idlers who drift from one protest site to another, stirring up trouble for their own political motives.’
‘Idlers...’ Art played with the word on his tongue, shocked and yet helpless to voice his outrage given he was supposed to be someone of no fixed address, there to support the noble cause.
‘Granted, not all are idlers.’ Rose swung herself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind her, waiting for him to join her. She switched on the engine but then turned to him, one hand on the gearbox, the other on the steering wheel. ‘But a lot of them are career protestors and I can tell you straight away that we don’t welcome that lot. We’re peaceful. We want our voices to be heard and the message we want to get across is not one that would benefit from thug tactics.’
‘I have never been accused of being a rabble-rouser in my life before, far less a thug. Or an idler...’
‘There’s no need to look so shocked.’ She smiled and pushed some of her curly hair away from her face. ‘These things happen in the big, bad world.’
* * *
‘Oh, I know all about what happens in the big, bad world,’ Mr Frank murmured softly and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end because his deep, velvety voice was as seductive as the darkest of chocolate.
In the sultry heat of the Land Rover, she could almost breathe him in and it was going to her head like incense.
‘And before you launch into another outrageous accusation—’ he laughed ‘—something along the lines that I don’t know about the big, bad
