stowing the tiles, she inspected her elbow and pressed a cold compress to the obvious swelling. Later her housemate, a nurse in a private hospital, insisted on prodding the arm gently and moving it about. ‘Nothing broken, probably,’ Janette agreed cheerfully, ‘but maybe you should get it checked out.’
Rhiannon shook her head. ‘If it doesn’t get better,’ she promised.
After dinner she wrapped the tiles in newspaper and smashed them with a hammer, left-handed, quelling a familiar inner pang at the destruction. As she’d told the stranger in the car park, most of them were already damaged, scavenged with permission from the demolition team knocking down a city building.
Fitting some of the pieces into the triptych, she soon found regret disappearing in the satisfaction of creation.
The following Friday she was entering the ground floor of the parking building when a man’s deep, leisurely voice sent a tingle of recognition up her spine. The Greek god.
‘Hello again.’ Catching up with her, he slanted her a smile. ‘How’s the arm?’ He looked down at it, revealed by the short-sleeved, easy-fitting beige cotton dress she wore.
‘All right, thanks,’ she answered warily, before remembering to return the smile.
‘You still have a bruise.’ It had passed the worst stage but a purple shadow remained. A long masculine finger briefly brushed the faint mark, making her flinch as a curious sensation feathered over her skin.
‘Sorry!’ he said, surprised grey-blue eyes meeting hers. ‘Is it that tender?’
‘No.’ Rhiannon shied sideways, creating a space between them as he walked beside her.
He sent her a quizzical look. ‘Then—I apologise for taking liberties.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said coolly. Such a fleeting, scarcely felt touch couldn’t be construed as an assault, or even an advance of any kind. Many people touched casually, naturally, with no suggestion of intimacy.
She headed for the stairs, and he commented, ‘Not taking the lift?’
Rhiannon shook her head. Rather than admit to a phobia, she gave her usual excuse. ‘Climbing stairs helps to keep me fit.’
He swerved to accompany her. ‘It obviously works.’ He cast a glinting glance over her.
Every nerve screamed. Rhiannon looked away and didn’t answer.
‘Another apology?’ he inquired softly, climbing at her side.
She shook her head, her throat locked, even though her brain told her she was being ridiculous. Here was an attractive man, letting her know he was attracted to her. Most women would be pleased. Most women would have smiled at him, preened a little, even given him some kind of subtle invitation.
Rhiannon was achingly conscious that she wasn’t most women.
After a second he said, ‘I feel I owe you some sort of compensation. Could I buy you a coffee sometime? Or dinner?’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ she said tightly.
‘Are you married?’ he asked. ‘Or in a relationship?’
The blunt question startled her into speaking without thought. ‘No!’
‘You just hate the sight of me? Well, I can’t blame you after that accident.’
‘I don’t hate you—I don’t even know you.’
He said lightly, ‘If you’d care to…’
About to tell him she didn’t, Rhiannon hesitated. If she was ever to be a normal, functioning woman she had to start acting like one. It was past time.
They had reached a landing and somehow he stopped so that he blocked her further progress though there was at least half a metre of space between them. He pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to her. ‘Gabriel Hudson,’ he said. ‘I’m in the air-freight business.’
A name to be reckoned with. Gabriel Hudson owned one of the biggest and best-known private firms in the country.
The card confirmed it—the familiar angel-wings logo in one corner, his name centred in flowing script. All the company’s ads used the theme of care and speed, featuring angels cradling precious parcels gently in their arms as they flew from one end of New Zealand to the other, and around the globe. Their service was popular because, unlike most such companies, they boasted a door-to-door service, every package remaining in the Angelair system from collection to delivery.
He was a respected businessman, widely admired for his commercial success when still in his twenties, and named last year on the modest national rich-list, but not one of those who were photographed living it up at social occasions attended by the local glitterati. His private life, it seemed, was strictly kept that way—private.
‘I’ve used your service,’ Rhiannon blurted. Who hadn’t used Angelair if they were involved in any kind of business in New Zealand?
‘We carry your mosaics?’
Feeling a need to cover her gauche remark, she said, ‘Other people’s art, too, and books.’
‘Books?’
‘I have a gallery and bookshop.’
His head tilted to one side. ‘Where?’
She’d said too much already. Reluctantly, she told him, ‘We moved a few weeks ago into High Street.’ The lease for the new premises was cheap for central Auckland, though twice what she’d paid for a small suburban shop space. She hoped the extra street trade and a change to more exclusive stock would compensate.
‘What’s it called?’
Pointless to hold back now. ‘Mosaica.’
A young man came bounding up the stairs, and Gabriel Hudson’s firm hand on Rhiannon’s waist moved her aside as the man raced past them with a careless ‘Thanks.’
Her shoulder came up against hard male muscle, her hip just touching Gabriel’s, and she recognised the citrus-and-spice scent she’d noticed at their first encounter.
Even as her skin began to prickle, her throat tighten, he moved away and allowed her to continue hurrying up the stairs.
Reaching the next floor, she paused to let two vehicles sweep past. The elevator disgorged several passengers. Gabriel said, ‘Are you going to tell me your name?’
‘Rhiannon,’ she said, conquering long-formed habit. ‘Rhiannon Lewis.’
‘Ree-annon,’ he repeated, as if trying out the syllables on his tongue. ‘Welsh, isn’t it?’
‘Originally.’
‘I’d like to see the gallery sometime, and maybe we could go out for that coffee?’ His tone was casual, the winter-morning gaze holding mild inquiry.
This was a civilised
