going to Michael’s to discuss the final gallery arrangements for the imminent private viewing, only breaking off when her secretary, Lynne, located her on the internal line just before lunch-time.
‘The letters are ready for your signature and the balance sheets from the accountants have just come through. Mr Edward will want to see them. Oh, and he wants you to stay on this evening. He left a message. He’s got a client for First Love. The usual drill.’
Champagne and canapés, followed—if the client showed serious interest and was willing to pay top dollar—by an elegant dinner at one of London’s more select eating houses. As Edward’s executive assistant it was her job to ensure that the evening went smoothly, his to extol the virtues and provenance of the piece the client was interested in.
‘So he’s not putting it in the private viewing,’ Caroline mused as she came off the phone. ‘Someone must be keen.’ She leant back in her chair and raised one finely drawn brow at Michael.
The private viewings were as near the vulgarity of a public auction as Edward Weinberg would allow. None of the items were ever priced but amounts were discreetly mentioned, offers just as discreetly made and just as quietly topped until, at the end of the day, the original sum mentioned would have rocketed sky high.
Though occasionally, a particular client would make it known that he was prepared to go to the limit, and above, to acquire a particular piece and a private evening meeting, as the one scheduled for tonight, would take place.
‘The old man plays his cards close to his chest,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He must have put feelers out—or waited to see what came up after the heavier broadsheets published that photograph of the painting. Who knows?’
He lounged back in his chair, his warm hazel eyes approving her elegant, softly styled suit, the gleam of her upswept black hair. Caroline Harvey was quite something. Beautiful, intelligent, articulate. And a challenge. Her beauty was cloaked in inviolability. He wondered if she had ever allowed any man past a chaste kiss at the end of a date. He doubted it. He picked up a pencil, rolling it between his fingers, and wondered what it would take.
She returned his warm approval, hers overlaid with affectionate amusement. Edward’s son was stockily built, almost good-looking. He affected a casual style of dress—bordering on the sloppy. Mainly because, she guessed, he knew he could never compete with his father in the sartorial stakes so went the other way.
She gathered together the papers she needed and Michael said, ‘Lunch? There’s a new place opened round the corner, just off Berkeley Square. I thought we might suss it out.’
He was already on his feet but Caroline shook her head. Since his divorce, over twelve months ago now, they often lunched together when they were both back at base. To begin with they’d talked shop, but recently their conversation had reached a more personal level. Without actually saying as much, he had hinted that he would like their friendship to deepen into something far more intimate.
She sighed slightly. Approaching thirty, she had choices to make: whether to remain single, a career woman with no family, just a small circle of friends; or whether to become part of a couple, have children, trust a man again…
‘Sorry,’ she declined softly. ‘I’ll have to work through. I’m going to have to squeeze in the arrangements for this evening and I’m already pushed for time.’
She worked quickly and efficiently, gaining enough time to leave an hour early. She needed to go home to her small apartment near Green Park, change and be back at the Weinberg Galleries in Mayfair by six-thirty at the very latest.
She would have rather spent the mild April evening at home with a good book, and that wasn’t like her. She lived and breathed her work. But she wasn’t looking forward to this evening and wasn’t stupid enough to pretend she didn’t know why. The sooner First Love was off their hands the better. The memories it had forced into the front of her mind tormented her. She had believed she had forgotten the pain of heartbreak and betrayal. But she hadn’t.
She dressed carefully because it was part of her job to look as good as she could: claret-coloured silk trousers topped by a matching tuxedo-style top, a slightly lighter toned camisole underneath, garnet eardrops her only decoration, high heels to add to her five-ten height. And she was back at the gallery to approve the caterer’s efforts before Edward and his client arrived.
‘Elegant, as usual, Ivan.’ Her heavily lidded eyes swept the small but exquisite buffet, concentrating on that because she couldn’t bear to look at the painting on its display easel, cunningly lit by discreetly placed spotlights. Just thinking about it, the shattering resemblance that reminded her of the passionate but clueless young thing she’d been, made her feel ill with anger.
‘There’s no need for you to stay on.’ She made herself smile at him. ‘As soon as you’ve opened the champagne you can fade away. One of the security guards will let you out.’
She squared her shoulders, forcing painful memories to the back of her mind. It was only a painting, for pity’s sake! Ben Dexter had meant nothing to her for twelve long years and the residue of anger she hadn’t realised she still felt had to be nothing more than a self-indulgent fancy.
It had to stop!
‘Everything’s in hand for the private viewing later this week, I take it?’
‘Saturday. Yes, of course.’ Ivan gave the bottle of champagne a final twist in its bucket of ice and stepped back, his hands on his slim hips. He had a dancer’s body and soulful brown eyes. Caroline wondered wryly how many hearts he’d broken in his young lifetime as the brown eyes flirted with her. ‘Everything will be perfect, especially for you—for you, anything else would be unthinkable.’
‘Such flattery,’ she mocked. Everything would be perfect because he and his small, hard-working team were the best money could hire, and inside that handsome Slavic head lurked an astute business brain.
The small moment broke the unease of not wanting to be here at all, and she was grateful for that until, from the open doorway, Edward said, ‘Caroline, my dear, let me introduce Ben Dexter. Ben, meet my invaluable right hand, Caroline Harvey.’
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t help it. The panelled walls were closing in on her, the luxurious Aubusson tilting beneath her feet, the tumultuous beats of her heart suffocating her.
Ben Dexter. The man who had taken all she had had to give—her body, heart and soul—then, Judas-like, had sneaked away with her father’s pay-off. She should, she thought savagely, be thankful that, unlike Maggie Pope from the village, he hadn’t left her, literally, holding the baby.
She forced her eyes open, scrabbling for the slim hope that two men could bear that name, made herself look at him and met the bitterness in his darkly eloquent eyes, saw the slight, contemptuous curl of his handsome mouth, the proud lift of his dark head, and wanted to hit him for what he had been, for what he had done.
He’d been a thorn in the sides of the parents of daughters, the bad boy of the village, disappearing for months on end to goodness only knew where, reappearing with his wild, gypsy looks, his whippy grace, his devil’s eyes, to quite literally charm the pants off the local girls!
Only she hadn’t known that then, all those years ago. He’d said he loved her, wanted her for always, until the stars turned to ashes. And she’d believed him. Then.
She felt herself sway with the force of her anger, scathing words of condemnation bubbling
