True Colours Part 7

For a second he sounded like a child unsure of his ground, desperate to please. She could feel his eyes on her back, burning a hole through her jacket, to her skin. Deliberately ignoring the sensation, she put her head on one side, looking around her, searching desperately for ideas. It was a man's s.p.a.ce. Functional, practical... s.e.xy...she curtailed that line of thought as rapidly as it had begun.

'You could bring in some Alessi brights; Stefano Giovannoni and Philippe Starck have designed some really funky kitchen accessories for them. A fuchsia plastic fruit bowl would be great, maybe a couple of bright stools, turquoise and lime? Electric colours will work really well with the monochrome backdrop to add a splash of colour. You can follow them through with a colour block clock and ap.r.o.ns and tea towels, to pull it all together.' She threw him a hasty glance over her shoulder, had to, could feel the mark his eyes had made on her back smouldering. But he didn't seem to be listening. He was nodding all right, but was looking at his feet.

On the other side of the counter, Sebastian was counting to twenty, struggling to keep his face blank while he fought the image of her fingertips running over the smooth stainless steel, fighting the red hot shot of desire that had routed direct from his groin to his heart the moment she had touched it. She was wearing a pure white guipure lace bra, as hazy as a mirage through the sheer cotton of her s.h.i.+rt, but as she had moved into the kitchen he had caught a glimpse of her cleavage out of the corner of his eye, the full curve of her breast cupped in lace, tantalisingly hidden where the s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned. And a waft of her perfume. Spicy. Exotic. s.e.xy. Very s.e.xy. And for a moment he was a teenager again, dizzy with desire, hormones pumping.

'That sounds fine.' What did? What had she been saying?

He turned away from her, suddenly conscious that his jeans might not be loose enough to hide his physical reaction. It wasn't just his mind she was messing with.

'Cool.' He cleared his throat, this wasn't going like he'd planned.

For some reason, he'd thought when he got her alone he would come right out and ask her, ask her why she'd left, why she'd just f.e.c.ked off and turned his life upside down. One minute they'd been getting sweaty on the backstairs, her m.u.f.fled cries reverberating off the plaster walls, her hand gripping the winding handrail, nails digging into her palm as she tried to keep a lid on her ecstasy, her denim mini around her waist like a belt, t-s.h.i.+rt pulled up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the nipple in his mouth as flushed as her cheeks. Then he'd heard footsteps on the stairs below and they'd scrambled to the top, to the doorway of the ballroom where he'd lifted her onto the windowsill, the chance of discovery heightening his pa.s.sion until her back had arched under him, his forehead pressed against the cold gla.s.s, shuddering with need as they climaxed together. And then she'd run, still wet from their union, yanking her t-s.h.i.+rt down, straightening her skirt, throwing a mischievous grin over her shoulder, lips swollen and bruised. Panting and laughing, he had fallen back on the windowsill, heard her heels on the parquet floor as she ran across the room and down the backstairs on the other side.

And the next day she had gone.

And the pain had been overwhelming, suffocating.

The first day, Tom had said she was out, had some college business to sort out. Maybe she'd forgotten to tell him; maybe it was a last-minute interview. But the next day she'd been out too, and the next. And there was no phone call, not even a note. Then, standing at the door of the two-storey stone cottage, his weathered face creased with worry, Tom had told him the truth. 'She's gone lad, packed her bags and left us. I don't know exactly where too. I'm sure she'll get in touch when she gets there. I'll tell her to call you.' And a part of him died right there. The part of him that knew she wasn't coming back.

And he'd been right. There had been no word, no explanation. Nothing. Not even a postcard. Then his parents had been killed and his world had turned totally and utterly upside down.

Did she have any idea how long he'd waited for her, how hard he'd tried to find her? He'd even persuaded his grandfather to hire a private detective to look for her, spinning a story about seeing her in the pub with some oaf who might have done her harm. No go. Her trail was cold.

And so was he. Losing interest in everything, his grandfather had had an easy job to persuade him to switch from architecture to business, had tried to fill his days with estate duties, giving him more and more responsibility in the running of his empire until, when he left university, Sebastian virtually held the strings single-handed. But what good was that when his heart was dead?

And now, after all this time, here she was, breezing right back into his life like nothing had happened.

Well two could play at that game, and right now, despite all his plans, despite the conversations he'd had a million times in his head since that day, he wasn't about to let her see the damage she'd done. No matter how tempting it was, he d.a.m.n well wasn't about to ask her what happened, ask her why she left, wasn't about to show her how much he hurt.

'What do you think you can do here, in the living room?' Sebastian still had his back to her, was standing squarely between the end of the breakfast bar and the gla.s.s wall, seemed unaware that he was blocking her way out of the kitchen. And after the last time she wasn't about to get into his s.p.a.ce, to try and squeeze around the end of the counter, get too near him. Glancing at his back, at the s.h.i.+rt straining across his shoulders, at the way his Levis gripped his b.u.t.t, Alex busied herself sliding her laptop case onto the counter, unzipping it noisily, pulling out a moleskin notepad and pen. He still hadn't moved, but she had a pretty good view of the room from where she was. It would do fine.

'Do you have floor plans?'

He nodded vaguely, looking around the room. 'She hates this room. Can't see what's wrong with it myself but then I don't spend much time here.'

Glancing at his profile, at the dimple in his cheek, Alex nodded, 'I'll have a look at those magazines. Get some ideas. We can soften some of the lines, make it more feminine, give it a focal point.'

Making a note on her pad, she fought the urge to reach out to him, stuck her pen decisively behind her ear. What they had was gone, they had both moved on.

'Where next?'

A glance into the study. Master bathroom next. Spare rooms. Each one looked like it had been decorated by the developer. Fas.h.i.+onable colours: terracotta, primrose, a mucky green. Natural surfaces. Wood, steel, stone. Impersonal, uninspiring. Like a trendy hotel.

Until they got to the bedroom.

He was inside before she realised what was coming next, was focusing on making notes, avoiding his eye as she followed him across the threshold. It took her a few moments to register where she was.

His bedroom...Alex could feel a blush hitting her face full force as she took in the chocolate raw silk curtains, luxuriously thick cream wool carpet, bronze satin bedspread and huge mahogany sleigh bed piled high with cus.h.i.+ons and bolsters, gold, chocolate and coffee silk organza, iridescent taffeta, smooth satins. But if these made her blush, they were nothing compared with the single item that dominated the room above the bed, a huge painting of a reclining nude ran almost the full width of the wall.

'Oh.' It slipped out before Alex had a chance to catch it. It was a fabulous painting, thick black brush strokes confident, yet somehow it was breathy, impressionistic. One of the girl's arms was thrown above her head, only her chin visible in the corner of the canvas, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s full, nipples a splash of red in a sea of pale skin tones, her legs parted, one knee raised. Writhing in ecstasy.

'Do you like it?'

He'd abandoned his coffee cup in the study, was leaning casually against the wall, hands hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his brow trapped in a speculative frown like they were in an exclusive gallery looking at a landscape he was about to buy.

'It's, it's...' searching for the right words, Alex glanced at him, glanced back at the painting, not sure where to look, her cheeks flaming.

This was excruciating...here she was trying to stay professional, to focus on him as a client, and here he was asking her to comment on a highly erotic painting of a nude, IN HIS BEDROOM. Wasn't this s.e.xual hara.s.sment? Really she should just shrug, nod curtly and back out, say something like, 'It's great. I think I've all I need now, I really must dash,' and make a rapid but graceful exit.

But somehow she couldn't. Somehow, transfixed, Alex felt like the painting was pulling her in with a peculiar, powerful magnetism.

It was beautiful; the subject seemed to jump off the canvas, had a life, a movement that left her almost as breathless as the model, who most definitely appeared to be on the brink of something earth-shattering. There was no one else in the painting, the girl's naked body filling the entire canva.s.s, but somehow you could tell that she wasn't alone. Perhaps it was the tiny shadow in the corner that suggested that someone was watching her, perhaps it was something about the way she was lying. One way or another, the implication gave the subject an electric charge that would have blown the fuses if it was plugged in.

Alex glanced sideways at Sebastian. He was watching her, his head on one side like he was looking for her approval. Why on earth? Panic fluttered in her chest, perhaps this was some sort of bizarre test...perhaps it was by some incredibly famous artist whose work she should recognise instantly...?

Pinp.r.i.c.ks of sweat breaking out down her spine, embarra.s.sed beyond belief at being trapped here looking at a painting that only fell short of p.o.r.nography because it was supposed to be art, Alex knew she needed to say something, could feel the silence growing, loaded with innuendo and half-forgotten moments: the feel of his touch, the scent of his body against hers...The CD had finished she hadn't noticed until now and she could feel his eyes on her, watching, waiting for her to comment. Waiting for her to say what? Beyond 'It's very nice' or 'great brush work' what could she say? You made me feel like that...

She felt like she was locked inside a bubble, running out of air.

Desperate to break the tension, to say something, anything, to break the silence, to get this whole charade back to what it should be a client consultation she suddenly had a devilish urge to say something flippant, to ask what his fiancee thought of it, anything to bluff him that whatever he'd been planning by showing her this picture wasn't working, that she was a professional, could cope with anything. Then she stopped herself.

And took a major double take.

Staring hard at the painting her mouth went dry, the hairs on the back of her neck standing rigidly to attention as a s.h.i.+ver paralysed her spine, and her eyes, locked on a small dark mole less than an inch from the model's navel. Alex's eyes widened in horror. Disbelieving, she shot a glance at Sebastian and back to the painting again it was definitely a mole, not a drip or an accidental splash of paint. And there was another on her breast, paler, less obvious...

'Oh my G.o.d...' The blood pounding in her ears, she felt herself hurtling back sixteen years, images of that summer flas.h.i.+ng past like she was looking out the window of a high-speed train.

The drawings.

Every afternoon for weeks. Him sketching, while she watched the clouds pa.s.s overhead, dreaming of the Mill House, about what they could do with it, making plans, castles in the sky. But she'd had her clothes on!

'How could you...?'

She didn't finish. Her train crashed, carriages concertinaing, piling up on each other with a force that even she couldn't control. Then, throwing him a look of pure venom, she turned on her heel and ran for the lift.

SEVENTEEN.

How could he have done it? How could he have taken those lovely drawings he'd done of her, quick pencil sketches, capturing the moment, practising his life drawing he'd said, and gone off and painted her naked?

And not only naked but with everything on show, and very obviously in the throws of an o.r.g.a.s.m that would affect anyone who looked at it. Leaving nothing to the imagination.

AND THEN he'd put it up over his BED. Where everyone could see it. Like his girlfriends. Like his fiancee. Making love with her above him, like he was really putting it up to her, like he was getting his own back every time he brought a new woman home.

Hiding her face in her hands Alex could feel her whole body blus.h.i.+ng, cringing with total humiliation. She'd been mortified when she'd seen it, then angry. Angry at his audacity. Angry that he could do something like that, that he could take those moments and exploit them, exploit her. But now she just felt sick. Exposed. Violated. He might as well have asked her to stand on the boardroom table and strip.

Above her, the rain hammered on the roof of the car, drowning out her CD player, the fan struggling to clear the windscreen. Normally, the sound of the rain would have been comforting, would have made her feel cosy and safe, but now the constant drumming was starting to get on her nerves. She'd been sitting here for almost an hour, trying to work out how, when he'd done it. Trying to imagine why.

She had been amazed when she'd first seen his sketchbook tossed into the jumble of pencils and folders on the desk in his bedroom, the old nursery in the east wing. The page had been open at a charcoal drawing one of the dogs, a pedigree Clumber Spaniel puppy whose Irish Kennel Club name was so long and ridiculous that they just called her Doris, Dodo for short. In just a few deft strokes he'd captured her melting brown eyes, her hound-like expression, the n.o.bility of her deep muzzle, the texture of her silky ears, captured her whole being better than any photograph.

'Did you do that?' turning, her eyes alight with amazement; Alex had caught Sebastian's blush as he realised what she meant.

'It's nothing, just Dodo. She's a devil; she was watching the cat on the kitchen garden wall, waiting for it to move so she could chase it it nearly killed her when it went over the back and she couldn't get it.'

'But it's brilliant. You should frame it. Are there any more?'

Alex had the book in her hand, was flicking through the thick paper leaves before he could stop her. His grandfather, a quick sketch, scowling, as if he hadn't known he was being captured; Cook laughing, her cheeks ruddy from the heat of the oven, sleeves pulled up; his mother in her huge floppy straw gardening hat; her own father from a distance striding through the heather beside the lake. And a stag, antlers stark against the sky, its strength and power captured in the ripple of its coat as it stood in silhouette on the Long Ridge, head held high, declaring its kings.h.i.+p. 'They're amazing. You'll be wasted as an architect, you should do art.'

Sebastian had laughed, but it was hollow, 'Yeah, I can really see grandfather going for that. He thinks architecture is a waste of time as it is, reckons I should switch to business.'

Their eyes had met, her grimace mirroring his. His grandfather was a force to be reckoned with on a good day.

'Here, let me do one of you. Sit down by the window.'

It had only taken him a couple of minutes, a portrait in midnight blue pencil, the first thing that had come to hand, her curls like a halo with the light behind her, eyes creased with laughter.

That had been the first. From then on Sebastian had carried his sketch pad everywhere with him, and pencils, 2B and 4B, meticulously sharpened with his penknife, catching the moments like the shutter of a camera. In the barn, the straw sticking into her back through her t-s.h.i.+rt as she'd posed, peeping out from behind the bales, the smell of the hay clinging to her hair, the scent of their lovemaking clinging to her skin; in the woods, stretched out in the long gra.s.s, bees buzzing, an orchestra of birds above them; in the back row of the cinema, her face lit by the moving images on the screen, completely absorbed.

And then...and then he'd taken all the sketches and put them together in one huge painting.

As Alex thought about it, it wasn't so much the fact that he'd painted her that bothered her, but the way he'd painted her...and then...she drew in a sharp breath as it hit her all over again, it was where he'd put it.

Alex yanked her hair behind her ear; the rain had turned it into a ma.s.s of wreathing corkscrews that danced around her face with every movement, driving her nuts. The CD player switched track, Bonnie Tyler's gravelly voice mournful, Cry me a River. And like the replay b.u.t.ton stuck in the 'on' position in her head, the whole episode started to roll again: the look on his face as he'd led her into the bedroom, that frown with a hint of sheepishness; or was she imagining that? Then, watching her as she admired it, realisation unfurling in her chest like the petals of a lily. How quickly had she spotted that mole beside the model's navel, the other on her breast, close to her nipple, flushed and inviting, her hand cupping its weight, fingers stretched in ecstasy, her back arched. It had felt like a lifetime, but must only have been a few seconds when it had dawned, beyond a doubt, that the subject of the painting was her.

Oh my G.o.d. A toe-curling cringe hit Alex all over again. And when she'd turned to him, stuttering, had there been a hint of triumph in his eye, a flicker of a smile? b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Was running out of the apartment the right thing to have done? Anger flared again perhaps she should have had it out with him there and then, told him exactly why she left, exactly what had happened, opened the wound and salted it liberally with the truth.

No. It came like a door slamming in her head. She'd done the right thing. There was still too much at stake to just blurt it all out, more than just the two of them involved.

She'd done the right thing.

Pulling out of the Eaton Square complex as fast as she could, driving blindly along the seafront towards the city, she'd found herself almost at the hospital before she'd come to her senses. But she definitely wasn't in the mood to see her dad, had instead veered off towards the sea, pulling up in the huge anonymous car park that ran along the seafront in Sandymount where she now sat. She sighed, her hands gripping the top of the steering wheel. The tide was out, in front of her, huge bare stretches of sand were exposed to the elements, deeply scored by the movement of the waves. Framing the view, the twin chimneys of the Pigeon House power station thrusting for the sky, the Wicklow Mountains rising across the bay, their dark shapes haunting and melancholic. This was the view from Sebastian's apartment...from the balcony, from every aspect of the living room, even from the...kitchen.

Realisation hit her like an arrow, its tip gleaming as it flew from his kitchen counter right into the side of her car.

Her briefcase. Her b.l.o.o.d.y briefcase! She'd left it in the kitchen, her laptop neatly zipped inside. On the kitchen counter. Right in the middle of the kitchen counter.

f.e.c.k. How the h.e.l.l could she have been so stupid?

AND HOW THE h.e.l.l WAS SHE GOING TO GET IT BACK?.

To add a further great dollop of humiliation to the whole d.a.m.n farce, now she was going have to go crawling back in there and get it. Well, she wasn't about to do that, to go back so he could smirk at her all over again. He could get well and truly stuffed on that front. So how could she get it back? It only took a moment for Alex to decide. She reached for her phone, which, thankfully she'd left in the car when she went up to the apartment.

'Hi Jocelyn, how are you? This is Alex Ryan.' Alex cradled her mobile on her shoulder as she spoke, turning the CD player down, stilling the fan heater.

'Alex? Lovely to hear from you. How did you get on?'

Alex put on her 'everything went great' voice, light and airy and unconcerned. Only her last words were spelled out tentatively.

'Super, I have everything I need to get going on some ideas. I just had one slight technical hitch.'

'What was it my dear, what can I help you with?'

'Oh Jocelyn, would you believe it, I was so caught up in the ideas for the apartment I managed to leave my laptop behind. I feel such a twit.'

Jocelyn laughed sympathetically, as if she had done exactly the same type of thing herself, 'That's not a problem AT ALL my dear. But I guess you don't want to pop back and knock on the door and ask for it?'

Alex laughed, focusing on keeping her voice confident, 'Exactly. I'd feel like I was asking for my ball back. Not terribly professional is it?'

'Don't you worry...' Alex could hear Jocelyn flicking through a diary, 'Sebastian has a meeting in London this afternoon, he's probably already left...He's staying there tonight and planning to come straight in to the office tomorrow morning. And I don't have a key but,' Alex could hear her voice brighten as she arrived at a solution, 'the cleaners will be there at 9 a.m. I'll let the company know you'll be calling over. How's that?'

Alex's sigh of relief was louder than she intended, 'Marvellous Jocelyn, thanks so much.'

'No problem my dear, us girls have to stick together don't we, or nothing would get done!'

Alex clicked off her phone, and let go of all the fake enthusiasm and bonhomie, deflated, resting her head on the steering wheel. Thank G.o.d. Now, she could nip over in the morning and grab it while he was away, which meant that today, she only had to pop in and see her dad and then she could go home and open a very cold bottle of white wine and get totally and utterly p.i.s.sed.

Anyone pa.s.sing might have been concerned for her sanity, as sealed from the rain and the mess her life was in, she shuddered, a tear creeping down her cheek, falling onto the lapel of her jacket, rapidly followed by another.

EIGHTEEN.

Grafton Street was busier than Peter had expected, the broad pedestrianised area crowded with people ebbing and flowing along its length, occasionally cl.u.s.tering around street performers, craning to get a better look. A man modelling a sleeping dog from damp sand, a gra.s.s green woolly hat lying in front of the sculpture for coins; a puppeteer, his puppet rus.h.i.+ng into the crowd producing screams of delight from a gang of foreign students.

At the entrance to one of the side streets a flower seller was busy tidying her pitch, organising buckets of brilliantly coloured flowers. A woman in a velvet coat was keeping the a.s.sistant occupied choosing a huge bunch. So much for the recession. Peter paused for a second, the heavy scents from the flowers crowding his mind as his eyes ran over lilies and great spiked bunches of he wasn't sure what. Would he buy Caroline flowers? Maybe not this time. She might not be on her own when he found her and he didn't want to create any trouble, not just yet anyhow.

Dodging a woman trailing two small children dressed in berets and b.u.t.ton-up coats who looked like they'd fallen out of a TV commercial, Peter slipped through the plate gla.s.s doors of Brown Thomas and weaved his way through the designer cosmetics counters to the escalator.

Heading up the scents of perfume and leather jostling for attention, Peter stepped off in The Designer Rooms. He paused for a moment, scanning the spa.r.s.ely-hung perspex rails to his left, bright overhead lights magnified by hundreds of mirrors. The place was a maze of pillars and subsections, appeared to have no logical layout Ahead of him was a shoe display area. He checked briefly, then in one of the mirrors caught a flash of pink and a dark-haired women heading somewhere to his right. Was that her? His footsteps hollow on the peculiar white lino-like flooring, Peter followed her.

A second later he spotted her in a side annexe. Gucci. He should have guessed.

'h.e.l.lo beautiful.'

Sliding up behind Caroline as she inspected a rail of impossibly delicate silk organza dresses, Peter slipped his hand around her and inside the bright pink boxy faux fur coat she was wearing, burying his face in the back of her neck as he spoke.

'Oh my!' Almost dropping the thick paper carrier bags dangling from the crook of her arm, Caroline spun around to see who was behind her. Peter let her go long enough for her to turn to face him, then slipped both hands inside her coat, pulling her lithe body towards his.