Tall, Dark... Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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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 gave a dazed shake of her head. She had no idea what this conversation was about, or where it could possibly be going. But Nick, it seemed, had been back in England a week already. A week during which he had neither telephoned her nor tried to see her again.
Until today. When he had done nothing but humiliate and embarrass her.
But he had taken her in his arms too…
To prove a point. Nothing else. And he had proved it too, hadn’t he? She responded to him even when she didn’t want to.
Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she didn’t hate him rather than love him!
‘The subject of the painting…?’she prompted frowningly.
‘Yes.’ Nick was looking at her with narrowed eyes now. ‘A portrait. A woman. A very beautiful woman, in fact.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders as if that point was indisputable.
‘It’s one of his earlier paintings then—?’
‘No,’ Nick cut in with certainty. ‘I can categorically say this work is recent. The last five years or so, I would say,’ he added consideringly.
‘But I thought he didn’t paint portraits any more—’
‘Obviously this woman inspired him to do so,’ Nick cut in dryly.
Hebe didn’t like the way he was looking at her now, as if critically dissecting every part of her body.
A body he had come to know intimately six weeks ago…
Except he hadn’t seemed to find anything to critisise about it then, had he?
She shrugged. ‘As far as I’m aware, Andrew Southern hasn’t painted a portrait for over twenty years.’
‘Are you doubting my expertise, Hebe?’ Nick snapped tautly.
No, she wasn’t doing that. Not in any way! She knew only too well what an masterful lover he was. And he hadn’t built up the prestigious worldwide reputation of the Cavendish Galleries by not being extremely knowledgable about art. He knew his subject equally as well as he knew how to be a lover!
Nick was growing tired of Hebe’s prevarication. He strode forcefully across his office to flick the covering from the painting displayed there, his piercing gaze never leaving Hebe’s face as he did so. He wanted to see her reaction to the portrait.
Her eyes widened as she stared blankly at the portrait, her body tensing rigidly.
Not surprising, really, Nick thought with hard amusement.
The painting was of her. Sitting sideways on a chair, wearing a clinging dress of midnight-blue, her hair a glorious curtain of silver down the long length of her spine.
And that was where the formality of the portrait began and ended!
Because her expression could only be called sultry, with a knowing smile curving those pouting, kissable lips, and her eyes, those wonderful golden eyes, half closed as if in arousal. Her breasts were thrust slightly forward beneath the blue dress, the material clinging so closely to those long silken limbs that it was impossible to believe she wore anything beneath it.
That Hebe wore anything beneath it.
Because the woman was most certainly her.
Nick had kissed those same lips six weeks ago. Seen that arousal in her eyes. Caressed the proud tilt of those breasts. Suckled on those rosy nipples. And those long silken limbs had been wrapped around him more than once that night too.
‘Who is she…?’
Nick turned sharply back to look at Hebe as she spoke in a whisper, his frown deepening as he saw how pale she was, her eyes like golden orbs in that pallor.
But they both knew her question was totally unnecessary. ‘Oh, come on, Hebe.’ He sighed his impatience as he moved to stand beside her. ‘It’s you, damn it!’ He would have reached out and shaken her, except that she looked as if she might disintegrate at the slightest touch.
No doubt she had never thought this portrait—a portrait painted by a man who had obviously put the love he felt for its subject into every brushstroke—would ever be seen by the general public. That was the reason for her obvious shock. In fact, it was pure luck that it hadn’t gone into a local auction with a lot of other things from a house cleared out by relatives after the death of its owner, consequently disappearing back into the realms of obscurity.
Luckily enough, the autioneer had been experienced enough to know the Andrew Southern signature—a swan with the single letter S beside it—and had called a friend of his in London to see if any of the big dealers were interested in coming to look at it. Nick most certainly had been, getting the man’s promise that he would let no one else view it until he had flown in from New York to see it.
One look at the painting, at the almost luminous style that marked it as Southern’s work and not some pale imitation, and Nick had known he had to have the painting. At any price.
It had taken some time and considerable skill to negotiate that price with the new owner and the auctioneer before bringing his prize back to London this morning, and his first priority had been to talk to Hebe Johnson.
Undoubtedly the woman in the portrait.
And, at the time of the painting, Andrew Southern’s lover.
Something she seemed to be denying most strongly!
Hebe moved forward as if in a dream, her hand moving up to touch the painting, her fingers stopping only centimetres away from the canvas, trembling slightly. Her breathing was shallow.
‘Who is she?’ she repeated emotionally.
Nick stepped forward. ‘For God’s sake, Hebe, it’s you—’
‘It isn’t me!’ She turned to look at him, able to feel the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat. ‘Look at it again, Nick,’ she told him shakily, pleadingly, turning to look at the painting, a gut-wrenching pain in her chest as she did so.
‘Of course it’s you—’
‘No,’ she cut in quietly again. ‘She has a birthmark, Nick. Look. There.’ She pointed to the rose-shaped birthmark on the swell of one creamy breast, visible above the low neckline of the deep blue dress. ‘And look here.’ She pulled aside the open neck of her cream blouse, revealing her own creamy breast.
Completely