Forbidden or For Bedding?. Julia James
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he, that he was entitled to evaluate her to that end?
Her mouth pressed together, and a spark showed in her eye. She suppressed it. She would not show she was reacting to him…to his uninvited scrutiny, she amended mentally. Because of course she was not reacting to him—not in any way other than to acknowledge, quite objectively, that his looks were exceptional, and that she needed to study them in order to paint them. That was all. All.
Yet again she recovered her composure, stifling her reaction to him, to those extraordinary eyes.
‘That isn’t a question for me to answer, Monsieur de Rochemont,’ she responded. ‘The selection of portraitist is entirely your own affair. If you wish to commission me, that is your privilege, and I will see whether my schedule is congruent with yours.’
She met his regard straight on. Her voice had been admirably crisp, which she was pleased about. All right, Guy de Rochemont was…Well, she wasn’t about to run through the adjectives again—the evidence was right in front of her eyes! But that didn’t mean she had to put up with being on the receiving end of his attention. Not that she had any reason to be concerned, anyway. There was only one outcome from his assessment. He would be seeing a plainly dressed, unadorned woman who was making not the slightest attempt to enhance her looks to please the male gender, and signalling thereby on all frequencies that she was not on any man’s menu. Even that of a man who could quite clearly take his pick of the world’s most beautiful women.
She wondered whether he would take offence at the way she’d responded to his question. Tough. She didn’t need the commission, and if—and it was, she knew, a very big if—she took it and if—and that was probably an even bigger if, because a man like him wouldn’t care to be answered off-handedly—he commissioned her anyway, she was most definitely not going to pander to the man. Yes, he would doubtless cancel sittings—because all her clients did to some extent or another—and that was understandable given the demands on his time because of his high-powered business life, and it was something she could cope with. But there was no way he was going to get the slightest pandering to, or her begging for the commission, or anything like that, thank you very much! She offered a service, a degree of skill and artistry. If a client wanted to buy it, that was that. If not—well, that was that too.
She met his gaze dispassionately as she finished speaking. For a moment he did not answer. She did not break her gaze, merely held his, looking untroubled and composed. The brilliance of his eyes seemed veiled somehow, as if he were masking something from her.
His reaction, she thought. I can’t tell whether he’s annoyed, or indifferent, or what. I can’t see into him.
Again, it wasn’t something that was unusual for her, given the calibre of her clients. Powerful men were not transparent to the world, and indeed that air of elusiveness, of restrained power, was something that usually went into her portraits—she knew, with a slight waspishness, that it was a form of flattery by her, to portray them as inscrutable.
But with Guy de Rochement the masking was, she felt, more pronounced. Perhaps it was because his was such a remarkably handsome face, so incredibly, overtly attractive to women. Women—any women—would expect to see some sort of reaction to them in his eyes, even if it were only polite indifference. But with Guy de Rochement nothing at all came through of what he was thinking.
She felt a tug of fascination go through her—the eternal fascination of an enigmatic man—and then, on its heels, a different emotion, a more chilling one.
He keeps apart. He holds back. He shows only what he wants to show, what is appropriate for the moment.
Then, abruptly, he was speaking again, and her attention went to what he was saying. What his face was suddenly showing.
She could see quite plainly what it was.
It was amusement.
Not open, not pronounced, but there all the same—in the narrowing of his eyes, in the indentation of his sculpted lips. And more than amusement there was something else, just discernible to her. Slight but distinct surprise.
Alexa knew why. He’s not used to being answered like that—and not by a woman.
She felt a sliver of satisfaction go through her. Then was annoyed with herself for feeling it. Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she care whether this man was or was not used to having someone answer him like that?
‘You do not believe in pitching, do you, Ms Harcourt?’ The subtly accented voice was dry.
Alexa gave the slightest shrug. ‘To what purpose? Either you like my work and wish to engage me, or you do not. It’s a very simple matter.’
‘Indeed.’ The voice was a dry murmur again. One narrow, long-fingered hand reached out to close around the stem of a martini glass and raise it contemplatively to his mouth, before lowering it to the table again. His regard was still impassively on her. Then, as if reaching a decision, he got to his feet.
Alexa did likewise. OK, she thought, that’s it. No deal. Well, so what? Imogen will be cross with me, but actually I’m glad he’s decided against me.
She wondered why she felt so certain of that, but knew she did. She’d work out later just what that reason was. Then it came to her.
Because it’s simpler. Easier. More straightforward.
Yet even so she felt her mind sheering away. And necessarily so. Now was not the time to analyse why a feeling of relief was going through her not to be painting Guy de Rochement’s portrait—or why the feeling running just beneath the surface of that relief was something quite, quite different.
Regret…
No! Don’t be absurd, she admonished herself sternly. It’s just a commission, that’s all. You’ve done dozens, and you’ll do dozens more. Just because unlike all the others this one is young and ludicrously handsome, it means nothing at all. Nothing.
He was speaking, and she cut short her futile cogitations.
‘Well, Ms Harcourt, I think we have reached the end of our necessary exchange, don’t you?’
Guy de Rochemont was holding his hand out to her. She made herself take it, ignoring the cool of his touch and dropping it again the moment social convention permitted.
‘Quite,’ she agreed crisply. She picked up her bag, ready to turn and leave.
‘So,’ Guy de Rochemont continued, ‘I will have my PA phone your representative and arrange my first sitting—should it prove possible within the restraints of our respective diaries.’ He paused a moment. Just the fraction of a moment. ‘I trust that meets with your approval, Ms Harcourt?’
Was that amusement in his voice again? A deliberate blandness in his gaze? Alexa found her lips pressing together as her thoughts underwent a sudden and complete rearrangement.
‘Yes—thank you,’ she answered, and her voice, she was glad to hear, was as crisp as ever.
‘Good,’ said her latest client, as if the word closed the transaction. And then, as if Alexa had just ceased to exist, he looked past her. His expression changed.
‘Guy! Darling!’
A woman sailed up to him, ignoring Alexa’s presence as if she were invisible. A cloud of heavy scent surrounded the woman even as her slender braceleted arms came around Guy de Rochemont to envelop him. Alexa caught an impression of tightly sheathed black silk, long lush black hair, and a tanned complexion. Moreover, the woman’s features were definitely familiar. Who was she? Oh, yes, Carla Crespi—that was it. An Italian femme fatale film actress who specialised in sultry roles. Alexa hadn’t seen any of her films, as they weren’t to her taste, but it would have been hard not to have heard of the woman at all.
She turned to go. It was par for the course that a male of Guy de Rochemont’s calibre would have a woman like that in tow. Someone high-profile,