CHAPTER SEVEN

      SITTING AT THE head of the conference table, around which twenty people were all looking to him, Art could feel nothing but a certain amount of apathy even though a deal that would harvest several million was on the verge of completion.

      With some surprise, he realised that he had doodled Rose’s company logo onto his legal pad, a detail he wasn’t even aware he had stored in his memory bank.

      He’d last seen her three weeks ago and the memory of that final encounter was one that he rehashed on a daily basis.

      It was getting on his nerves.

      His concentration levels were down. His focus was erratic. He’d made two dates with women. The first he’d managed to stick out for an hour or so before admitting defeat and making up an excuse to leave early. The second he’d simply bailed on before subjecting himself to the possibility of another evening of torturous banalities.

      He dreamed of Rose.

      Not only did the memory of her haunt his waking hours, but it didn’t have the decency to allow him to get a good night’s sleep when he fell into bed in the early hours of the morning.

      Art had come around to thinking that she had taken up residence in his head because things had not ended properly between them.

      He’d left still wanting her and, like an itch that needed to be scratched, that want kept clamouring for satisfaction.

      It didn’t help that he’d also left knowing that she still wanted him.

      It was frustrating because he had never had any area of his life over which he was unable to exercise complete control. In this instance it had gradually dawned on him that he would never get her out of his system unless he took her to bed once again.

      Pride dictated that he drop all seditious thoughts along those lines. Common sense warned him away. The litany of complications if they ended up in bed again was too long to catalogue and it beggared belief that she would actually want to sleep with him anyway. Yes, she fancied him. She’d admitted that much. But her amazing eyes had been full of scorn even as the admission had been leaving her lips.

      When Art thought about that, he felt a spurt of raw frustration that left him confused and at odds with himself. He wondered whether this was what it felt like to be dumped, a situation he had never personally had to endure.

      He went through the motions for the remainder of the morning. The deal was signed. His company’s bank account was inflated to even more impossible proportions.

      None of that touched him. What did affect him was when, two and a half hours later, he dialled Rose’s number and sat back in his office chair, waiting to see whether she would ignore his call or pick up. His name would flash on her screen, warning her of his identity. Whatever she did now would dictate the way he responded. He would leave it to fate.

      For the first time in weeks, Art felt comfortable. He was doing something. Circumstances hadn’t simply conspired to yank the rug from under his feet and leave him feeling at odds with himself, restless and unable to concentrate.

      The slate had been wiped clean. There were no more half-truths between them. He would see her. He would feel out the situation and then, who knew...?

      Life was an unfolding mystery.

      He heard her voice and automatically straightened, all senses on full alert, every primitive instinct honing in to what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go with this...

      ‘Been a while,’ he drawled, relaxing back in his chair and swivelling it so that he could stretch his legs out.

      * * *

      Rose had debated whether or not to take the call. His name had flashed up on the screen and her insides had immediately turned to mush even though, over the past long three weeks, she had played and replayed in her mind how she would react if he got in touch.

      ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked coolly.

      ‘Surprised to hear from me?’

      ‘Are you phoning about anything in particular, Art? Because I’m quite busy at the moment.’

      ‘I’m almost there, finalising the details of my investment in your community.’

      ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve handed that over to a property lawyer in Oxford, who is a close friend of mine. I’m sure he would be happy to supply details of the ongoing process but I’ve told him that there’s no need to fill me in until everything’s sorted.’ Images of Art jumped into her head, sickly reminding her of the powerful and dramatic effect he had on her body. Even the sound of his voice was enough to make her breasts tingle and her breath shorten.

      ‘I rather think,’ Art drawled, ‘that I would like you to be personally involved in the closure of all of this.’

      ‘Me? What? Why?’

      ‘You started it, in a manner of speaking. It’s only fair that you should finish it. Aside from which, if I’m to sink a vast sum of money into the community, it would benefit from someone knowing the place first-hand, knowing where best to divide the cash and how to put it to the best possible use. I may be generous, but I’m not a pushover. I have no intention of seeing my money ineptly spent on whatever takes some councillor’s fancy. So handing over the file to someone else to tie up all the loose ends isn’t doing it for me.’

      ‘I haven’t got time.’

      What would it involve? She surely wouldn’t have to meet him again! She couldn’t face it. It was bad enough hearing the deep, dark, sexy timbre of his voice down the end of a phone line. She couldn’t get her head around the possibility of actually ever seeing him in the flesh. He’d deceived her and he’d slept with her, knowing all the time that whilst she had been opening up to him, which was a big deal for her, she’d been opening up to a stranger.

      ‘Well, then, you’ll have to make