Australia: In Bed with the Playboy. Emma Darcy
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They should have to walk forever in their own torturous creations.
As she turned the last corner to the street where the gallery was situated, she saw a chauffeur popping back into a Rolls-Royce which was double-parked outside her destination. Easy for some, she thought, her mind instantly zinging to Jordan Powell. Everything would be easy for a billionaire, especially women. Certainly in his case. A fact she was unlikely to forget.
In Heather’s lingo, she was a red-hot tamale tonight.
If Jordan Powell was here by himself…if he bit…what should she do?
Have a taste of him or run?
Wait and see, she told himself. There was no point in crossing bridges until she came to them.
She switched her thoughts to her mother. It was a big night for her. At least this outfit should not take any of the shine off it. It was sequin city all the way.
Henry Boyce, the gallery owner, was obsequiously chatting up one of his super-wealthy clients when Ivy walked in, but his eagle eye was open for newcomers. When he caught sight of her, his jaw dropped. The gorgeously gowned woman with the perfectly styled blond hair who had lost his attention turned to see who was the distraction, a miffed look on her arrogant face. The man who stood on the other side of her shifted enough to view the intrusive object.
It was Jordan Powell.
And his face broke into a delighted grin.
Ivy’s heart instantly leapt into a jig that would have rivalled the fastest dance performers in Ireland.
‘Good heavens! Ivy?’ Henry uttered incredulously, his usual aplomb momentarily deserting him.
‘Who?’ the woman demanded.
She was considerably older than Jordan, Ivy realised, though beautifully preserved and very full of her own importance.
‘Forgive me, Nonie,’ Henry rattled out. ‘I wasn’t expecting…it’s Sacha’s daughter, Ivy Thornton. Come on in, Ivy. Your mother will be so pleased to see you.’
Not looking like a farm girl this time.
He didn’t say it but he was thinking it.
He’d wanted to turn her away from the last exhibition until she’d identified herself.
Ivy recovered enough from the thumping impact of Jordan Powell’s presence to smile. ‘I’ll go through and find her.’
‘A pleasure to see you here again, Ivy,’ the rose Valentino said, stunning her anew that he actually remembered meeting her before. ‘I don’t think you met my mother last time,’ he continued, stepping around the woman and holding out a beckoning hand to invite Ivy into the little group. ‘Let me introduce you. Nonie Powell.’
His mother. Who looked her up and down as though measuring whether she was worth knowing. She had blue eyes, too, but they had a touch of frost in them, probably caused by the sheer number of women who streamed through her playboy son’s life, none of whom stayed long enough to merit her attention.
Ivy’s smile tilted ironically as she stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Powell.’
‘Are you an artist, too, my dear?’ she asked, deigning to acknowledge Ivy with a brief limp touch.
‘No. I don’t have my mother’s talent.’
‘Oh? What do you do?’
Ivy couldn’t stop a grin from breaking out. She might look like a high-fashion model tonight, but…‘I work on a farm.’
Which, of course, meant she was of no account whatsoever, so she gave a nod of dismissal before she received one. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve arrived a little late and my mother might be feeling anxious about it.’
‘A farm?’ Nonie Powell repeated incredulously.
‘Let me help you find her,’ Jordan said, moving swiftly and smoothly to hook his arm around Ivy’s, pouring charm into a wicked smile. ‘I’m very good at cutting a swathe through crowds.’
Ivy gaped at him in amazement while her heart started another wild jig. Did he pick up women as fast as that?
‘Take care of my mother, will you, Henry?’ he tossed at the gallery owner and they were off, Ivy’s feet blindly moving in step with his as she tried to regather her wits.
‘Kind of you,’ she muttered, her senses bombarded by the spicy cologne he was wearing, the hard muscular arm claiming her company, the confident purr of his sexy voice, the mischievous dance in his bedroom-blue eyes.
‘Pure self-interest. We didn’t get to talk much last time, and I’m bursting with curiosity about you.’
‘Why?’ she demanded, frowning over how directly he was coming on to her, even after she’d said straight-out she was a farm girl. Did that make her a novelty?
‘The transformation for a start,’ he answered teasingly.
She shrugged. ‘My mother was not pleased with my appearance at that showing so I’m trying not to be a blot on her limelight again.’
‘You could never be a blot with your shade of hair,’ he declared. ‘It’s a beacon of glorious colour.’
He rolled the words out so glibly, Ivy couldn’t really feel complimented. The playboy was playing and some deep-down sense of self-worth resented his game. She should be feeling happily flattered that Jordan Powell was attracted to her, delighted that her dress-up effort had paid off. Yet, despite the charismatic sexiness of the man, she was inwardly bridling against the ease with which he thought he could claim her company. Everything was too easy for him and she didn’t like the idea of him finding her easy, too.
She halted in the midst of the gallery crowd, unhooked her arm and turned to face him, her eyes focussed on burning a hole through his to the facile mind behind them. ‘Are you chatting me up?’
He looked surprised at the direct confrontation. Then amused. ‘Yes and no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I speak the absolute truth about your fabulous hair but I am…’
‘I’m more than red hair,’ she cut in, refusing to respond to the heart-kicking grin. ‘And since I’ve had it all my life, it’s quite meaningless to me.’
Which should have dampened his ardour but didn’t.
He laughed, and the lovely deep chuckle caressed all of Ivy’s female hormones into vibrant life. Her thighs tensed, her stomach fluttered, her breasts tingled, and while her eyes still warred with the seductive twinkle in his, she was acutely aware of wanting to experience this man, regardless of knowing how short-term it would be. Nevertheless, resentment at his superficiality still simmered.
‘Would you like me to rave on about your hair or how handsome you are?’ she asked with lofty contempt. ‘Is that the measure of you as a man?’
His mouth did its sensual little quirk. ‘I stand corrected on how to chat you up. May I begin again?’
‘Begin what?’
‘Acquainting myself with the person you are.’
That was good. Really good. It hit the spot of prickling discontent. Nevertheless, Ivy couldn’t bring herself to surrender to his charm without a further stand.
‘Don’t be deceived by this trendy get-up. It’s for my mother. And Henry, who’s a snob of the first order, not welcoming the common herd into his gallery. I’m simply not your type.’
He raised a wickedly arched eyebrow. ‘Care to expound on what my type is?’
Careful, Ivy.
It was best for business not to reveal how she knew what she knew about him.
She cocked her head to the side consideringly and said, ‘From what I observed last time we met, I’d say you