Australia: In Bed with the Playboy. Emma Darcy
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what’s offered and…’
‘May I point out it was you who grabbed me. I didn’t throw myself at you.’
He smiled. ‘Wonderfully refreshing, Ivy. Please allow me to learn more about you.’
It was impossible to muster up any more defences against that smile. Ivy sighed and gave in to the desire to have him at her side, at least for a little while. ‘Well, my mother will be impressed if I have you in tow,’ she muttered and curled her arm around his again. ‘Lead on. Can you see her anywhere?’
He glanced around from his greater height, not that Ivy was short in these high-heeled platform shoes, but the top of her head was only level with his nose.
‘To our right,’ he directed. ‘She’s talking to a couple who appear interested in one of her paintings.’
‘Then we mustn’t interrupt, just hover nearby until she finishes with them and is free to notice me.’
‘I think she’ll notice you whether she’s free or not,’ Jordan said dryly.
Ivy didn’t see anyone else in sequins. ‘I hope I’m not too over the top in this outfit,’ she said worriedly. ‘The aim was to pleasantly surprise her with an up-to-date city version of me.’
‘She didn’t like the country version?’
Ivy rolled her eyes at him. ‘When someone makes an art form of glamour, anything less offends their sensibilities, so no, she didn’t care for my lack of care.’
‘No problem tonight. You look as though you stepped right off the page of a fashion magazine.’
‘I did.’
‘Pardon?’
Ivy couldn’t help laughing, her eyes twinkling at him as she explained. ‘Saw a photo of these clothes, bought them, and hey presto! Even you’re impressed!’
‘You wear them well,’ he said, amused by her amusement at her magic trick.
‘Thank you. Then you don’t think I’m over the top?’
‘Not at all.’
She hugged his arm. ‘Good! I’ve got you to protect me if my mother attacks.’
‘I’m glad to be of use.’
He was a charmer. No doubt about that. Ivy was suddenly bubbling over with high spirits, despite knowing his track record with women. It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy his company at the gallery, she decided. Much more fun than being on her own.
Her mother was dressed in a long flowing gown that fell from a beaded yoke in deepening shades of pink. Unlike Ivy, she wore pink beautifully, but then she wasn’t like Ivy at all except for the curly hair. No one would pick them as mother and daughter. Sacha Thornton had grey eyes. Her hair was dark brown—almost black—and cascaded over her shoulders in a wild mane of ringlets, defying the fact she was nearing fifty. Though she didn’t look it. Artful make-up gave her face the colour and vivacity of a much younger woman.
Bangles and rings flashed as her hands talked up the painting she was intent on selling to the couple. The expressive gesticulation halted in midair as Ivy—linked with Jordan Powell—moved into her line of vision. A startled look froze the animation of her face.
Ivy barely clamped down on the hysterical giggle that threatened to erupt from her throat. She wished Heather was here to see the outcome of her pushing—first Henry, then Jordan Powell and now her mother totally agog. Heather would be dancing around and clapping her hands in wild triumph. And Ivy had to admit that even her tortured feet did not take the gleeful gloss off this moment.
It was ridiculous, of course.
All to do with image.
An image that didn’t reflect who she was at all.
Nevertheless, she would happily wear it tonight for the sheer fun it was bringing her.
Her mother swiftly recovered, flashing an ingratiating smile at the prospective buyers. ‘You must excuse me now.’ She nodded towards Ivy. ‘My daughter has just arrived.’
No hesitation whatsoever in acknowledging their relationship, nor in directing attention to her. The couple looked, their eyes widening at what they obviously saw as a power pair waiting in the wings. Jordan Powell was a splendid ornament on Ivy’s arm.
‘But please speak to Henry about the painting,’ her mother went on. ‘He’s handling all the sales.’
She pressed their hands in a quick parting gesture and swept over to plant extravagant kisses on her daughter’s cheeks in between extravagant cries of approval.
‘Darling! How lovely you look! I’m so thrilled that you’re here for me! And with Jordan!’
She stepped back to eye him coquettishly. ‘I do hope this means you’ve come to buy more of my work.’
‘Ivy and I came to greet you first, Sacha,’ he answered, oozing his charm again. ‘We haven’t had a chance to see what’s on show yet.’
‘Well, if there’s anything that takes your eye…’
They chatted for a few minutes, Ivy wryly reflecting that Jordan Powell was more important to her mother than she was. The man with the money. And the connections. She understood that this was what tonight was about for Sacha Thornton, not catching up with a daughter who didn’t share the same interests anyway. At least she had succeeded in not being a drag on proceedings. The next telephone call from her mother should be quite pleasant.
‘Ivy, dear, make sure Jordan sees everything,’ her mother pleaded prettily when he was about to draw away.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she answered obligingly. ‘Good luck with the show, Sacha.’
‘Sacha?’ Jordan queried, eyeing her curiously as he steered her into the adjoining room which wasn’t so crowded with people. ‘You don’t call her Mum?’
‘No.’ Ivy shrugged. ‘Her choice. And I don’t mind. Sacha never felt like a real mother to me. I was brought up by my father. That was her choice, too.’
‘But you came for her tonight.’
‘She always made the effort to come to events that were important to me.’
‘Like what?’
‘School concerts, graduation. Whenever I wanted both parents there for me.’
‘Will you be staying the weekend with her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d rather go home.’
‘Which is where?’
‘About a hundred kilometres from here.’
She wasn’t about to identify her location to him. The farm’s website gave it away and he might have read it when he decided to use their service for his rose gifts.
‘That’s quite a drive late at night.’
‘It won’t be late. People drift out of here after a couple of hours.’ She gave him an ironic grimace. ‘You whisked me off before I could get a brochure detailing the paintings from Henry. Did he give you one?’
‘Yes.’ He took it out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
Ivy withdrew her arm from his and checked the numbers of the nearby paintings against the list in the brochure, determined on deflecting his physical effect on her. ‘Right!’ she said briskly, pointing to number fifteen. ‘This is Courtyard in Sunshine. Do you like it?’
He folded his arms and considered it, obligingly falling in with her direction. ‘Very pleasant but a bit too chocolate-boxy for me.’
Privately Ivy agreed, but the painting