Beneath the Veil of Paradise. Кейт Хьюит
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electric awareness, that kick of excitement, every time she so much as looked at him? She felt more alive now than she had since Rob’s death, maybe even since before that—a long time before that.
She walked slowly to the railing and laid one hand on the wrought-iron, still warm from the now-sinking sun. The vivid sunset had slipped into a twilit indigo, the sea a dark, tranquil mirror beneath.
‘We missed the best part,’ Chase murmured, coming to stand next to her.
‘Do you think so?’ Millie kept her gaze on the darkening sky. ‘This part is more beautiful to me.’
Chase cocked his head, and Millie turned to see his speculative gaze slide over her. ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,’ he said, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Millie felt as if he’d just dusted her with sparks, jabbed her with little jolts of electricity. Her cheek and ear throbbed, her physical response so intense it felt almost painful.
Did he feel it? Could it be possible that he reacted to her the way she did to him? The thought short-circuited her brain. It was quite literally mind-blowing.
She turned away from him, back to the sunset. ‘Everybody likes the vibrant colours of a sunset,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light. ‘All that magenta and orange—gorgeous but gaudy, like an old broad with too much make-up.’
‘I’ll agree with you that the moment after is more your style. Understated elegance. Quiet sophistication.’
‘And which do you prefer? The moment before or after?’
Chase didn’t answer, and Millie felt as if the very air had suddenly become heavy with expectation. It filled her lungs, weighed them down; she was breathless.
‘Before,’ he finally said. ‘Then there’s always something to look forward to.’
Millie didn’t think they were talking about sunsets any more. She glanced at Chase and saw him staring pensively at the sky, now deepening to black. The sun and all its gaudy traces had disappeared completely.
‘So tell me,’ she said, turning away from the railing, ‘how did you arrange a private terrace so quickly? Or do you keep one reserved on standby, just in case you meet a woman?’
He laughed, a rich, throaty chuckle. This man enjoyed life. It shouldn’t surprise her; she’d labelled him a hedonist straight off. Yet she didn’t feel prissily judgmental of that enjoyment right now. She felt—yes, she really did—jealous.
‘Full disclosure?’
‘Always.’
He reached for a blue button-down shirt that had been laid on one of the chairs. He’d thought of everything, and possessed the power to see it done. Millie watched him button up his shirt with long, lean fingers, the gloriously sculpted muscles of his chest disappearing under the crisp cotton.
‘My family owns this resort.’
She jerked her rather admiring gaze from the vicinity of his chest to his face. ‘Ah.’ There was, she knew, a wealth of understanding in that single syllable. So, architect and trust-fund baby. She’d suspected something like that. He had the assurance that came only from growing up rich and entitled. She should be relieved; she wanted him to be what she’d thought he was, absolutely no more and maybe even less. So why, gazing at him now, did she feel the tiniest bit disappointed, like he’d let her down?
Like she actually wanted him to be different?
‘Yes. Ah.’ He smiled wryly, and she had a feeling he’d guessed her entire thought process, not for the first time this evening.
‘That must be handy.’
‘It has its benefits.’ He spoke neutrally, without the usual flippant lightness and Millie felt a little dart of curiosity. For the first time Chase looked tense, his jaw a little bunched, his expression a little set. He didn’t smile as he pulled out a chair for her at the cozy table for two and flickered with candlelight in the twilit darkness.
Millie’s mind was, as usual, working overtime. ‘The Bryant family owns this resort.’
‘Bingo.’
‘My company manages their assets.’ That was how she’d ended up here, waiting out her week of enforced holiday, indolent luxury. Jack had suggested it.
‘And you have a rule about mixing business with pleasure?’
‘The point is moot. I don’t handle their account.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ He spoke with an edge she hadn’t heard since she’d met him. Clearly his family and its wealth raised his hackles.
‘So you’re one of the Bryants,’ she said, knowing instinctively such a remark would annoy him. ‘Which one?’
‘You know my family?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ The Bryants littered the New York tabloids and society pages, not that she read either. But you couldn’t so much as check your email without coming across a news blurb or scandalous headline. Had she read about Chase? Probably, if she’d paid attention to such things. There were three Bryant boys, as far as she remembered, and they were all players.
‘I’m the youngest son,’ Chase said tautly. He leaned back in his chair, deliberately relaxed in his body if not his voice. ‘My older brother Aaron runs the property arm of Bryant Enterprises. My middle brother Luke runs the retail.’
‘And you do your own thing.’
‘Yes.’
That dart of curiosity sharpened into a direct stab. Why didn’t Chase work for the family company? ‘There’s no Bryant Architecture, is there?’
His mouth thinned. ‘Definitely not.’
‘So what made you leave the family fold?’
‘We’re getting personal, then?’
‘Are we?’
‘Why did you throw out your canvas?’
Startled, she stared at him, saw his sly, silky little smile.
‘I asked you first.’
‘I don’t like taking orders. And you?’
‘I don’t like painting.’
He stared at her; she stared back. A stand-off. So she wasn’t the only one with secrets. ‘Interesting,’ he finally mused. He poured them both sparkling water. ‘You don’t like painting, but you decided to drag all that paraphernalia to the beach and set up your little artist’s studio right there on the sand?’
She shrugged. ‘I used to like it, when I was younger.’ A lot younger and definitely less jaded. ‘I thought I might like to try it again.’
‘What changed your mind?’
Another shrug. She could talk about this. This didn’t have to be personal or revealing. She wouldn’t let it be. ‘I just wasn’t feeling it.’
‘You don’t seem like the type to rely on feelings.’
She smiled thinly. ‘Still typecasting me, Chase?’
He laughed, an admitted defeat. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. I play to type.’
‘On purpose.’
She eyed him uneasily. Perhaps this was personal after all. And definitely revealing. ‘Maybe.’
‘Which means you aren’t what you seem,’ Chase said softly, ‘are you?’
‘I’m exactly what I seem.’ She sounded defensive. Great.
‘You want to be exactly what you seem,’ he clarified. ‘Which is why you play it that way.’
She felt