Of course Reece would have ensured everything was immaculate for Mr Devereux, but she wanted to check for herself.
The amulets twinkled beguilingly. The next time she returned it would be with keys, so their guest could hold some of the choice pieces.
Happy that all was in order, Merida headed up to the main gallery and took her place on a high stool behind the desk. She tried to let go of the feeling of indignation Reece had left her with.
Eccentricities!
While acting might be her real passion, Merida worked hard at the gallery. Far harder than the manager, Clint, who thought only of commission and clearly hadn’t been available this evening.
She was still smarting when an expensive black car pulled up outside. As the chauffeur got out she stepped down from the stool, popped the champagne and started to pour.
And then she glanced up.
A handmade leather shoe on the end of a suited leg was her first glimpse of him. Then he stepped out of the car and she saw his tall frame and immaculate suit. From his confident stance, Mr Devereux certainly looked as if he owned the street that he stood in.
She felt the coolness of champagne on her hand as the liquid fizzed over and stopped pouring. While she should have mopped up the mess, instead Merida chose to steal a moment and gaze upon his beauty while she had the chance.
Colour had not been on the artist’s palette when this masterpiece had been created. His skin was pale, while his hair was as black as a raven’s wing. As he turned his face and his eyes squinted in the late-afternoon sun she saw him in profile—and he was pure masculine elegance.
His absolute beauty flustered Merida.
Unusually so.
Stunning, elegant visitors regularly graced the gallery. At times the rich and famous did too.
He was more than that, though—only there wasn’t time to examine her thoughts...or rather the feelings this man stimulated in her.
With a hand-towel she blotted the tray and topped up the glass, and then poured another for any guest he might have brought. She looked outside, expecting a gorgeous beauty to have emerged from the car and flocked to his side.
But he walked towards the gallery alone.
Though she’d been warned about his good looks, nothing had prepared her for her reaction to them. Merida found that her lips were pressed together and her fingers dug into her palms. She unfurled them and smoothed the skirt of the dress, glad to have had a couple of minutes’ warning of his magnificence in which to gather herself. But as the door opened and he stepped in, and she saw him without the barrier of glass, there came a knockout blow to her senses that had her internally reeling.
His eyes went straight to hers. They did not roam her body—he was too suave for that—and yet she felt a tingle on her skin as if they had.
‘Mr Devereux...’ Merida cleared her throat and drew on her acting skills as she grappled to find a more poised persona and fought not to blush as she extended her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Merida Cartwright.’
‘Merida.’ His voice was rich and deep as he repeated her name and then said his. ‘Ethan.’ He invited her to use first-name terms as he briefly shook her hand.
Oh, his touch might have been fleeting, yet his brief grip was firm, his skin warm enough to shoot out tiny volts. Like touching fire, the feeling intensified after contact, and Merida had to resist examining her fingers for a mark as she continued her introduction.
‘I’m the gallery assistant...’
‘Assistant?’ Ethan checked abruptly, and the question in his tone told her that he had expected something better.
‘Yes.’ Merida swallowed. ‘Reece would have loved to be here to take you around himself, but he’s off to Egypt tonight.’
Ethan Devereux was less than impressed. Even at impossibly short notice he expected to be accommodated, and the fact that they had only managed to produce an assistant to show him around did not impress one bit.
Sheikh Prince Khalid of Al-Zahan—the owner of the amulets—was a personal friend and business colleague of Ethan’s. They went way back, and had met years ago when studying at Columbia. Over dinner last night in Al-Zahan, Khalid had explained that he was worried that there were issues with the gallery to which he had loaned the royal collection. His sources stated that the staff were ill-informed, the tours somewhat rushed, and that patrons were steered towards the items that had the potential to earn most commission.
Khalid had asked Ethan to discreetly check things out.
Ethan had pointed out the fact that nothing he did in New York City went unnoticed. But still, he had agreed to drop in at short notice and hopefully get a handle on what was going on. The fact that it was a mere assistant here to greet him scored the gallery its first black mark.
The fact that she was beautiful did not erase it.
‘Before I take you through would you care for a drink...?’ Merida offered.
‘Let’s just get started, shall we?’
He was brusque. Restless and impatient.
And he ignored the nibbles too.
Few did.
Merida had long since observed that at private viewings—even if guests staggered into the gallery after a three-course dinner—still most would sample the delicacies that had been laid on.
But Ethan Devereux didn’t feel the need to partake in a free glass of champagne or caviar-laden blinis and succulent chocolate-dipped fruits.
He, Merida decided there and then, had no fear of missing out.
‘Well, as I said, Reece is currently headed to Egypt. There he’ll meet with Aziza...’ Merida explained as they walked over to the first display. ‘She’s the designer of these exquisite dolls’ houses.’
Shoot me now, Ethan thought.
Having found out that his father was unwell, and would tomorrow be undergoing surgery, Ethan had flown from Al-Zahan to Dubai and then home—albeit on his own luxury jet. Still, he did not want to be looking at dolls’ houses—even if the walls were lined with hieroglyphics in gold.
Perhaps he should have some champagne—but that would only prolong things. He was running on empty and the jet-lag was really kicking in. He just wanted to cut the chatter and get to the amulets. But in order to glean as much as he could about the running of this gallery for Khalid he let her prattle on.
Well, not prattle, he conceded. Her voice was pleasant, in fact—prim and English—and her words were delivered with a throaty husk that made the topic almost bearable.
‘These dolls’ houses were kept for religious purposes,’ Merida explained. ‘They were never meant to be used as toys—certainly not for playing mummies and daddies.’
He didn’t smile at her tiny well-worn joke, and even though he listened quietly she could tell that he was as bored as a three-year-old in church as they moved on.
They came to an exquisite silk rug—made, Merida explained, by Bedouin artisans using the vase weave technique.
‘Ubaid, who oversees the making of every intricate piece, is a fierce protector of the craft.’
She started to explain about the natural dyes and the intricate patterns, and the endless hours that went in to creating such a masterpiece, but Ethan cut in.
‘Next.’
Ethan Philistine Devereux, she silently named him.
He certainly wasn’t the first dismissive or bored client that Merida had taken through the gallery. Often people came to private viewings under silent sufferance—perhaps