Calm, just keep calm, she bade silently as she moved back a pace. He didn’t release her arm, and she gave him a deliberately pointed look. ‘This conversation is going nowhere, Jeremy.’ She flexed her arm, felt his grip tighten for an instant before he released her. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must mingle.’ Her voice assumed an icy formality. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition. Emilio and I are confident of Brett’s talent and potential.’
‘Ah, the inimical Emilio,’ Jeremy drawled. ‘You do know he’s bisexual?’
As well as being untrue, it was unkind. She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Slander isn’t a pretty word. Watch you don’t find yourself in court on a legal charge.’
‘A mite too protective, darling.’
‘And you,’ she declared with quiet emphasis. ‘Are a first-class—’
‘Michelle.’
Her body quivered at the sound of that faintly accented voice, and her pulse went into overdrive. How much of her argument with Jeremy had Nikos Alessandros heard?
Everything came into sharp focus as she slowly turned to face him.
‘Nikos,’ she acknowledged, and imperceptibly stiffened as he placed a hand at the back of her waist.
His expression gave nothing away, but there was a hint of steel beneath the polite facade as he inclined his head.
‘Jeremy.’
Michelle’s nerves flared into sensitised life at his close proximity.
‘Is there a problem?’ Nikos asked smoothly, and she felt like screaming.
Yes. Jeremy for behaving badly, and you just for being here!
A determined sparkle darkened her eyes. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I really should mingle.’
She turned away, only to find that Nikos had joined her.
‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she queried with quiet vehemence the instant they were out of Jeremy’s earshot. She made a concerted effort to shift out of his grasp without success.
‘Rescuing you.’
‘I didn’t need rescuing!’
His smile held a hint of cynical humour. ‘Especially not by me.’
‘Look—’
‘Save the indignation for a more suitable occasion.’
‘Why?’ Michelle vented with quiet fury. ‘When I have no intention of seeing you again.’
‘Considering your parents and the Bateson-Burrows have issued me with a few interesting invitations, that’s most unlikely,’ Nikos assured silkily.
She wanted to hit him. It was enough she had to deal with Jeremy, whose recalcitrance in the past twenty-four hours could be directly attributed to the man at her side.
Had Nikos not been a guest at the Bateson-Burrows’ dinner table, she could have conducted a diplomatic discussion last night with Jeremy, and he wouldn’t now be behaving quite inappropriately.
Or would he? Jeremy had displayed a side to his personality she’d never suspected might exist.
‘Suppose we embark on a conducted tour of your protegé’s work.’
‘Why?’ she demanded baldly, and found herself looking into a pair of amused dark grey eyes.
‘I could be a potential buyer, and you do, Chantelle assures me, have an excellent eye for new talent.’
Did she realise just how beautiful she looked when she was angry?
‘Mother has excelled herself in lauding my supposed talents,’ she stated dryly.
‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’
In any other circumstance, she would have laughed. However, tonight she wasn’t in the mood to see the humorous side of Chantelle’s machinations.
They drew close to one exhibit, and she went into a professional spiel about light and colour and style, Brett’s unusual technique, and indicated the painting’s possible worth on the market in another five years.
, Nikos dropped his arm from her waist, and she wondered why she suddenly felt cold, even vaguely bereft.
Crazy, she dismissed. Every instinct she possessed warned that Nikos Alessandros was a man she should have nothing to do with if she wanted to retain her emotional sanity.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WHICH of the collection is your personal favourite?’ Nikos queried as they moved from one exhibit to another.
There were interruptions as she was greeted by a few guests, and on each occasion good manners demanded she introduce the man at her side.
She could sense their masked speculation, sense their curiosity, and she wasn’t sure whether to feel angry or resigned.
Michelle’s lips parted to make a flippant response, only to change her mind at the last second. ‘The little boy standing on a sandhill looking out over the ocean.’
He lifted a hand and tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. He watched her eyes dilate, and felt the slight shiver his touch evoked. ‘Why that particular painting?’
‘Because it seems as if the ocean represents his world, and he’s curious to know where it ends and what’s beyond the horizon. If you look at his features, there’s wonderment, excitement.’ Her voice softened. ‘He’s trying not to be afraid, but he is. You can see it in the faint thrust of his lower lip, the way his chin tucks in a little.’ She raised her hand, then let it fall again to her side.
It was more than just a painting, it represented life. The promise of what might be. Even though the logical mind relegated the image to the skilled use of paint on canvas and artistic flair.
‘Consider it sold.’
Michelle glanced up and examined the chiselled perfection of his features. ‘You haven’t asked the grice.’
‘It’s listed on the programme.’ His smile was wholly sensual. ‘What discount are you prepared to offer me?’
She badly wanted to say none, except ‘business’ was a separate category to ‘personal,’ and anyone with sufficient nous ensured the two were kept apart. ‘It depends on your method of payment.’
‘I’ll present you with a bank cheque at midday tomorrow, and organise delivery.’
Michelle didn’t hesitate. ‘Five per cent.’
It shouldn’t concern her where he intended to hang it, in fact she told herself she didn’t care.
‘Something is bothering you?’
His light tone didn’t fool her in the slightest. He was too intuitive, and she loathed his ability to tune into her thoughts. It made her feel vulnerable, and too acutely sensitive.
‘Why should anything bother me? I’ve just sold the most expensive painting featured in this exhibition.’
‘By your own admission, it’s the one you admire most,’ Nikos pursued softly. ‘I imagine you can offer a suggestion how it should be displayed to its best advantage?’
She could tell him to do what he liked with it, but professional etiquette got the better of her.
‘It should occupy centre stage on a wide wall,’ she opined slowly. ‘Preferably painted a very pale shade of blue, so the colours mesh and there’s a sense of continuity.’