Hidden Mistress, Public Wife. Emma Darcy

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СКАЧАТЬ out of the way so he could pull her back to what he wanted, but it tripped her into spilling the truth.

      ‘Sacha’s last show … when we first met here … It was soon after my father had died. Your mention of nursing homes reminded me of how hard it was for him at the end.’

      ‘What did he die of, Ivy?’

      ‘Cancer. Melanoma. He had red hair and fair skin like me and he was always having to get sun cancers removed. It made him fanatical about protecting my skin.’

      Jordan nodded. ‘So that’s why you have no freckles.’

      The comment made her laugh again. ‘I’m a slave to block-out cream, hats and long sleeves. And you look like a slave to the sun—’ with his gleaming olive skin, ‘—which should make you realise I definitely don’t fit into your scene.’

      He grinned. ‘I have no objection to hats, long sleeves and particularly not to block-out cream. In fact, I think it would give me a lot of pleasure to spread it all over your beautiful skin. It would be criminal to have it marred in any way.’

      Desire leapt between them—his to touch, hers to be touched. It simmered in his eyes and shot a bolt of heat through her bloodstream. Her pulse started to gallop. Ivy wrenched her gaze from his in sheer panic, riven with an acute awareness of feeling terribly vulnerable to what this man could do to her, for her, with her.

      It would probably be a big mistake to let it happen.

      She might end up wanting more of him than was sensible or practical, given his track record and her circumstances.

      ‘What about a painting for yourself?’ she rattled out, waving at the next section of the exhibition.

      ‘Actually, I’m happy with the selection I have in my house,’ he said, apparently content to follow her lead. For the moment.

      Ivy was extremely conscious of him waiting, patient in his pursuit of a more intimate togetherness. It didn’t need to be spoken. His intent was already under her skin, boring away at needs she had been dismissing for years. He’d brought the woman in her alive, kicking and screaming to be used, enjoyed, pleasured.

      ‘I guess you have a collection of European masters,’ she said lightly, thinking he could well afford it. She remembered Van Gogh’s Irises had been bought by an Australian billionaire.

      ‘No. I’m a proud Australian. I like my country and our culture. We have some great artists who’ve captured its uniqueness—Drysdale, Sydney Nolan, Pro Hart. I think I’ve bought the best of them.’

      Sacha Thornton was not in that echelon of fame, although her work was popular and sold well. Ivy was impressed by the names he’d rolled out, impressed with his patriotism, as well. She’d never liked the snobbery of believing something bought overseas had a cachet that made it better than anything Australian.

      ‘You’re very lucky to have them to enjoy,’ she remarked as they strolled on.

      ‘It would be my pleasure to show them to you.’

      She shot a teasing grin at him. ‘I’d have to say that’s one up on etchings.’

      He grinned back. ‘It’s not a bribe.’

      Her eyes merrily mocked him. ‘Just holding out a persuasive titbit.’

      ‘The choice is yours.’

      ‘I might think about it,’ she tossed at him airily, turning back to her mother’s art.

      He leaned close to her ear and murmured, ‘You could think about it over dinner.’

      The waft of his warm breath was like a tingling caress.

      Temptation roared through her.

      Fortunately two waiters descended on them, one offering a tray of hors d’oeuvres, the other presenting two glasses of fizzing champagne. ‘Veuve Clicquot,’ the drinks waiter informed them. ‘Especially for you, Mr Powell. Compliments of …’

      ‘Henry, of course. Thank him for me.’ Jordan picked up the two glasses and held one out to Ivy who was busy choosing a crab tartlet and a pikelet loaded with smoked salmon and shallots.

      ‘Hang on to it while I eat first,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m starving.’

      ‘Then you need a proper meal,’ he argued. ‘If you like seafood, I know a place that does superb lobster.’

      ‘Mmmh …’ Superb lobster, superb works of art, superb Casanova?

      The temptations were piling up, making Ivy think she really should throw her cap over the windmill for one mad night with this man.

      She finished eating and took the glass of champagne he was holding for her. ‘It’s Friday night,’ she reminded him. ‘Wouldn’t all the restaurants that serve superb meals be fully booked? How are you going to deliver on what you’re promising?’

      ‘There’s not a maître d’ in Sydney who wouldn’t find a table for me,’ he answered with supreme arrogance.

      It niggled Ivy into a biting remark. ‘And not a woman who would refuse you?’

      The blue eyes warred with the daggers of distancing pride in hers. ‘Please don’t, Ivy,’ he said with seductive softness. ‘I haven’t met anyone like you before.’

      Her heart turned over. She’d never met anyone like him, either. ‘The spice of novelty,’ she muttered, mocking both of them—the strong desire to taste a different experience.

      ‘Why not pursue it, at least for this evening?’ he pressed persuasively.

      She sipped the champagne, felt the fizz go to her head, promoting the urge to be reckless. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ve sold me on the lobster. I will have dinner with you. If you can deliver what you promise,’ she added in deliberate challenge, making the seafood the attraction.

      It didn’t dent his grin of confidence. ‘Consider it done,’ he said, whipping out his mobile telephone from a coat pocket.

      A treacherous tingle of anticipation invaded Ivy’s entire body. She didn’t wait to hear him make arrangements, moving on to look at the few paintings they hadn’t already seen, pretending it was irrelevant to her whether or not he secured a table for the promised dinner. Undoubtedly he would. Jordan Powell could probably buy his way into anything, any time at all.

      But he couldn’t buy her.

      She would only go as far as she wanted to go with him.

      One evening … maybe one night.

      One step at a time, she told herself. He might turn her off him over dinner. The temptation could fizzle out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged her tastebuds with lobster. That, at least, was one pleasure she could allow herself without any concern over what was right or wrong.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THEY rode away from the gallery in Nonie Powell’s chauffeured Rolls-Royce—borrowed СКАЧАТЬ