Italian Bachelors: Devilish D'angelos. Кэрол Мортимер

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      ‘Well?’ he rasped impatiently as Michael added nothing to his earlier statement.

      ‘Well, what?’ His brother arched an arrogant brow as he relaxed back in his leather chair.

      ‘How was he?’

      Michael shrugged. ‘As you said, as bad tempered as ever.’

      Rafe grimaced. ‘You two are the pot and the kettle!’

      ‘I’m not bad tempered, Rafe, I just don’t choose to suffer fools gladly.’

      He raised dark brows. ‘I trust I wasn’t included in that sweeping statement...?’

      ‘Hardly.’ Michael relaxed slightly. ‘And I prefer to think of all three of us as perhaps being just a little...intense.’

      Some of Rafe’s own tension eased as he gave a rueful grin in acknowledgement of the probable reason none of them had ever married. The women they met were more often than not attracted to that dangerous edge so prevalent in the D’Angelo men, as much as they were to their obvious wealth. Obviously not a basis for a relationship other than the purely—or not so purely!—physical.

      ‘Maybe,’ he conceded dryly. ‘So what’s in the file you’ve been looking at so intently since I arrived?’

      ‘Ah.’ Michael grimaced.

      Rafe eyed him warily. ‘Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this...?’

      ‘Probably because you aren’t.’ His brother turned the file around and pushed it across the desk.

      Rafe read the name at the top of the file. ‘And who might Bryn Jones be?’

      ‘One of the entrants for the New Artists Exhibition being held at the London gallery next month,’ Michael supplied tersely.

      ‘Damn it, that’s the reason you knew Gabriel would be back today!’ He glared at his brother. ‘I’d totally forgotten that Gabriel’s taking over from you in London during the organisation of the exhibition.’

      ‘And I get to go to Paris for a while, yes,’ Michael drawled with satisfaction.

      ‘Intending to see the beautiful Lisette while you’re there?’ He eyed his brother knowingly.

      Michael’s mouth tightened. ‘Who?’

      The dismissive tone of his brother’s voice was enough to tell Rafe that Michael’s relationship with the ‘beautiful Lisette’ was not only over, but already forgotten. ‘So what’s so special about this Bryn Jones that you have a security file on him?’

      Rafe knew there had to be a reason for Michael’s interest in this particular artist. There had been dozens of eager applicants for the New Artists Exhibition; since Gabriel had organised the first one in Paris three months ago and it had been such a success, they had decided to go ahead and hold a similar one in London next month.

      ‘Bryn Jones is a she,’ Michael corrected dryly.

      Rafe’s brows rose. ‘I see....’

      ‘Somehow I doubt that,’ his brother drawled dismissively. ‘Maybe this picture will help....’ Michael lifted the top sheet of paper to pull out a black and white photograph. ‘I had Security download the image from one of the security discs at Archangel yesterday—’ which explained the slightly grainy quality of the picture ‘—when she came into the gallery to personally deliver her portfolio to Eric Sanders.’ Eric was their in-house art expert at the London gallery.

      Rafe picked up the photograph so that he could take a closer look at the young woman pictured coming through the glass doors into the marbled entrance hall of the London gallery.

      She was probably in her early to mid-twenties. The black-and-white photograph made it difficult to tell her exact colouring. Her just-below-ear-length hair, in a perky flicked-up style, looked to be light in shade, her appearance businesslike in a dark jacket and knee-length skirt, with a pale blouse beneath the jacket—none of which detracted in the least from the curvaceous body beneath!

      She had a hauntingly beautiful face, Rafe acknowledged as he continued to study the photograph: heart-shaped, eyes light in colour, pert little nose between high cheekbones, her lips full and poutingly sensual with a delicately pointed chin above the slenderness of her throat.

      A very arresting, and slightly familiar, face.

      ‘Why do I have the feeling that I know her?’ Rafe asked, lifting his head.

      ‘Probably because you do. We all do,’ Michael added tersely. ‘Try imagining her slightly more...rounded, with heavy, black-framed glasses, and long mousy-brown hair.’

      ‘Doesn’t sound like the sort of woman any of us would ever be attracted to—’ Rafe broke off abruptly, his gaze narrowing sharply, suspiciously, on the black-and-white photograph in front of him.

      ‘Oh, yes.... I forgot to mention that perhaps you should look closely at...the eyes,’ Michael drawled dryly.

      Rafe glanced up quickly. ‘It can’t be! Can it?’ He studied the photograph more closely. ‘Are you saying this beautiful woman is Sabryna Harper?’

      ‘Yes,’ Michael bit out crisply.

      ‘William Harper’s daughter?’

      ‘The same.’ Michael nodded grimly.

      Rafe’s jaw tightened as he easily recalled the uproar five years ago when William Harper had offered a supposedly previously unknown Turner for sale at their London gallery. Ordinarily the painting would have remained a secret until after authentication had been made and confirmed by the experts, but somehow its existence had been leaked to the press, sending the art world and the media into an excited frenzy as speculation about the painting’s authenticity became rife.

      Gabriel had been in charge of the London gallery at the time, had gone to the Harper family home several times to discuss the painting while it was being authenticated, meeting both the wife and daughter of William Harper on those occasions. This made it doubly difficult for him when he’d had to declare the painting, having undergone extensive examination by the experts they had brought in from all over the world, to be a near-perfect forgery. Worse than that, the police investigation had proved that William Harper was solely responsible for the forgery, resulting in the other man being arrested and sent to prison for his crime.

      His wife and teenage daughter had been hounded by the media throughout the trial and the whole sorry story had blown up again when Harper had died in prison just four months later, after which his wife and daughter had simply disappeared.

      Until now, it would seem....

      Rafe eyed Michael warily. ‘Are you absolutely sure it’s her?’

      ‘The file you’re looking at is from the private investigator I hired after I saw her at the gallery yesterday—’

      ‘You spoke to her?’

      Michael shook his head. ‘I was passing through the entrance hall when Eric walked by with her. As I said, I thought I recognised her, and the СКАЧАТЬ