Italian Bachelors: Devilish D'angelos. Кэрол Мортимер

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      Bryn frowned as she looked warily at Gabriel across the glass coffee table, not sure if she had understood him correctly. ‘Are you offering me a job?’ she finally prompted incredulously.

      He returned her gaze unblinkingly. ‘And if I was?’

      ‘Then my answer would have to be no! Thank you,’ she added belatedly as she realised she was once again being rude, a rudeness that was totally out of keeping with her expected role as one of the grateful finalists in the New Artists Exhibition.

      ‘Why would it?’

      ‘Why?’ She gave an impatient shake of her head at his even having to ask that question. ‘Because I want my paintings to hang in a gallery, to hopefully be sold in a gallery, not to work as an assistant in one!’

      He shrugged. ‘Do you have something against taking a job to help pay the bills until that happens?’

      Bryn eyed him guardedly, only too aware that her rent was due to be paid next week and that she had other bills that had reached the red-reminder stage too. And yes, a job did help to pay the bills, but she already had a job, at yet another café, even if it didn’t pay nearly well enough to cover both her monthly rent and the bills, no matter how much she tried to economise.

      It was almost as if Gabriel had guessed that and was offering her charity....

      She instantly chided herself; of course Gabriel D’Angelo wasn’t trying to help her. He just knew, as she did, that she was more than capable of doing the job he was offering, and he had no doubt assumed she would jump at the chance to work at Archangel, based on the fact that, historically, artists were known for starving in garrets.

      Bryn wasn’t starving, exactly, she just didn’t eat some days. And while her third-floor bedsit wasn’t exactly a garret, it was barely big enough to swing the proverbial cat in, with one half of the room put aside for sleeping and cooking and the other half utilised as her studio.

      ‘No, of course not,’ she answered him lightly. ‘But I already have a job—’

      ‘At another gallery?’

      Bryn frowned as she heard the sharpness in his tone. ‘What does it matter where I work?’

      He raised dark brows. ‘It matters in this case because it would hardly be appropriate for your paintings to be displayed at Archangel when you’re working for another gallery.’

      Good point, Bryn acknowledged ruefully. ‘Right.’ She nodded. ‘Well, I don’t work for another gallery. But I do have a job,’ she continued briskly as she bent down to retrieve her bag from the floor. ‘And my next shift starts in half an hour, so—’

      ‘Your next...shift?’

      ‘Yes, my next shift,’ Bryn confirmed abruptly, stung by the incredulity in his cultured voice. ‘I work behind the counter in a well-known coffee-shop franchise.’

      His brows rose. ‘Latte, cappuccino, espresso and a low-calorie muffin? That sort of coffee-shop franchise?’

      The previous half an hour of conversation had gone smoothly; it had even been enjoyable at times, as they’d discussed which paintings from her portfolio Bryn was going to show at the exhibition next month, the timelines and other necessary details. But that had so obviously only been a brief lull in the tension between them if Gabriel had now decided to pull his arrogant-millionaire rank on her. Bryn eyed him challengingly. ‘You have something against coffee shops?’

      Those sculptured lips thinned. ‘I don’t recall ever having been inside one.’

      Of course he hadn’t; people as rich as Gabriel D’Angelo frequented exclusive restaurants and fashionable bars, not high-street coffee shops.

      ‘But I do have something against one of my artists working in one of them, yes,’ he continued evenly.

      She stiffened. ‘One of your artists?’

      ‘This will be your first public exhibition, I believe?’ he prompted evenly.

      ‘I’ve sold one or two paintings in smaller galleries in the past couple years,’ she came back with defensively.

      ‘But am I right in thinking this will be the first time that so many Bryn Jones paintings have been shown together in an official exhibition?’

      ‘Yes...’ Bryn confirmed slowly.

      He nodded. ‘Then in future, whether you like it or not, your name will be linked with the Archangel Gallery.’

      Bryn certainly didn’t like it. It had felt as if she were being forced to walk over burning-hot coals by even entering her paintings in a competition being run by the hateful D’Angelo brothers; she certainly didn’t like the idea of her name being for ever linked with either them or their galleries.

      She hadn’t even told her mother of the desperation that had forced her to enter the competition, dreaded thinking how her mother would react if she were to ever find out Bryn was having her work shown at this gallery!

      And maybe Bryn should have thought about that a little more deeply before deciding to walk over those burning hot coals and enter the competition.

      Gabriel could almost actually see the war being waged inside Bryn’s head. The natural desire to have her artistic talent not only shown for the first time but also recognised for the talent that it was, obviously totally at war with her desire not to be in the least beholden, or associated with in the future, either the D’Angelo name or the Archangel Gallery. Yet another indication of how much she still disliked him and all he stood for. If he had needed any. Which he didn’t.

      ‘Your point being?’ Bryn now prompted guardedly.

      He grimaced. ‘I think it would look better in the catalogue being printed and sent out to our clients before the exhibition if you weren’t listed as currently working in a coffee shop.’

      ‘Better for whom?’

      Gabriel bit back his irritation with her challenging tone, having no intention of admitting that he had already known about her working in a coffee shop—and that it was him, personally, who didn’t like the idea of her working there. He might never have been into such an establishment, but he had driven past them numerous times, and the thought of Bryn being run ragged in such an establishment, day after day—evening after evening—just so that she could pay her bills every month, wasn’t particularly appealing.

      Besides which, Gabriel also knew, from the discreet enquiries he had made about her once Rafe had told him exactly who she was, that Bryn Jones suffered a constant struggle to pay those bills. A job as an assistant at Archangel would go a long way to relieving her of that burden, at least.

      A dark frown creased his brow. ‘What possible reason could you have for refusing a job here if it was offered to you?’

      ‘Let me see...’ She lifted a finger to her chin in exaggerated thought. ‘First, I don’t want to work in a gallery. Second, I don’t want to work in a gallery. And third, I don’t want to work in a СКАЧАТЬ