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A thought ran through her head—one she clutched at. She would do it for Luke. For the man with whom she had spent that magical night. Not the man who was now treating her with such callous indifference.
He no longer wanted her, and was making it glaringly obvious that whatever had burned so brightly and yet so briefly between them was nothing more than dead ashes now, but still she would use whatever talent she possessed to show him how beautiful that sad, ruined place of devastation could be.
If her design talents were all he wanted of her now, those at least he would have.
With renewed determination, she got to work.
* * *
Luke strode back into the villa. He’d had a long day. Frustration was biting at him. He’d met with another bunch of civil servants and the site’s owners in the morning—relatives, he knew, of the government Minister for Development—and the message he was getting from them was loud and clear. They wanted him to buy the site—but at a price he was in no way prepared to pay.
Meetings in the afternoon with the architect and the structural engineering firm he intended to use had indicated that the cost of restoration was going to be astronomical, and then he’d made another lengthy visit to the hotel.
He flexed his shoulders as he headed into the office to communicate with his PA in Lucerne. It was time for some tough negotiations to commence.
He relished the prospect.
What he did not relish was what he was about to do.
He settled himself at the desk and picked up the house phone. ‘Fernando, please inform Ms Grantham that I require her company this evening. Tell her to be ready for six thirty—formal evening wear. It is a reception at the Minister for Development’s residence, with dinner afterwards.’
He set down the phone, his expression flickering. Should he really do this? Should he really spend the evening with her? But how else was he going to make himself immune to her except by spending time with her? It had to be done.
I can do it. I will do it. I must do it.
It was a mantra he repeated to himself that evening, as they took their seats in the back of the chauffeured car that set off from the villa.
He’d said nothing to Talia as she’d joined him in the hall on the dot of half past six, just given her a brief nod of acknowledgement before heading out to the car. Now, as she sat beside him, assiduously looking out of the window instead of at him, he allowed himself a glance at her. Then he forced himself to really look at her. Forced himself to take in her profile and the soft swell of her breast, to catch the fragrance she was wearing. He made his senses endure it.
When they arrived, some twenty minutes later, at the lavish private residence of the government minister, they walked into the crowded interior past flambeaux flaring beside the portico. He did not offer Talia his arm—that was something he knew he could not endure—but he did endure the minister who, on seeing him arrive, strolled up to them with a genial smile on his face. He greeted Luke and clearly expected an introduction to the woman at his side.
‘My...secretary,’ Luke heard himself say.
What he’d intended by saying that was not to let the minister know that he was already progressing to interior design for the hotel. For that would reveal the extent of his interest in the purchase, thus weakening his bargaining position. But too late he realised that the note of hesitation in his description of Talia’s role was fuelling an appreciative look from the minister, who was drawing a quite different conclusio
n.
‘I wish my secretary were as beautiful as you, my dear.’ The minister smiled at Talia, his gaze openly admiring.
Luke felt his hand clench. A primitive urge speared him—a desire to whisk Talia away from any man who cast such a look at her. And an even more primitive urge pierced him when he heard Talia give a light laugh at the compliment.
Then the minister was greeting another new arrival and Luke promptly clamped a hand over Talia’s elbow, steering her away. He felt her wince at the tightness of his grip and let her go. A waiter glided up to them, bearing a drinks tray, and Luke took two glasses, handed one to Talia.
‘I need to network,’ he said. And then, before he could stop himself, he heard words fall from his lips which he instantly regretted but could not prevent, because of the dark thorn of jealousy that was driving him. ‘Try not to flirt with every man here.’
He heard a low gasp from Talia but ignored it, moving forward to greet one of the minister’s aides whom he’d met that afternoon.
* * *
Talia’s lips pressed together. There had been no call for him to say such a thing to her.
What does he think I should have done? Told the minister whose approval he needs for his project that my looks have nothing to do with my professional competence?
She’d got through the moment in as graceful a fashion as she could, having had long experience of such comments and heavy-handed admiration in her years of endless hateful socialising at her father’s side.
Feeling awkward in the extreme—as she had from the moment she’d climbed into the car beside Luke, with the atmosphere between them more distant than ever—all she could do now was fall automatically into the routine that she was familiar with at functions like this: murmuring anodyne greetings, keeping quietly at Luke’s side as she had at her father’s.
Her father had required her to be merely ornamental. Was that why Luke had brought her here?
