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Desire flooded him. Longing...
He cut it off, refusing to acknowledge it. He told himself yet again that the only reason he had brought her with him tonight was to inure himself to her, and that he must succeed in doing so.
To stop himself looking at her again, he beckoned the sommelier to the table, immersing himself in a discussion of wines. Yet he was still burningly conscious that across the table from him Talia’s slender fingers were pulling a soft roll to pieces. Her head was still dipped, her eyes averted from him.
He chose the requisite wine, busied himself with its tasting and approval, then dismissed the sommelier and turned his attention back to Talia. He wanted to find something in her to criticise, something to bolster his determination to make himself immune to her.
His eyes alighted on her gown. He frowned. It really did nothing to accentuate her stunning beauty—and, whilst he knew he should be pleased, he heard himself say, his tone critical, ‘Is that dress by the same designer as the dress you wore at the villa?’
She started, as if she hadn’t expected him to talk to her. ‘Er...yes,’ she answered. Her expression was wary.
‘It doesn’t suit you,’ he said bluntly. His eyes flicked over her dismissively, and he saw that flush of colour run out over her cheeks again. ‘It’s far too fussy and over-embellished.’ Before he could stop himself, he added, ‘Nothing like what you were wearing at that party—’
As the words left his lips he cursed himself. The last thing he needed to do was remind himself of that night.
But Talia was only dipping her head again, saying in a pinched voice, ‘My father liked this kind of style. He said it was very feminine. It was the way he liked me to look.’
Luke’s expression tightened. So she’d dressed to please her doting father? That shouldn’t surprise him—after all, it was Gerald Grantham who’d bankrolled her luxury lifestyle.
Abruptly, he changed the subject. He shouldn’t give a damn what her dress was like—the less flattering to her the better, as far as he was concerned!
‘So, what progress have you made on your design ideas?’ he put to her as their first course arrived.
She lifted her head again and took a steadying breath. ‘I’m working on a colour palette at the moment. You told me to come up with my own ideas, but if you want me to run them past you, in case you don’t like them—’ she started.
He cut across her. ‘When I hire professionals I don’t expect to have to do their job for them,’ he said brusquely.
She flushed, yet again, and said falteringly, ‘That isn’t what I meant. I just thought that if I’m coming up with some ideas you dislike from the off you might as well tell me now, so I can make it how you want.’
He took a draught from his wine glass. ‘If I don’t like them I won’t use them,’ he said. He set his glass back on the table. ‘Tell me, what kind of commercial experience do you have? Anything I might have come across?’
She took a breath. ‘I did all the interiors of my father’s properties, but—’
She was going to say, But please don’t judge me on that work. I had to stick to my father’s exacting brief, not use my own ideas.
She never got a chance to finish. A frown had flashed across Luke’s face, drawing his brows together darkly.
‘You never told me that.’
He made it sound like an accusation, and Talia felt herself flushing. ‘You’ve never asked me anything about what I’ve done,’ she started to protest in her own defence, wanting to let him know that the work she’d done for her father did not represent her creative skills.
But Luke was already speaking again, his frown deepening. ‘What have you done for other clients?’ he demanded.
She felt herself hesitating, but answered truthfully. ‘Um...nothing. But—’
She tried to get out the fact that her father had not permitted her to work for anyone else but, as before, Luke cut right across her, his frown deeper again.
‘Are you telling me that all your work has been for your father?’
The scathing note in his voice was unmistakable and Talia winced inwardly, knowing that if he’d seen any of the garish interiors she’d done for her father he would judge her by them—critically.
‘Well?’ Luke demanded, clearly wanting an answer.
She swallowed, nodding, and again tried to explain just why that was, and that the work did not represent what she was capable of stylistically. But Luke gave her no chance.
She heard him mutter something under his breath in Greek. It sounded disparaging, even though she hadn’t a clue what it meant. Then he was eyeballing her again, his jaw set. Pointedly, he threw another question at her.
‘So, what do you make of this place, then? From a professional point of view,’ he asked her. His voice was sharp suddenly, his gaze pinning her. Challenging her.
