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‘I gave Elise a list of things that I needed along with my keys and she was kind enough to go and pack a bag for me. I didn’t think that what I wore behind closed doors would matter.’ Tawny gazed back at him in silent challenge, striving not to react in any way to the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous, particularly with that dark shadow of stubble roughening his masculine jawline and accentuating the sensual curve of his beautifully shaped mouth.
Navarre bent to lift the open sketch pad resting on the arm of the sofa. It was an amusing caricature of Elise and instantly recognisable as such. He flicked it back and found another, registering that she had drawn each of her companions. ‘You did these? They’re good.’
Tawny shifted a narrow shoulder in dismissal. ‘Not good enough to pay the bills,’ she said wryly, thinking of how often her mother had criticised her for choosing to study art rather than a subject that the older woman had deemed to be of more practical use.
‘A talent nonetheless.’
‘Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?’ Tawny asked flatly, in no mood to debate the topic.
‘You can sleep on the sofa,’ Navarre told her without hesitation, irritated that he had not thought of her requirements soon enough to ask for a suite with an extra bedroom. ‘It will only be for two nights and then we’ll be leaving London.’
‘To go where?’
‘Further north.’ With that guarded reply, he walked into the bedroom and a couple of minutes later he reappeared with a bedspread and a pillow in his arms. He deposited them on a chair nearby and then with a nod departed again. He moved with the fluid grace of a dancer and he emanated sex appea
l like a force field, she acknowledged tautly, her eyes veiling as she struggled to suppress a tiny little twisting flicker of response to him.
‘You know … a real gentleman would offer a lady the bed,’ Tawny called in his wake.
Navarre shot her a sardonic glance, green eyes bright as jewels between the thick luxuriance of his black lashes as he drawled, ‘I’ve never been a gentleman and I very much doubt that you’re a lady in the original sense of the word.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE next morning, Navarre watched Tawny sleep, curls that melded from bright red to copper tipped with strawberry-blonde ends spilling out across the pale smooth skin of her narrow shoulders, dark lashes low over delicate cheekbones, her plump pink pouting mouth incredibly sexy. He brushed a colourful strand of hair away from her face. ‘Wake up,’ he urged.
Tawny woke with a start, eyes shooting wide as she half sat up. ‘What?’
Navarre had retreated several feet to give her space. ‘Time to rise. You have a busy day ahead of you.’
Tawny rubbed her eyes like a child and hugged her pyjama-clad knees before muttering, ‘Doing what?’
‘A beautician and a hairstylist will be here this afternoon to help you to prepare for this evening’s event. A jeweller will be here in an hour. The bathroom’s free,’ he informed her coolly. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’
‘The full works—I’m always starving first thing,’ she told him, scrambling off the sofa and folding the spread with efficient hands, a lithe figure clad in cotton pyjama pants and a camisole top. ‘Where are you taking me this evening?’
‘A movie awards ceremony.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Wow … fancy, so that’s what the boring grey dress is for—’
‘It isn’t boring—’
‘Take it from me, it was boring enough that my mother would have admired it,’ she declared unimpressed, heading off to the bathroom, pert buttocks swaying above long slim legs.
‘Wear one of your new outfits,’ he told her before she vanished from view.
‘But if we’re not going out until this evening—’
‘You need a practice run. Get into role for the jeweller’s benefit,’ Navarre advised.
Tawny rummaged through the huge pile of garment bags, carriers and boxes that had been delivered to the suite the night before. She had hung the bags on the door of the wardrobe but had felt uneasy about the prospect of stowing away the clothing in a room that he was using. She set out a narrow check skirt and a silk top. It was a dull conventional outfit but, for what he had promised to pay her for her services as a fake fiancée, she was willing to make an effort. She took the undies into the bathroom and went for a shower, using his shower gel but keeping her hair out of the water because she did not want the hassle of drying it.
Navarre watched her walk back across the carpet to join him at the breakfast table, her heart-shaped face composed, her bright curls bouncing like tongues of flame across her silk-clad shoulders. His masculine gaze took in the pouting curve of her breasts, her tiny waist and the long tight line of the skirt, below which her shapely legs were very much in evidence. ‘Tu es belle … you are beautiful, mignonne.’
Tawny rolled her eyes, unconvinced, recognising the sophisticated and highly experienced charm of a womaniser in his coolly measuring appraisal. ‘I clean up well.’
Navarre liked her deprecating manner and admired the more telling fact that she had walked right past a mirror without even pausing to admire her own reflection. The waiter arrived with a breakfast trolley. Although Tawny knew him the young man studiously avoided looking at her even while she was making her selections from the hot food on offer. Her cheeks burned as she realised that the staff would naturally have assumed that she was sleeping with Navarre.
Navarre had never seen a woman put away that much food at one sitting. Tawny ate daintily but she had a very healthy appetite. After her second cup of coffee and final slice of toast she pushed away her plate, relaxed back in her chair and smiled. ‘Now I can face the day.’
