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INTERVIEWER TWO: [louder] I mean, in which of his houses?
SIA LOOKED UP at the mansion in front of her with a strange sense of déjà vu from the night before. Once again, she was looking at a shiny black door with a bronze door knocker, only this wasn’t a lion’s head, it was that of a stag.
She could still back out. She didn’t have to do this. Only...he had taken everything from her. She’d put her past behind her and stepped towards a new future. If she didn’t prove to Bonnaire’s that he had stolen the painting, that she had been right, she would never work in the industry again.
She’d lost so much. She refused to lose this too.
Which was why she found herself being led down a black and white checked marble floor towards a lower level of the Knightsbridge townhouse by the uniformed butler who had answered the door. Whilst still trying to hide her natural disapproval towards Sebastian for having an honest-to-God butler, she frowned a little as the air began to turn warm and she could have sworn she caught a faint trace of chlorine. She followed the butler into the room beyond the door and the scent dramatically increased as she inhaled a gasp of shock.
The butler retreated with little acknowledgement of her surprise, apparently used to such a reaction, leaving her standing beside a pool the colour of a cloudless summer’s sky. The entire basement seemed to have been covered in sandstone, up-lit in a way that made it feel both warm and secretive. Along the length of the pool, the stone curved into arches with lush green vegetation that veiled the faint traces of chlorine somehow.
The sound of lapping against the edges of the pool drew her attention back to the water to where she could see a powerful shape gliding towards her. She was speechless as Sebastian broke the water of the deeper end of the pool, thrusting wet hair away from his face, his eyes—almost the same colour as the water—locked on her without shame or embarrassment or even any intent that Sia could discern, making her even more uncomfortable. He placed his hands on the side and drew himself out of the pool with the kind of grace that she was envious of. And then she had no thought for grace.
The last time she had seen a man in a swimming costume it had been on Brighton beach, their shorts had been baggy, their legs were like twigs and definitely turning that particularly British shade of burnt.
In tight-fitting thigh-level shorts Sebastian was none of those things. Well used to assessing pieces of art, her eyes went to work over every single inch of his body. She couldn’t help but watch as water dripped from the hair he had swept back, onto his shoulders, running over muscles that spoke of more exercise than just swimming. She followed its progress over the dips and turns as it fell over pecs and abdominals that made her ache to touch. His hips were tapered just slightly, but not too much, making her deeply aware of his masculinity. She tried to retain objectivity, observe purely professionally, but she just couldn’t. She might have studied the human form more than most doctors, followed the direction of paint across scenes of sensuality so incredible they’d been preserved for hundreds of years, traced her hands over cool marble sculptures...but she’d never seen this much of a man in real life and couldn’t help but blush. It was almost painful as it spread over her cheeks and she bit her lip from...what, she honestly couldn’t say. He was overwhelming. And by the time she raised her eyes to his, sparkling with more than a little awareness, she knew he knew it too.
‘We like to keep the temperature warm in here,’ he said, reaching for a towel, still not breaking eye contact, ‘for obvious reasons. There are costumes you can borrow any time you like.’
‘I’d rather not wear your girlfriend’s cast-offs,’ she replied, surprising herself with the acidity in her tone. But Sebastian? No, he seemed to find her response amusing.
‘The costumes are for guests. My girlfriend wouldn’t need one,’ he said, turning and offering her a view of his back that made her want to dig her nails into the defined musculature there. She tried to shake off whatever spell he’d cast on her as he wrapped the towel around his waist.
‘Breakfast?’ he asked, walking past her back to the door towards the main part of the house, his bare feet leaving quickly drying watermarks where he stepped. She suddenly had the strange desire to place her own foot within the imprint, to follow in his steps, to slip into this strange world of butlers, indoor pools and swimming naked that was most definitely not hers.
Sebastian was aware of Sia behind him as he stalked through the halls of his London apartment. It had never bothered him before, going straight from the pool to breakfast, he’d never cared that his feet were bare, his skin half dry, his hair still wet. But there was something about Sia...so buttoned-up and fully clothed that he was conscious of it all. Not self-conscious—no, his ego was far above such things. But he still reached for the white robe that his butler had left for him beside the table where breakfast had been placed.
He’d hoped that last night he’d imagined it. The power her beauty had on him. Tried to convince himself that it had been a trick of the light, or the shock of her intention, even the challenge that she presented. But no. It was still there. That unwavering sense of...electricity, energy arcing between them. And he couldn’t tell if she could feel it. Sometimes it seemed that she could and sometimes not.
He gestured for her to sit before he took his own seat. He ran his eyes over the breakfast table. A steaming pot of coffee, fresh fruit, croissants, a selection of meats and even a few boiled eggs. He nearly laughed. He wondered what Sia would say if he told her that he usually just had toast.
He doubted that she’d believe him.
‘Coffee?’ he offered. He was already pouring her a cup before she’d nodded her agreement.
‘So, is this what you do all day?’ she asked. ‘Swim, eat and luxuriate?’
‘You want to know what I do?’ he asked and, in doing so, pointed out the rather presumptuous, slightly defensive tone of her question, before playing right into her preconceptions. ‘As little as possible.’
Which, of course, was a lie. He’d worked through the night, finishing only at six that morning, dealing with a crisis in the Hong Kong hotel. In truth, he was exhausted, running on fumes and his hundredth cup of coffee in the last eight hours. Not that he would let her see that for a second.
Sia, in contrast, looked like a breath of fresh air. She wore a crisp white buttonless V-neck shirt tucked into high-waisted, wide-legged blue wool palazzo trousers. Given that, perhaps she had just been hot in the pool room. He got the distinct impression these were her work clothes. They were high quality and looked good on her—they’d have to, of course, especially if she were meeting sheikhs, royals, billionaires and whoever else might have their hands on hundreds of millions of pounds’ worth of art. But they didn’t necessarily feel like her.
He had to drag his eyes away as she reached for the coffee. The sight of her slender wrist, skin that had seemed pale in the pool room now, in the natural light, looked like honeyed cream, and thoughts of the deep tan of his own rough skin next to hers nearly unmanned him.
Instead he focused on the small holdall at the doorway to the room.
‘Is that all you brought?’ he asked without thinking.
It was the absence of movement that made him realise. Most people moved, flinched, reacted to a wound—verbal or otherwise. Sia seemed different, but in her silence he heard her response li
ke a shout. It’s all I could afford. And he felt like an ass.
‘I’d like to look around.’
He gestured for her to do so and Sia was surprised. ‘You don’t want to...’ she shrugged ‘...give me a tour?’ The idea that she’d be let loose in his home was both a surprise and slightly frustrating. ‘I can just thoroughly investigate the entire apartment?’
‘I have nothing to hide,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee.
