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And how the hell was he supposed to do that when all he could think about was what it would be like to unpin her hair and kiss her until she was gasping for breath? About what it would be like to cradle those hips within the palms of his hands as he drove into her until they were both crying out their pleasure?
He stared into the glitter of her eyes, unable to blot out the unmistakable acknowledgement that her defiance was turning him on even more, because women rarely defied him. So what was he going to do about it—give up or carry on? The question was academic really, because giving up had never been an option for him. Maybe he could turn this into an exercise in self-restraint. Unless his standards had really sunk so low that he could imagine being intimate with someone who stood for everything he most despised.
He thought back to the question she’d just asked and his gaze slid over the pile of photos—alighting on one where she was sitting astride a man’s shoulders, a champagne bottle held aloft while a silky green dress clung to her shapely thighs.
‘They’re good if you want to portray yourself as a vacuous airhead,’ he said slowly. ‘But then again, that’s not something which is going to look good on your CV.’
‘Your own CV being whiter than white, I suppose?’ she questioned acidly.
For a moment, Conall fixed her with an enquiring look. Had Ambrose told her about the dark blots on his own particular copybook? In which case she would realise that he knew what he was talking about. He’d had his own share of demons; his own wake-up call to deal with. But she said nothing—just continued to regard him with a look of foxy challenge which was making his blood boil.
‘This is supposed to be about you,’ he said. ‘Not me.’
‘So go on, then,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘That’s probably the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.’ He leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘This is what I propose you do, Amber. Obviously, you need a job in order to pay the rent but, as you have yourself recognised, your CV makes you unemployable. So you had better come and work for me. Simple.’
Amber went very still because when he put it like that it actually sounded simple. She blinked at him as she felt the first faint stirring of hope. Cautiously, she looked around the beautifully proportioned room, with its windows which looked out onto the iconic London street. Outside the trees were frothing with pink blossom, as if someone had daubed them with candyfloss. There was a bunch of flowers on his desk—the tiny, highly scented blooms they called paper-whites, which sent a beguiling drift of perfume through the air. She wondered if the blonde in the minidress had put them there. Just as she wondered who had sent him that postcard of the Taj Mahal, or that little glass dish in the shape of a pair of lips, which was currently home to a gleaming pile of paperclips.
And suddenly she was hit by that feeling which always used to come over her at school, when she was invited to a friend’s house for the weekend and the friend’s parents were still together. The feeling that she was on the outside looking in at a perfectly ordered world where everything worked the way it was supposed to. She swallowed. Because Conall Devlin was offering her a—temporary—place in that sort of world, wasn’t he? Didn’t that count for something?
‘I’m not exactly sure what your line of business is,’ she said, asking the competent kind of question he would no doubt expect.
He regarded her from between those shuttered lashes. ‘I deal in property—that’s my bread-and-butter stuff. I sell houses and apartments all over London and I have subsidiary offices in Paris and New York. But my enduring love is for art, as you might have gathered.’
‘Yes,’ she said politely, unable to keep the slight note of amazement from her voice but he picked up on it immediately because his midnigh
t eyes glinted.
‘You sound surprised, Amber.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose I am.’
‘Because I don’t fit the stereotype?’ He raised a pair of mocking eyebrows. ‘Because my suit isn’t pinstriped and I don’t have a title?’
‘Careful, Mr Devlin—that chip on your shoulder seems like it’s getting awfully heavy.’
He laughed at this and Amber was angry with herself for the burst of pleasure which rushed through her. Why the hell feel thrilled just because she’d managed to make the overbearing Irishman laugh?
‘I deal solely in twentieth-century pieces and buy mainly for my own pleasure,’ he said. ‘But occasionally I procure pieces for clients or friends or for business acquaintances. I act as a middle man.’
‘Why do they need you as a middle man?’
He stared briefly at the postcard of the Taj Mahal. ‘Because buying art is not just about negotiation—it’s about being able to close the deal. And that’s something I’m good at. Some of the people I buy for are very wealthy, with vast amounts of money at their disposal. Sometimes they prefer to buy anonymously—in order to avoid being ripped off by unscrupulous sellers who want to charge them an astronomical amount.’ He smiled. ‘Or sometimes people want to sell anonymously and they come to me to help them get the highest possible price.’
Amber’s eyes narrowed as she tried not to react to the undeniable impact of that smile. Somehow he had managed to make himself sound incredibly fascinating. As if powerful people were keen to do business with him. Had that been his intention, to show her there was more to him than met the eye?
She folded her hands together on her lap. How hard could it be to work for him? The only disadvantage would be having to deal with him, but the property side would be a piece of cake. Presumably you just took a prospective buyer along to a house and told them a famous actress had just moved in along the road and prices had rocketed as a result, and they’d be signing on the dotted line quicker than you could say bingo.
‘I can do that,’ she said confidently.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Do what?’
‘Sell houses. Or apartments. Whatever you want.’
He sat up very straight. ‘Just like that?’ he said silkily.
‘Sure. How hard can it be?’
