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‘Yes, I have that right here.’
A bellboy hovered, took their bags and led them to the state-of-the-art lifts. He escorted them up to the eighth floor and opened the door of the suite.
‘I’ve got it from here,’ Gabe said, and waited until the youngster had gone before he took Etta through.
Etta stepped into the enormous, beautifully furnished room and stopped. ‘This is amazing, but it isn’t necessary. You didn’t need to book a suite.’
‘It’s safer. My guess is that Tommy will head down to the Manor, but if he has tracked you to here I’ll feel better able to control the situation in a suite.’
‘But...I...’ Genuine worry creased her features into a frown.
‘I really don’t understand the problem. I can afford this.’ Impatience warred with the novelty of an implied accusation from a woman that he was spending too much on her.
‘I understand that, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but this morning at the press conference you waxed lyrical about Derwent Manor and your family, and your commitment to raising money for its maintenance. That’s what the Christmas Fair is about. Yet here you are, squandering Derwent money on this hotel when we could easily have stayed somewhere else at a fraction of the price. I understand that you work for the estate, but I don’t see how you can justify your lifestyle with your commitment to maintaining the manor.’
‘I’m not “squandering Derwent money”.’ Gabe exhaled a sigh, irritated to find that the judgement in Etta’s tawny eyes had touched a nerve. ‘I don’t draw my money from the Derwent Estate. I have my own investment business.’ He’d decided long ago that he needed independence from his parents, and it turned out he had a real financial flair. ‘The money I earn from that funds my lifestyle.’
‘Oh.’
There was no mistaking her surprise—in fact her jaw had headed floorward and he gave a rueful twisted smile.
Her tawny brown eyes, soft with contrition, held his as she stepped towards him. ‘I’m sorry. I made a judgement based on insufficient evidence. I had you down as nothing but a shallow playboy, living off Daddy’s money. Turns out that wasn’t the full picture.’
Now she was closer, and one small hand reached up and rested on his forearm. The touch fizzed against the cotton of his shirt. The moment stretched, the scent of strawberry shampoo assailed his nostrils, and as she looked up at him, then closed the gap between them, the urge to kiss those full lush lips nearly overwhelmed him. The approval in her eyes warmed his skin and a warning flare was set off in his brain.
He did not need Etta Mason’s approval. Annoyance banded his chest. There had been no need to tell her about his company, to volunteer information. As for the urge to kiss her—he’d be damned if he did. Etta had made it clear their mutual attraction was not welcome and he would respect that—wouldn’t risk spooking her. Not when the new family tree was on the line. The ball was in her court—it was her choice what to do with it.
Stepping back, he kept his voice light. ‘Well, now you know. I’m a shallow playboy living off my own money.’ Another step back and he glanced at his watch. ‘Our table is booked in an hour, so I’ll meet you back here then.’
For a second she stood as if frozen, then one slim hand rose and touched her lips. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Etta practically leapt across the room and dived into her bedroom. The click of the lock turning was more than expressive of her feelings.
CHAPTER SIX
ETTA STARED AT her flushed face in the enormous chrome-framed mirror that reflected a positively palatial art deco bathroom—white sinks embedded in beds of marble, snow-white towels hanging from gleaming heated rails... Somehow she had to get a grip. It was as if the surroundings had somehow turned her light-headed. The surroundings or the man who had provided them.
Enough. She loathed these sensations he induced. Back in that empress-worthy lounge, with its sleek modern furnishings and sumptuous cushioned sofas, she had wanted him to kiss her. Again.
Time to take control. No way—no way—would she lose her hard-won self-respect and throw herself at Gabriel Derwent. She would not give him any vestige of power over her—would not let these giddy feelings sway her, make her take her eye off what was important. She was a professional, a career woman, a renowned historian—not a foolish teenager as she had been with Tommy. When she had allowed feelings and sensations to override all sense and decency.
Never again.
That moment earlier had been an aberration—nothing more. Brought on by the emotional intensity of the past days and by yet another of her misconceptions about Gabriel Derwent being tumbled down. From now on in it would be professional all the way.
One blissful shower later and she gazed at her wardrobe choice, then pulled out a midnight blue fifties-inspired evening dress. Perfect. Long-sleeved, with a straight demure neckline, and a fun flared skirt, cinched at the waist with a vintage belt.
As she buckled her high-heeled Mary Janes her mobile rang.
‘Steph. Is everything OK?’
‘Everything is fine,’ her best friend said cheerfully. ‘Ethan got us here safely. No sign of Tommy and the cruise ship is awesome. The girls are in seventh heaven and I’m about to embark on a cocktail. So don’t worry about anything.’
Ten minutes later Etta dropped her phone into her vintage evening bag and headed for the lounge. Bracing herself for the inevitable impact, she opened the door and instructed her lungs to breathe.
Gabe stood by an enormous arched window against the magically lit backdrop of Mayfair. His blond hair glistened with the remnants of a shower, and she stood mesmerised as he shrugged a dark grey jacket over a pristine white shirt. The expensive material seemed to mould to the breadth of his shoulders and she gulped. Without her brain’s permission her gaze dropped to the triangle of skin at the apex of his chest and a small shiver ran through her.
For a crazy moment she didn’t care about self-respect or professionalism. She wanted to walk across the room and press her finger over that patch of bare skin.
