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The first time he’d met her, in the offices in Paris, he’d had to force himself to wrench his eyes away from her. Instantly he’d felt a pull of desire so strong and so sure that he’d been shaken by it. But even then he’d known that he couldn’t entertain such a thing. Not only were they working together, but he just couldn’t risk it. Not then, and certainly not now.
He was in the process of once again forcing his gaze away from that alluring curve when she turned her attention back to him.
‘I would need more time than a few weeks. What is your absolute deadline?’
Loukis couldn’t quite account for why her practical, no-nonsense, down-to-business approach to this conversation bothered him so much. After all, it was what he had wanted, and what he usually demanded from those he got into business with. But on Célia it seemed...unsatisfying.
‘I need it done by the end of—’ He cut himself off short, before revealing too much, and silently cursed the strange reaction she was provoking in him. ‘By the end of June.’ He had nearly said by the end of the school term. And that would have been unacceptable. It was utterly imperative that he did not reveal a single thing about why he needed this event to happen so quickly. Even the smallest detail would put everything at risk—and that he could simply not allow.
‘So I have four weeks.’
‘Nai—yes.’
‘Do you have a preference over the type of event?’
‘Only that it be as public and positive as possible.’
‘How do you feel about art?’
‘I have a few investment pieces.’
‘Would you be willing to part with them?’
‘If I have to.’ He would be willing to part with anything if it helped his cause.
Célia’s rapid round of questions was brought to a halt by the appearance of the sommelier. He proffered the bottle to him, but Loukis directed the tasting to Célia. He watched as she swirled the wine once and inhaled before tasting, then nodding her approval. Again, Loukis found himself bemused by a woman who looked as if her entire dress that evening was cheaper than the price of the bottle of wine they were about to drink. A feeling apparently shared by the sommelier, who filled their glasses modestly and left.
‘What is more important to you in this event, the clientele and publicity or the funds raised for the charity?’
He knew that she would prefer the latter, but he couldn’t jeopardise this. It was his last chance to bolster a ravaged reputation. Delaying the moment her displeasure would be revealed, he sidestepped the answer.
‘Is this a test?’
‘No, it helps determine what kind of charity to approach. If your goal is to make the greatest impact on the charity, then it would be best to approach one in great need, even if it were something that perhaps might not be on many people’s radar. If, however, as I am inclined to believe, you are looking for a greatpersonalimpact, then a charity that could draw many celebrities, and therefore attention, would be where I start looking.’
If there was any hint of censure in her tone, Loukis could not detect it. ‘No way to do both, I suppose?’
‘Mr Liordis—I,we, match business leaders with charities. All money raised is a gift to them. And trust me, I will be charging you an obscene amount of money in order to achieve this. Money that will go towards the future investment of more money for more charities. Our endeavour may be hopeful and charitable but, make no mistake, it is also business minded.’
She was such a strange combination of steel encased in silk that he had to work hard to focus on the issue at hand and not on Célia herself.
‘How obscene?’
‘Very,’ she said, with the smallest of smiles curving the rosebud lips upwards enticingly. She took a sip of her wine, her eyes narrowing a fraction, before putting the glass back down on the table.
‘You don’t like the wine?’
‘I had started out the evening looking forward to an Australian Pinot Gris, a small bowl of soup and perhaps one episode of the period drama I’m currently watching. And yet...’ She shrugged, her hands open before her as if to say,Herewe are.
‘Surely that is sacrilegious?’
‘My preference in wine?’
He cocked his head to one side in answer to her question.
‘Only for purists.’
It was on his tongue to probe the question of her purity further and realised instantly that he would not be talking about the wine. Three years ago nothing would have stopped the line falling from his lips. But three years ago he had been a very different man. At least the spell she seemed to have woven over him had not yet quite short-circuited his sense of decorum.
