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‘What do you think?’
Beside her now, he watched her survey the contents of the room. An artist’s easel had been set up in the middle, and a large number of stretched canvases of various sizes were propped against the wall. A palette, a pot of brushes, and a dizzying array of tubes of paint were laid out on a table next to the easel.
‘I thought this room might be the best—with the light, I mean. It faces north.’
Lottie stared at it.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No—no, of course not.’
‘What, then?’
Desperately trying to compose her features in order to banish any sign of disappointment, Lottie paced around the room. ‘It’s just that it’s a bit over the top.’ She attempted a small laugh as she gesticulated around her. ‘I mean, we are only here for a fortnight—even Van Gogh couldn’t paint this many canvases in two weeks!’
‘Who said anything about two weeks? We can leave the room like this and you can come whenever you want—stay as long as you like when you are pregnant. It’s beautiful here in the springtime.’ Catching the look on Lottie’s face, he narrowed his eyes. ‘All pregnancy-friendly paints and solvents—I’ve checked.’
If only it was just the paint that was troubling her. Far more worrying was the way he was insidiously starting to control her life, beginning to manipulate her, make decisions about her future without even consulting her.
And more worrying still was the way her body had soared with excitement at the ridiculously misguided idea that he might be taking her to bed.
‘We don’t know if I am pregnant yet, Rafael.’ Cross with herself, and determined to exert some control of her own, she knew the words sounded harsher than she felt. Moving in front of the window, she planted her bare feet firmly on the floor, yanked the belt of her dressing gown tighter. ‘And even if I am, I’d like to remind you that nothing has been decided yet. I have no idea why you are assuming I will be living here.’
‘Well, not necessarily here...’
‘I mean here as in Monterrato. I do have a life of my own, you know—a flat, friends, a job.’
That last bit wasn’t strictly true, of course. In fact it wasn’t true at all. One final phone call from Ibrahim had seen to that. He had been predictably furious that she hadn’t obeyed his instructions and been back at work within the week, and somewhere in amongst the shouted tirade she gathered she had been fired.
But funnily enough all she had felt was relief. Her twelve months at the Ibrahim Gallery had become increasingly strained as Ibrahim, a well-known and respected art dealer, had pushed the boundaries of their working relationship further and further. ‘Meeting clients’ had increasingly involved briefing sessions in a wine bar first, followed by dark taxi rides with him leeringly spreading himself across the leather seat towards her, the sour smell of whisky on his breath. She had made it very clear on more than one occasion that she would certainly not be going back to his place for any debriefing.
In retrospect, telling him exactly where he could stick his installations might not have been the wisest of moves—especially as his parting shot had been that she would never work in the art world again. Which was probably true. He was vindictive enough to see to that. But she would find something else somehow. She knew that much. She had started over before, and refused to be afraid of the prospect now.
The more pressing problem at the moment was the toweringly dark man staring at her from across the room. Staring at her with such intensity, such heart-racing, piercing concentration, that Lottie could feel it drilling through to her core, where it heated her from the inside with its seductive power.
‘I’m sure there is nothing that can’t be put on hold.’
The spell was broken and Rafael’s bluntly dismissive words brought Lottie back to her senses, her heart-rate spiking with indignation. Why did he always assume that her life was unimportant?
‘Once we know for sure that you are pregnant obviously the sensible thing will be for you to stay at Monterrato.’
‘Well, your definition of “obvious” is obviously not the same as mine.’ She stumbled over her tongue-tied sentence. ‘What I am saying is, if I am pregnant there is no reason for me not to return to England at least until the baby is due.’
‘No, Lottie.’ His voice was calm and even, like water just before it cascaded over a hundred-metre drop. ‘That is not how this is going to work. When we know for sure that you are pregnant you will be staying at Monterrato. For the whole of your pregnancy.’
The air between then hummed with tension.
