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‘Blackmailyou?Madonna mia.’ Dark eyebrows were elevated in mocking query. ‘You’ve been reading too many novels,cara.’
‘I never read novels,’ she replied repressively. ‘I prefer facts.’
‘Now why do I find that easy to believe? Although, actually, so do I,’ he murmured.
‘And is that relevant?’
‘I guess not.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Okay, Ms Prickly, I’ll stick to facts. I would like very much to have a conversation with you.’
‘Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?’
‘Indeed we are. But another customer could easily walk in and interrupt us.’
‘I might welcome an interruption.’
‘And I might not.’ He paused, and now the dazzling blue eyes were narrowed and determined. ‘Nicola.’
Saying nothing, she waited for the inevitable.
‘Or should I call you Nicky?’
Suddenly her hard-won aplomb drained away and Nicola felt herself grow tense. She could feel the approach of fear, because wasn’t this like being back in the playground? And wasn’t it disturbing how quickly those times could come flooding vividly back—as if the sophisticated veneer she had acquired over the years was melting away, like an ice cube in a warm drink? She remembered being the girl with holes in her shoes, her threadbare socks still damp from having washed them under the tap the night before. She remembered the tatty old lunchbox, which was always empty because she’d given her jam sandwiches to her hungry little brother.
But this was not the playground and she was no longer a schoolgirl—and even though this was the grown-up world, it could still be harsh and cruel. There was nobody to protect her now, just as there had been nobody to protect her then. Reflecting on the unfairness of life would get her nowhere—she needed to face the situation head-on and deal with it, same as she always had.
She knew that, in theory, there was nothing in her contract to say she couldn’t get an evening job as a waitress—but she knew her boss would not be pleased. Because this was a world where image was everything. Crisp white blouses and neat black skirts were one thing—fishnet tights and feathery bottoms were a very different ballgame. That had been her choice and she had been found out, but she was damned if she was going to give up and buckle under—especially tothisman.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Look, why don’t I save you the cost of a meal, Signor di Bari? If you want to tell Sergio about last night, than go ahead and tell him.’ She shrugged. ‘If he sacks me, he sacks me—I’ll cope. There are always other jobs. But please don’t start making veiled threats under the guise of asking me to dinner, because I can assure you that I’m not easy to intimidate.’
‘Whoa! Easy!’
He was holding up his palms as if warding off an attack and the brief puzzlement on his granite features seemed genuine enough. And suddenly Nicola felt a rush of remorse—because that wasn’t the most diplomatic way to speak to one of the gallery’s best customers, was it? She had no right to be rude to him, just because she fancied him.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Do you always think the worst of people?’ he questioned curiously.
She was tempted to tell him that yes, she did. She’d had plenty of reason to—and experience was a brutal teacher. But nobody wanted to listen to a sob story—especially not a man like him, who had wealth and privilege dripping from every pore of his body. Ever since she’d entered the hallowed world of selling paintings which cost more than an average house, Nicola had discovered that rich men—and women—thought everything in their world should be perfect. Their money was supposed to protect them from the cares which ordinary people suffered. They wanted sparkle. Magic. Not some glorified shop assistant pouring out her woes.
‘I do tend to be a glass-half-empty sort of person,’ she concurred wryly. ‘But I’m always pleasantly surprised when I’m proved wrong.’
‘So let me prove you wrong,’ he said softly. ‘Have dinner with me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I find you intriguing.’
‘I can assure you, I’m not.’
‘Modest, too,’ he observed.
She stared at him, trying to tell herself she didn’t care what he thought of her, but it was hard to deny the sudden heat of her blood. ‘Why?’ she repeated steadily.
There was a pause. ‘Because I have a proposition which might be of interest to you. And I don’t think this is the right time or the right place to tell you about it.’
‘Now who’s being intriguing?’
‘I know.’ His sensual lips curved into a smile. ‘It’s an irresistible quality, isn’t it?’
