Not that she gave any sign yet of realising what was to happen. She was, he knew, quite unconscious of what lay ahead with absolute inevitability. How was it, he found himself wondering with amusement, that she could be so unaware of it? He knew of no other woman who would not have realised long before that he was interested in her. But then, he mused, that was part of her allure.
It would, of course, make her seduction even more piquant—even more enticing!
And now the evening was about to begin.
‘Shall we?’ he invited.
He ushered her to the door, and across the now-deserted reception area of the executive floor. She walked with superb grace, his appreciative eye noted, although there was the very slightest tension in her shoulders. As if she were not enti
rely at her ease.
But of course she would not be. She was still, évidemment, quite bouleversé, by the unexpectedness of the situation. Yet striving to carry it off all the same—as if she had quite expected to be gowned and coiffed and taken off to a gala soirée. It amused him to think it was her oh-so-English sang-froid that was allowing her to be so matter-of-fact about it.
On their descent to the underground car park lot in his personal elevator, he chatted inconsequentially about the forthcoming event. She made the appropriate responses, civil and unexceptional, and in that manner they gained the waiting limo, its engine purring as they emerged. He guided her into its interior and followed likewise, giving the signal to his chauffeur to proceed.
The journey was a bare fifteen minutes, if that, to the West End, and in the car he continued with his inconsequential chat. But it was sporadic only, and he was pleased. It was good to know that she was not one of those tiresome women who felt impelled to chatter the whole time. Alexa’s reserve won his approval, as did her obvious ability to travel without incessant talking. Instead, she seemed perfectly content merely to make whatever appropriate comment was required to answer his remarks, being neither taciturn nor garrulous.
He liked that, he decided. And, moreover, he liked the opportunity it gave him, as she gazed composedly out of the tinted windows at the passing London scene, to let his regard appreciate her fully, her profile averted, and all her graceful figure displayed to him at his leisure.
Yes, she was indeed well worth his time and attention. Pleased with his choice, he relaxed fully into the leather seats and continued his appreciative surveillance. The evening stretched pleasurably ahead of him.
And the night—ah, the night would be exceptional…
Dim daylight was pressing at Alexa’s eyelids. Slowly, as if lifting a weight, she opened her eyes. Taking in her surroundings.
It was a hotel bedroom. A hotel whose famous name alone was synonymous with style, exclusiveness and luxury. A hotel in which she had dined the previous evening, in a suite larger than her apartment, at a dining table resplendent with silver and napery around which had been seated half a dozen couples, all guests at the highly prestigious art gallery earlier in the evening, all of whom, so it appeared, had been invited to dine with Guy de Rochemont. Along with herself.
Precisely how that had come about she had not quite understood—only that Guy de Rochemont had taken her elbow as the reception ended and guided her back into the chauffeured limo. They’d been disgorged a short while later into the lobby of the hotel, and then she’d been swept up with the other arriving dinner guests to the penthouse floor and into this suite.
There had seemed to be no good opportunity to take her leave, and instead she had found herself being seated at the dinner table along with the others. At that point she had acquiesced as composedly as she could, and accepted that her presence at Guy de Rochemont’s side must be for the same reason he had taken her to the opening.
And that could only be, Alexa had mused, trying to make sense of his extraordinary behaviour, because his preferred partner—surely the exotic Carla Crespi still?—had for whatever reason not been available, and he must have assumed that the exhibition would be of intrinsic artistic interest to her as a portraitist. Indeed it had been, despite her acute consciousness of the disturbing presence of Guy de Rochemont at her side.
Because disturbing it most definitely was. She had done her best to ignore his presence, but Guy de Rochemont was difficult to ignore at all times, and the sleek dark sheath of a tuxedo made it completely impossible. But her mounting consciousness of him should—must! she had thought—be utterly suppressed. Whatever the reason she could not complete his portrait, whatever the reason for her quite inappropriate consciousness of him all evening, the only reaction to him she must show was none at all. She must be cool, she must be composed, she must be an unobtrusive guest and nothing more.
Her dogged composure had held through the meal, even through the ritual of serving coffee and liqueurs in the suite’s sitting room, but as the guests had taken their leave she had found it difficult, yet again, to time the moment of announcing her own departure. So, to her consternation, as the last couple had left, she’d been left with Guy de Rochemont à deux.
Instantly, without the social conversation of the other guests, the atmosphere had seemed to change—though she’d known it was nothing more than her own resurgent consciousness of him. Definitely time to take her leave and remove herself from what had been a very taxing evening. It had been considerate of her august client not to be annoyed at her resigning his commission, gracious of him to invite her to an exhibition she would be professionally interested in, and courteous of him to include her in his dinner party, despite her having no claim whatsoever to be there. But the dinner party had been over, and it had been time for her to go. Time for her to regain the soothing sanctuary of her flat. Time to put her brief, professionally based acquaintance—nothing more than that!—with Guy de Rochemont behind her.
With that purpose clear, she had taken a breath, put a polite smile on her face
‘I really must go,’ she said, her voice admirably controlled, she was glad to note. Though she had partaken only frugally of alcohol, champagne had circulated at the exhibition and an array of wines had been poured at dinner, so she was aware that she had consumed sufficient if not for intoxication, then for a discernible weakening of her normal composure.
She got to her feet, feeling the column of silk slide down her body as she moved. Felt it disconcertingly, as if her body had somehow become as ultra-conscious as her mind…
‘Of course,’ said Guy de Rochemont, getting to his feet as well.
Involuntarily, Alexa’s eyes went to him.
The stark austerity of his evening dress etched him against the paleness of the decor, emphasised the flawless planes of his face, the extraordinary green eyes beneath the dark winged brows, the sable hair.
For one hapless fraction of a second she could not move her gaze. Could only remain standing there, with supreme consciousness of that arresting physical presence that drew all eyes quite helplessly. She could not drag her gaze from him. Her body seemed inert immobile, beyond her control. Then, wresting back her control with intense effort, she veiled her eyes and started to walk towards the door. Getting out of here was a priority. A necessity.
But as she gained the door Guy de Rochemont was before her, tall, and dark and dominating her senses. With a rigid stiffening of her spine she turned, holding out her hand, the gesture determinedly final.
‘Thank you so much for this evening, Mr de Rochemont. I enjoyed it so much. It was extremely kind of you to invite me.’
Her voice was cool, her tone restrained, her manner formal—as befitted the situation. She was a guest—unexpectedly so, given the vastly different world she moved in from the gilded orbit that Guy de Rochemont inhabited—thanking her host for his hospitality.